#raw 94

[likehephaestionwhodied]

Shawn Michaels [the character portrayed on TV NOT the real life human person Michael Hickenbottom] is so bpd coded

[akirenhell]

FUUUUUUUUUCK, WHY IS NINE INCH NAILS' WOODSTOCK '94 PERFORMANCE SO FUCKING GOOODDDODODDLJHKJHBGKJHLVLJHVJG

[medusa1597]

if jean-marie le pen dies during the next six months it'll fuel the mobilisation against the pension reform like crazy ..............

[bollywoodboxoffice]

Spy X Family Chapter 95 Release Date, Time, Where to Read, Raw Scans

What is Spy X Family Chapter 95 Release Date? The Manga series Spy X Family has captivated people from around the world. Spy X Family sereis has become a must-read becasue becaue of including comedy, family dynamics, and espionage in a way. In the previous chapter, readers found a snowy adventure filled with family moments, suspense, and unexpected twists. The character Anya’s adventures were…

[shadowalchemistofficial]

One of the hardest hitting verses Vinnie ever made. He’s right, being close to godliness is being close to loneliness. Once you master the art of being alone: weight is lifted, nothing can touch you, nothing can hold you, you’re focus is fine tuned and you cut out the fluff. It’s nice to have people and be surrounded by friends, but in the end you’re all alone by yourself. When you go wherever you go at the end of the line it will be you in front of whatever is standing there to talk to and send you on your final destination. I’m the end you are accountable for just you. If you can be by yourself at any time for whatever time, you are a beast or god. If you can stand your silence and your thoughts, nothing can hurt you not harm you. Everything just passes by and can’t bother you.

“Yeah

I fuck with marks like the Bolsheviks

Eat a mahfucker heart, cross it off the grocery list

Being close to godliness is being close to loneliness

Like being close to Communist is being close to Socialist

It's a cemetery reign, this is frozen mist

I swim and I don't get wet, I am oceanless

Straight right/left hook y'all are motionless

How is you gon' make magic when you potionless?

Feeding multiple motherfuckers like loaves of fish

Gun cannon assembly from Terrordome broken clips

I just wrote so many rhymes I got a broken wrist

You ain't worth the left hook, stupid here's an open fist”

~Vinnie Paz, verse from Army Of The Pharaohs-Conversation with a Bullet

[weirdbabs]

i think i remember seeing someone say that clean, cordyceps free wheat must be hard to find since it sprawls for miles underground, and ignoring the fact that im pretty sure cordyceps is specialized to a single species and even if it could i doubt itd infect plants based on its infection cycle, if wheat was contaminated bread itself wouldnt be a concern bc the heat would kill it

[erosiism]

𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 | yandere!dottore x m!reader

warnings | torture, religious imagery (if u squint), psychological horror, gore (detailed), non-com/dub-con, human trafficking & experimentation, what do u expect its dottore, no beta we die like kdj | might contain some mischaracterisation or misconception somewhere or whatever because I stopped playing genshin in 2021 lol 

pairings: dottore x m!experiment!reader

summary: after creating you, dottore grows to be obsessed with the idea of you, and your perfection.

was requested by anon

THE FIRST THING YOU FEEL, is the absence of being.

It’s strange to feel so substanceless; so inhuman. When consciousness first awakes in you — when you feel the first rays of the glaring lights seeping into your eyelids — all you can do is blink your eyes, wincing. 

SUBJECT 094 HAS JUST BEEN CREATED.

Your body is shivering and naked and raw — you’ve just been created. Hands rove over your body, but they aren’t lecherous: rather, the way they touch you is purely clinical, like how a butcher would inspect meat. You hear bits and pieces of words you don’t know, floating over your head. You wonder if they’re any perforations in you — whether you’re another failed experiment, another creation to discard.

Your hands are without a single blemish. You’re new.

You hear them say you’re perfect.

An experiment. A perfect experiment, after ninety-three times. 

They call you 94. 

You long for a name.

Your creator has not met you yet: but you’ve seen people who look exactly like him, working on you — they knock you out with pills, drugs, serums — they give you injections with thick, blunt syringes and stuff your mouth with tissue when you want to scream. They ignore your convulses and your shrieks and the tears that roll down your cheeks madly — they too, are not human. They have no emotions to pity you: and you too, shouldn’t have the capability to feel, and yet you do. Shamelessly, piteously, and horrifically — you feel human.

That is the desired result, one tells you, when you spit those words out. They tasted funny in your tongue, sitting there and rotting until you finally tossed them out. We wanted you to be human. A perfect being. You will aid Fatui greatly.

Fatui? You had echoed.

Fatui, another murmurs, the order we serve. And our master, Dottore, who you are supposed to serve.

You learn that Dottore is away in a place called Sumeru. This place is Snezhnaya, and the place you’re in is Dottore’s lab. Dottore. The name drops down honeyed from your lips, and so you repeat it: Dottore…

The master you serve.

The master you serve is named Dottore. But you will call him Doctor, one warns you.

You tuck those words in your head, and they insert more needles into you. Your skin has become an atlas of thin, small holes — non noticeable to the human eye, but each pulsing and swelling beneath your skin.

You wait for your creator to come.

You wait for your God to come.

.

.

—

.

.

You see him for the first time when crimson and carmine is marred on his cheek, and when his eyes are amused and glinting. He’s beautiful, you note, terrifyingly so. He has red eyes: blooming crimson ones — and wavy blue hair. Half of his face is obfuscated by a mask, but still you can see his lips move as he speaks his first word to you: “Y/n.”

Your heart leaps. Your creator moves towards you, his eyes inspecting you, his deft fingers moving your face to the side, checking every part of you to ensure you aren’t damaged. His lips curl up into a satisfied smile, but your brain is still reeling from the name he has called you.

Almost like he can read your thoughts, your creator grins. “Y/n,” he says in a lilting, falsely warm tone, “that is the name I give you. But the minute you step out of line, I’ll be ripping that away from you. Remember that, pet. Remember that, alright?” His touch is gentle as he thumbs at your hips, tracing circles around your skin. You swallow, nodding your head.

I’ll be ripping that away from you.

Essentially speaking, the moment you misbehave, you’ll have your own chance at humanity taken away from you.

“You will call me Doctor,” Dottore speaks slowly, his words like music to your ears, “you, Y/n…you must remember that you are incredibly special. You are the first successful weapon I’ve made. The word “human” will have to be earned — but for now, be good, alright?”

You drink his words up. By the side is a cart filled with more medication — more knives, more needles, more syringes. You’re sitting on a white bed — everything around you is white. The different clones have started to look like smudges of white to you: blobs moving and shifting around in a distance. You can’t tell if your reverence for the Doctor is programmed, or if it’s because he is your creator — but it doesn’t matter. You want him to praise you. You need it. If he likes you, he’ll give you your humanity — and you want that.

“Y-yes,” your voice wavers as you speak, “y-yes, I’ll —”

“Ah…the first order of business,” The Doctor — Dottore — says, “stitches. It appears that the ones who have finished creating you have lacked something: an organ, if you will. It isn’t something a human would necessarily have, but well…” His red eyes study you, and there’s almost sadism rampant in his eyes — “you aren’t a human, are you?”

You stay silent.

“Well, Y/n, what do you think? I’ll make it painless,” