#perhaps at some point ill color these but likely not i do not like coloring akjsf

[coco-chip]

i recently made a little animatic on tiktok for welcome home which you can check out here!

i wanted to show off and store all the actual drawings i did for it since it was actually a lot and most of the pics ended up getting cut off because of the music timing and such

[melminli]

Cold Coffee

pairing: young coriolanus snow x fem. reader

summery - you liked working, and someone else liked you working for them.

word count: 2k+

contains: young president coryo, crack, fluff, secretary reader, coryo being lovesick and shy

You had a routine. A routine that you strictly followed every day and it started with your alarm clock waking you up at 5 o'clock in the morning. The first thing you did was get up and go to the bathroom to wash the sleep off your face, otherwise you couldn't get anything done. After you had finished everything else concerning your hygiene, you continued with your outfit of the day.

You liked to play around a bit when it came to your fashion choices. After all, you were living in the Capitol. Your job still demanded a certain formality and professionalism, which is why you were perhaps not as free in your choice as others, but that wasn't a problem for you. You always managed to find something elegant to wear since you had all kinds of clothing in different colors and fabrics that were perfect for combining with various other items. Whether vests, suit jackets, skirts, trousers or everything all together, it was entirely up to your mood. (Even though combining everything together was something you hadn't done since your school days at the academy.).

Then the last thing left missing was your hair and maybe some make-up, before you could step out of the house with your pre-packed bag. After a 15-minute drive in your car, you would arrive a few minutes early and were able to go about your duties as planned until it was time to leave at around 4 pm (if you were lucky).

You've been doing this every day for three years. Every day. That may sound exhausting (because it is), but you were also kind of happy about it since missing work would just mean that you had more to do on the following one. You rarely got sick, but when you did it was usually nothing serious so you came to work anyway. On the two rare occasions when you were really seriously ill, you were once off work and once you were lucky (or unlucky) that it was at the time of several public holidays. So yes, you haven't missed a single day of work - until today.

Your alarm clock died in the middle of the night.

"...huh - what's happening?" You asked, slightly drowsy, and it felt like you'd been asleep for far too long, a suspicious amount of long. Your eyes glanced at the clock on your wall, and you had to concentrate to keep the image from blurring. "...It's a quarter past seven." You finally realized, before widening your eyes and jumping out of bed. "It's a quarter past seven! I'm going to be late!"

In your stress to get ready quickly, you decided to get dressed first and quickly picked something out before scurrying to the bathroom to get ready. That was your mistake because while being a bit too hectic when brushing your teeth, you were clumsy enough to get toothpaste on your shirt. "No, no, no - ugh. I can't believe this." You whined and hurried so you could change again.

Hair? fine, make-up? Fuck it - okay, just go out and get in the car. At this point, you were already a whole hour late. When you arrived at the place where your car was supposed to be and couldn't see it, you started to panic and it didn't stop when you realized why. It's in the repair shop! Why, does this have to happen to me?!

"Okay, let's calm down for a minute." You said to yourself and took a deep breath of the cold morning air. It was quiet, only the chirping of the birds could be heard, it was still early in the morning. "That's just the way it is now. I'll just let someone know I'll be late and - " You said and took out your phone, only to realize that it was dead. This all was probably due to a power cut in the night, which also explained why your alarm clock wasn't working this morning. " - alright, I won't do that then. It's cool. Everything's cool."

Your day was off to a pretty bad start already. It would take you at least half an hour to get to work with the train, and you'd have to wait another half an hour since the last one left five minutes ago according to your watch. Yes, the morning commute wasn't exactly popular in the Capitol - the people here usually preferred to sleep in.

"You know what? I'm just going to treat myself to my favorite drink in my favorite café. I really can't do this right now." You finally decide and set off a little more relaxed. "I would argue that I don't get paid enough for this, but I actually get paid pretty well." You admitted but didn't care any more than to laugh about it.

Of course, no one would assume that the secretary to the president of Panem would get a bad wage.

Hm. Coriolanus looked at his watch again. His eyes had been darting there strangely often since this morning. Well, he didn't see you at all today, and normally you would greet him on the way to his office, and he would greet you back. After a while, you would come through the door and ask if he wanted coffee while you were already carrying it to him in your hand. This was followed by a little summary from you about what appointments he had today, who he was meeting and so on - it's not that important, the point is that he hasn't seen you yet and he didn't know why.

He got up from his seat and opened the door of his office to look out, but like before, you weren't sitting in your seat at the reception desk.

He then decided to look for his nearest employee. "Excuse me, Mr. Pox. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. " He announced his presence as he knocked lightly on the open door with his knuckles.

The man immediately stood up slightly nervously in order to appear respectful. He was older than Coriolanus, but he also wasn't the president. "You're not interrupting anything, sir! How can I help you?" He asked, a little confused. Oh no, he never asks me anything personally, I hope it's nothing serious. I'm not in trouble, am I?

Coriolanus reassured him as he subtly asked his question. "Well, I was just wondering where my secretary was. You wouldn't happen to know anything about her whereabouts?" He said, thinking it was a little stupid of him for not wanting to appear conspicuous. She works for me. I have the right to know where she is. This is not in any way inappropriate.

Pox was relieved when it turned out that this wasn't about him, but immediately felt a little guilty because you seemed to be in trouble. You were his nicest colleague, he liked you a lot. But I can't just lie to the president either. He's literally the president! He'll certainly find out if I do. "No, sir. Unfortunately not, she didn't tell me anything." He replied and just watched as the man in front of him hummed absently, which is why he quickly added. "Maybe she's just late?"

If that were the case, you'd already be three hours late. That was not like you, and Coriolanus began to subconsciously worry a little. She would let me know if she was going to be late. He thought to himself until he realized that you had never been late before, so he couldn't be too sure of his theory. Because that was what it was - just a theory. "Hm. All right, thanks for your time, see you then." He said goodbye to Pox and decided to go back to his office.

There wasn't really anything else he could do - well, except maybe call you. He stopped his steps for a moment at the thought. That feels wrong. Usually, you were the one who called him regularly or barged into his office so he didn't really have to. Well, sometimes he wanted to, but he doubted you would appreciate it if he contacted you after your working hours. He sometimes wished that his thoughts of you would end with your departure, but he hadn't really been successful yet, and for god's sake, he didn't know why. Well, I do - but it's complicated. She's my secretary and this isn't a stupid rom com.

He saw you all day. That is enough. It should be enough. It wasn't like he was looking forward to monday or anything since you started working for him - well, he was, but that was because of other things, for sure. It could be because of other things, he could find joy in other things.

"Oh, Mr. Snow. There you are." Your voice surprised him as he opened the door to his own office and was greated with your face in front of his. "I wanted to talk to you, but then you weren't here. I'm sorry I got in without your permission." You apologized sincerely and took a step to the side so he could enter.

"It's all good. You don't need to apologize." Coriolanus said calmly and sat down in his seat, subtly watching you move in front of his desk. "What is it?" He asked, appearing unaffected - as if he hadn't been thinking about you and what you were doing since this morning.

You looked slightly confused. "Well, I'm three hours late for work." You announced, sure that he would have noticed. "I know this can't be excused, and I'll get straight to work to make up for it, I promise. It's just that my car has a few issues and, well..." You assured him and placed a paper cup on his table. "I know I usually bring you coffee, and this is not the expensive one from here, but from my favorite café around the corner, but well..." You started rambling a bit and were a little more talkative than usual, which didn't go unnoticed. "...It also got cold on the way, and I spilled half of it because someone ran into me on the train." You added when you noticed how his gaze shifted to the stain at your side.

"Sounds like you had a pretty exciting morning. It's all right, don't worry, I'll turn a blind eye since it's the first time." Coriolanus replied with his slightly charming smile. You usually told him so little about your personal life that he unconsciously began to appreciate the little things he got to hear from you.

Like no, he didn't want to hear another stupid story about Mr. Aliose and his fucking hamsters. He almost felt sorry for the guys patheticness, maybe he could live a happier life if he put more effort into finding a wife than getting his pet to do a roll. Or from his other employees who tried to entertain him with uninteresting personal stories he didn't care about - because he didn't care about them.

And the one person he did actually want to hear from, kept their personal and work life very separate. He hated that it wasn't the other way around.

You nodded. "You don't even know. I don't expect you to drink this, by the way. As a matter of fact, I'll make you another one right now. It's just that - I worked really hard to get this to you, and it felt wrong to just throw it in the trash in the end." You let that bit out before returning to your professional self. "I just wanted that at least one thing would go right today."

Stay cool, Coriolanus. Don't freak out, and also, stop romanticizing this. "It's all good. I'm honored that you thought of me." He said, hoping he sounded natural.

A smile graced your face. "Of course, Mr. Snow. I'll be right back." You promised him as you stepped out of his office and made your way to the coffee machine.

As soon as the door closed behind you, Coriolanus let out the breath he had been holding. His hand reached for the coffee cup and turned it in his hand only to discover a small note on it. "For my boss and the boss of Panem :)" He read out loud and smiled as his thumb ran over the drawing of the snowflake. He couldn't help but take the little gesture to heart. "That's so sweet."

I should send out a car to pick her up tomorrow - for business reasons, of course.

[old-daemon-farts]

Is daemonism safe?

Daemonism, when broken down to the bare minimum, is a mental and imaginative exercise. It's not meant to push yourself into anything potentially unhealthy. You are not forcing hallucinations and there shouldn't be any dissociation of identity or losing control of yourself.

Let's Start With Projection

Projection is applying mental images overlaid on your surroundings. It is using your imagination and relying on your ability to visualize outward what is being produced by your mind's eye. With practice, you can make your projections quite vivid, and after a while you may not even register that you are still seeing right through them. The apple exercise is a good example. Lets say you picture an apple on a plate in front of you, but the apple is fleeting and inconsistent. Its shape, colors, and size flickers rapidly or fizzles out entirely. You *know* it's not there. There's little presence or weight to it. If this was glass, it would be described as crystal clear. But, with practice, it becomes more consistent. You can now see one shade of red and the size remains the same. Perhaps you have even added details like a shadow. Now, if this was to be compared to glass it would be glass with a light tint added. You can still see right through it, but you also know something is there. You don't have to be a daemian to be able to project. Concept designers, artists, architects, althetes... projection is a type of visualization. It's a creative tool. It's not a hallucination, nor is it intended to be one.

Extreme vividness can be from hyperphantasia, but if you worry projecting may trigger or influence hallucinations then you are welcome to avoid it! Projection is fun, but not a requirement, and you should do what is most comfortable, healthy, and safest for you. Daemians who experience projection as hallucinations already have a history of them from what I have seen within the community.

Fronting and Dissociation

These are experiences usually seen within DID and other plural spaces. Daemonism doesn't focus on switching with your daemon, and you likely won't find resources specifically about it. Of course, you can switch who's in front, and some plural daemians may have advice for how to accomplish that, but again, that's not the point or focus of daemonism at large. They are usually hands off within our lives. We are the ones in the driver's seat while they are the backseat drivers giving us direction. They aren't expected to take the wheel from us. There isn't anything wrong with wanting to or being able to switch with your daemon, just to be clear. I'm only pointing out that getting daemons to front is not a priority like it is in other plural spaces. This is another reason daemonism is very easy to get into and something I consider much safer and easier to manage for the average Joe.

Dissociation isn't something that is associated with the daemon experience either. Dissociation *can* occur, but there are likely other reasons you would be experiencing these things and not just because you have a daemon. Dissociation from ADHD, stress, illness, or DID are just a few examples. Switching with your daemon could just be masking, or perhaps your mind is already comfortable sliding your daemon into front because you have DID. Again, if you are worried having a daemon could trigger dissociation or a loss of control then please do what is in the best interest for you. You know your health and history best. But, there a *many* daemians who are systems and quite happy and comfortable having daemons. Daemons have even been known to help with dissociation and sense of identity!

Talking to Yourself

Is 100% a normal, human experience. There's been a surge of exploration in self-talk and how it affects us, and talking to yourself in 2nd person even has proven benefits. You also don't *have* to talk out loud to your daemon; you can keep it all internal. Just know that splitting your own mental monologue into a dialogue isn't unhealthy and it's something many of you already do even without a daemon.

TLDR

You do only what you are comfortable with here. If something sounds risky, then don't do it. Daemonism is meant to be a healthy and fun activity.

You want to form find but not separate your daemon from yourself? Awesome.

You want to only talk to your daemon and avoid projection? Neato.

You want to project but not talk to your daemon? Perfect.

You want to learn how to switch with your daemon? We ain't really the community for that but you are free to if you are comfortable!

You do what's best for you. It's meant to fill whatever you need. Healthy mindset, growth, or just straight-up something fun to do.

Topic spawned from a question on Discord over the difference of imposition and projection as well as some differences between us and other techniques out there for headmate creation. Cleaned up and formatted better for Tumblr.

[thevirginwitch]

City Magic: Painted Rock Wards

This post was released a week early over on my Patreon! You can subscribe for free to be notified of important projects announcements, or subscribe for as little as $2 a month to gain early access to my content, exclusive access to research/reading notes, and free digital goodies! Your support means the world to me and helps me to continue doing what I love.

We’ve all seen those pretty painted rocks over on Pinterest, right? These bad boys? Or perhaps you’ve even seen them around your neighborhood/public parks.

Traditionally, these are meant to be painted (sometimes with words of encouragement) and left in public spaces for people to take home, as an act of kindness. Some others paint them for their garden, either to deter pests with vibrant colors, or they’re used to label whatever’s in their garden.

Now, if you live in a big city, you probably have felt a disconnect from your craft or your practice. It’s difficult to connect with a nature-oriented spirituality, such as witchcraft, when you live in a concrete jungle! But there are many, many ways to feel connected to your craft, even if you don’t live in the middle of the woods or have a lot of nature around you. One of these ways is to connect with your neighborhood.

