#no one is dying and it isn’t a dream knock it off

[ideologyofone]

Can’t wait for Luz to beat the “it was all a dream” allegations

[spookwyrdie]

Divine Flesh

{part 1} {part 2} {part 3}

Priest Jeongin x Demon Fem Reader

summary: After a particularly vivid dream about you, our priest is faced with another test to his pious devotion. But in the dark forest, what if the temptation is too great? /// word count: 3.4k /// genre: smut, angst /// warnings: priest kink, sexual themes, hierophilia, corruption kink, shame and guilt, straight up blasphemy, demons, knifeplay, bondage /// a/n: Still not catholic, still into priests. And guilt. And shame. And demons? if you'd like to be added to the taglist, reply to this post or send me a DM!

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I have only posted this here and on AO3 - user: spookwyrdie

Come to me.

His feet move through the mists, though it feels like he’s floating. A voice beckons from somewhere in the darkness.

Come to me.

A dim pink orb illuminates, floating about a foot away from where he is. It’s so lovely, he can’t help but follow. This little light will show him the way to whatever calls out for him.

Through the trees .

The voice is stronger now, a hint of desperation tinting it. Is something wrong with the voice? His feet move faster now, thick clouds billowing up from the forest ground. The little pink orb zooms forward as if urging him to pick up the pace.

Jeongin, please!

The trees are thicker here, he nearly stumbles on some of the tangled roots. He has to get to that voice. Something is wrong. He has to help. 

He approaches a clearing in the woods, a stone slab in the middle, raised up on a platform. There’s a heap lying in the middle, the shape of your body wrapped in some sort of sheer cloth. 

Jeongin -!

The world tilts of its axis, throwing him off balance. The desperation in your voice isn’t one of danger, but one filled with lust.

Your body writhes underneath the shroud, your hands restless as they travel your languid form. As your hands brush over your breasts, your back arches off the slab. Jeongin can barely make out any details, the suggestion of your shape is the only thing he can see. 

He tries to run towards you, to unwrap you, but something yanks on his clergy collar, halting him in place. The little pink orb whizzes past his head, fluttering around your form in a frenzy. Whatever it is that holds his collar so tight restricts his breathing, twinkling stars dance at the edge of his vision. He drops to his knees, engulfed in the thick fog on the forest floor.

“Y/n!” he tries to shout, but no sound comes out. He chokes, the last thing he sees is your hips rolling, up and down, searching for friction. A trio of booms, like a large drum, reverberate in the air.

I need you!

The banging gets louder, sharper as he feels the collar tighten,. Thudding against the inside of his skull as he sinks.

Bang! 

Bang! 

BANG!

He gasps awake, his legs tangled in his sheets. His heart is beating inside his throat, his cock half hard from the strange dream. He hears that same banging, a frantic knocking on his door. 

“Father Yang! We need your help!” a masculine voice calls from the other side.

Jeongin curses as he fumbles for the light next to his bed. Every time he’s gone to sleep, he has dreamt of you. This one was the most vivid yet. He was terrified but he was dying to know what would have happened if he had been able to pull that sheer cloth that draped your body. 

As he gets up, he wraps his body in his sheet, shuffling over to the rapping on his door. He opens it to find the distressed face of Felix, one of the parishioners who likes to volunteer his baking skills for fundraisers, looking back at him with wide eyes. 

“What’s going on? It’s the middle of the night,” Jeongin rasps out, voice gravelly from sleep.

“Father Yang, it’s Y/n. She needs you!” Felix’s eyes are full of a shiny worry, his chest heaving with exertion. 

Jeongin’s heart jumps into his throat as a fresh memory of his dream fills his mind. But he doesn’t have time for those thoughts, you need his help. He’s already moving back into his studio, leaving the door open. Grabbing his everyday work clothes, his black button down, slacks, and his collar, he hastily gets dressed. Buttoning the starched collar at the back of his neck, he turns to Felix. 

“Tell me what happened.”

“She’s been acting strange all week - fainting, lashing out, convulsing. Then she started to talk to things that weren’t really there. We had a doctor come and look at her, but she stopped for a while. He told us it was all in her head. But it started up again a few hours after he left.”

Jeongin stops dead in his tracks. “And you’re sure this isn’t something medical?”

“No, it really seems like something is wrong with her spirit. Please, Father! You will know what to do.” Felix grabs his arm, eyes wide with panic. “When she’s had a few moments of clarity in between, she asks for you! She trusts you.”

Jeongin’s chest twinges uncomfortably at that. You’re in a crisis, and you asked for him. He starts gathering up his belongings - a worn leather bible, his rosary, and a small vial of holy water. He couldn’t imagine what is wrong with you, but he’ll be able to assess once he can get his eyes on you. The lust and panic he felt from his dream has settled further into his bones, a sickly wave of unease cresting over him. 

“Where is she now?”

Felix shifts on his feet, a clear sense of urgency in his demeanor. “When she seemed to calm down, we took her out to the woods for some fresh air. She got worse, so we have her… subdued out there.”

“Take me to her.”

“Thank you Father! Follow me!” Felix practically pulls him out the door towards his truck.

The ride out into the woods is longer than Jeongin expected. It was pitch dark, the truck’s headlights being the only source of light. The trees tangled in on themselves quickly once they left the safety of the small town. The air was thick and damp with more fog and the ride got bumpier as the road changed from asphalt to gravel and dirt. He bounces his leg restlessly, icy dread filling his chest.

He can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now, but his heart is full of fear. Your sweet face and innocent eyes are all he can think about, hoping that version of you is still there when he arrives. He hasn’t seen you all week, avoiding you after that day he gave you communion. He was avoiding you, even skipping out on his priestly duties for a few days so he couldn’t cross paths with you.

It’s difficult for him to believe that you’re truly possessed, even as a priest. But Felix says you were acting strangely and regardless of what’s causing it, Jeongin wants to help. As he sat in the passenger’s seat of this old, dusty truck, he realized he had no idea where they were. 

“Where exactly are we going?” he says, clutching his bible tighter and worrying his lip between his teeth.

“Where we were having the bonfire, a little camping area.” Felix said, not taking his eyes off the road. 

“A bonfire?”

“Yeah, we thought a little nature would help Y/n.”

“Why were you having a bonfire?”

“End of the harvest.” Felix’s voice is oddly monotonous. It strikes Jeongin as strange, given his earlier agitation. He puts the thought out of his head. People don’t act rationally when they’re distressed. 

The road eventually ends deep in the trees and Felix parks his truck. 

“We have to go on foot from here.” He speaks so evenly now.

“Where are the other cars?”

“Hm? Oh…” Felix says. “We… arrived in my truck.”

Jeongin frowns as he gets out of the vehicle. Whatever is happening is putting him on edge, but he needs to get to you right away. 

“Lead the way,” he gestures.

Felix pulls out a flashlight, illuminating a small path that could easily be missed if you didn’t know what to look for. It was only a few inches wide, surrounded by dead leaves and moss. The eerie, swirling fog swallowed up the path after a few feet.

Jeongin wondered if you were frightened like he is. He could picture the little wrinkle in the middle of your brow. He wanted to sooth that wrinkle. He’s pointedly ignoring the pang of pent up lust he’s been hiding. He could put that aside for one of his flock in a time of need. 

The two men walk in silence, only the sound of their feet crunching along the path. The fog is dense, Jeongin is amazed Felix knows where he’s going at all.

“We’re close,” Felix murmurs. At that, a faint, warm glow is visible up ahead. Jeongin feels his chest tighten. He’s almost there, just hang on a few more minutes. He whispers a small prayer for your safety. 

The warm light grows bigger as they approach, barely splitting through the fog. Is he imagining the pink tint to the light? Maybe that’s just a color he associates with you. Maybe he’s going crazy. 

The trees are so dense in this part of the woods, he almost loses Felix as he zigzags between branches. If it weren’t for his flashlight, Jeongin would be lost.

“We’re here,” Felix calls out. 

Jeongin steps around Felix to see what he’s looking at. A different fear floods Jeongin’s veins in this moment. 

He’s been here before - in his dreams. 

The clearing of trees is in an almost perfect ring. The stone slab in the center is raised up. There are hundreds of candles surrounding the slab, creating that soft, flickering glow. The light they give off is that dusty pink that seems to follow him. The whole clearing is thick with the smell of incense - woody, sweet, with a hint of something more primal that he can’t quite place. 

Jeongin’s heart thrums in his rib cage, his collar making him feel claustrophobic. Even though the night air is crisp, he feels his body heating up, sweat beading at his temples. 

“What were you doing out here?” Jeongin turns to Felix.

Felix stares at him, his eyes darkening. 

“Preparing a feast.”

Just then, a pair of strong hands grasp onto Jeongin’s biceps from behind, practically picking him up. He yelps, trying to wiggle out of this iron grip as he’s maneuvered towards the slab.

“You’re so lucky, Father,” a voice murmurs behind him. He cranes his neck to see who holds him so tightly. His eyes met a hooded figure, his face obscured by a wolf mask, the eyes glowing amber in the flickering candle light. 

His back thuds against the stone when he’s dropped in the center, and Felix grabs his wrists. He pulls up a chain and manacle from each side of the rock, closing one around each wrist, shackling him to the stone. Jeongin tries kicking him when he moves down to his ankles, but to no avail. The hooded figure that held him grabs his legs, keeping them still for Felix.

“What is this? Why are you doing this?!” He shouts, pulling against his chains. No luck, the heavy chains are solid with very little give. Jeongin ends up rattling them in frustration, the metal clanking into the quiet night. He’s so exposed, his shirt pulling out of his waistband, riding up to reveal a sliver of his pale, toned stomach. 

“You were requested. She wants to taste you,” the hooded figure says. The voice sounds familiar, but he can’t place it.

Jeongin hears more bodies step out from behind the trees, feet shuffling through the mist. He picks up his head from where he lays supine on the cool stone beneath him. Five more bodies shuffle out of the darkness, all hooded wearing different wooden animal masks - a rabbit, a pig, a dog, a ferret, and… some kind of wallaby? Each of them carries a different item. 

One of them holds matching robes and a different mask, a chicken head. They head over to Felix, who promptly puts on the robe and mask. He falls in line with the rest. 

The other items these figures hold are a pile of folded linen, a bowl of water, an ornate dagger, and a silver ring. The ring is beautifully carved, from what Jeongin can see. It’s a couple of inches in diameter - too large for a finger but too small for a bracelet. These items are placed around Jeongin on the slab, the dagger in particular placed right on his chest, pointing towards his neck.