Your neighborhood has mass significance to your life, whether you realize it or not: this is where you live, where you work, where you breathe, where you practice your craft – you must make yourself known, and make the neighborhood known to yourself as well. One of the best ways to do this is to take walks!

Whenever you’re ready, take a walk through your neighborhood and bring a map, notebook, and a pen. As you walk, observe the behaviors of the residents around you. Do they seem to be struggling with anything? What kind of people are they like? Write these characteristics down. If you notice any parts of your neighborhood that evoke any specific emotions (such as unease, happiness, peace, or anxiety), mark them on your map. You might also notice some “problem areas” – perhaps some patches of the road or sidewalk are horribly paved and need to be repaired, or there’s a lot of loud dogs constantly barking at the end of your block. Mark these areas on your map as well, and report back to your home when you are ready.

Picking Your Purpose

Now that we’ve identified a few “problems” and made observations within your neighborhood, we can decide what we want to do. Do you want to protect against thieves? Ward against illness for one of your elderly neighbors? This is the time to select the primary purpose for your ward.

Picking The Area

Take the map that you marked up during your walk. Connect any common points you see (for example, connect up the "peaceful" areas you marked on your map, or connect any points that have a common theme). What kind of shape does it have? Does it remind you of any popular symbols? Can you use the general shape of the area to generate a sigil or symbol that represents the area? What area(s) would most benefit from your rock wards?

Here is an example of how I created a sigil from a fictional city map I found! Obviously, play around with this idea until it makes sense to you. You can connect up different routes, or perhaps create a border around the areas that feel safest to you.

Now is the time you also want to pick where you want to place your wards - you can use your neighborhood sigil to influence where you place them, or, place them based on intuition or based on need. For example, placing a rock ward at the end of the noisiest block, or in the middle of the block that has the most number of children in the area.

Creating and Using Your Sigils/Symbols

Now, you want to develop symbols or sigils for your purpose. You can use any method you’d like! You may wish to incorporate your neighborhood sigil into each one you create, but ultimately the design is up to you. This is also the point where you would “charge” your sigil, with whatever method you see fit - as long as the design, intention, and charging method makes sense to you, that’s all that matters!

Painting Your Rocks

Finally, onto the fun part!

Now, you could simply paint your sigils on your rock and call it a day. Or, you could paint your sigil, and layer a more “mundane” piece of artwork on top of the sigil, leaving the sigil hidden underneath. This technique works best if the “mundane” artwork connects with the ward’s purpose in some way (for example, if your ward is for protection against nosy neighbors, you could paint eyes; or if your ward is for health, you could paint green colors, or even a red cross). I definitely recommend this “layering” method of painting your rocks so no one in your neighborhood ends up reporting any “suspicious looking rocks” with “satanic symbols” on them to your local Facebook groups!

Materials

acrylic paint

rocks

paint brushes

toothpicks (optional)

paint markers

outdoor/water-proof sealant such as Mod Podge: Outdoor

Instructions

Lay out your rocks and other materials

Seal your rocks with a coat or two of your sealant before you begin painting. This is an important step, since rocks are porous and will suck up any paint you try to apply!

Paint your rocks to your heart's content! If you are layering paint on your rocks, please make sure each layer is dry before painting the next.

Once your rocks are completely dry, seal them up with your outdoor/water-proof sealant so they don't get damaged in the elements.

Lastly, take another trip through your neighborhood to place your rocks. Converse with the neighbors if you feel inclined, and make double-sure of the locations you chose for your wards. I recommend taking regular walks throughout your neighborhood to check on these wards, and make sure they’re doing their job. You may wish to refresh the wards with a new coat of paint, or replace them with something new if the situations within the neighborhood change.

Ultimately, magic is what you make it, especially when you live in a big city. Warding your neighborhood and showing care for the people that live there is one of the many ways you can connect to your neighborhood on a deeper level and feel more connected to your practice locally.

Recommended further reading: Urban Magick by Diana Rajchel

[stellocchia]

I absolutely adore the fanon Nightmare Gang found family stuff but... If one of these suckers gets sick they're gonna struggle.

Like, okay, I don't think Nightmare can reasonably get sick. It would make no sense for any virus, bacteria, or parasite to have evolved to survive and thrive in a goop that literally only he posses. He's fine.

But he's also gonna be completely useless when it comes to looking after his team. He would fall for the good old paranoia-inducing mistake of googling the symptoms and finding only death-sentences. And then he's just gonna be miserable and mope until his boys are better.

Killer meanwhile, would logically get sick, but also he would definitely hide it. Like, he was still conditioned by Chara to be a killing machine, no way my guy would just share such a big vulnerability. The others would only find out once he's already in really bad shape and most of the time they wouldn't find out at all.

On the other hand, while I imagine he'd be adept at setting broken bones and the general basic field medicine (again, because of his past he probably had to learn the basics to survive and remain functional), his solution to deal with any actual illness would be "just ignore it until it goes away".

I'm pretty sure Horror is technically already dead, so I don't know if he can get sick... Though I'd say probably? I mean, his body doesn't seem all too different from that of other monsters. Regardless, when sick I say he'd go in full survival mode, build a nest somewhere and be completely unapproachable unless you want your hand chewed off.

On the other hand, being the only one with a living brother and with both of them living in really harsh conditions, he probably has had to handle sickness rather often. Of course, with the lack of resources back in his universe, he mostly had to go for the basics, so his solution is a warm broth and some wet pieces of cloth. At most hot water to disinfect wounds. He's still at least doing something.

Cross is basically like Killer. He doesn't want to appear weak (with a father like his I highly doubt weakness was allowed) so he hides any minor sickness. Though I do think he'd tell, like, Horror if things are getting really bad. If anything, ao he doesn't become a burden for the others during missions.

And, again, much like Killer, I think he definitely would know field medicine. He was trained as a Royal Guard after all, they must have taught him things like that. But actual sickness? Yeah, they probably had medics that handled it when it got too severe. He doesn't know jack shit. His solution is just going to Horror and hoping he's got it handled.

Dust would straight up gaslight himself into thinking he's not sick and that's just his body punishing him for his sins. He literally would not believe it's anything else until someone (again, most likely Horror) pointed it out to him.

And the worst part is that, once he knows, there's no fucking way he'd let anyone treat him for it. That self-loathing fucker would rather suffer through it in some pointless attempt at receiving some form of redemption. He's cooked. Horror would need to tie him to the bed just to force him to get some rest.

So, anyway, this is my propaganda to say let's get at least one Sans who is mentally healthy enough and knowledgeable enough to keep these guys from dying in here.

My vote is for Lust Sans. Just because I love him.

Though someone like Color could also unlock some very fun dynamics. And he may actually get Killer to stop hiding his symptoms like an idiot. And perhaps Cross too. Literally, those guys would lie about getting bit in a zombie apocalypse

[stnkiconverse]

you're going to do it, and you're getting away with it. you know that.

Ch.7 - Thrill

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genre: psychological horror (in a way), creepypasta, supernatural thriller (in a way)

pairing: none. (yet ;) )

WC: 2.1k

content warnings: echoes in the static contains scenes and themes that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers, including: graphic violence and murder, mental illness and psychological distress, suicide and self-harm, domestic abuse, cannibalism and strong language.

Reader discretion is advised.

Yes this has to do with Creepypastas. Yes, Creepypastas will pop up and make appearances, it's basically a reader insert into the Creepypasta word.

do not repost my work anywhere, I only post in Tumblr.

A/N: CHAT IM SO SORRY FOR NOG POSTING FOR SO LONG😭😭

The morning sun barely touches the horizon when you stir from your sleep, the remnants of dreams dark and twisted lingering in the corners of your mind. But these dreams aren't disturbing-they're a source of comfort, a reminder of the power you hold, the power you crave. Frank's disappearance, reported by Mary the day before, should concern you, but it doesn't. Instead, it fuels a fire within, a relentless hunger that demands to be fed. The thrill of your past kills lingers like a scent in the air, intoxicating and sweet, yet leaving you craving more.

Rising from your bed, you move with purpose, each step calculated, each action a ritual in your transformation.

The oversized hoodie you slip on is worn, its fabric soft and familiar against your skin, a comforting shield that conceals your form. The old Converse, scuffed and frayed, are next, grounding you in the reality of your intentions. Finally, the black medical mask covers your face, hiding the smile that curves your lips —a smile that speaks of the darkness within, the predator lurking just beneath the surface.

You sit before the mirror, your reflection staring back at you with eyes that are no longer your own.

With deliberate care, you begin the transformation, your hands moving with the precision of an artist. You darken the shadows around your eyes, sharpening the contours of your face until the person in the mirror is a stranger—a hunter ready to stalk the night. The colored contacts slide in last, their unnatural hue completing the disguise. The person staring back at you isn't you —it's the predator you've become.

Today, there is no plan, no carefully selected target. The hunger within you is a living thing, a beast that drives your every step as you leave your apartment and slip into the early morning streets. The city is quiet, the world still bathed in the soft, pale light of dawn. You walk unnoticed, a ghost among the living, your presence nothing more than a shadow on the periphery of their awareness. You find yourself drawn to a small flower shop, one that you've never visited before, its windows filled with the vibrant colors of fresh blooms.

Inside, the air is heavy with the scent of flowers, their fragrance cloying and sweet. You choose your bouquets carefully, selecting delicate pink hyacinths, representing fun and playfulness, their petals soft and fragile beneath your gloved fingers. The florist wraps them with care, her hands trembling slightly as she works.

Perhaps she senses something off about you, perhaps not- but it doesn't matter. You pay in cash, ensuring no trace of you is left behind, and leave the shop with the flowers tucked safely under your arm.

The walk home is one of anticipation, each step bringing you closer to the satisfaction you crave. The city blurs around you, your focus narrowing to a single point-the next kill. And then you see it—a house with a window wide open, the sounds of domestic bliss spilling out onto the street. A husband and wife, setting the table for breakfast, their voices light and carefree. It's a scene so ordinary, so mundane, that it shouldn't catch your attention. But today, it does.

A powerful urge grips you, one that is impossible to resist. This is it. This is the moment you've been waiting for. Without hesitation, you cross the street, your movements smooth and silent. You move with the grace of a predator, slipping into the shadows beside the house, your presence unnoticed. You listen to the couple's conversation, their words a backdrop to the beating of your heart, which quickens with anticipation.

The couple finishes their task and heads upstairs, their voices fading as they leave the room. This is your chance. You climb through the open kitchen window, your movements fluid and practiced. The flowers are placed delicately on the counter, their beauty a stark contrast to the violence you are about to unleash.

Your eyes catch the glint of a knife on the kitchen counter, its blade sharp and ready. You pick it up, feeling its weight in your hand, the cold steel a perfect extension of your will.

The wife's footsteps approach, and you retreat into the shadows, your heart pounding with the thrill of the hunt. The air is thick with tension, the moment of the kill drawing nearer with each passing second.

You wait, the anticipation building to a crescendo, your breath shallow as you prepare to strike.

A gentle stomp of your foot is all it takes to catch her attention. The sound is subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to make her pause. She looks around, her brow furrowing in confusion as she searches for the source of the noise.

You step back further into the darkness, watching as she moves closer, her curiosity drawing her toward you. She steps into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room, but before she can see you, you strike.

Your hand is over her mouth in an instant, cutting off any chance of a scream. The knife slices through her throat in one smooth, practiced motion, the blade meeting little resistance as it severs flesh and sinew. Blood pours out, warm and thick, a beautiful cascade of crimson that stains her blouse and pools on the floor. The sight of it is mesmerizing, the deep red contrasting sharply with the pale pink of her blouse. The thrill of the kill washes over you, a wave of euphoria that makes your hands tremble with excitement. You let her body drop with a dull thud, your eyes already seeking your next victim.

"Sarah?" The husband's voice calls from the dining room, tinged with concern. You hear his footsteps as he approaches, each step heavy with the weight of unknowing. You smile, the anticipation bubbling up inside you, your pulse quickening with the thrill of the chase.

He enters the room, his back to you, unaware of the horror that awaits him. You move silently behind him, the knife poised to strike. "Sorry..." you say, your voice a whisper laced with malice. The husband spins around at the sound, his eyes wide with shock and confusion.

"Sarah's a little busy, hope you don't mind." Before he can react, you lunge, driving the knife into his chest. The blade sinks deep, meeting bone and muscle, but you don't stop.

You stab him over and over, each thrust bringing with it a surge of adrenaline. His blood splatters across your face, warm and sticky, a stark contrast to the cool air around you. The thrill of watching the life drain from his eyes is intoxicating, and you can't stop yourself from smiling. You continue until he's barely breathing, choking on his own blood, his body twitching with the last vestiges of life.

Reaching into his back pocket, you pull out his phone, your gloved hand smearing blood across the screen.

"Call the police, and have a good dinner!" you say with a laugh, pushing yourself off him and walking back into the kitchen. The flowers you bought earlier sit untouched on the counter, a quiet witness to the carnage you've unleashed.

You rip two petals from the pink hyacinth bouquet, representing the fact that you did this for fun, their delicate beauty a stark contrast to the brutality you've just inflicted. One petal is placed gently beside the woman's lifeless body, the other beside her husband, who still clings to the last threads of life. But you don't care to watch him die. The thrill of the kill has already begun to fade, and you have no interest in staying longer. With the knife still embedded in his chest, you climb back out the window, leaving the scene as quietly as you entered.

The morning air is cool against your skin as you disappear into the forest, taking a familiar shortcut home. The buzz from the kill lingers, making your legs feel slightly unsteady, but it's a sensation you've come to savor.

The leaves and sticks crunch underfoot, the dry, earthy scent of the forest filling your lungs. The thrill of the hunt still burns in your mind, a fire that refuses to be extinguished.