Jeongin is frozen in fear, eyes darting all around him, trying to find any means for escape. Pulling against his chains once more, he falls back onto the stone. Even if he escaped his chains, he’s not even sure which way they entered the small circle through the trees anymore.

The hooded figures move away from him, standing around the edge of the circle, facing towards the slab. They all stand still as statues, nearly fading into the background. Jeongin is vulnerable, arms and legs stretched out, fully defenseless in this random forest. He feels like he’s going to die.

Jeongin does what any good priest would do in this moment. 

He prays.

Still wrapped in his left hand is his rosary. He clasps it hard, leaving imprints of the beads in his palm as he begins to mutter the prayer to himself. He feels a cold sense of dread swimming in his stomach, nausea makes him gulp through the words. The figures around him start a low hum, melodic, entrancing. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out everything but his words.

God, help me .

“There’s no need for that,” a low voice calls into the night. “Your God can’t hear you.”

Jeongin gasps, his eyes snap open at the voice as his head to the side. He finds you, walking from the edge of the tree line. His head swims as he takes you in - wearing a robe of your own, but made of that sheer cloth from his dream. In the low light, it is iridescent, the colors swirling before his eyes. Even though he has terror settling deep in his chest, he feels his blood warm at the very sight of you.

As you approach, slowly, like a cat sneaking up on prey, Jeongin notices that you look different. Obviously, your modest clothes are gone. The outline of your form glows, the swell of your breast, the curve of your hip, the peak of your nipples subtle yet visible through the translucent robe. There’s a tattoo of a line from your sternum to your sex, strange ornamental vines frame the top and bottom. Looking at you makes his mouth run dry. 

Hot shame trickles into his stomach, he should be fearing for his life, yet his cock twitches in his pants at the sight of you coming towards him, looming over his bound body.

“I missed you at Mass this week, Father,” you murmur with a grin on your face. “Father Kim had to be the one to feed me communion, but it wasn’t the same.”

“Why am I here? What are you going to do to me?”

You circle the slab for a moment, stopping at where his feet are chained. His eyes never leave yours as you climb onto the stone between his legs. He’s breathing fast as you settle your weight next to him, slinging a leg over his. Your thigh is at such an angle to be a scant inch away from his cock.  You prop yourself up with one hand under your head as the other gently lifts the dagger off of his chest, the brush of your fingers is enough to make his skin tingle. You ignore his question, eyes raking down his form as you trail the tip of the dagger down his torso.

“You’ve been having some strange dreams lately, haven’t you, Father?” A slow smile curves on your plump lips. Jeongin can’t stop looking at them, he notices your canine teeth are sharp as your pink tongue runs over the tip of one of them. He feels himself leaning toward you, wanting to feel those lips on his. 

You place the dagger on the slab next to his body and grab his face, pushing him back down. Your long, pointed nails dig into the skin of his face as you force him to look you in the eye. A flash of that dusty pink behind your pupils, like a reflection, stuns him for a moment. He wasn’t imagining that!

“Devil!” He whispers, his heart fluttering in his chest. He can’t tell if it’s from fright or desire. “You’ve cursed me!”

“Oh no, Father,” you chuckle. “I was merely an audience to those dreams. Those came from you .”

“No!”

“Yes!” You giggle. It sounds like music to him as tears gather in the corner of his eyes. You continue tracing small patterns around on the fabric of his shirt with your finger. “You’ve been calling out to me for weeks now. I’ve decided it’s time to respond.”

“I haven’t been calling out to you,” he shouts. A hollow wave of self-reproach crashes over him. “You have been haunting me in my sleep! Demon!”

Your fingers still as you close your eyes, breathing in, a look of pure ecstasy on your face. A breathy whimper leaves your lips as you look back at Jeongin. “Your shame and guilt are delicious , Father.”

You turn his head to the side, licking a long stripe up his neck, tasting the sweat on his skin.

“God! Help me!” He keens as his hips jolt forward at the feeling of your hot tongue on him. 

“I am older than your Jesus, older than your God,” you whisper, trailing kisses up his jaw to his ear. You nibble lightly on his ear lobe before murmuring, “I want to taste those desires that live within you. I want the prayers you whisper while you spill into your hand to be in my name. I want YOU.”

He hates the way his cock twitches at the thought. He hates that it feels so easy to unravel years of devotion to the church. His vows are all crumbling to dust in front of him.

“I-I’m not….” He gulps again, panting under the feeling of your lips on his neck. “I’m not a virgin.”

You lift your head to look at him with a knowing smile. “Oh I can tell, Jeongin. The specificity of your dreams! The flavor, the complexity! A virgin couldn’t dream up half of what you do.”

“B-b-but, don’t you need a virgin? For whatever this is?”

Your laugh rings out into the night. 

“Virginity has nothing to do with it, my sweet,” you say, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “It’s about the feelings you harbor. The ones you keep locked away. Shame is the most potent, especially when it’s all tied together with lust. And I could just eat you up with the guilty conscience you pump out.”

He cries out in anguish, his cock hardening at the thought. He wants that. No, he needs that. He wants to give you everything and it makes him feel like a failure. He pulls against his chains again, the rosary beads still in a tight grip in his hand. Tears are streaming down his face now.

“So, you’re going to have your way with me then?” 

Your hand cradles his cheek, swiping away some of the tears. “Oh no, darling. Anything we do tonight will be because you ask me. Politely.”

His tear streaked eyes flit back and forth between yours, a different kind of terror filling his chest - the terror of being vulnerable.

“What do you mean?” he whispers.

“What I mean is,” you lean close to his ear once more, breath tickling the fine baby hairs of his neck. “you’ll be the one removing your own white collar tonight.”

You pull back a few inches to look at his horror stricken eyes before you press a small kiss to his lips. 

Jeongin’s mind explodes in waves of pink. He feels like he’s falling and drowning at the same time. A buzzing of his skin makes him feel both numb and overly sensitive. His wrists pull at his chains once more, the clanking filling the air as he tries to lift himself towards you, trying to get as close as he can, chasing your lips when you pull away. A small whine leaves his lips before you descend, giving him a little taste of heaven again.

He wants to inhale you, to consume you, to fall into you. He cries at the way it feels, he shouldn’t like it as much as he does. He wants more and he wants to die from that feeling. 