But as you walk deeper into the forest, the sense of peace you felt begins to slip away. Your smile fades as you hear a crack—a sound like bones popping, like when you crack your neck or knuckles. You freeze, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, your senses suddenly on high alert.

Footsteps follow, soft but deliberate, echoing through the trees. Your heart races, the sound almost drowning out the rustling of the leaves beneath your feet.

Panic starts to creep in, your mind racing as you try to figure out what's making the noise. You quicken your pace, moving faster through the forest, your thoughts clouded by the memory of the man you saw outside the flower shop.

The static begins to creep in, faint at first but growing louder and more insistent as you move. It's a familiar sound, one that you've come to expect, but this time it's different— more invasive, more intense. The closer you get to home, the louder the static becomes, until it's almost deafening. It fills your ears, your head, drowning out all other sounds, until it's the only thing you can hear.

You reach the back door of your apartment, your hand trembling as you push it open. The static is nearly unbearable now, a constant, overwhelming presence that refuses to be ignored. You step inside, closing the door behind you, and the noise crescendos to a fever pitch.

You glance back at the way you came, and for a fleeting moment, you see him-the man with the gash on his cheek, the one who's been haunting your steps. He stands there, watching you, his dark eyes filled with something you can't quite place. Your own eyes begin to water, the intensity of the moment almost too much to bear. You blink, and when your eyes open, he’s gone.

The static fades as quickly as it came, leaving you in a deafening silence that is almost worse. You take a long, hot shower, the water washing away the blood, the dirt, the memories of today. The warmth soothes your nerves, calming the adrenaline that still pulses through your veins. You feel good—better than you have in a long time. The thrill of the kill, the power you felt as you took those lives, lingers in your mind like a drug, and you know you’ll need more.

The next day, you wake up with a sense of peace that is unfamiliar, yet welcome. The darkness that has clung to you for so long has lifted, replaced by a strange calm. The world seems brighter, clearer, and you feel lighter than you have in weeks. You dress quickly, eager to start the day, and head to work with a spring in your step.

The hours pass quickly, the routine of work grounding you in a way that is both comforting and necessary. But as you move through the day, your thoughts drift back to the man you saw outside the flower shop. The memory of his smirk, the gash on his cheek, sends a thrill of excitement through you. And then, as if summoned by your thoughts, you see him again.

He stands outside the front window of the shop, his eyes locked on you, the same smirk playing on his lips. But this time, he’s not alone. A second figure stands beside him, taller, more imposing. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a stained white hoodie, his arms naturally long, his long black hair greasy, his posture relaxed yet menacing. Your heart skips a beat as you take in the sight of them, the realization dawning on you that this is no ordinary encounter.

The second figure turns to look at you, and your breath catches in your throat. His face is a grotesque mask of horror—a smile carved into his flesh, the edges raw and jagged. It’s a sight that should terrify you, but instead, it excites you. Your eyes flick back to the man with the gash, and his smirk is still there, as if he knows something you don’t. You feel a connection to him, a pull that you can’t explain.

You smile at him, a full, teeth-baring grin, as the realization hits you. He’s your next victim. The thrill, the power, the rush—it’s all-consuming, and you crave more. But before you can act, they’re gone—vanished into thin air, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The rest of the day passes in a haze, your mind consumed by the image of the two men. You replay the encounter over and over in your head, analyzing every detail, every nuance. The thrill, the excitement, the hunger—it all builds within you, a storm that refuses to be calmed. By the time you leave work, the urge to kill has become unbearable.

As you walk home, the darkness within you swells, and you know that tonight, the hunt will begin again.

Chat, who’s gonna tell Y/N that she can’t kill Toby?

banners by @drizztdohurtin

🏷️: @mimmickmouse @stranger-of-the-internet @akashic06072007

[asamiontop]

The mark of an excellent engineer is predicting the unpredictable. Anticipating how a user might misuse or abuse a product before they’ve ever laid eyes on it. Preempt the mistakes and the fringe use cases and design them into insignificance with failsafes and redundancies.

Lena is, by all accounts and conferred degrees, an excellent engineer. She designed the anti-kryptonite suit to withstand, well, everything. It’s built to handle abuse ranging from unplanned space flight to close contact with a nuclear warhead.

Most engineers don’t exactly take into account how their product might inadvertently abuse them, however. And in that respect, Lena is no better than the rest.

She watches Supergirl peel off that technically perfect helmet, not a splash of sickly green on her golden skin, and Lena expects to feel triumphant. Proud. Accomplished.

Instead, she feels affronted. There’s no other way to describe the physically oppressive tightening in her chest when the hero shakes out her hay-colored hair, helmet in hand. The headpiece comes off, gorgeously windswept curls tumble out of it, and Lena gapes as her last remaining brain cell goes up in smoke.

It’s like a goddamned motion picture. Down to the way Lena’s jaw hinges open, slack and completely outside of her control. Blonde waves cascade over the armor Lena hand-built for those broad shoulders and all her insides collectively squeeze. A wayward strand catches on a passing breeze and alights on a delicately flushed cheek, framing Supergirl’s handsome jaw. Lena huffs—at this point it’s just offensive.

She’s bordering on furious with herself for not considering the obvious danger in her design (irritatingly perfect hair, an ill-advised sapphic crush, and a glorified motorcycle helmet do not a productive match make). Unintentional harm or distraction to anyone—wearer or not—is simply an unacceptable failure mode in battle. Of course her irritation isn’t enough to keep her from raking her eyes appreciatively over everything that her suit emphasizes on National City’s beloved Kryptonian.

Lena’s debating alternative head coverings in her mind—throat still dry, eyes still roving, fingertips still itching to learn how soft those golden waves truly are—when Supergirl glances her way. She smiles and it’s like the sun catches on all of her at once. Light glints off her suit (Lena’s suit, that she made for her), illuminates her hair, dances in her smile and suddenly Lena understands why people worship her as a god.

The super is radiant as she walks over. “Lena,” she breathes, tucking the helmet under one arm. Lena’s sheer disgust with this entire cliché is the only thing that keeps her from moaning outright at the way her name sounds from that mouth. “You saved me.” Supergirl’s blonde head ducks bashfully and—oh, she gets to be cute now too? How dare she. A chuckle rumbles through the crest that Lena placed on her chest. “Again. You saved me again.”

Crystal eyes lock on hers and Lena’s awareness of anything outside those deep, searching blue flees her entirely. Struck dumb, Lena holds Supergirl’s gaze, chin lifted, until the hero finds whatever she’s looking for.

An irresponsibly cocky smirk curls at the corner of Supergirl’s mouth. It pushes her a step closer and the proximity shoots a wave of instability through Lena’s knees.

“Is there any way I can repay you?” The super says, voice low. Lena wonders briefly if she’s been transported to the set of a low-budget porno. As if on cue, her brain fires off three filthy responses in rapid succession. This cannot be happening. She swallows hard to keep those thoughts sequestered in her head where they belong.

Possessed by some force greater than herself (perhaps Luthor composure, roaring through her veins from a family she normally loathes to emulate), Lena straightens. One of her eyebrows arches and Supergirl’s smile grows.

She bites the inside of her lip thoughtfully and watches in delight as the Kryptonian stands up a little taller, expectant.

“There’s no need, Supergirl,” Lena purrs, right on script, reaching out to swipe her thumb over a smudge on the suit’s chest plate. Keen eyes track the movement, so Lena allows her touch to linger. She retracts her hand slowly and meets the hero’s eyes once more. They are eager, focused entirely on her, and a shiver of satisfaction bolts through Lena at the attention.

With a heavy flutter of her lashes, she drops her voice. “But now that you mention it, I would love to get my hands on that suit of yours.” She pauses, allowing the implication to swell in the air. “I have several ideas…” she casts her gaze down the Kryptonian’s front and up again, “for improvements I’d like to make. If you’d allow me, of course.”

Supergirl’s eyebrows near her hairline as she stutters, “Y-yeah, totally,” her voice a whoosh. Then she shakes her head, sloughing off her apparent stupor, and her grin is back in full force—sexy and blinding at once. “Seeing as this is your creation, I’d say I’m all yours.”

She pierces Lena with that clear-eyed stare. “Actually. Are you free right now, Miss Luthor?”

Lena bites down a smirk and savors the goosebumps that tickle the back of her neck. She nods once, quick and to the point. Supergirl’s smile blooms across her face, replacing the self-assured swagger with such genuine delight that Lena is battered twice with attraction and endearment. She mirrors the hero’s expression and loops her arm around the elbow offered to her.

They turn to leave at a leisurely pace, ignoring the long-suffering voice of Agent Danvers yelling after them.

“Hey. Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?! Ka—Supergirl! That suit is DEO property! Hey! Hey! Don’t you walk away from me!”

Supergirl laughs, eyes never leaving Lena’s as an agitated “motherfucker” echoes in their wake.

[multifunctionalnitroglycerin]

Poe’s Annabel Lee in TLT #2

You thought I'd never post it huh? Well about a month later, here is the beast. Enjoy!

We have already delved into the most obvious parallel that the TLT books create, between John and Alecto and the heroes of Poe’s Annabel Lee. I would like to now draw some comparisons between Gideon and Harrow and Annabel Lee. This might seem a bit far-fetched, because how can John and Alecto AND Gideon and Harrow exist in the same premise within Poe’s lines?

The answer is simple. They don’t. Contradictory, I know, but a lot of that comparison and many of those parallels stem from the fact that those two pairings themselves are reflections of one another. Or perhaps picture negatives. After all, what John and Alecto had, stems from love, and it is plainly stated – as plainly as all things in Muir’s writing are, at least – whereas the beginning of Gideon and Harrow’s relationship sprouts from unadulterated loathing. We learn afterward of course that this is not really the case, what with Gideon sacrificing herself in an act she perceived as the only act of Love, she could offer to Harrow and whatnot. But the parallels are there. And it is deliberate, for John and Alecto broke the world, and Gideon and Harrow will remake it – or die trying. Muir has a wonderful way of interweaving elements in the plot and creating comparisons, parallels, and antitheses between the countless colorful dynamics in the books. So, I feel where John and Alecto broke the world, and are going to -probably – die, Gideon and Harrow will step up and mirror them, bringing hope back to the world. As @local-selkie said, the series probably won’t end without hope. Hope for reconciliation, for fixing what has been irrevocably broken, hope for breaking circles and hope for a better tomorrow. (Yeah well, I may be a cynic, but I am human above all, and if there is one thing that humans yearn for, live for and fight for, it’s hope. Naïve, childish, hope. It’s what makes us better, I think)

Onto drawing a few parallels now,

It was many and many a year ago

In a kingdom by the sea

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

by the name of Annabel Lee

Not really much to say about this one. Our story for these two starts about twenty years ago, in far off Pluto – well, the Ninth – with the salty ass underground (might point to there having been saltwater there at some point) where Wake collapsed dead, and a wailing Gideon was found. Harrow had not yet been born, and frankly neither of them would be what one would call a fair maiden.

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

than to love and be loved by me

I was a child and she was a child

In this Kingdom by the Sea

Here I feel we could consider this a reference to the shared childhoods of our heroines. The lonely, shared childhood of our heroines. For there were no other children on the Ninth, and they bitterly clung to each other with all they had. Even if it means beating each other into a pulp within an inch of their lives. Because Harrow was a child, and Gideon was a child on the far off Ninth, where there were no other children, and all they had was each other and their rivalry. So, I can see the whole “she lived with no other thought” than finding a way to make each other’s life hell. And as we see going forward in the books, that was all they could do to love each other, the only way they knew how.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— 

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven  

Coveted her and me.

We loved with a love that was more than love, we loved with a love that felt like hatred, with a devotion that felt like abandonment, because Gideon could think of no greater act of love than sacrificing herself for Harrow, than letting Harrow consume her, and Harrow could think of no fate worse than that. Harrow loved Gideon so much the greatest act of service, of devotion, of love she could think to offer to her ill-matched cavalier was to spare her, to let her live. And they both failed spectacularly at that, but oh well. Angst.

As for the analogue to the seraphs, this is a bit trickier than John and Alecto. Because for them it’s obvious it’s the rest of the Lyctors, the Lyctors that couldn’t compete with John’s monster cavalier, the Lyctors that could never achieve their perfect connection. But who could it be that covets the connection between Harrow and Gideon? I think to be able to imagine an answer to that we should take a step away from the narrative and look at them from everyone else’s perspective. For the Niners it’s a no brainer. They know Gideon, they know Harrow, they would never think of a worthy connection between the two as highlighted by Crux’s words in NtN (and goodness if that didn’t hurt). But what about the Canaan House? Contrary to Harrow’s insecurities and paranoia, to the external observer they do present a united front. The two black clad nuns of the Ninth, with their veils and their disconcerting face paint, with their creepy/ damning/ borderline heretical prayer, the tiny unhinged necro, and the huge, silent Cav that disarmed Magnus in three moves, that seem so in sync it’s almost uncanny (“Death first to vultures and scavengers - AN ICON). So, I could see, the rest of the people in Canaan House at least envying their connection a bit, (if they haven’t already figured them out – like Pal and Ianthe), at least at first glance. And then there is ofc SYLAS OCTAKISERON, (I hate him, I am sorry, but if I could stick him headfirst to the ground I would). The Eighth generally isn’t that fond of the Ninth so no surprise there.  I am rly not sure how the OG Lyctors would feel abt them but if you have any ideas feel free to share.