The low melodic hum from the robed figures that surround them becomes a chant. As he tries to push himself towards you again, he feels the beads in his grip, leaving marks on his palm from the pressure. His hands unclench, fingers unfurl, and he lets the rosary fall from his hand into the dirt below.

~~~~~

{part 1} {part 3}

💘

taglist: @jeonginsleftcheek @honeyybbuubblleess

[cameronspecial]

I was recently rewatching OBX S3 and realized we never saw Rafe’s reaction to Ward dying. So my request for you is to write a Rafe x reader where the reader was there when Ward died and had to tell him. They already had a sort of close relationship. Childhood friends/friend’s brother type idk. Anyway, thanks <3

Dead Dad Club

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Dead Dads

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.6K

Masterlist

Y/N couldn’t believe it happened. She never thought that when her best friend, the Pogues and she went to South America, she would watch her best friend and ex-boyfriend’s father die to protect them. However, that’s how she finds herself in front of Tannyhill, which now, belongs to Rafe because of the un-fake version of Ward’s death. She should be the one to tell him; she has to be the one to tell him. Because after everything he has done, she is the only one (other than Wheezie, who even though she loves him, favours Sarah) who holds any love for him. She knows he beat up Shrieff Peterkin and hurt Sarah, but she can still see the Rafe she used to love and she knows he still loves her. He made it clear when he did everything to protect her during her and the Pogues' escape from the cargo ship. 

Her knock sounds hollow as her heartbeat blasts in her ear. She sees his figure through the glass door. She’ll never get used to his shaved head. His mouth puckers at the sight of her and he shifts to the side to see behind her. “When did you get back? Is my dad with you?” She grimaces, “That’s what I came here to talk to you about. Let’s  go to the living room.” He nods, holding her by the fingertips as he leads her to the couch. They sit and turn to face each other. Their knees graze. She bites her lower lip to keep her tears in. He needs her to be strong right now. “Pumpkin, where is my dad?” She lets out a breath and the words spill out of her. “Your dad died in Venezuela. He ran towards a man trying to shoot Sarah and fell off a cliff.” Rafe freezes and his face whitens. The room grows quiet. “No,” he whispers. “No. No. No.” His voice begins to rise and he stands up to pass around the room. He whips toward her with a finger pointed at her and tears streaming down his face. “YOU ARE LYING. HE ISN’T DEAD. WHY ARE YOU LYING?” The sight of him breaks the dam holding back her own tears.

She cries, “I’m not, Baby, I’m not. I’m so sorry, but I saw his body with my own eyes. He goes through the first two stages of grief and goes right into bargaining. “If I had been there, I could’ve saved him. I should’ve taken him. I should’ve been there. God, please, I’ll do anything for this to be a lie.” He breaks down right before her and she rushes as he collapses into her arms. She drops to the floor with him, resting his head on her chest. “I know. I’m sorry, Baby. I wish I could say that I am lying,” she whispers to him, kissing his temple. His breathing begins to even out as he starts to remember the last time they talked before he dropped his dad off at the private jet. He wouldn’t leave the cross for her and he pointed a gun at her friends. 

“Why are you here? Why are you the one telling me this?” he questions. He looks up at her and she smooths down the hair at his nape. She kisses his forehead, “You were there for me when my dad died, so it’s my turn to be there for you. Plus, you deserve to have someone who loves you around right now.” He shows his gratitude by dropping his head into her chest and kissing the spot between her collarbones. For the rest of the afternoon, they helped each other grieve.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura @rubixgsworld

[starry-fame]

Hopeless Eternity [Dawnbreaker Zayne x Gender Neutral!Reader/MC]

Summary:

Is this what it means to be lost in your dreams? Some days, if there’s no risk of transformation, he spends his entire day and evening in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Sleep is warm, serene, sleep gives him a life where his hands are soaked in blood with the intention of saving — not destroying. It’s a dangerous irony, the him that exists as a surgeon, an aid, a life-saver.

A him that’s loved.

Tags: angst, pining, Zayne POV, hurt no comfort, complicated feelings, touch-starved Zayne, post-prologue to tomorrow Word count: 3,030 Ao3

Author’s Notes: I pumped this out in a day out of pure will and post-main story release I love Zayne I love Dawnbreaker :(((

Masterlist

It’s equally fleeting as it is vivid. His solace — his reprieve; a soft smile and sparkling eyes. The way you look at him, something he’s come to crave. Find solace in his quiet dreams. Sometimes you’re a wide eyed child, teary over a popsicle he awkwardly freezes to fix. It’s lumpy and not very appetizing but you seem to love it anyway. Other times you’re older, an adult, a hunter, he learns over these dreams. A dying profession. A world bright, warm, lacking the destitution of his current home.

Is this what it means to be lost in your dreams? Some days, if there’s no risk of transformation, he spends his entire day and evening in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Sleep is warm, serene, sleep gives him a life where his hands are soaked in blood with the intention of saving — not destroying. It’s a dangerous irony, the him that exists as a surgeon, an aid, a life-saver.

A him that’s loved.

Zayne can’t save a soul. But he can destroy them before they drag innocent bystanders into the depths of hell with them. If there is a heaven — a cold voice flickers in his mind that a damned world like this experiences no heaven nor hell — he hopes the souls he freed make it there. Maybe then the blood he’s drenched in would feel a little less heavy.

It’s a rinse and repeat. Destroy and recoup. Grab just enough sustenance and plant food, repeat. Life’s a bleak repetition over and over. He doesn’t lose himself in AI like the rest of the world does, but when he spends hours grueling over doctor shows and trying to understand the same procedures the him in his dreamscape undergoes, he wonders if his form of escapism is any better.

They don’t compare to his vivid mind. Well — it can’t merely be dreams. It’s practically life itself. A world just beyond his reach, dreams that haunt him. There’s always that person — you. He’s not sure if the bubble of affection comes from himself or the person he is in his dreams. Yet every time he wakes up, the hollowness in his chest doesn’t go away. The yearning for someone far beyond his reach, a soft smile and fingers that press a macaron to his counterpart’s soft lips.

He always liked sweets.

—

The day his dreams become real, tangible, a reality, he almost feels complete.

It’s brief, it always is, but it’s enough to stave him over. Makes the chill in his heart thaw, the frost that seems to enshroud him, a never ending arctic mist, dissipate.

He’s blacked out — a wanderer — he thinks. A hand too slow, a shot too off. He kills it, but not before it gets a blow on him that knocks the breath from his lungs and the light from his eyes. The world goes black.

Until it isn’t.

The person that inhabits his dreams, you, sit before him. You’re rambling about something Zayne tunes out, too focused on the way your eyes soften, the soft movement of your lips, the round of your cheeks and the way your lashes dip. The you in front of him is so tangible, so real. He can feel the warmth of your skin and almost taste the lingering sweetness on his lips from a snack he’s never before indulged in. The world is bright, warm. The place he inhabits is homely, smells distinctly sweet with a hint of floral. He knows this home, it’s the one he resides in. In this world, at least.

He watches, rapt, until your eyes meet his and you tilt your head. Every small thing Zayne drinks in like a starved man. A person he can only yearn, a life he’s never been able to reach, not until now.

“Zayne…?” Your voice asks. Zayne tries to answer, to formulate something his counterpart would say, but he has no words. His breath hitches, and lashes flutter slightly. It feels so surreal his heart thunders, an erratic, unknown rhythm.

Is this what being with someone you like feels like? So raw, so visceral, so all-consuming? He almost thinks he can’t control himself, and his hand reaches out of his own accord, brushing your cheek.

You blink, so cute, and Zayne breathes as you nuzzle into his hand. So warm. He can’t remember the last time he let himself revel in another human’s touch. He wants to — he wants… he wants everything, to the point where he can’t do anything. Could he simply exist here forever?

You hum, look into his eyes, and your fingers come up to rest on his cheek. Zayne flinches, he doesn’t mean to, but he does. He quickly relaxes and your hand lingers as your soft thumb strokes his pale cheek.

“Zayne…? Are you okay?”

Zayne’s breath hitches. This… he remembers this. Once. The fear, the wide eyes, when you finally realize…

He almost wants to retreat, turn around so he can bask in the dream longer. But your hand on his cheek is enough to make him melt. He wonders what he could say to make you laugh, to make you pout. Would you like him as much as the doctor you fell in love with?

Your thumb presses a little harder, and Zayne instantly notices the telltale furrow in your brows. You scrutinize him and Zayne can only sit there, let himself be examined like a cadaver in a room full of med students.

“You’re… different. Strange. I don’t…” You whisper. Zayne tries not to let the sting get to him. The sting of you knowing the other him so well — the second he gets a chance, this one fleeting chance to truly experience the life he vyes for, he’s instantly rejected.

“…I’m sorry,” he breathes. He knows. He’s a fraud. A criminal. A man who reaps souls rather than revered for his ability to save them. He’s the complete opposite of the man you love in every sense of the word.

He’ll never be him.

“…Are you Zayne?” You murmur. The apology was all you needed, it seemed. Zayne should be impressed really — attractive, sweet, and perceptive. It melts his heart as much as it makes him ache. He craves your you, your everything. The dream he so vividly recalls each night brightened by your smiles. A desire he distantly aches for experienced through another.

“Not yours.” He’s Zayne, but not your Zayne. As much as he wishes he could, much as he wishes he could experience the world you do each day beyond the firm of his rugged mattress and thin blanket.

You watch him, your eyes transferring from soft to a sort of solemn. It hurts, that gentleness gone, yet, he revels in the fact that you’re seeing him. You’re not looking at the doctor you go on dinners with, the Zayne that adores a variety of sweets, dresses in light, doesn’t have to stalk in the shadows and remain a faceless mystery.

You’re looking at the man with countless bodies that lay behind him and dissipate to ash. Blood that stains his hands and soul, forever tainted.

“You know my Zayne,” You respond, not a question, it sounds resolute as you pull away from his cheek. The air feels chilly devoid of your warmth. He expects you to retreat, scurry away from the stranger that dawns her lover’s flesh like a suit. Instead, you take his hands and stroke the back of them. It’s ironic, the marks that litter this Zayne as well. Even in a world not yet completely overran by wanderers, his scars have stories to tell.

“I dream of him almost every night,” the words spill from Zayne’s lips. A dirty little secret. The unequivocal truth. When he looks into your eyes, it feels impossible to lie. He wants to admit the truth. To feel your hands on his skin and whisper quiet reassurances that you can love him too. It might be an impossible wish, but it’s the one that flutters deep in his heart he long since closed off to the world.

“…Do you like to wear all black?” You query. Your fingers trail along his scars, and Zayne can’t help the way he trembles. To be touched so gently, so reverently, it’s terribly foreign. The question is so innocuous, yet nearly shatters everything. It’s always you. Always able to see him.

To know he wears black — his mind flickers to Georgie. The determined spirit before tendrils burst from his fragile flesh. Perhaps, in this world, he truly is nothing but a nightmare.

Zayne nods.

Your breath hitches, the fingers tracing Zayne’s scars pause. He wishes you’d continue, but he fights back the urge to goad you to.

Your eyes seem sadder, somehow. And all Zayne can think is to do something, anything to chase that sadness away. Could he ever be the one to kiss away your tears?

“I wish you didn’t give Zayne nightmares,” you say.

Zayne’s eyes merely flicker down, some semblance of guilt gnawing at him. He’s learned to harden his heart long ago, to keep a calculated distance, but he can’t ignore the pang that shoots through him at receiving your chastising.

Nightmares. Perhaps time and space mean nothing, not truly. Perhaps everything exists in tandem, the idea of past present and future intermingle. Time is a convoluted subject Zayne — quite ironically — hasn’t the time to dabble in. So he can only speculate as dreams and reality converge before his very eyes, past and future entwined.

“I don��t… intend to.” Is all Zayne can say. His life — the world he resides would be a waking nightmare for someone who lives a life such as this. You seem to soften at that, and when you stare straight into Zayne’s eyes, Zayne daren’t look away.

“If you’re truly Zayne’s dream…” You say, and you grasp his hand, interlocking your fingers together with a soft squeeze. Zayne’s heart quivers, and he feels his face waver as a dash of yearning and overwhelming affection surge in him. He’s unsure of it’s his own heart or the natural bodily response of the person he resides. Neither seems wrong. “I wish you’d take better care of yourself.”

Something inside of Zayne breaks then. Maybe if he was more emotional, the sort to cry, tears would spill. Instead, he leans forward, breathless, and you flinch back, eyes wide.

Right. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’s not your Zayne. He might share the same face, but that’s where the similarities end.

After, though, your hands come to brush over his cheeks before holding them firmly in your hands. You’re soft, hesitant, but you hold him in a way so sweet Zayne feels any tension leave him.

“Do you like jasmines?” You ask, and Zayne wishes he could stay like this forever. Encased in your warm hands as you ask him anything, everything. You could speak gibberish and he could listen for hours.

He tries not to feel envy. To despise and abhor the cards he’s been dealt. But if he had the option to be born in a world like yours, with you, he’d choose it in a heartbeat.

“At least I can keep one thing alive,” Zayne scoffs bitterly. Half a joke, half self-depreciation. Your hands continue to encase his cheeks, not put off, and when your thumbs brush his lips, Zayne feels everything in him freeze. Figuratively, but the emotion hits so hard it could almost manifest physically.

“Your world looks sad. You plague Zayne, a nightmare… but I guess it’s your reality.” You mutter, it seems more to yourself than anything, but your fingers stroke Zayne so tenderly he wonders if it’s okay to indulge. To think this is meant for him and no one else, not even the him that resides in this world.

Zayne’s eyes flutter, he knows he must look something akin to needy. He watches you with weak eyes, a quiet want that’s stirred in him for as long as he can remember.

You chew your lip — Zayne watches the way your teeth catch on it, the way they glisten when you lick them, and, and…

Does he move first, or you? In a moment, your breath fans his cheek, his lips, and Zayne’s eyes flutter shut as your lips press against his.

So warm. So soft. It’s brief, a slow, sweet kiss before you pull away and look at him with half-lidded, complicated eyes and parted lips.

Zayne wants to lose himself in your lips. Kiss you for an eternity over and over. Instead, he breathes, lets his ears burn. He can’t remember the last time he kissed someone. The world was so secluded, and once it became his duty, no, once he became obsessed with ridding the world of abominations one at a time… time froze. An endless loop of death, gathering food, watering his jasmine, watching old shows, repeat.

“You’re not Zayne,” you repeat as you watch him. Your eyes waver, and Zayne knows all too well the look of instant regret. Confusion after you took a leap into the abyss — uncertainly floating amidst the sea.

He’s not Zayne. But they share the same face. The same dreams. Yin and yang. Two sides of the same coin, intertwined, unable to escape or exist without the other. If Zayne didn’t have this world in his dreams, he’d have given up long ago. He thinks, plainly, maybe even meanly, the Zayne you love can dream the so-called nightmare he lives daily for all he cares. At least your Zayne got to wake up to a stable, populated world.

“Not yours. But he knows me. And I know him.” He can’t say if it’s right or wrong. Him or you. He knows he’s hijacked the man you love. The man that loves you. He wonders — is the Zayne he’s meant to be in his own body? Or is he simply suppressed, as though he never existed?

“You looked so sad. I… couldn’t help myself,” you say. As though defending yourself. Zayne doesn’t need an explanation — frankly — he hardly cares. You could have the worst excuse known to man but if you looked at him with those doe eyes and kissed him with those lips that make him melt, he’d let anything slide. “You’re… not my Zayne. But you’re Zayne. You’re different, but similar. You melt in my hands the same way.”

Zayne blinks, head gently goaded side to side as you playfully move and cradle his face in your palms. You’re not wrong — he’s so pliant he moves with little resistance. Watches you with the same eyes he’s always had, as though nothing is ever enough. It feels nice. Could this be his new life? His everyday?

“Will… my Zayne ever come back?”

The soft-spoken words shatter the pleasant world Zayne had began to encase, enshroud himself in. Even if you see him, kiss him, he’ll never be enough. He’ll never be the man by your side every day. The man who gets to experience you in full, your joy, your touch, your sadness, your serenity.

The words are like a cue. The world begins to lighten, warble, the feeling of nearly waking from a dream. Zayne fights to keep it for just a little longer, to stay in your hands and bask in your attention.

“He will,” Zayne says. All he can. Because he yearns for you as much as he yearns for your happiness. The same happiness the Zayne you’re meant for elicits.

But for a brief moment, he got to experience you. The light of a clean, pristine world. Not through a dream where he’s a spectator in the head of his doppelgänger.

The world begins to dissipate. Pain engulfs him. The world he’s lost himself in shifts and returns to a world enshrouded in dark.

His side burns. The cotton of his shirt clings to his throbbing wound.

It hides the blood well.

The only proof of his attack are fleeting glowing crystals a ways away.

—

The next night Zayne dreams, it’s as usual. You’re both eating lunch together this time, the smell of fresh food and a bustling crowd — an impossible dream in reality. He can’t control himself, but he can live through your Zayne, see the world through hands that heal, a heart slightly lesser burdened. A world where he lives and works in the light.

Warm food tastes good. Smells good. He doesn’t have the time, money, luxury. But he can experience it through these, almost as real as life itself.

When he awakens, the room is ever barren. The sky dark, and the incessant chatter of a much too dramaticized ER show plays in the background. He blinks, weary, and sits up to look at the holoscreen in his room.

Numerous glowing green dots. One, about a mile away, flickers red.

Zayne inhales, presses against the used, rugged mattress, and sits up. He follows routine, changing into his nightwear — perhaps work wear. Inspects his jasmines — bright and strong, they almost glow against the dark backdrop. And he reaches into a cabinet, downing a powder that fills him physically. Quick, efficient.

His wound still aches. The sticky gauze clings to his festering gash and despite being a doctor in another life, he doesn’t care much for his own wounds. It’s nowhere near healed. But abominations don’t offer sick days. The world attacks indiscriminately, and if he rests, people who don’t have to die will.

He might be no doctor. But by destroying a withering life, he can at least preserve a few more.

So he inhales, exhales, and steps into the barren world. Barely a person in sight, aside from one or two stragglers. No one to run up to him and hug him, no bright lights and city chatter. No warm sun to prickle his skin, lift his mood. No Linkon City.

Just the shitty world he was born into. The world he’ll endure and battle until his last breath even if it means trying to save a hopeless, dying land.

The routine repeats. Never-ending. Only one thought echoes in his mind as he takes off:

Here we go again.

btw check out Linkon Lounge, an 18+ Lads Themed Otome Discord Server! We stream otome/anime/movies, have lads boys rp/text bots (+Caleb ofc), and chill! Super inclusive and lgbtq+ friendly!

[nevaroonie]

 David Shaw Is Calling

{TW: Inversion Mentions, Mentions of character death ( I am not the world's best writer;-; [hell I graduated HS in may be nice] I know nothing of southern slang- I'm sorry-) Sam being called Cowboy-}

WC: 676 or 68o I can't rememeber

Nothing would’ve or could’ve prepared him for that call. For a minute he thought he was dreaming. He let it ring one more time before actually picking it up. He didn’t say anything- he couldn’t think of anything to say. 

                                 Sam.. can I-.. Can .. his voice was unusually shaky

            Sam.. C-can- i come..over. I-..if.. you’re busy.. don’t worry about it..  

Sam couldn’t remember what he said. All he knew now was David Shaw was on the way. That tone of voice was all too similar. He was hurting.. There is no doubt about that- its has been a whole month. He’d almost lost everything.. His Partner, his pack, and his best friend.  

   Sam climbed out of bed his sleeping darlin' unfazed by his movement. He took note and went out of the room shutting the door ever so slightly. David should be here by now.. If he remembered the way here. The cowboy took a seat on the couch pondering why David called him. Did he see him as a member of the pack? A good friend? God this is too much for this old man. He leaned against the couch only to hear a light knock. Well if he didn’t realize this was real. That knock tells him it was- Sam got up and went to open the door. 

An unsightly David graced Sam’s sight. 

Can I come in..? 

Y..yeah 

Sam moved to the side of the door frame, David trekked through the door he looked like hell. Could this be about the… yeah.. There’s no doubt about it, but why did David come to talk to him about that? Sam closed the door-locking it, and for a moment awkward silence filled the room. 

Sam.. during the inversion.. You came when I called.. I was panicked.. Hell a little manic. I was in a complicated form to put it simple. You could hear the quiver in David's voice.

A..Ash..Asher was.. Dying in my arms.. And I didn’t know what to do.. And my m…mind went to you... 

                                           David.. Y-

No..l..let me finish, please.. 

Sam went silent.. watching this mountain of a man; falling apart in his living room like that night. He stood before a breaking man, thinking he was about to lose it all. Pleading for his help.

You helped me.. The water welling in David's eyes threatened to spill. Being here, trying to thank the man who saved his best friend's life. Sam took notice of David’s shaking form-  he was about to fall. A quiet wosh and David was now crying in his arms. Why did this feel familiar? The man was just muttering thank yous and saying Sam did so much for him that night. All the while Sam held him, telling him he didn’t need to thank him and David had helped himself as much as he did. 