 And this was the reason that, long ago,

 In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came  

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre 

 In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

Alright, so as I mentioned before, this is where the tone shifts to something more chilly, if you will. No more fairytale notions – as much as Gideon and Harrow can be perceived as a fairytale. But if we want to be particular abt Gideon and Harrow’s timeline this is the exact point where Harrow makes herself a mausoleum for one more soul, Gideon. (The pain though). I know that at first, I interpreted kingdom by the sea as the Ninth, for Gideon and Harrow, but here I think it is safe to assume that it is referencing earth again, aka the First, where the final showdown for GtN is taking place. The highborn kingsman, I think again references the Lyctors only this time we are talking Cytherea, that forced Gideon’s hand, in sacrificing herself and Harrow partly consuming her. And now Gideon is a part of Harrow, locked away in her - soon to be lobotomized - temporal lobe.

And obviously Harrow aches for Gideon, for she never wanted this to be her fate. She consumed her out of necessity, not out of want. It is the process of Lyctorhood itself that comes and takes Gideon from Harrow, that causes this painful sacrifice, and has her clutching at whatever remnants of Gideon she has, as hard as possibly, with no plan whatsoever, but to preserve her, thus rendering Gideon’s sacrifice pointless.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love  

Of those who were older than we—  

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in heaven above, 

 Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

And this is Lyctorhood ala Harrow. Aka rendering the whole procedure useless, because you love your cavalier so much you cannot bear the thought of killing and consuming them. (Or well, Lyctorhood ala Ninth House, because Anastasia attempted preserving Samael first. I mean we can see that the Ninth Necros love their cavs too much – They literally both went, Immortality and immense power? No, thanks, I don’t want it without my cav by my side. They’re both ambitious enough to try, however, and we saw what that cost them).  I think that this part works as a foreshadow for Gideon and Harrow in the future, (for a hopeful future) as well as it is the part with the closest parallel to Alecto and John. Because part of Alecto is in Harrow and part of Gideon is John, and their love is enough that Gideon kills herself for Harrow, no regrets, and the stubborn, little, malnourished nunlet lobotomizes herself to spare Gideon being consumed into nothingness. So yes, their love transcended that of the other Lyctors and their cavs, because they refused to make the sacrifice, because they loved each other so much they found a way to at least stop the procedure, instead of just ling down and taking it (well Harrow did, Gideon was ready to die for her. And again. How Gideon thinks so little of herself she thinks she is better off as a sacrificial lamb, and Harrow in her endless guilt just refuses to let her – masterful and painful in equal measure. They both feel betrayed, because the other didn’t let them die, but wanted them to live.

As for the never severing the souls, I have two words for you. Perfect Lyctorhood. (Just an idea, but we’ll see)

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes  

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, 

 In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

            Dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee, like the coffee-shop au dream/hallucination Harrow has? Like the constant nightmares where her brain glitches replacing Gideon with Ortus?

            I must admit that this part to me also highlights the connection between Harrow – Anastasia’s Line – and Alecto. Because we meet Alecto through the dreams, because Harrow sees Alecto in her sleeping and wakeful hours, because in the dream Harrow is Alecto and Alecto is Harrow.

The bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee, Alecto’s golden eyes, Gideon’s  golden eyes, and Harrow’s own dark ones, that while not bottomless pits are pretty dark in their own measure. Now the lying down next to my beautiful Anabel Lee part, is… tricky for those two. I honestly don’t have many ideas abt it. I can picture it as Kiriona and Harrow sitting next to one another in the Tomb, and together undoing what has been done, and then having their happy ending, but that’s as far as it goes.  If we take the idea that Harrow is the mausoleum in which Gideon’s soul is preserved, I can imagine that the whole thing will happen in the River. Perhaps from an access point on the Ninth, but literally this part is the one I most struggle to interpret.

Of course, we also need to take the biblical connections into account, and those biblical connections are in large why there are so many parallels between the two pairings. You have God and his offspring, that sacrifices herself, you have Harrow, who in a sense is also Christ going down in Hades in the days before the resurrection, and you have Alecto. John is Gideon and Harrow is Alecto and it’s a glorious mess.  We have parallels in a love that transcends all that was known before, we have it starting from what is perceived as hate but in reality, is the last strings of their sanity sticking together, with a few sprinkles of codependence. And again, is that love truly as beautiful as it appears?

We do tend to romanticize it a lot in the fandom, but ultimately, it’s a story about grief and loss. Harrow’s story is abt grief and loss and guilt. The future of the ninth was sacrificed for her to be born, her whole planet will be lost if she doesn’t find some way to help it, she has already lost so much and sacrificed so much to be where she is, and the last straw is Gideon’s death and coming back as Kiriona. And Gideon, Gideon that was born alone on the ninth that no one wanted, no one paid attention to but Harrow – Harrow who made her life a living hell yes, but Harrow who talked to her, even if it was just to exchange insults. Gideon abandoned by the world, that loved Harrow and harrow abandoned her too, in choosing not to utilize her sacrifice. Their stories are so interwoven with themes of love, loss, and grief, that the parallels are hard not to draw.

Anyhow, I am beat. I hope this makes sense. Feel free to add your own thoughts and comments, and don’t forget to take care of yourselves.

Till next time!

PS check out @katakaluptastrophy's post abt the descent of Christ/Harrow in Hades here.

It's spectacular, as usual (The articulation is so on point I cannot. I feel like a mad scientist reading a scholar's work every time). And perhaps with the Orthodox Easter approaching I might take the chance to revisit the scriptures myself.

And @fkapommel's post abt the duality of the Christ symbolism in Gideon and Harrow here.

I enjoyed this too much not to recommend it.

[paperstarwriters]

Hey, do you take requests? I loved your Modern Roomate Muriel X Reader fic and I would love a part 2 if you ever felt like writing it <3

Yes I take requests! But it does take a while for me to finish them cause I'm slow and this was no exception lol

thank you for waiting though! and I'm glad you like my writing enough to want more!

For this one I've tried to keep descriptions vague but also I tried to be accurate with Muriel's colors. Though if you can't tell I'm still not exactly confident with makeup lmao. Tbh i can't use it much since I'm prone to rashes, so I don't have much experience lol. Still I hope you enjoy <3

Pairing: Modern Roommates Muriel x Reader

Warnings: Lots of fluff & Author knows little about Makeup 😅.

Summary: Muriel admits that he has worn makeup before, but under such bad circumstances, you can't help but want to give him a better experience.  More important than the colours, more important than the fine lines, you want this to feel... Nice for Muriel. Like he's being pampered. He deserves that you think.

Word Count: 3, 640

Part 1 | Masterlists | The Arcana Masterlist

Painting

"So have you worn make up before?" 

Muriel pauses in making breakfast, turning to face you as you sip at your glass of water at the table. Had he not noticed you come in? He's typically very (annoyingly) good at that. Any chance of preening at your sudden ability to sneak up on your roommate falls flat as he makes a scrunched expression. Disgust perhaps? Or discomfort? You can't tell as he quickly turns back to his cooking, too soon to let you see what exactly he might have felt. 

Thankfully, he graces you with a reply. 

"I... Did before..... For a bit.... For a.... Job." 

Your stomach sinks. 

It's funny how much there is to notice. What you can pick up and understand when you live so closely with a quiet roommate. How a hum can mean a number of things, ranging from a simple yes to, "I think that's kinda dumb but you know what, you do you." or "I appreciate you too much to disagree." And for all that Muriel did not talk to you about his past, he only ever reserves the word "Job" for one job he's had in the past. Everything else is called work. This, you're sure, is better called torture. 

Asra mentioned it once to you before, when you were new roommates and he was far grouchier and colder. Muriel worked a job under some toxic super wealthy frat boy manager doing something violent and unsavory. A boxing ring you sometimes imagined, an assassination job it sometimes sounded like. In desperate need of money he had to do a lot of terrible things. It's a wonder he ever got out without someone chasing him to drag him back in, but well, thanks to the r3d outbreak getting away is way easier when your employers get sick, or when you can feign an illness and leave as the higher ups fear for their lives.

What kind of make up would that kind of job need? Maybe something black around the eyes like they do for the military with their masks? Or was it make up to appear more sick in order to escape?

Muriel sighs as he pushes your plate closer to you, startling you as you hadn't even noticed it was there. You mutter your thanks before you start eating the eggs and rice he's prepared for you, still trying to chew over what his possible past experience might have been with makeup while you try to chew your food at the same time. The result is tenuous of at best as you run very close to choking on your food a handful of times and miss your mouth once or twice when particularly deep in thought. 

What kind of makeup did Muriel even use?

...What would he look like in makeup?

On that point, what would suit him best? Something dramatic and edgy or emo? Or maybe a pop of colour? Green around his eyes might draw lovely attention to the green within, but a dark eyeliner might as well. What about contrast? Red against green? Wouldn't he look lovely in red? A lingering stain of red on his cheeks, and a bright red stain of red on his lips... Ah how kissable they would be then?

...well, anyone would consider his lips kissable if such plush things were stained a vibrant red...

"Are... Are you done?" Muriel mumbles, eyes diverted to tracing the scuffmarks at the bottom of the wall beside him.

It takes you a moment to realize that your plate is already empty, and a moment longer to realize you had been staring at Muriel for the last few minutes as you daydreamed about makeup. You're quick to rectify your mistake as you redirect your attention to your empty plate, though it takes you another moment to remember that it's your turn to wash them, plucking your plate and his from the table to go and wash.

It's silent for awhile. An anxious little silence wrought with a familiar lighthearted tension. It's more awkward than anything, but someone needs to break the silence, someone needed to say something. If you could just—

"Do you wanna try wearing makeup?" you blurt out. You don't even need to turn to look behind you to see his shocked expression at your offer, maybe even a little bit of hurt or betrayal that you just cannot bear to see. So you keep your eyes on the dishes before you, quickly scrubbing away rice with a sponge as the used pan sits below soaking in the water. "Not any battle make-up or anything, but just something... I don't know... Artsy or something? Something colourful? Something that would compliment your eyes..... Uhm not that your eyes aren't pretty or something—or that you're not pretty without makeup—or that you even need to do this at all haha!" 

Above you the light from the small kitchen's lightbulb is eclipsed by a familiar figure behind you. With a gentle touch of your shoulder, Muriel brings your attention up towards him though he still looks away, avoiding your eyes, as the corner of his lips twitches. You can't tell if he's fighting a smile or fighting a frown. 

"You don't have to, Muriel. It's just an idea..." 

And finally he meets your gaze. "I... No. I... I'd like that. It sounds...nice." 

His eyes wander away from you again, as if ashamed to confess that he'd like to wear make up—though maybe, considering what you've heard about that shitty old job, he is. Maybe his old job was the type to argue that pretty makeup was for the weak and spineless, or maybe he was convinced that pretty makeup was only for the rich and wealthy who came to watch or hire him to fight for them, all while they'd sit so far away and safe and cozy in some plush lounge seat, so far away from the danger and the violence, but getting the chance to watch, and delight in the wretched outcome.

Either case is so awfully sad. Either case only makes you want to doll him up in makeup even more.

Furiously you scrub at the pan, and within a matter of seconds you've scraped off anything that had ever threatened to stick, thoroughly scrubbed at it with soap and set it aside to dry with the plates as you wipe your hands on your shirt and nearly bolt off to your room to search for your materials. Hopefully you had colours that would work well with him. 

It takes you a moment to realize that you're alone in your room, turning with a handful of tools to find no one there behind you, and as you peek out of your door and down the hallway, you find Muriel still standing in front of the sink, staring at you with wide confused and slightly worried eyes. 

"Do you not wanna do it anymore?"

His eyes seem to go even wider for a moment, before he replies, "right now?" 

"Did you want to do it later?"

"I—no....okay!"

And back in to your room you go, this time with the added assurance that Muriel would follow, marked by the faint thud of his feet against the hallway floors.

You dig around for your cleanest brushes, and grab your most trustworthy (and thus most used) brushes alongside it, grabbing something to clean the brushes as you bolt off to the bathroom  to wash your tools, before you return to searching your assortment of tools in search for items that would suit him. The red of one lipstick would look lovely in contrast to his eyes, but a muted dusty pink might look just as pretty wouldn't it? Perhaps a bold black eyeliner, would be a bit much—and maybe a bit too similar to whatever black eye paint they used in the military if he used that stuff, so maybe a brown eyeliner would work a bit better? If you even had one of those... Though maybe brown eyeshadow would be effective enough? Ah but maybe brown wouldn't be as noticeable...

You zip back and forth between the washroom and your tools, between cleaning and searching for colours and palettes rummaging through your rather limited assortment of makeup tools. Having only ever bought stuff for yourself, you didn't really have much outside of your favourite colours or in tones that would suit your skin, but a few older products that you tried and didn't like, or a few palettes with sparsely used colours were surely somewhere within the mix. 

You only pause in your searching as you're pulling your brushes out from the washroom, having dried them off loosely with a towel to go further air dry them beside a nearby fan or in the sun by the window or something, you had been in the middle of deciding when you realized you had forgotten a crucial component. 

"Hey Muriel?" 

He sits up straight at the sound of his name, head snapping away to look out the door, as his hands ball into fists as if bracing for the touch of your brush. 

You can't help but hesitate a bit at the sight. 

"What.....?"

"Oh, uh, you should probably go wash your face, and use some cream on your skin as well. The one in the flat container should be pretty good for most skin I think?"

Muriel nods, still not looking your way as you return to your make up drawers in search for odd colours you only maybe, hopefully had for him.

When the sound of the sink finally shuts off, you take it as your cue to give up. It's an odd assortment of colors—you doubt you'd use that neon shade of green on him, even if green is his colour the brightness might be a bit...off-putting right away, but you have a general colour scheme you can follow using some of the colours on hand. 

Face ever so slightly damp and shiny from the cream, Muriel returns, looking... Anxious to say the least really.

He fiddles with his hands a bit, touching his face almost just as much, trying to wipe away invisible droplets of water, or trying to smooth down the thicker patches of the lotion you let him borrow. 

And again, you find yourself hesitant.

"Are you sure you wanna try this? No shame in backing out. It's easy to put this stuff away." 

Muriel nods, following his silence with a half whispered reply. "No, I'm ..... I'm okay. I want to try...."

You nod, and pulling your first brush from it's little cup, you settle down, and begin to get to work. 

It's a lot of careful maneuvering, carefully dabbing colours onto some places with a brush, rubbing other places with your fingers, before you lean away to check how you're doing. Were the colours too bright? Was that line off? There are a few things that you end up having to scrub off with a makeup wipe, but even with that you're careful of his skin. More important than the colours, more important than the fine lines, you want this to feel... Nice for Muriel. Like he's being pampered. Muriel barely moves through the entirety of it all, but for what little he does it means all the world to you. Silent and unmoving, eyes and mouth closed, Muriel serves as the perfect canvas, only difficult in the fact that it keeps you from seeing whether he likes it or not, if he feels pampered or not. At the very least, you hope it feels nothing like whatever his old job used to do for him. 

Ah, but you can only really hope. 

An orange-red lipstick is the final touch, but your limited supply of brushes are already all packed with colours, and you'd like to —if all possible—keep the things that touched your eyes from going towards anyone—including your own—mouth. 

So you elected a far simpler method instead. You rub your finger against the lipstick bullet, and with your finger to his lips you smudge the colour against his skin. And with a simple touch to his lips, you make him jolt, breaking his statuesque composure, for just a moment before he's still all over again, albeit maybe leaning a little more foreword than before. If he has, it's barely noticeable, and probably caused by that one jolt of movement. His lips are a bit chapped and dry, so it takes a few attempts, but you manage to stain his lips with a suitable amount of colour in your eyes. 

You take a step back to see what you've done, and smile, satisfied at your work. It's nothing special, nothing on the level of some professional in a studio with all the makeup options in the world at their fingertips, but you think that it suits him, and you're proud of that much at least.

"You can open your eyes now." 

You offer him a hand mirror, and let him examine your, admittedly shoddy work. It's not perfect, but the colours look nice you think, though you can't help but wince at the selection a little. You just didn't have a shade of green that would fit him well in your opinion, so you leaned instead into the red colours that you did have. You used the only greens you could find to add a little colour to the inner and outer corners of his eyes, and used a warm orange-y-red lipstick on his lips that turned out pretty dark against his skin, you also smudged the colour a bit along his cheeks as well, as a sort of blush really though if you could you'd like to try to capture that shade of red his face so often blooms. It really isn't your best work, limited as your colour palette was, but....

Well, the way his eyes seem to glitter more at seeing it.... Well, it would make any make up look pretty on him really.

"Can I... Ask for one thing?" 

You blink, surprised for a moment before you're immediately grabbing the makeup wipes again. 

"Sure! Do you not like the colours? Is there a colour that you'd rather wear?" 

His cheeks tint red, and you almost curse yourself for the smudge of dark red on his cheeks, making it harder to decipher that exact shade. Surely you had lipstick in that colour at least...?

"What.... What was the colour of lipstick you were wearing last night....?" 

You pause for a moment, dropping the attempt of colour matching to grab the tube of lipstick from it's place on your table. It was a dark red shade, almost like the colour of blood, a shade you specifically aimed to avoid, hoping that it wouldn't make him uncomfortable. 

"This one? You wanna try it on?" He barely even looks at it before he nods, making you sigh as you bring it closer to him to let him inspect it. "It might look different on your skin than it does on mine just an fyi, so don't be surprised if it looks different okay?" 

Muriel nods again, this time having looked at the lipstick a little more thoroughly. He doesn't react to the colour at all no trace of hesitance or weariness, so perhaps they didn't try to paint him in "blood" or anything dramatic like that. 

With your fingers once again, you press the red colour against his lips, as Muriel leans into your touch this time, eyes closed as he lets you work. The sight of it startles you for just a moment, looking as if he were leaning in for a kiss. 

Your finger slips from it's path, and a smudge of red, streaks away from his lips, but even that looks so.... Pretty against his skin. Like he's been kissed, like whatever lipstick he had been wearing had been smudged by another pair of lips eager to express their affection. 

You hesitate, staring at his lips for a moment before you finally turn away to grab more makeup wipes. When you turn back, Muriel's eyes are already open, already staring at your sloppy job with his lipstick. 

"Sorry I'll fix it. Do you like the colour though?" 

Muriel's eyes flicker to yours for a moment before he looks away, but a grin curls his painted lips, as more colour takes to his cheeks. A resounding yes, then, confirmed by a faint hum. A job well done in your books then, and thus a debt well repaid, for his gentle hand at helping you wash your own makeup off. 

You dab at his lip to wipe away the smudged lipstick, before you begin to pack up your supplies. "Feel free to wear that for however long you'd like, I...." you cut yourself off. The offer to help wash the make up from his face tucked away along with your makeup containers. Muriel helped you to clean off the makeup only because you needed his help exhausted and maybe a little drunk from your night out, but Muriel can surely handle himself. 

When you turn back around, Muriel is staring at himself in the mirror. It's the most you've seen him look in a mirror to be honest. Not including the bathroom, your room seems to be the only one in the apartment with a mirror, and though you've offered to let Muriel borrow your mirror if he needs to, or to help him buy his own, he's staunchly refused your offers. It was a small thing though, nothing that you'd feel the need to press him about. He's covered in scars after all, and you know full well how he feels about those—the whole reason why you let him use a handheld mirror than your full sized one. 

But now, as he holds your little handheld mirror up, to look at his face, you can't help but notice how he traces his own lips with a newfound reverence, fingers dancing along the flesh with the barest touch as if he were worried it would smudge, or wipe away with a mere touch. Yet even then, the corners of his lips are pulled up. Did he like it that much? You make a mental note to buy extra of that colour the next chance you get alongside some green eyeshadow perhaps, though by the looks of if, Muriel seemed to much prefer the lipstick that stained his lips than any of the other colours you've splattered on his face. 

It takes him a few moments, but when his eyes finally flicker up to you, he does so with a smile, that promptly fades into a blushy pout as he realizes your attention. It's a tragedy to see it go, but seeing his lip jut out at the attention is nearly as good. 

"Do you like it?" 

You're startled at his question, for a moment, scrambling for coherent thought to best reply to him. The reply you give in the end makes your own face grow warm, though earnest and true. 

"You look lovely." Even your expression softens a little, as your eyes flit back down to his lips.  Once more, Muriel's face picks up colour again, but try as he might, he can't quite keep the smile from curling up the corners of his mouth at his words. 

"Thank you."

Standing, Muriel fidgets with the mirror for a moment before handing it to you, mouth parting for a moment before he thinks better of it and closes it again. It continues for a moment or two, making him stay longer than you'd expect him to, as he stares anywhere but you. Familiar with the gesture, you wait for him to get his words in order, even as he looms above you while you're half sitting against the ledge of your drawers.

If anything, you take the moment to re-assess your work, recalling all the improvements you fully intended to make if he let you do this again. If you could, you'd use a shade closer to his eye colour as his eyeshadow next time, to bring more attention to the colour there. Or maybe even some sparkles next time? If he didn't mind them that is, it could be a bit irritating to try to clean off sometimes. And maybe next time you'd choose a better shade of blush that would match the actual red to rise in his cheeks. 

And the red of his lips... You're tempted to reach up, to press a finger to his lips once more, if only to feel how plush they were again, if only to give him more of that pretty red that he seemed to like so much despite his past.

And you watch as those pretty painted lips part, as those lovely emerald eyes finally dart your way. You watch as his attention finally turns to you, mouth parted as if ready to speak before he pauses, just for a breath, eyes searching your face for... Something. 

And maybe he finds it. Maybe he doesn't. But in reaction to whatever he sees, just a little bit of that tension escapes his face, shoulders sagging and the faintest curl of his lips gracing his expression. 

"Next time," the spell breaks as he speaks, mouth corralled into a pout once more as his eyes dart away from you, "Next time let me put your make up on for you."

And with that he turns away fingers just brushing against yours as he leaves your room, leaving you to blink and wonder what sort of makeup he knew to apply. 

If anything, at least he seemed to like it.

If anything, you had another reason to feel his fingers against your skin...

[bad4amficideas]

Fallen in Middle... Sea?

Okay, I just had a dream (that someone would please come and steal and write). Case in point 1. Persona falls into Middle Earth is one of my favorite tropes when people get all technical and discuss differences and such. 2. I just saw the Rings of Power. So, here we go with a bad written prompts of mine (fell free to use it) It's female coded because it's actually all a dream I had.

Reader may or may not be more or less a Tolkien fan, but between one thing and another she knows more or less what Sillmarion, the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings are about (a lot of Wikipedia may or may not have helped because who doesn't end reading whole fandom wikis instead of being productive?).

But what does Reader know about the TV series "The Rings of Power"? Which is a series PENDING TO BE RELEASED in a few days. Galadriel comes out, Sauron comes out and a lot of OCs come out. Is written in the 2nd Age, about which hardly a thing is known. And people is already complaining because that and people of color or something like that. Reader gives two shits about it.

Soooooo The curtain opens.

Reader wakes up (not to mention almost drowns) in the open sea, nothing in sight. She is rescued by a bunch of people and all wears medieval clothes and speaks an unknown language. And they itch her clothes. What's so strange about her clothes!!? (they should be grateful that you're wearing long pants!!)

In any case, after a time at sea where only a couple of people try to communicate with her (Not to be ill-considered, but Reader believes that she already knows the word prostitute, whore or equivalent in the language of these people although what she has been taught does not include that word) something hits the ship and smashes it to pieces. Which leads them to wander aimlessly for two days or so. They will all be wet and hungry but the atmosphere is all hot and smoky!

In the wreckage of the ship you rescue someone who introduces herself as Galadriel. Cue your world going crazy because WAIT, this IS Middle Earth? (I mean, you had had clues because of how people blasphemes and blesses, but denial is a powerful weapon) What is Galadriel doing in the middle of the sea, with such a hidden bad character btw? (THAT IS NOT IN ANY BOOK!!!) And well, from here the story begins. Only you, a dude called Halbrand (appropriately one of the few interested parties who was nice to you) and Galadriel survive the next attack at sea. You are rescued by hotty Elendil, etc.

Thus Reader becomes friends with these two sharing the "culture" of their "country" (world) and their eclectic knowledge. It may or may not be that Reader supports that Halbrand wants to spend the hell out of his "inheritance" (because long live democracy and things should be voluntary for people prepared for it and feeling it, although Reader admits that Halbrand is super smart -suspiciously even for a HUMAN commoner).

Also both (Halbrand and you) of you are considering making a place for yourself in Numenor (well, more him than you, Reader is thinking that if Galadriel is not an option, she doesn't know who to ask about her situation, since you never know where Gandalf is. Some other Istar, maybe?) but in the meantime you learn from their healers and try to adapt to the somewhat misogynistic culture (Why is everyone surprised that she is NOT married with children back her home, goddammit!) and wears long dresses everywhere -also PADS send help!!!- and you may be developing a crush (reciprocate, is he courting you?? Wow, how strange this world is!!) on Halbrand but rather die than hook up with a future king (first is to try to return home, if that is not possible, try to live a peaceful -no obligations- life, perhaps among the hobbits)

[Reader is a fan, but not a hardcore fan, she's not aware of certain things, in fact, she's still wondering when Gandalf and Mordor is going to appear, like, isn't it supposed to be IN the Southlands? Shouldn't she stop Halbrand or more like Galadriel to push Halbrand from going?)]

In my dream Reader calls herself a healer because is the closest thing in Middle-earth to her job (you can think whatever you want) and because of her knowledge she accompanies and helps Halbrand and Galadriel to the Southern Lands and later to the Elf Kingdom (making the trip not have to be so drastic and hasty).

Galadriel also mentions that "the three of us have met for some purpose" Because anyone can see that Reader is almost as out of place in Middle Earth as "The Istar" was upon his arrival (It doesn't help that Reader doesn't take off her sneakers/sport shoes/boots even by begging... I suspect she sudenly cares lot about her bra now). Some people call her behind her back "The Naive Wise One" because she knows and teach so much but at the same time she doesn't know.

[art-crumbs-main]

Hello!

I'm a queer artist who wants money.

You're (perhaps) a person with money who wants queer art.

Let's make some magic happen.

Let's talk Commissions!

[SR text: "Let's talk Commissions!"]

Character Art Prices

Bust (Click for quality):

Sketch - $12

Colored sketch or lineart - $15

Lineart with flats - $17

Simple shading - $20

Full render - $45

Half-body (Click for quality):

Sketch - $15

Colored sketch or lineart - $18

Lineart with flats - $20

Simple shading - $25

Full render - $55

Full-body (Click for quality):

Sketch - $20

Colored sketch or lineart - $23

Lineart with flats - $25

Simple shading - $30

Full render: $65

Backgrounds (Click for quality):

Solid color/No background - Free of charge.

Sketchy background - $5-15 (Depending on complexity.)

Painterly lineless background - $15-45 (Depending on complexity)

Full-lined, full-detail, anime-esque background - $50-150 (Depending on complexity.)

Extra stuff:

Props - $1-25 per prop depending on detail. This usually includes things a character is holding, but may include for example, a painting or family photo hanging on the wall, if that's an important focal point.

75% off any extra characters in each piece.

Things I will do:

Traditional art (IT WILL ALWAYS BE MORE EXPENSIVE.)

Mimic styles of popular media

Pixel art

Sprite edits

Character sheets

OCs

Fandom content

Ship content

Tasteful nudity

Headcanons (diversity and otherwise)

Homestuck panel edits

Things I will need to clear before you request but aren't necessarily off the table:

Extreme violence/Gore

Kink

Fetish

Other NSFW

Depictions of mental illness

Things I will not do under any circumstances:

Draw for free. If you come in my DMs asking for free art, I will personally take you to the top of the Eiffel Tower and hang you from it by your shirt. (Though, if you put it in my asks, I may respond with a little doodle when I have the time and energy.)