______

The bedroom door opened and Darlin walked out wearing one of Sam’s flannels. They wanted to know where their mate went. Was he out driving again? Would they be waiting outside for him to come back? However, they were caught off guard seeing their alpha sleeping on Sam’s couch. Okay… then where was Sam? Confused they began to look around the home. It's almost light out that and it isn’t like Sam to up and leave without word. As Darlin was getting lost in their thoughts the door opened. And it was David's partner and Sam. 

 Where’d you guys go? 

To get more food..I didn’t think you’d be up when we got back darlin'..

Yeah.. after Davey fell asleep Sam called and I wanted to.. You know… 

You two don’t need to explain I get it. I was just worried. 

____

To add to all the surprises, the last place David thought he’d wake up was Sam’s place. Let alone to the sight of  Angel and Sam’s mate cooking together. And nothing was burning- 

Yeah, I didn’t think Darlin knew how to cook- but they surprised me- 

Yeah.. Sam.

Yes David..

Thank You.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sponsored by Cherry Dr.Peper and Daveys Playlist

(this took me wayyyyyy longer than it should've.. that being said this was really fun to write! can't wait to see how everyone reacts to this! but anywho have a good day or night! )

special thanks to @tanky-baby for the amazing inspo!

[ceilingfan5]

If you're still looking for an object + emotion prompt, "holographic vampire sticker" + "I am looking Respectfully???" for Taakitz pls?

“Hey, sick stickers,” the barista that Kravitz has been dreaming about like some kind of avenging angel whispers, cleaning tables conspicuously close to Kravitz’s set up in the cafe. 

He can’t help it. He jumps, embarrassing himself properly when he bumps his coffee and it slorshes unto the table. He scrambles to save his piles and suffocating piles of papers, and barista-angel, Taako, if his nametag can be trusted, which is doubtful, comes to the rescue. 

“Man,” he laughs. “Why didn’t you have the lid on?”

Kravitz sweats. 

“Is that why you have whipped cream on your nose?”

Kravitz imagines leaving the country. 

“Um,” he manages. “Hello.” It isn’t as suave as he hoped. Like if suave got ran over, frozen,  put in a blender, and transmitted via am radio in that order. You can hear the texture, and it’s really…something. “What?”

‘Taako’, probably, laughs, a goofy, musical sort of thing that makes Kravitz’s guts squeeze like some sort of non-FDA approved “medical” “equipment”. 

“You good, dude? You want to start over?”

“Yes!” Kravitz wants to disappear completely, but this angel is not, apparently, an angel of mercy. “Hi. Hello. Thank you for liking- I’m- they’re good stickers, yeah.”

“I like the vampire one.” He leans over and his floppy frilly shirt with the crazy sleeves for baristaing falls open over his apron, and Kravitz can see all the way to his navel. He can’t look away. He’s looking respectfully, please, please, please, he promises. 

“The, uh, the, holographic- I’m sorry, I promise I can sound like an adult man in control of himself, can I-” Kravitz takes a breath. “Yeah, they’re good, do you like vampires?”

“Hell yeah.” Taako grins, and shoots up (noooo, don’t go, Kravitz was catching a glint of a happy trail on his tummy and having Church Sanctioned Thoughts For Sure.) He throws an arm out and pretends to hide behind a cape. “Bleehhhh, I vant to suck your dick!”

Two paths diverge in front of Kravitz. There’s a breezy, sun-dappled path called Oh yeah? The feeling is mutual, stud, what time do you get off? Because if you want to get off, I’m your guy. 

The other is a steep downhill bear infested boulder plinko, called flipping his coat out like a cape, adopting the thickest dracula he can, and making a horrid face, firing right back at his blessed saint Taako, if that is his real name, “You thought I vas arousink you for horny reasons, but now all your blood is in your dick! I’ve got you now, ah- ah- ah- ah!”

Guess which path Kravitz careened down like his life depended on it. Guess. Guess.

But Taako doubles over laughing, knocking Kravitz’s nearest stack of books down. Oh no. 

“Ah- I’ve-” but Taako’s already grabbing Kravitz’s erotica research off the floor, and his eyebrows go Way Up. 

“Lookin’ up new methods?” he teases. 

“Writing original fictions,” Kravitz says, dying a thousand days. Maybe two thousand. And a half. 

“Fuck yeah, that sounds rad. Not vampire erotica, is it?” Taako looks interested. Taako looks interested??

“Not this one, but my last one, yes? Yeah? Do you- are you. Interested in vampire erotica? I have a copy in my bag, I could even sign it for you-”

“Mmmmm,” Taako grins. He grabs Kravitz’s pen and scrawls a phone number right on top of his notes. He crosses his sevens. That’s so hot of him. “I’m illiterate. How about you dramatize it for me.”

“I can do that,” Kravitz manages, swallowing thickly. “I can do that. I, hey, you’ll be an expert in the plot when you walk away.” 

“Sweet,” Taako winks, turning and heading back to work. “I’m really into plot.”

Kravitz sits there, stunned. He wonders if Taako’s serious, or if he’s just been fucked with. He wonders if he asks real nice, he can go ask for more whipped cream, cause his is gone, gone, gone like a freight train, or maybe a goofy sugar-crafted train like you’d ride to Candyland. Is there good infrastructure in Candyland? What’s their taxation like? Surely not great, right? It is a monarchy-

And then Taako jump-turns, stanced, and lifts his apron for one more “BLEHHHHHHHH!”

And Kravitz knows he’s got a chance. 

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2

At night, the shivers start for no reason.

Dustin changes into his thick winter PJs, gets blankets from the linen cupboard as quietly as he can so he doesn’t wake up his mom.

His room is stuffy, but he can hardly feel it—knows that by all rights, he should be suffocating in the heat. There’s sweat on his forehead, his chest, dripping down his back, but as he wraps himself up tight in the thick cotton layers, he can’t stop himself from shaking.

His dreams are vivid, feverish.

He’s sitting with his shield next to him, blades of grass scratching at his palms. He can hear Erica laughing, but it sounds wrong. Distorted.

Then he lifts up one hand in front of his face. It’s drenched in blood.

The gasping sound of someone choking.

“D-Dustin.”

Eddie. Eddie lying on the grass, staining it red, there’s—there’s so much—

“Dustin, p-please.”

There’s an awful gurgling noise from Eddie’s throat. Dustin feels sick.

“You—Dustin, you—you’ve gotta keep it in. Please, please.”

Eddie’s crying, his hands weakly grasping at the ground, slipping in the puddles of his own blood.

“Help,” he sobs. “Help me.”

Dustin tries. The blood runs through his fingers.

“Steve,” he whispers—tries to scream, but the fear has stolen his voice. “Steve.”

Steve isn’t coming.

They’re alone, and Dustin can only watch, frozen, as Eddie convulses, gasps for air; he’s dying, he’s dying, move, do something—

He wakes with a start to his mom knocking on the door.

“Dusty, have you overslept? Can I come in?”

Dustin sits up, runs the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, but it comes out hoarse; he has to stop, clear his throat. “Sorry. Yeah.”

The door opens.

His mom takes one look at him and says, “Oh, honey. No school today.” As she gets closer, her eyes flicker over the bed, the blankets, his PJs. “Are you cold?”

Dustin nods. The sheets cling to his skin, damp with cold sweat.

His mom gently runs a hand through his hair, checks his forehead. “How about I run you a bath, huh? I’ll call the school.”

Dustin’s too exhausted to bring up the fact that she’s going to be late for work if she stays much longer.

He takes the bath—once his mom has left the room, drains some of the tub so he can fill it up with scorching hot water.

When he gets out, there’s multiple tins of soup, fresh bread, and crackers on the counter; his mom’s bringing a couple meals out of the fridge, some microwave ones, too.

“Just giving you options, hon,” she’s saying, “eat whatever you’d like, I’m going to the store later. Oh, I filled up Tews’s bowl so if he complains at you, the sweet thing is lying.”

Dustin makes a wordless noise of thanks.

His bed has been stripped; new sheets and blankets have already been put on, which makes him feel a pang of shame. The window’s been left open the tiniest bit, just to let some air in, but his stomach immediately drops at the sight.

“Dustin?” His mom’s looking at him searchingly. “Honey, I can call off work—”

“No,” he says quickly. Subtly digs his nails into his palm to try and stop himself from shaking. “No, mom, m’just gonna be boring and sleep.”

She’s still frowning, but he’s gotten good over the years at knowing what expression to pull, putting just the right inflection in his voice that silently says don’t look any closer, don’t worry. She leaves him with a gentle kiss on his cheek, with her work number written down on a notepad, makes him promise that he’ll call over even the smallest thing.

He makes the promise knowing that he won’t.

Closes the window as soon as he’s alone.

-

The phone rings early afternoon. He sluggishly does the math in his head for Steve and Robin’s shift patterns this week. They always try and call if he’s sick, whenever the store is quiet: when he had tonsillitis last winter, miserable with it, they gave running commentary on the day’s most ridiculous customers, passing the phone between them until he fell asleep.

Pick up the phone, Dustin thinks.

But he feels inexplicably heavy, lets it ring and ring and ring…

The nightmare seems to flicker in front of his eyes, a lingering unease deep in his gut. He thinks of Steve, of calling for him and not getting an answer, which would never happen, which could only mean the very worst—

He stumbles out of his room and picks up the phone, interrupting Robin’s breezy customer service spiel to mumble out, “Sorry, think I missed a call from—um, is Steve there?”

“Afternoon, Einstein! You just missed him, he’s getting lunch, but he’ll be back in, like—”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Dustin says, feeling stupid and abruptly, mortifyingly young. “Just… just checking.”

There’s a fraction of a pause.

“Hey, Dustin?” Robin says, quieter now. Gentle. Dustin wants to cry. “You can wait with me, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Are you—”

He hangs up.

-

Time slips away from him. It’s only after the school day’s over that he realises his mistake: that when he’s sick, he usually whines and complains, asks for updates every class, even if it’s just whether Mike’s added to their drawings left underneath their cafeteria table.

He’s kept his walkie off all day.

He searches for it, clumsily turning in his bed, and when he switches it on, it’s to hear Mike repeatedly asking, “Dustin, do you copy?”

“Here,” Dustin says blearily, then remembers himself. “I copy. Over.”

“God, finally,” Mike says in that short way that means he’s been desperately worried. “You okay? They marked you off sick in home room, but I didn’t—”

“M’not really,” Dustin says—doesn’t know what he is, honestly. “Just. Kinda tired. Over.”

“Okay,” Mike says, after a pause. “Um, Nancy says if you feel better, she can pick you up tomorrow. And we can—you don’t have to do anything, we can just, like, chill in the basement. I was, uh, talking to Will, and he thinks he knows what Eddie’s plot twist is, and I think he’s got it, honestly, I—”

“Tell Nancy thanks,” Dustin says, “but I… I don’t think I, um—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mike says. “No problem.”

The walkie falls silent, and Dustin gets the feeling that a few other conversations are happening on another channel. Then there’s a click, some static, and a voice again.

“Hi,” Lucas says. “Didn’t wanna wake you up if you were sleeping, so I, uh, used the spare key under the flower pot to drop off some stuff. Not—not homework, don’t worry.” A tiny chuckle. “I’m not a sadist.”

There’s some space left there, deliberately so. Dustin knows he’d normally make a joke. He can’t.

“Just some assignment marks came back,” Lucas says. “Hey, you got an A on that paper, the one about—”

“Thanks,” Dustin says.

He sounds blunt. He hates it.

“You don’t need to thank me, Dustin,” Lucas says softly. “But you’re welcome. Hope… hope you feel better.”

Dustin swallows.

More quiet. Another click.

“Hey,” Max says, as if nothing’s happened. “I’m behind on English, so I’m just gonna read out loud, I need to know there’s an audience or it’s not gonna stick. No complaints, my education’s on the line, Dusty-Bun.”

Max isn’t behind; Dustin knows this. He doesn’t complain.

She reads The Outsiders for at least twenty minutes. Things get hazy after that, because Tews comes in and settles on Dustin’s chest, purring, and Max’s voice fades into background noise.

Perhaps the phone rings again, but it sounds so far away, he could’ve dreamt it.

He wakes up at the sound of his mom opening the front door, the soft jangle of her house keys. He vaguely hears her play the answering machine, and he’d recognise the rise and fall of that voice anywhere.

Eddie has this rambling way of leaving a message, like he’s really having a conversation with someone rather than just talking to a machine. Dustin can’t make out the words from here. Wishes he could.

His mom enters with a fresh water glass and soup on a tray.

“Eddie called,” she says, with that warm tone of voice she’s used ever since she truly met him—when he watched her with wide eyes from a hospital bed and choked out, “I-I’m not—it’s just a stupid board game, I swear.”

“Hmm?”

She smiles at him. “He was just calling to say hi.”

Dustin smiles back weakly—knows that Eddie would’ve taken at least five minutes to even get round to that point.

-

This time, the terror comes when he’s wide awake, when it’s three o’clock in the morning and his heart pounds for no reason at all, breath catching like he’s been dumped into a cold, cold lake.

Dustin’s felt frozen before, but when Eddie…

It wasn’t like Max in the graveyard, where Steve shouting for him to call Nancy and Robin helped him snap out of it, gave him something to do.

He was alone.

He was alone, and he didn’t know how long it had been since Eddie had stopped breathing. He tried to count, and the numbers turned to static in his head.

Stop the bleeding. Help him breathe. Move. Fucking move, you’re killing him, you’re—

A light on in the hallway.

“Dusty? Oh, baby, breathe.”

Dustin tries. Chokes on it.

And his mom is leading him to her room like he’s five years old.

“There, sweetie, that’s it. Shh, breathe, breathe.”

Dustin half-collapses into her bed, and her bedspread is thick, but he’s so, so cold, and he can’t catch his breath—

“Shh, Dustin, shh, you’re okay, baby. Oh, honey, it’s… it’s the earthquake, isn’t it?”

His mom is holding his hand, guiding his breathing. In. Out.

“There. There you are, well done, baby. I’m going to call Steve, okay?”

Dustin tightens his grip on her hand. Gasps out an urgent, “No.”

It could be a bad night, could be a night that Steve needs all the rest he can get—

“Oh, Dusty, shh. Okay, honey, I won’t, won’t. Not right now.” She hugs him. “You know you can tell me anything? Always.”

Dustin closes his eyes.

I can’t.

-

He pretends to sleep. Feels his mom leave the bed. Hears her on the phone—can’t make out the conversation.

His heart’s beating rapidly again. Breathing short and sharp.

He slips into his room. Opens the window. Crawls out.

Shock of cold air. Rain on his skin. In his eyes. Blinks it away. He’s on his bike with no memory of deciding to do so. Lungs burning. Pedalling faster, faster—

He hits something, something stupidly small, a pathetic rock, but he goes down, like a kid freshly off training wheels.

Dustin wonders if this is how Eddie felt. If even while on the bike, he could still sense how close to death he was.

And it’s stupid, it’s so stupid, it’s not remotely the same, but as Dustin lies there in the rain, his palms and knees stinging, he kind of feels like he’s dying, too.

A car horn sounding, over and over. Like a desperate shout.

Dustin can’t breathe.

Clunk. A door opening. Footsteps. Running on gravel.

I didn’t run away this time, right?

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey. Dustin, look at me.”

Steve. Steve’s hand on his shoulder.

Dustin shudders, exhales. “I-I’m okay, I’m okay.”

“Jesus. Woah, woah, take your time.”

Steve lifts him up so carefully, avoiding Dustin’s hands from digging further into the dirt.

Dustin blinks, sees Steve’s frown, the way his eyes are darting all over him until they land on his knees.

Oh. He’s bleeding.

“Come on,” Steve says. “Here. Lean on me. I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”

And it’s only as Dustin hobbles over to Steve’s car that he realises what he’s done.

He’s biked almost all the way to Forest Hills.

[002yb]

Oh, but Jason saying "I'm going home", them he walks to Dick's house, they're not living together yet but Jason noticing he spend so much time there it feels like home

This is the worst day of his life, hands down. He doesn’t say that lightly, either. Dying doesn’t even begin to compare. Hell, it would be a mercy in comparison to this: turning up on Dick’s doorstep after explicitly telling him that Jason was going home. Just. Fuck him. It doesn’t get worse than this.

As if to mock him, a gale force of wind rushes past when Jason turns on his heel to leave. It’s strong enough that Jason feels the building sway. Unsurprising given Dick chooses to live in a place with zero structural integrity. A calculated risk for the sole purpose of staying central to areas around the city that have had spikes in criminal activity in the past years. It’s an argument curated to appease Jason’s irritability over the dangers and he knows it, but he can’t argue without being called a hypocrite because Jason has done the same damn thing.

Fucking Dick. The noble and manipulative bastard.

There had been a high wind advisory earlier to preface an oncoming storm. He’s about to say that he could make the trek to his actual home before the rain starts, but again the universe taunts him - sending down sheets of rain that get blown around in diagonal sheets and there in the distance, a flash. Followed by a loud, cracking boom that rattles Dick’s unsound apartment building and Jason’s very bones.

With a heaved sigh, Jason crouches and leans back against Dick’s door. He doesn’t dare knock though because the embarrassment might just kill him.

It’s not like they’re a thing, after all. Or, they are. They fool around. More often than not Jason stays after. He had breakfast there just that morning. It’s casual though. So, so casual. Just some fucking, some post coital cuddles; maybe some pillow talk and noncommittal companionship before or after. Because they’re casual.

Jason groans quietly under his breath, head thunking softly against the door behind him. Showing up at the place of the guy he accepts booty calls from because Jason mistook it for home, fuck.

That’s a far off dream and Jason is dramatic, sure, but escalating the good thing they have going to some sort of relationship? Pass. It would be doomed. Jason isn’t going to risk it. They’ve got a good thing going without Jason spooking Dick with commitment.

As one last ‘fuck you,’ the universe spits on him one last time by having the door behind him suddenly open. Capable and coordinated as Jason is, he tumbles backwards with a curse, thrown off kilter.

When he opens his eyes, Dick is looking down at him. Surprised; pleasantly so. The smile that pulls at his lips is crooked and boyish and clearly charmed despite his confusion. The combination of being found out and being the center of Dick’s attention and charm makes Jason grimace though, cheeks flushing warm with a blush.

“Hey,” Dick says, head tilting slightly to better meet Jason’s gaze. “Thought you were headed home?”

“Yeah, I uh.” Jason starts. Stops. Flusters. Shit. For as capable as he is in vigilantism and all the work that comes with it, not a single lie or excuse comes to his mind. All he needs to say is that he changed his mind, that he wanted some dick after all. What comes out instead is, “I ended up here.”

There’s a breath of laughter from above him, but Jason can’t see it - already hidden behind his hands because this really is the worst day of his life. It can’t get any worse than - oh.

Jason peeks up at Dick from between his fingers so that he can get a visual on what sort of damage he’s just wrought, only Dick is smiling at him. Brilliant in a way that chases away Jason’s embarrassment and leaves him feeling both dumbfounded and invincible.

He’s entirely unprepared for what comes next. The building trembles as it gets battered by wind and rain, but the elements have nothing on the force of nature that is Dick Grayson.

“Welcome home then, huh?”

As easy as that.

Pleased as Dick is at this turn of events, at Jason unwittingly exposing just how comfortable he is with Dick and Dick's space and being in said space, Jason still hides himself behind his hands. It's not enough cover though so he throws his arms over his face, instead. Hiding red stained cheeks as Dick laughs and bodily drags Jason the rest of the way into his home. Jason is loathe to help him the mortification cuts so deep. He should have braved the storm; it's nothing compared to Dick and all the menace he can be.

"Oh, come on. It's cute." Dick says, soothing even as he taunts. Although Jason remains resolutely hidden, he can hear how fond Dick is. The door shuts and while Dick locks it, Jason doesn't doubt that the strong wind will throw it back open at some point. There's nothing homey about this collapsing shoebox of an apartment; it's a death trap. The only thing that feels like home is -

"I'm here too often." Jason complains, propping himself up off the ground and glowering at Dick as if he's the one to blame for that. Which he is. Fifty percent of the time. Forty. Maybe even thirty but it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of their booty call arrangement.

And Dick, despite the blame and Jason's panic - he smiles. So warm and affectionate that Jason's heart might trip over itself as it skips a beat. He's just crouched there, elbow on his knee and chin propped on his hand - looking at Jason like he's something sweet; like he likes that Jason thought of home and came to him.

"Stay more." Dick tells him. "I'll give you a key."

This bastard - so fucking smooth. The definition of casual, only there's nothing casual about what Dick just laid out there. Even still, there's no denying that the offer makes Jason happy even though he flusters, dumbfounded and awestruck, timid and still stupidly giddy. From booty call to malewife, just like that? Maybe today isn't the worst day. It never really is with Dick though.

=====

This is such a sweet concept, anon!! Thank you for sharing. <3

[iamthecomet]

Murder ghoul fic in the works you say?! *grabby hands*

YES! It's Raindrop! I can give you a snippet to maybe make me work on it FASTER. No murder yet (I haven't gotten there). But I can give you some setup to entice you ♥♥♥

Dew can’t help but reach out. He doesn’t try to bully his way into Rain’s mind very often. Rain does it enough for the both of them. Dew’s gotten used to feeling those tendrils licking at the base of his spine, cool like lake water, while Rain knocks at his brainstem to be let in.  

But when he finds Rain’s consciousness, he’s met with silence, a solid wall. Rain’s never locked him out before. No matter how much Dew pushes at him, gently probing like he’s scratching at the door, there’s no answer, no change, no shift.

Dew might think Rain was asleep if he didn’t know better. Rain’s defenses are always the weakest when he’s asleep. He’ll let Dew in without a second thought then, their minds and bodies curling around each other with no resistance.

Dew takes the stairs two at a time. He stumbles over the last one, almost face plants into the hardwood at the top. He steadies himself on the newel post and tries to swallow the mounting worry rising in his gut. He knows Rain isn’t dead or dying—he’d have known both of those things the moment they happened.