Proship: This covers incest, pedophilia, shit like that. I don't wanna fuckin' draw that.

NSFW of real people.

Hateful imagery (hate symbols, racist characatures, dogwhistles (I will look shit up if it seems strange.))

Self harm or suicide.

Drug abuse.

Depictions of domestic abuse.

Depictions of sexual violence.

Anything that gives me the ick. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, yadda yadda.

Anything, if you're personally a dick to me.

[brucewaynehater101]

im having SIGNALIS thoughts and it gave me an idea

Okay so in the book, The King in Yellow, "A common thread is a fictional play also called The King in Yellow, the reading of which either drives people mad or leads them to a dark fate." - TVTropes Literature page for The King in Yellow

iirc, the first act is completely standard but Act Two is when things get fucky when its contents--well--gives people insanity or a less than stellar fate

Jason was the Second Robin, and can be seen as Act II of the legacy of Robin; Jason's revival gave him a Second Chance at life, an Act II to his first life; Jason iirc was the Second Red Hood, taking the name from the Joker who gave it up

((wait if his Second Alias is Joker does that make Joker another King in Yellow in a sense??))

Moving on w/ the idea of the Act II bringing madness, when Jason died, thus being an ending to Robin's Act II, Batman fucking lost it, and Jason was arguably at his lowest after his ressurection and donning of the Red Hood moniker

combine this w/ the idea of Jason being a literature nerd and you could maybe do something w/ this, maybe he or someone else notices and points out this admittingly surface level parallel between him and The King in Yellow

do w/ this what you will

Alright. I did some research for this one.

To make this somewhat understandable for me, it's kind of like The Ring? The Ring is a movie about a recording that causes the people who watch it to become haunted. The King in Yellow is a series of short stories about a play called The King in Yellow that causes people to lose their minds. The King in Yellow (as a creature) seems to be a god-like being that will one day rule all earth kings??

The color yellow, at that time period, had the meaning of disease and mental illness to the point of insanity. Thus, the ties between The King in Yellow and the color yellow are clear.

Fuck. I'm going to get into color symbolism, aren't I? Fuuuuck. Alright:

Yellow - Joy, remembrance, caution

Red - Strength, danger, passion

Green - Rebirth, Growth, Jealousy

Purple - Luxury, ambition, royalty, devotion

These sets of colors are vital to Jason's story and Joker.

Anyways, for the story you mentioned, what I saw indicated that "the first act" was pretty normal. One line into the second act, though, and the audience was hooked until they met their own mental demise. Perhaps Jason's story could indicate that too?

So, he stole the tires from the batmobile and got dropped off at Ma Gunn's school. Jason beat them up with Batman and then, immediately afterwards, got called Robin by Batman. He hadn't even set foot into Wayne Manor by that point.

Post revival, his second chance at life, he kind of fucking looses it (which is understandable. This is not a diss against Jason or his actions). It is stated that for those who read the play, recovery from madness is possible.

Hmm... Thoughts here. Who/what is The King in Yellow? Robin or Joker?

The King is a ruler.

Purple is the exact opposite of yellow, and purple usually indicates royalty. We've also got the whole Joker shit going on with royalty symbolism

Robin could be a king in that they usually lead teams... However, they would be closer to a prince than a king

The King IN Yellow

Purple is the exact opposite of yellow

Robin wears yellow

I think it would be ironic if Joker, clad in purple, was the yellow fellow. Robin, however, could be the yellow sign they somewhat talked about. Idk much about the book/story, though.

Side note. Found this wicked quote. No clue if the context is correct, but here: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a living God!"

Idk. Made me shiver

[gods-third-eye]

Killer Klowns from Outer Space and Clown Husbandry:

Qualifications: I am an avid clown lover and perhaps a bit of a clown myself. I sleep in a small circus tent and eat fresh cotton candy regularly. I am also working on my third home-made clown suit.

Anyways, with the intro done, let's get onto the meat of this.

I was recently gifted KKFOS t-shirt and I figured if I want to wear it I should at least watch the movie, right? I was apprehensive because I am a fan of sweeter clowns and putting respect on the clown name. I was worried what this movie was going to entail, but after watching it I have lots of opinions and thoughts!

Firstly, I should say that I think the movie was done very well. I am a fan of the plot and props. I enjoyed all of the references to horror movies. I enjoyed learning about how the Klowns operate and what their machinery looks like. However, I am conflicted on the killing.

I have a few proposals for the clown husbandry community to consider before writing this movie off as inappropriate:

These "Klowns" are not the clowns that we are all familiar with and deserve their own understanding as a separate creature entirely. Now, this may be the most obvious choice, but it is still worth bringing up. This theory is supported because in the movie, Mike Tabacco (the policeman) says, "They're not clowns. They're some kind of animal from another world that just look like clowns... maybe they're the ancient astronauts that came to our planet centuries ago, and our idea of clowns just comes from them." Now, I don't know if I believe that they are where our idea of clowns comes from, but I certainly could see them being a completely different species from our clowns. The Wikipedia for the movie also describes them as "a clan of evil extraterrestrials who resemble clowns". They are from space, afterall. Now, these both come directly from the source material, but I still have more thoughts on the matter.

What if they ARE clowns, but they got sick with some illness that has caused them to be blood thirsty? Now, this one might see a bit far-fetched, but we are talking about Killer Klowns from Outer Space, right? Well, this movie seems to understand lots of points about the culture of clowns: the importance of noses, love for cotton candy and popcorn, bright colors, silly noises, entertaining folks with goofy gags. So why are these Klowns killing? Let's look at some of the clowns themselves.

They have puffy and deformed skin that looks like that from an allergic reaction, they have yellowing teeth and eyes, enflamed lips, and their eyelids are droopy. These look like sick clowns!! Perhaps you might argue that they are simply scare clowns, but to that I say shame on you! Scare clowns get the same treatment as pitbulls, they are not inherently harmful, they only get that way from maltreatment. However, I don't think these Klowns are scareclowns. Scare clowns have traits like "salivation, staggering, growls and hisses and bluff aggression" as well as a diet that may consist of balloon animals and a more solitary lifestyle than other clowns (according to the fandom wiki and many husbandry tumblr accounts). But the Klowns shown in the movie (I have not interacted with the game yet) are quite normal other than the killing, they take care of balloon animal dogs,

and they are almost always seen in packs. The Klowns are often shown displaying friendly and inviting behavior before, during, and after the killings, so why are they doing them? I think that they are sick. This would also explain why the culture and lifestyle (other than the murdering) is so similar to clowns we know and love.

3. Now, this point could be seen as tied to the last point, but I think it deserves its own bullet-point. This whole movie could be a clown-loving informational piece on the dangers of sick clowns! If these truly are classic clowns that happened to get an illness that caused them to be murderous, perhaps this is an informative video on what to do and what not to do, as well as a warning to care for clowns properly. This movie is clearly made by someone who knows the intricacies of clown culture, as stated previously. But if the cultural depictions aren't enough to prove that, then just think about how many sweet classic clowns are used as logos throughout the town. Jojo's ice cream truck

and Big Top Burger

to name a few examples. This town loves clowns. And again, Tabacco says that they can't be clowns. He cannot imagine them as the same clowns we know and love because he knows healthy clowns don't murder. So, this is a clown-lover's way of saying "Killer Klowns are not clowns. Clowns don't kill".

4. Now, this one might be the silliest take of them all, but what is more silly than a clown? What if this is just a clown's comedic take on a horror movie? We have seen numerous horror movies about people, but we know they are far from representative of all humans. Why can't this just be a clown's horror movie? Of course we watch it and laugh, thinking it is just a B-movie horror film, but think about a clown watching this. A clown would be scared and horrified, both for the Klowns and the people in it. We see this movie as silly and cheesy, but clowns might get a real fright out of it! Maybe that's why clown lovers get so riled up over it. Besides, it seems like a goof because it has ripped off some of the most famous cliches in horror: the Psycho shower scene,

the girl not believing the killer,

and the car filled with cotton candy, reminiscent of the Blob. Actually, the whole movie is reminiscent of the Blob. Why? Maybe a clown found out about scary movies and wanted to make one suited to scare a clown!

Well, that's it. Those are my explainations for the movie Killer Klowns from Outer Space. Believe what you want, but these are some of my ideas. Like them? Or maybe you have another take. Please share your ideas! Thank you for reading through this ramble.

Clown bear for your patience!!

[eorzeashan]

Long time no swtor thinkpiece, but.

Thinking about Eight in the IA class story and then who he is post-Alliance; going from a bold, daring and casually ambitious wildcard to someone who feels as if he's lost most of his zeal to become rather...listless. Empty. Not to say that he isn't fulfilled by his work in the Alliance (who all make exceptions to have him do anything but murder all day) but he starts picking up more mundane activities like, peeling potatoes for the Alliance cantina, or doing minor tasks that don't involve much thought on his own volition-- a stark change from a man who only cared about his blade and who it fell on. It's like he's been soundly defeated by the circumstances surrounding him.

Then there's the issue of his companions, who only knew him as their cunning leader who stopped at nothing to achieve his goals, even using some of them in the process, who now appears to be an entirely different person. One who quietly fades into the background, instead of being in the thick of it. He's changed.

His skills haven't waned, but his voice is flat, his eyes without gleam, his all consuming desire that drove him to accomplish the impossible by the day naught but simmering ashes by the time they reunite with him in KOTXX. He even apologizes to some, without explanation. This distresses Vector, in particular, who witnessed the worst of his sides way back in the day. "It's not me you should apologize to, Agent." Vector can only quietly say, "I have never held you in ill regard for the choices you've made, anathema as they were to my principles." It's a conversation that peters off, but one that Eight never had, never had soon enough --his firm refusal to rectify or acknowledge that Vector could choose him over his own ideals is one that gnaws at him on the inside for years, on his own belief that people cannot change what they truly believe in, and so there is no point in trying to make amends for what bridges he burns in the pursuit of his own wishes. This, and many other denials, compound over the years into a rather hurtful self-made solitude that follows him long into the Alliance. (A mother will never give up her son. There is no other way. I cannot change my nature as a weapon. Their rejection of me is something I must accept.) A punishment, but for who?

Perhaps he still feels he's failed the last mission Keeper entrusted to him. The one that asked him to become a real, living person, and not just a sword dressed in imperial colors.

Eight spirals during the events of the Eternal Empire. He watches his downfall happen in real time. There's little he does about it. His home is gone, as are the people he fought for--Keeper, Watcher 2, Intelligence--and this new age is only filled with allies he cuts down faster than he can imprint their names into his memory. He's alone in this fight at the behest of others who do choose their ideals over him, who, in the end, turn away in fear and disgust when he bloodies his blade in their name. He makes no effort afterwards to right his image in their minds. He plays the villain, if others will not. For the first time, he tires of killing.

This leaves him alone, an outcast even among friends. Eventually, amongst the ruin their failed Alliance leaves in its wake, someone asks why things turned out this way; his lack of a will in the greater fight comes to light and sets several alarm bells off. Lana reduces his duties on the battlefield. Others, out of shared guilt and a fear of the bloodshed he wreaked on their orders, give him a wide berth to live normally for a while. It's not much and does little to his disillusionment and estrangement with his allies, but...it's a start.

Eight the Assassin turns into just Eight. And Eight the former agent, ex-Cipher, killer extraordinaire who never once dreamed of the stars, turns into someone who quietly watches the sun set on a world he barely recognizes,l but still stays up to see it, potato peeler in hand.

[shybunnie20]

Bff!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader x Bff!Dustin Henderson

★My Masterlist

Summary: The last thing you want is to bring your friends down with you, so you decide against telling them how much you've been struggling. They find out in the worst way imaginable.

Author's Note: Thank you for another request, Anon! This is the darkest fic I've written thus far. It was cathartic to channel some of my personal experiences and I hope that reading it provides similar relief.

Not suitable for sensitive readers! Extreme angst with a bittersweet ending. No use of Y/N. Inspired by the song Sara - We Three. Be sure to reblog, follow, and show some love ♡

Word count: 4.8k

Warnings: MDNI 18+! Depression and anxiety, self-harm (cutting), panic attacks, suicidal ideation and attempt (overdose), substance abuse, Eddie being a crybaby, includes swearing.

Do not proceed if the warnings are triggering for you. Read Down & to the Left instead, it has a similar theme but it's far less intense.

There are people in this world who have the luxury of not knowing what it’s like to experience mental illness. From the outside looking in, depression is nothing more than being exceptionally sad. Unsolicited advice comes with such naivety. A myriad of superficial solutions to the multidimensional hardship that isn’t so easily soaked away by a candle-lit bubble bath or intensive exercise.

You’ve been dubbed as moody, complicated, and sensitive. These surface-level generalizations indicate that your friends wouldn’t understand what you’re going through. At this rate, it’s not worth trying to explain the corrosion eating away at your cheeks. Therefore, you continue the everlasting game of bloody knuckles and you have yet to say “mercy.” With one foot in the grave, you daydream about what your funeral will be like. Does anyone even care enough to know what your favorite flower is for the floral arrangements?

Draping a sheet over your bedroom window is essential because it makes it trickier for your demons to find you. Instead of them ripping you apart limb by limb, you dissolve into your blankets in the dark. The quietude instills a false sense of security that you hold near and dear. It’s lonesome, but you don’t want another person’s presence. Numbness is the company that you ache for. Christ, what you wouldn’t give for it to swallow you whole.

In art mediums, blue is considered the color of sadness, but it isn’t for you. With a blade as your brush, the crimson drawn to the surface of your skin is the paint. The picture you’ve created is less than pleasant but it’s certainly eye-catching. Looking in the mirror feels like seeing your scars on the wall of an art gallery, a mocking image of everything you’ve failed to be. You avoid your reflection at all costs, the full-length mirror in your bathroom is without exception.

Perhaps you’re a sucker for devastation because frankly, smiling feels unnatural. Any flicker of happiness feels repulsive and out of place. You’ve accepted that it’s not an emotion you’re meant to experience. At one point you’d felt envious of the carefree spirits who live vibrantly, but that’s not the life you’re meant to live. As if assembled with faulty parts, you’ve always felt defective.

You haven’t been going through this unaccompanied though. Dustin and Eddie have always had your back. You couldn’t ask for more reasonable best friends. Considering that you don’t open up to just anyone, it’s comforting that you can confide in these two dorks. The panic attacks have been occurring for a while now and the boys figured out how to effectively help you through them. Dustin has gotten especially adept at detecting the symptoms before you’ve noticed them yourself.

However, their awareness doesn’t go beyond your experience with anxiety. You’d think they could piece together the rest considering how often they come over to tidy up your place and make sure you’re taking care of yourself. But at the end of the day, they’re simple creatures. Even though it’s right under their noses, they don’t realize the gravity of what you’re dealing with. You refuse to drag them into the darkness with you. They’re so full of love and light, they don’t deserve exposure to emotional turmoil of this degree.

You didn’t think you could be any more exhausted but another demanding day at work has proven otherwise. More than anything you want to lay in bed to drift away from the agony.

After dropping your keys while aiming to stick them in the lock, you scoop them up and successfully open the front door.

“Surprise!” 

You convincingly mirror the expression on the beaming faces of Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin while simultaneously noticing the bundles of balloons and the handmade banner. “Oh, wow. You guys, this is- amazing.” You’re startled by the sound of a party horn crinkling as Dustin bounces out of his hiding place. He insisted on hiding even though no one else did.

“Y’Little shit.” You chuckle and wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him in for a side hug. “You’re the mastermind behind this, huh?” 

Dustin tries to dodge the attempt you make at tussling his coffee-colored ringlets but fails miserably. “I couldn’t let my party planning skills go to waste. It turned out pretty great if I do say so myself.” His eyes twinkle with a sense of achievement while they search yours for approval.

“Everything looks great, Dusty Bun. Thank you.” Your arm is still draped around his shoulder, so you give him a squeeze. He cringes at the use of his pet name as you make your way across the room to greet the remainder of your guests.

Nancy is perched on Jonathan’s lap while Robin is on the opposite end of the couch, which leaves the middle cushion available for you. As much as you don’t want to be this close in proximity to anyone right now, your body is far too sore to stand for much longer. Steve pours everyone’s beverages of choice and has Dustin deliver them from the kitchen. It takes a minute for you to find the ideal spot between your friends where your thighs aren’t touching theirs.

You drown out the lively chit-chat and music by descending into yourself. Birthdays don’t mean shit anymore. They’re simply a reminder that you just spent another 364 days pretending that you’re fine. Your preoccupation with death is always breathing hotly down your neck.

Just as your throat tightens and your eyes are on the verge of watering, the front door swings open. While balancing a carton of candles and a stack of paper plates on top of a pink bakery box, Eddie attempts to shake frizzy curls out of his face. He’s slightly winded from hustling in the hopes of making it back before you did. When his eyes meet yours, the expression of tizzy deflates. “Son of a bitch. I missed it?”

Dustin snorts mockingly while motioning to you. “Obviously, dude. She beat you by a couple of minutes.”

“God dammit!” Eddie throws his head back with a groan. “I was really looking forward to yelling ‘surprise.’ I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Eddie’s pout curls into a grin when he catches the eye roll you give in response to his belatedness. He quickly dresses the cake with candles and lights them with his trusty Zippo. Even with the pep in his step, he manages to approach you slowly enough that all of the candles remain lit.

Steve kills the lights and your friends begin to sing “Happy Birthday.” Not only is Dustin intentionally off-key but he’s ad-libbing through the whole song as well.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve been uncomfortable during the duration of the tune. Rather unsure of what to do with yourself while being serenaded. Are you supposed to be singing along? Where should you be looking? Luckily your counterfeit smile is realistic enough that it’s not obvious how uncomfortable you are right now.

Eddie crouches at your feet while balancing the cake over your knees. He grins sweetly, his honey-colored irises reflecting the swaying flames atop the multicolored candles. “Okay, baby doll. Time to make your wish and make it a good one.” He winks with a nod.

The room is hushed save for the record player continuing to spin a faint melody. You can feel everyone’s eyes boring into you and it makes you want to peel your skin off. All of your friends are buzzing with merriment but you can only think about the unorthodox method of relief you’re desperately craving. What’s your birthday wish? It’s for this to be over already.

You blow out the candles with a shallow breath and the tightness in your throat exacerbates as the dark room swells with clapping and whooping before Steve turns the lights back on. Those few seconds allow you to rid your cheeks of the tears that escaped before anyone can notice.

The last thing on your mind right now is eating cake but you force yourself to do so in order to play the part of being the birthday girl. Everyone is having a blast celebrating your existence while clueless as to how badly you want to die. Even though you’re surrounded by people who love you, it doesn’t quell the provocation from within. You can’t picture anything past this birthday and you’d be content with it being the last one.

To be honest, you’ve never been very good at coping. It’s become impossible to ignore the need to etch into the plush of your thigh. You’re not going to be able to get through the remainder of this party if you don’t get it out of your system. After politely excusing yourself, the pounding in your head thunders and you slip away to your bedroom.

Once you’ve closed the door, you hastily shimmy your pants off and plop yourself at the foot of the bed. A blade is drawn from the top drawer of your nightstand and with a fierce inhale you sink the straight edge into the existing lines to deeply reopen them. Your teeth chew the inside of your lip and a dull ache shoots through your body. This is it, this is how you’re supposed to feel. You’re not meant to feel content, you’re destined to self-destruct. The countdown ticks on, though you don’t know precisely how much time you have left before you finally beg for mercy.

You’re brought out of your thoughts by Eddie’s zestful voice before the door opens. “Are you ready to tear into your presents? We’re-” With his mouth slightly agape, Eddie’s eyes lock onto the blood dripping down the curvature of your calf.

Well, the cat’s out of the bag. You intended to lock the door but failed to do so in your rash state of mind. You try to think of an excuse as if there’s a rational way to dismiss the damaging act. Your thinned forcefield evaporates and tears flood your vision once more. It’s awfully convenient because you can no longer see Eddie’s crestfallen mug.

Without further hesitation, Eddie closes the door behind him. He’s shaking from head to toe, eyes lingering on the bloodied razor blade still pinched between your fingers. He approaches cautiously, removes it from your hold, and places it in his jacket pocket. Out of sight out of mind. Eddie slides onto the bed behind you with his legs stretched alongside yours. After snaking his arms around your shoulders, he gently guides you backward against his chest.

He’s rigid for the first few seconds, but the sound of your wailing reminds him that his intention is to be a haven right now. You cling to him, fingernails digging into his forearms that are folded across your sternum. Eddie squeezes his eyes closed so tightly that the insides of his eyelids are splashed with tingling colors.

Every fighting gasp for air that you take between the silent screams causes panging in his chest as if atomic bombs are going off. He can’t afford to be distracted by his profuse concern because his priority is bringing you down from your heightened state. His mind is racing and yet it feels so blank at the same time. The blood transfers from your bare leg onto his jeans.

Of your friends in the living room, Dustin is the only one who hears the muffled commotion. He strolls down the hall to investigate. “Hey, guyyyys. The super awesome party I threw is out here.”

Eddie is quick to respond before the doorknob turns. “Don’t come in!” He knows Dustin will let himself in just as he had done moments ago. Eddie doesn’t want you to feel even more mortified by Dustin seeing you like this. “She’s not feeling well. Just uh- have everybody go home.”

“Did she hurl or something?” Dustin presses his ear against the door to try and determine what’s happening on the other side. You seemed fine a couple of minutes ago, how sick could you possibly be?

“Dude, please. Tell them she’s too tired for all the socializing tonight.” Eddie shushes you calmingly while you swallow your whimpers to avoid giving yourself away. “And you’ll need to catch a ride from Steve.”

Dustin doesn’t understand why he doesn’t get to stay and comfort you, he’s your best friend too. He cares about you just as much as Eddie, he would even argue that he loves you more than Eddie does. Regardless, he doesn’t bother arguing because judging by the tone of Eddie’s instruction, it’s not up for debate. He rallies your other pals to gather the accumulated trash on their way out. Dustin feels that his effort in making your birthday special was overlooked. He spent weeks planning out your party with the objective of impressing you.

Once the front door slams shut, your mental breakdown resumes in full force. Eddie scoops you up into his lap and rocks you gently. With your head bowed, your hair catches the tears plummeting from Eddie’s eyes. By the time you’ve stopped hyperventilating, your voice is coarse like sandpaper from screaming through the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry.” You whine exasperatedly. Your nasal passage is blocked, forcing you to breathe out of your mouth. It feels like your head is full of helium and the pressure is pushing against your eyes. It’s making it unbearable to keep them open.

Eddie rests his cheek on the crown of your head and exhales steadily to release the pent-up tension. He assumes that you’re apologizing for injuring yourself but that’s far from the truth. You’re not sorry for doing it, you’re just sorry he saw it. Eddie refuses to let go regardless of the pins and needles swarming his legs.

The two of you sit in silence, the only noises being your sniffles and labored breathing. Once the pattern has returned to normal and he feels confident that you can drink safely, Eddie gets to his feet to leave the room. He stops in his tracks when you tug at his hand in protest. You’re visibly troubled by being unattended.

“Sit tight, sweetheart. I’ll be back in two shakes.” Eddie pets your hair and you reluctantly release his hand from your own.

Upon his return, he’s gathered a glass of water, a wet cloth, and your first aid kit. Your arms are far too feeble to support the weight of the glass, so Eddie tips it attentively as you drink. “Thank you,” You say breathily between sips.

Eddie wipes dribbled water from your chin with a subtle hum. After placing the cup aside, he kneels at the edge of the bed. He looks up at you for permission and you nod weakly, wincing when he uses the warm cloth to rid your leg of the dried blood. The site is visibly inflamed so he’s being as gentle as he can. Once the wound is clean, Eddie applies antibiotic ointment and a bandage. Lastly, he presses a barely-there kiss to the site in order to help make it feel better.

He spares you much back and forth, so as to not overwhelm you. “Arms up.”

Ever so compliant, you raise your arms. Eddie pulls your shirt off and tosses it in the hamper. Prior to this evening, being half-naked in front of him would’ve been awkward. Although, having been pantsless up until now, you could give a shit. Being caught doing what you were was more undignified than wearing one less article of clothing would be.

“That’s goin’ too,” he motions to your bra, turning away from you to dig through your dresser.

While you’re tugging off the garment, Eddie runs his palm over the folded pajamas to see which ones are the softest and will in turn be the most pacifying. He pulls out a band tee that he hadn’t realized you’d swiped from him and the corner of his mouth quirks up but he can’t form a full grin.

You take the shirt from his extended reach and pull it over your head. “Okay.” You utter raspily as the cue that you’re decent and he can turn around.

Eddie hands you a tissue because he can hear that you’re only breathing through your mouth. You blow your nose harshly, far too spent to care about how gross it sounds. After clearing your airway with a few tissues, Eddie discards them and then uses the clean side of the wet cloth to wipe the remaining mess from under your nose. “There we go. That’s much better, isn’t it?”

With a sheepish nod, you scoot backward on the bed and lay down gradually, your muscles like stiffening cement. Eddie tucks you under the covers and as soon as your head makes contact with the pillow, your eyes fall closed and don’t reopen.

Minutes after you succumb to exhaustion, Eddie cries quietly to himself. For hours, he lays here watching you sleep and strokes your tear-stained cheek with the pad of his thumb. His eyes remain open, unwilling to rest because he’s fearful that something bad will happen if he dozes off. Eddie needs to guard you, even if that means he has to protect you from yourself. Losing you would be the worst thing that could happen to him.

Despite trying, he can’t get the image out of his head. The scattered scars that surrounded your fresh wound are burned into his memory. This wasn’t a one-time thing. Whatever is going on with you is unmistakably severe enough that you’re hiding it from him and have been for a while.

How is he going to tell Dustin? Maybe he'll leave it at the fact that you’re having a difficult time and omit the part about you hurting yourself. It would positively crush him if he found out. Besides, Eddie doesn’t want to jeopardize everything by violating your trust.

You made Eddie promise not to tell a soul what happened that day, including Dustin. He agreed on the terms that you’d inform him when you need help from thereon out. You wish you could keep your word but that’s easier said than done. How are you supposed to vocalize the wretched things your brain tells you? It’s a language only you can comprehend, it’s meant to torment you specifically. 

You’re not stupid, you know how much that evening shook him up. To put Eddie’s heart at ease you’ve gotten better at feigning that everything is peachy keen. Not dissimilarly, Eddie is playing pretend too. He acts as though he doesn’t see you differently knowing what he does now. Obviously, you don’t want to discuss it so he continues to act like it never happened.

Eddie thinks about it every day and he’s had an abundance of nightmares that replay like an echo. He can’t move past it because not only is he concerned that you’re still hurting yourself, but you’re also refusing to let him in. You’re effectively shutting out the person you’ve told everything. Certainly, if he tried to talk to you about it, you’d remove yourself from his life entirely.

To his credit, he’s right on the money. Not only that, but your state of well-being has worsened. The daydreaming is more vivid and you ponder what the least painful way to go would be. Existing already hurts so much, you want to feel at peace when you rest.