He hadn’t felt a pack connection until he was summoned, didn’t even believe it was a thing until he could reach deep into his own chest and feel Ifrit’s beating there too. He dreams about that sometimes—about the moment Ifrit got sent back to the pit and Dew felt the connection sever, a hot knife through weak flesh.

Rain’s alive, he’s fine.

But he’s hurt.

Rain’s room is right in the middle of the ghoul wing. Third door down on the right, across from Cirrus. Dew doesn’t bother to knock, he just tries the knob. Locked.

He does knock then, pressing his ear to the heavy wood, the silvery name plate in the middle is cool against his skin as he listens. There’s no movement on the other side, but he can hear the shower running. Can smell more blood, and the soft jasmine scent of Rain’s shampoo.

He knocks again, harder.

Ever since he became a fire ghoul he hasn’t been good about personal space. As a water ghoul he’d perfected the art of disappearing. Just like Mist before him and Rain after him. Dew had gotten really good at sinking into the depths of the lake for hours while the entire Abbey searched for him.  And had Rain run off to the lake, Dew would have probably left him alone.

But he didn’t—he’s here, a handful of feet away in his shower. Bleeding.

[qnewsau]

Olympic pole vaulter's bulge costs him a medal in Paris

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/olympic-pole-vaulters-bulge-costs-him-a-medal-in-paris/

Olympic pole vaulter's bulge costs him a medal in Paris

French pole vaulter Anthony Ammirati has had his Olympics dreams ruined by his own penis, missing out on a medal but gaining thousands of followers after his own pole collided with the bar during his qualifier.

On Sunday morning (AEST), the 21-year-old French athlete was attempting to clear the 5.70 metre mark on his third try at the Paris games.

But Anthony failed to make it through to the final and his pole vaulting Olympic medal hopes were thwarted by his own pole.

Anthony had made it over, but his bulge collided with the bar on the way down, knocking it off.

Poor guy. With the entire world watching the slow motion replay, Anthony Ammirati’s unfortunate incident went viral on social media.

Anthony Ammirati failed the bar and the commentators are clearly having a hard time acknowledging what happened HELP I'M DYING pic.twitter.com/5hOHttVA5g

— Gladys Wotching (@Glodyswotcher) August 3, 2024

French Olympic athlete loses a pole vault competition because of his “package”

The commentators have no idea how to describe what just happened pic.twitter.com/EEbWk7k8Ki

— HOT SPOT (@HotSpotHotSpot) August 3, 2024

“Bragging rights for life,” one person posted.

“Anthony Ammirati should’ve consulted a drag queen before doing this,” another suggested.

Image: X

But Ammirati’s Instagram follower count exploded after the slow motion footage went viral.

His meat cost him the Gold but it will keep him paid after the Olympics.

Anthony Ammirati's Instagram is going OFF https://t.co/lPhqT26rz2 pic.twitter.com/59e9yPqSw4

— Priyant (@Priyant1987) August 3, 2024

Anthony Ammirati isn’t the first pole vaulter this has happened to: Japanese pole vaulter Hiroki Ogita knocked the bar off in the same way at the 2016 Rio de Janeiro Olympic Games.

Meanwhile in Paris, Aussie pole vaulter Kurtis Marshall had better luck, clearing the same height and making it through to the final. It’s on Nine at 3am on Tuesday morning (AEST).

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

[lottiecrabie]

Your blurb about the party was so good can you also do a blurb about the morning after?

iirc this was the party you were mentioning (so many pfms parties it’s hard to keep track😭 someone get these bitches into AA)

she wakes up with her stomach in her throat, the world somehow swaying under the still bed. there is no need to wonder about god anymore, questions anxiously coiling around her brain; the truth is clear: she is dead and in hell. terribly punished. justifiably punished.

she groans, rolling on her back, knocking against a warm body breathing regularly beside her. her heart drops; an awful bodily reaction, she’s now doubly dizzy.

she frowns, peeking an eye open, finding the known room in its typical mess. clothes dispersed on the ground, red fabric thrown over the lamp, books scattering along the wall, a dying plant gasping for light, vinyls carefully placed along a bookshelf. readying her poor racing heart, she turns, coming face to face with a sleeping matty.

he’s almost angelic when he’s like this, unburdened of the problems of the world, face squished on the pillow. how ironic.

she smiles, carefully raking a hand through his unruly curls, pushing them out of his face. it’s beyond reason, beyond thought; she does it and curses herself when he blinks awake.

‘hi,’ matty says, voice hoarse from sleep, smiling at her.

‘hey.’

he rubs his eye, shaking off the remnants of morpheus. yawning, he asks, ‘how are you feeling?’

‘like armageddon.’

matty rolls his eyes. ‘you’re dramatic.’

‘no, no. this is the end of times.’

‘well,’ matty says, and he takes sneaks an arm under her neck, tugging her into his shoulder, ‘then the apocalypse mustn’t be so bad. i’m having a lovely time.’

she tries to pretend like every particule isn’t electrified by his closeness, dizzyingly repeating to herself all the inches of skin that touch him. she’d never thought— she’d never let herself dream of holding him again. she blushes, burying her head in his shoulder.

‘did you mean it?’ matty whispers.

she freezes in his arms, anxiety shooting up again. hell, armageddon, the end of times; she was all right. ‘about what?’

‘missing me.’

the truth slithers on her tongue. it’s sweet tasted— fruity, even. her breath hitches, as does his. the seconds pass by.

‘yes.’

one, two, three— the world ticks on, but just barely. she counts the beats of his heart to distract herself.

‘me too.’

she smiles, raising her head, chin digging in his shoulder as she stares at him. ‘really?’

‘is it so hard to believe?’

‘well, i don’t know. i was—‘

matty tuts. ‘no, no. not of that. i don’t want to hear it.’ he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, grinning warmly. ‘i’m glad you’re here.’

the world sways, but it’s some languid move, rocking them back and forth. ‘i’m glad i’m here, too.’

matty rolls her to her back, draping over her with a smirk. ‘well, i believe i promised you some teasing,’ he says, kissing down her neck. she laughs giddily, taking her shirt off, brushing his hair back.

maybe there’s the end of times somewhere— miles, feet, inches away. but not in this room. not when he’s here. not when he’s real beneath her palms.

[audiodramatist]

Hey…you also wanna do hardshine 29 🥺 you know cause you love me (I’m almost done with my own fic I can ask a lot of you)

29 ... as a promise

Hardwon dreams of dying.

It’s not always him dying, although sometimes it is, the feeling more a memory than a dream. Sometimes he’s the one who falls and doesn’t get up. Often it’s Gemma– losing her in Frostwind again and again. Sometimes as it happened, with the poisoned dagger. Sometimes she falls from the balcony and he can’t quite catch her. Sometimes she’s bit by Scarlett Montgomery, going pale and bloodless before his eyes. Sometimes she’s just there and then she’s gone, and he doesn’t know how.

And other times, it’s Bev, off the top of The Watcher’s tower or at the sword of Galad or the teeth of a giant crick-rot snake. It’s Balnor falling to a frost giant or an Angel of Thiala or a creature from Hell. But more than anyone else, it’s Moonshine.

He usually can’t tell what kills her. That’s the worst part. She’s alive and well, laughing with him at the crick, picking sticks out of PawPaw’s fur, and then she isn’t. He sees her cold and stiff and missing that spark, that Moonshine something that he would be able to pick out from a crowd if he were hit with both Blindness and Deafness simultaneously. And whenever it happens, he feels like he’s dying too. And he knows what that feels like.

Dying felt a lot like a world without Moonshine.

Hardwon wakes up in a panic, breathing heavy, tossing his light blanket off the bed. No sooner has he sat up than he hears a knock at his stump. Knocking isn’t crick habit. He knows who it is, and he knows she’s only knocking for him.

“Yeah, come in,” he says, and Moonshine does. She doesn’t seem alarmed by his state. She does seem worried, or maybe sad. She sits on the bed beside him.

“PawPaw was thrashing around something awful,” she says. “Figured something was up. He knows things, you know.”

Hardwon smiles. PawPaw doesn’t thrash unless Moonshine’s having a nightmare, and she sleeps so soundly that wouldn’t notice PawPaw doing anything unless she’d already woken up herself. So they were both having one of those nights. 

“What’d you dream of?” he asks as she settles in closer.

“Crickrot again. Got MeeMaw for good. You?”

Hardwon pauses. They all dream of death. He’d never told Moonshine how often he dreams of hers.

“Losin’ people,” he says, instead of anything more specific. “Same as you.”

“Alright, keep your secrets,” Moonshine teases. She leans her head against his shoulder, picks up one of his hands to play with. They sit in comfortable silence as she traces the lines in his palms, the edges of his fingers, the veins on the back of his hand. Hardwon breathes in the damp, dark smell of her hair and feels his heart rate go back to normal.

“Stay here,” he says at last. “Please.”

“One medium bed,” she says in response. He knows it’s a yes. They both shuffle down until they’re lying facing each other, hands still clasped between them. The stump’s lit only by the stars outside and one or two nannerflies that managed to get in, but Hardwon can still see every freckle on Moonshine’s face. Maybe it’s just memory. He’s known that face longer than he’s known his own. Loved it longer too.

“I dreamed… I dreamed you died, Moonshine,” he admits in a whisper. “I dream of you dying, like, more than anything else. And it’s– I’m scared, Moonshine. It scares me to be somewhere you’re not, even if it’s just a dream, even if I wake up right away. I don’t want– I can’t–”

Moonshine pulls his hand up to her mouth and kisses it. She kisses each finger, his thumb, his palm– he knows she’s aiming for this body’s short lifeline, the one she traced earlier and then extended, as if it continued all the way across his hand. The way she took this body from death and gave it to him, so long ago now that it's starting to feel like it's really his. At last, she places his hand just over her heart.

“I ain’t going anywhere, Hardwon,” she whispers. “I’m gonna be right here for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Always, then,” he replies, and it’s something they’ve said before, in one way or another, something they both know, but it feels important to say it now, like this. He moves close enough to wrap his other arm around her waist, her heartbeat still thumping against his fingertips.

“Always, then,” Moonshine repeats, and tucks herself under his jaw. Hardwon’s head fills with that perfect dirt smell again, and he kisses the top of her head.

“Love you, Moony,” he whispers, and hears her hum in answer. Then, a second later, she’s snoring lightly, and he falls asleep soon after.

He doesn’t dream at all.

[kiss prompts]

[abalovesfic]

Alright, gonna talk about The Book of Bill some now.

Man, some of those dream/nightmares reveals were doozies.

Like poor Dipper having reoccurring nightmares abut a fight he wasn't supposed to overhear, between his parents.

Like mannnn. Poor Dipper. Explains (even more) stuff about Dipper. Like him trying to be mature/acting more mature/feeling like he needs to act more mature. And clinging onto authority figures, like Ford. And not wanting to go back/leave Gravity Falls; to some extent. Maybe explains (even more) about Mabel too.

Mabel having really funny/good dreams, then having nightmares about her pig/pet, Waddles, dying.

Wendy dreaming about her Mom.

Stan having sad (-ish) dreams about his brother, Ford.

And Pacifica's nightmares about her family and a lot of feelings of guilt show in multiple ways.