It has surpassed psychological pain nowadays. The entirety of your body is overrun with fatigue. You just want to be free from it all. It’s like a home invasion where anxiety and depression ransack your mind in search of valuables. Anxiety leaves no stone unturned while depression covers your mouth and presses a gun to your temple.

Dustin and Eddie are still your best friends, but you’ve met someone new. Their name is Ativan and god, they’re a treat. Although prescribed as needed for your panic attacks, they offer you access to a realm of serenity that you can’t reach without them.

At the end of every grueling day, the first thing you do when you get home is swig down a tablet. By the time you’ve changed out of your work clothes and crawled into bed, you’re seeping into the dimension that connects this world to another. It feels dense but it isn’t warm or cold and it doesn’t hug nor choke you. It simply carries you away from worthlessness and inadequacy.

At the thirty-minute mark, your brain has melted to slush. Your surroundings smudge together, erasing any previously discernable objects. It’s best to be in bed because with how uncoordinated and sluggish it makes you, you become one with whatever surface you end up on.

The day Eddie caught you, you learned that he truly thinks the world of you. But when it comes down to it, you need to be more secretive in order to shield not only him but Dustin too. You hate that Eddie checks in on you from time to time. You don’t hate that he cares enough to ask, it’s that it pains you to lie every time he does.

Ideally, if you withdraw from your friends subtly enough, no one will feel majorly impacted when you decide to call it quits. People say that suicide is selfish but that’s not entirely true. If anything it’s inherently selfless because you believe that you’re freeing your loved ones of the burden that you perceive yourself as.

Today is another one of those days where you can’t be bothered to get out of bed. You missed your shift at work in its entirety by having slept for 14 hours straight. It doesn’t matter. You’d much rather lie here to rot, so you did. Asleep or awake, all you can think about is that feeling of pure ease. A state beyond numbness and unconsciousness. Rather, it’s nothingness. That’s where you want to be.

You’re hanging on by a thread worn too thin. The apathy bites at your toes and gnaws its way up your body. Tears well in your eyes and drip onto your pillowcase. You feel nauseated and woozy. Living day after day has slashed you to the point of being able to see through yourself. Your headstone is half engraved, only missing today’s date.

While choking on the reasons why you should give up, there’s no flavor of justification for continuing to live. You subconsciously rip open tallied scabs on your wrist from last night’s bloodletting. The bedsheets run red, blood smearing across your skin. You can’t feel it, it’s not enough. The ringing demand is painfully loud. You have to make it stop.

The brittleness of your lungs causes you to claw for a rickety breath. Spit drips down your chin as your burnt-out throat fails to produce a scream. You clutch the sheets with bloodied fingers. Gotta make it stop. After rolling off of the mattress, your palms hit the floor before you can get to your feet.

You use the wall to brace yourself as you stagger to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet is torn open and rattling fills the small room as bottles fall into the basin below. The thunder in your brain overrides your senses, impairing your ability to see and hear. Your hips press against the sink to keep yourself vertical while you search the cabinet. 

With the desired bottles in hand, you pop the caps and they bounce when they hit the floor. You dump the contents into your palm, balling your fist to ensure that you don’t drop any. You don’t care how many are left, it just needs to be enough. With a few gulps of booze from the bottle tucked beside the bathtub, you throw back the handful of tablets and swallow thickly. The sensation of the bitter liquid searing your throat is tranquilizing in itself, ensuring that solace is soon to come.

Due to your stomach being empty, the shift hits like a whirlwind. You sit on the cold floor with your back against the side of the tub. The tears stop, your heart rate slows, and an unfamiliar warmth washes over you. Finally, the urge is satiated. As the full-body trembling ceases and the earth stops turning, your eyelids seal as you melt in the stillness.

Your phone rings twice only moments after you’ve taken the pills. Ten minutes later your front door opens and slams shut.

Dustin toes off his sneakers, eyeing Eddie while he does the same. “If she’s working late shouldn’t we just wait for her to get home? I don’t think she'll appreciate us being here unsupervised.”

Eddie shakes the spare house key he snagged from its hiding place. “She won’t even know we were here. We’re just gonna dig around real quick. My lighter has got to be here ‘cause I’ve looked everywhere.” He ties his hair back with a rubber band and shucks off his denim jacket.

“There’s no way you looked everywhere.” Dustin remarks, earning an annoyed look from Eddie.

“Yeah, no shit. That’s why we’re here, genius.” Eddie commences the hunt by lifting couch cushions and tossing around the decorative pillows.

Dustin fake scours for a beat before heading toward the hall.

“Where are you going?” Eddie dramatically shakes out a throw blanket as if it’ll make his Zippo appear like a magic trick. 

“Bathroom.”

“Seriously? I told you not to drink a whole can of pop.”

“Well, I did.” Dustin crosses his arms defensively. “And if I hold it any longer I'll spontaneously combust. Do you wanna have to clean that up?”

“Gross, no thanks.” Eddie tosses the blanket back on the couch, neglecting to refold it. “Just hurry up and don’t touch anything.”

“Why would I?” Dustin squints.

Eddie mirrors the teen’s prickly body language. “Uh, ‘cause you’re nosey as hell.” He states matter-of-factly.

“Am not,” Dustin calls out as he pivots down the hall. He stops in the doorway to the bathroom, met with the sight of you slumped on your side. “Eddie…”

“What? Found it?” Eddie cocks his head at Dustin’s statue-like stance. He approaches and peeks into the bathroom, then abruptly brushes past Dustin to get to you. Eddie’s knees bruise from the sheer force at which they smack the porcelain tile. He guides you to sit upright but your unsupported head rolls forward. “Nononono shit shit shit!”

When he scoops you up into his arms, he feels the subtle warmth of your skin against his own. Still alive. Thrust into panic mode, Eddie repeatedly taps your cheek to elicit a reaction but to no avail. Tears pour from his eyes as he secures your head to his heaving chest. “Go call for help!”

Dustin doesn’t flinch, his mouth hanging open and eyes unblinking. Utterly frozen in carbonite as he witnesses his best friend dying on the bathroom floor.

“NOW!” Eddie booms pressingly.

Dustin dashes away to dial 911. In the meantime, Eddie cradles you and sobs. “We’re here, sweetheart. We’re here now.”

After all this time, the way you’ve been feeling has finally broken the surface. Your emotions are now presented in their rawest form, revealing how broken you’ve been feeling.

“Hurry, Dustin!” Eddie beseeches through a wet cough. The tears cascade from his cheeks onto your limp body, soaking into the fabric of your shirt. “Just hold on for me, okay?” His voice cracks, “Please don’t go.” The knot in his stomach is taut while he focuses on the jagged passing of air through your nostrils.

He kisses your temple and nuzzles his blotchy cheek in its wake. “Please, god. Please please please… don’t take her from us.” Eddie is doing his damndest to keep you from slipping away by stimulating you with his voice and touch. A faint rattle spills from your throat, your brain is convinced that you’re floating but you’re sinking fast. “Dustin!”

On cue, he reappears in the doorway with puffy bloodshot eyes and a wet sheen trailing from his nose, pooling in his Cupid’s bow. “They’re on the way.”

“We gotta keep her warm,” Eddie sniffles with glossily desperate eyes. Dustin gets on his knees and complies. The two of them cocoon you in their body heat until the paramedics arrive.

The boys are forced out of the bathroom and they stand in the living room to stay out of the way. Dustin is enveloped in Eddie’s trembling arms. He buries his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck to dampen the sound of his unbridled blubbering.

Eddie shields him from looking as you’re wheeled out of the bathroom on the gurney. He has to be strong for Dustin because you couldn’t say the same for yourself.

Dustin grabs fistfuls of Eddie's shirt and tugs so hard that the seams snap. “She’s gonna be okay, right?” He rasps with a saturated cry.

“Yeah-” Eddie refuses to think for even a second that it’ll just be the two of them from now on. You’re a part of the unit, it’s meant to stay that way. He tightens his embrace, holding Dustin impossibly closer. ”She’s stronger than both of us combined. She’s gonna pull through this, I know it.” 

Author's Note Cont.: Eddie and Dustin are so proud of you for trying your best every day, even when it doesn’t feel like you have much to show for it.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated! ♡

★My Masterlist

★Ko-fi ♡

tags: @protecteddiemunson4vr @nj01

[kunikame]

¡ ! ❝ REDAMANCY . . ❞

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natsume sakasaki x reader smau

warning(s) : cussing, death mention, sakasaki natsume is a simp, rip mao im sorry ill write a mao fic as an apology for what i put him through one day i promise

w/c : 1.1k

wataru hibiki has, in his time at yumenosaki academy, seen many dreams crumble. he's witnessed many dreamers fall apart, give up and leave, become a shell of who they once used to be. he's familiar with this particular feeling of loss, of not remembering who you once were; who you wished to be. 

it's a common experience and he has long accepted it strikes when least expected, to the ones you least expect it to happen to, because their dreams are simply too precious– too pure, yet they're still thrown into such a distressing situation.

he wishes he could keep that view, keep looking at the world in black and white, see the evil in the good and the purity in the bad. perhaps it would be easier, less taxing on the mind.

and yet, he hesitates, finds himself looking for an exception; a fault in his theory. he feels his gaze wandering around the ballroom– black and white, filled with fraudulent faces– only to be met with the smiling face of the one who so dearly refers to him as his 'master'.

he protected natsume once, he can do it again, and yet as he truly focuses on his expression, wataru finds there is nothing to protect the boy from.

he's smiling– truly smiling, with his entire being, because natsume has found his safe place.

wataru thinks he is okay with that. as his gaze slides to the person natsume is looking at so fondly, he finds himself relieved she's looking at him the exact same way, like he himself hung the stars and the moon in the night sky. 

perhaps, perhaps some dreams won't crumble

contrary to the flourish in natsumes speech and movements, he hates social events that include the higher classes. he’s been trained for them, taught how to behave, move, interact, stand, lift a glass,.. he knows it all. he has always, always hated these. so then why does he find himself so at ease at this specific event?

because it celebrates his mother? his friends are here? the color scheme makes him feel at ease? no.

you laugh at something kohaku says and suddenly he has the answer to all the questions running through the back of his mind, and he knows it’s you and it’s always been you and it always will be you.

because natsume sakasaki gazes down at you like you are his sun and his world revolves around you; he wants to be yours– he is yours, but only if you want him to be. he thinks he would continue being yours even if you didn't desire it to be so, he simply couldn't stop following the predetermined route he is meant to take; following the course mapped out for him, much like the planets you hold so dear orbit the sun (and he hopes you hold him dear, too).

he finds himself desperately wishing soulmates were real because then his feelings would make sense because now he just feels and he doesn’t understand why.

and yet as you turn his way when you notice him walking towards you with that breathtaking smile of yours and something akin to sparkles in your eyes, his heart starts racing a mile a minute and he’s not even sure he can walk properly anymore. is this a curse? is he dying? what have you done to him?

“natsu! you were so great! i wish you would’ve seen yourself! err, well, i suppose performing was better but- not the point! ahhhh, i wish i had recorded it.. actually i think tsukasa said–”

you went on animatedly explaining whatever it is you were saying while he just stared. he wishes he could listen but he’s gonna be absolutely, brutally honest, he can’t bring himself to. his ears are ringing and his palms are suddenly sweating and holy shit has it always been so hot in here? where’s all the air from his lungs gone? why is his throat so dry? oh god you’re looking at him and what were you even saying oh go-

“natsu? are you okay? would you like to sit down for a bit? i’m sorry, i should’ve known you were tired– come, i’ll go get you some water,” you grab onto his elbow and pull him along with you universe knows where and he just lets you. 

suddenly he’s sitting in a chair and you’re fawning all over him; checking his temperature because apparently his ’forehead is too warm’ and sending mao to get some water (which he, to everyones surprise, does) while kohaku and tsukasa keep the other guests away from your unsuspecting corner and natsume just dazedly stares up at you while you gently push his bangs back with a look of genuine concern for him.

suddenly, air re-enters his lungs and his throat opens up, but the ringing and the fuzz in his brain remain. he doesn’t think you’ve ever been so close to each other before and frankly, it’s making him lightheaded. his amber eyes trace the curves of your face and he’s late to realize he could probably count your lashes if he really wanted to (he does, god does he want to) and, makeup be damned, even without it you put all beauty standards and so-proclaimed “most beautiful women in the world” to shame. 

despite the fuzz there is a singular coherent thought swirling in his brain, he thinks you’re beautiful. no, gorgeous. no, that’s not quite good either.

“you’re ethereal..”

and yet, that still doesn’t fully capture your essence. heavenly might be close. breathtaking? heartstopping? not quite.. they need to come up with a new word for you specifically because whatever high natsume is riding on, he can’t find a word good enough for you.

you’re looking at him in the eyes with an adorably flustered face and your hands are no longer messing with his bangs or touching his forehead and he’s a little slow to realize he accidentally voiced his thoughts when he sees you give him the softest of smiles; his face now feels 10 times warmer than before.

“thank you, i would say the same about you. ethereal, breathtakingly so,” your hand slides from his forehead to cup his cheek and natsume sakasaki thinks he might short circuit.

“i think i’m in love with you..”

your hand freezes and natsume begins to regret every life decision that’s led him up to this point but then he feels the soft press of your lips against his and, perhaps, he should give himself a pat on the back instead.

mao isara, however, regrets agreeing to come along the moment he walks past the curtain separating you from the rest of the guests just to see you kissing his “arch nemesis” and he’s forced to accept there is nothing, no deal, no faking; you love natsume sakasaki and he can’t do anything but watch. he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving the glass of water with kohaku and with the excuse of needing some fresh air, he exits the ballroom.

╰┈➤ synopsis ❝after yumenosaki academy resident magician and eccentric sakasaki natsume asks you to “go out with him”, you immediately shut him down. so why is he dedicating a song to you at a switch concert? and why are people whispering about you being the cutest couple?❞

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