Etc.

Pacifica's and Dipper's esp. stood out to me, for various reasons (including the stuff I talked about with them in this Ask. And just being quite dark, depressing, and/or really interesting/cool/etc. for their characters). But man, all of these were, just, my goodness, man.

There was some more light-hearted ones though.

Like Ford's was just funny.

Off the dreams/nightmare reveals.

A lot of the stuff in the Book was just funny too.

Like Dipper' search history (lol).

And so much stuff with Bill in the book.

Like he was just, so funny in TBOB.

TBOB was also quite revealing for Bill and Ford's characters.

(And others too. Like the other people I mentioned in this Ask. And/or etc.).

Anyways, it was great. Great art and writing and character stuff.

Hmmmm, do u have any thoughts on this (on what I said here) and/or other thoughts on TBOB?

Anyways, goodbye for now. And stay well!

2/2.

Imma keep it short and sweet.

1. Bill is my son and I love him regardless of any crimes or horrors he has committed

2. He’s just a lil guy who clearly needs people but isn’t sure what that looks like and I sure do hope therapy works for him because I love him

3. I’ve been processing the fact that there is only 1 timeline/dimension where everyone doesn’t die horribly? I love dark and depressing stuff. But I’ve gotten so used to Alex being quirky and hopeful that this really took me by surprise. Like… wow

4. You know he’s my son because he gets drunk and cries in a knock off Taco Bell (what I wish I was doing rn)

[hiddenwashington]

                                       we are the april fools

welcome to the brain cell of the admin team working! we love a good bit so, here is a compilation of our bullshit for your memeing pleasure. enjoy!

**tw for nsfw, drug mention, alcohol mention, swearing

‘ fuck off you fucking gremlin ’

‘ mister mistoffelees is my cat boyfriend ’

‘ one is a kink, one is a crime ’

‘ i live for chaos you gotta feed me ’

‘ i’ll continue being an asshole for your amusement ’

‘ i’m ready, bring on the anxiety ’

‘ hey bro, what the fuck ’

‘ we’ll scar ourselves for valentines day ’

‘ and then she wrote me a novel about his cocaine addiction ’

‘ sponsored by ritz cheese crackers, absolute shit ’

‘ you have no legacy, your legacy is to be disappointed all the time ’

‘ you’re like some sad soccer mom that came for the wine instead of your kids soccer game ’

‘ karen can choke i would never forget the sangria ’

‘ your moms dead, i’m your problem now ’

‘ it is i, the mullet of your dreams ’

‘ you cannot mention pornhub! this is why you’re not hr ’

‘ i’m on the clock to knock your lights out ’

‘ i’m livin la tiddy loca ’

‘ she was hot, i don’t know what to tell you ’

‘ righting the world and the economy one karen at a time ’

‘ you can fight my brain and my anxiety sis we’re having ✨a terrible time✨ ’

‘ i’m on it drag that bitch to denny’s i’ll take her ass out ’

‘ can god stop vibe checking me ’

‘ today i learned that cocaine could be an antidepressant if the government weren’t cowards ’

‘ i had five shots of espresso, even god can’t stop me ’

‘ ted bundy is up first i will square up ’

‘ one day i will have the pleasure of going to hell and murdering freud ’

‘ i will not face consequences for my actions. you can not make me ’

‘ i can accept that i have a flaw or two. that’s it though, just two ’

‘ i know you try very hard, but you are very stupid ’

‘ let’s go straight, a thing we’ve never said before in this groupchat ’

‘ you better be ready to sleep with moth man - hi dad! ’

‘ that’s like the saddest uwu i’ve heard in my life ’

‘ i just want the thrill of rejecting a god ’

‘ you really think you could take on the kool-aid man and take no damage??? ’

‘ i don’t have a foot fetish, i’m just autistic ’

‘ i haven’t even learned multiplication, how am i supposed to know what a pyramid scheme is? ’

‘ do i look sexy while dying? ’

‘ have you been watching too much youtube? ’

‘ fucking ipad kids, man ’

‘ i can be sane about this i promise but not today ’

‘ i’m a catch and i can also sleep with a younger man ’

‘ how do you milk an oat ’

‘ fuck my dad ’

‘ sometimes you just need to start swinging ’

‘ i just watched a cat girl walk out of thin air in a starbucks ’

‘ isn’t that that furry thing people are into ’

‘ i’m gonna go on The Google and see if i can figure anything out ’

‘ am i high too? ’

‘ fuck off bambi ’

‘ since there was no warning and i make the rules here ’

‘ you’ll go where i say you’ll go ’

‘ does a - mother fucker ’

‘ gonna play chase the emo ’

‘ we love biting dilfs….? ’

‘ optimistic nihilism, right? none of us matter ’

‘ it’s kinda cringe to be kidnapped ’

‘ you rolled a 5, stfu this rabbit’s coming to brand you ’

‘ is he immune to KNIVES?? ’

‘ alright – now to kill this dad ’

‘ if you think garfield is going to stand against me in court, you’re out of your fucking mind ’

‘ no offense but you have like no mom vibes ’

‘ i think i got threatened by a furry ’

‘ speak of the cat lady and she shall appear ’

**shotguns frappuccino** ‘ there’s many ways to drink a drink ’

‘ these hands are magic, baby ’

‘ are you saying naruto is jesus?? ’

‘ your pride is going to get us killed ’

‘ you look like you could fit under a bush ’

‘ y’all test me… ’

‘ it’s your reward for being a dumb bitch ’

‘ i am SO GLAD you didn’t get vored by a cloud ’

‘ did you get so high/drunk you circled back to sober? ’

‘ try to crowd surf the third graders! ’

‘ some things are better off unknown , the phrase will haunt me but… ’

‘ we’ve summoned satanic tennessee ’

‘ what’s a chakra? i didn’t bring anything with me ’

‘ hey lady, did you give me crack ? ’

‘ there are no nutrients in my body, only spite! ’

‘ i’m here to be fun and cute! not smart! ’ 

‘ i don’t joke about setting timers ’

‘ eggs aren’t meat... yet ’

‘ this is being run by a bisexual maniac ’

‘ maybe nessie’s lonely, maybe nessie needs to get laid! ’

‘ biting is my kink ‘

‘ don’t worry, i will slowly eat away at you until you are a husk of a person ’

[shinebrightlikeanarwhal]

Hiya, it’s me again. Uhm, hear me out. On November 5th, around the time Sal is 17, Travis goes missing. There’s no info or anything about him, he just kinda disappeared without a trace when he was walking home on fateful night.

A few days later, Sal has this dream. It was like, he was experiencing one of Travis’s memories, for some reason. On the seventh day is when he is found, dying of a hedonistic bender, a heroine overdose.

The gang re-look the missing posters and the cameras, only to see someone in a oddly familiar dog mask, watching Travis from the woods and shadows. And then the cameras go off.

Narwhal is feeling unwell so after this ask I’m going to take a nap, then I’ll get RIGHT BACK to answering asks💖

It’s an entire operation. Sal hardly ever has prophetic dreams but when he does it’s serious. So a dream where he can feel and hear the terror f Travis. Fleeing from who knows what.

The woods were dark but he can make out unique features. The voice while low and forcibly raspy, it was familiar. And that mask. That damned mask plagued his dreams. Before these visions started!

They search day and night. Looking for any extra clues. It isn’t until Neil comes by with the shoes Travis always wore and a torn piece of his shirt. There’s blood and a chemically smell. Todd checks and remarks that it’s a kneeler drug to knock someone out. If it’s that seeped into the clothes Travis was doomed the minute that person took interest in him.

Larry tries desperately to search for any clues. He’s constantly searching the woods, leaving no stone unturned. It isn’t until he hears a familiar voice echo that he finds he might be in the correct place. Shooting a message to the rest Larry tries to investigate more. Hoping to find the exact location by the time the gang gets there.

Unluckily for him however, when he finds the little bunker, Travis’ captor is there and making sure no one is near. Larry has to hide and alert the gang silently that they need to be careful on the way, it’s not just one guy. It’s a small cult.

[reefer-reelz-n-reviews]

Scream 3 (2000)

Smoking: Splatter

This is the 3rd movie in the franchise and they are making the 3rd movie “Stab” during it.

Something that I guess I wouldn’t have thought of. The Voice is the same (at least in the first 3 movies) played by Roger Jackson.

I will say unlike the first 2 movies this movie doesn’t have as famous of a person dying. I’ve never seen Kelly Rutherford in anything else. At least that I know of. Maybe to others she is, I just looked at her list and she was on a show called Melrose Place. I’ve heard of it, but never seen it. She was also in the original Gossip Girl. Which I’ve seen but I don’t recognize her 🤣

I wanna know what Neve Campbell does to afford a house that nice in the middle of no where with all the security that she has. I don’t see how a Women’s Crisis Center would pay for that. I guess in the 2000’s it was a bit cheaper because it totally isn’t now. Especially in California.

Courtney Cox’s bangs… she let a 4-year-old do her hair? Looks awful, just like that meme about it 😂

We’ve got Kenny from the Cosby Show! Welcome Deon Richmond to your death 🤣 well I’m pretty sure he does lol. We will find out for sure in a little bit.

Tell me how I forgot that Jay and Silent Bob are in this!?! My favorite stoners! “Who smokes the blunts? We smoke the blunts!” 🎶🎶

Why is the ghost face make that is huge and hanging a lime green color? It’s supposed to be white…

Jenny McCarthy-Wahlberg drops an award on the floor and breaks the head off. I laughed so hard 😂 foreshadowing? You’re literally on a movie lot and she’s trying to use knives to attack the killer, then she is surprised they’re fake. Like come on JMW.

Hmmm David Arquette’s bad arm switched… In the second movie it was his right arm… now it’s his left.

Love that Patrick Warburton is in this! Kronk is THE BEST! He’s a bit of a jerk, but I mean he’s a security guard for famous people, so I’m sure he’s a bit jaded. Hehehehe he steals the larger change from DA. Takes a frying pan to the head and a knife to the back. Still walks around and then dies in front of everyone.

Tells you how old this movie is, Parker Posey has a fax machine in her house 🤣

The eternally beautiful Carrier Fisher, even in the movie she talks about Princess Leia. Though she is stating that she didn’t get the part, but you know she did 😂 made a joke about sleeping with George Lucas, wonder how much basis there is for that? I know that he convinced her that in space there wouldn’t be a need for bras. So, who knows, maybe it is true 🤔

If this is about Stab 3, then why is the set up almost like exactly as the deaths in the first one? You had blood on the doggy door in the garage door for Rose McGowan’s death…

NC is carrying around pepper spray… if the killer is wearing a mask then how would it penetrate? Though I guess if it is some kind of soft cloth with holes it would make sense it would go through. But IDK seems suspicious to me.

Patrick Dempsey is really good at playing creepy and suspicious. I’ve heard that really, he’s a dickhead. Which I could totally see that. He kind of gives off dickhead vibes.

Snack time! Apple Pie, with whip cream and chocolate sauce 🤤

DR gets stabbed in the stomach and tires to run away. Nice little flip on the rug. Then over the balcony to die when he hits the ground. At least his wasn’t like a super easy death, right? He had a semi fighting chance.

So out of all the times through out the series that the killer gets knocked out this movie is my favorite. He is laying at the bottom of the stairs and as he’s, I guess dreaming, he goes, stab stab around him 🤣

Don’t understand why when PD opens the door, he has the gun come out first. Like what are you going to do? Shoot blindly? Risk hitting RC instead?

Just realized I haven’t even mentioned who the killer is in this. Maybe I will just leave it a “secret” even though I said what I did about the first one 😝 oh well.

🤣 She mentions Stab 3 and then stabs the killer a 3rd time.

Alright, that’s all for this review!

Toke on! 😶‍🌫️

-RRR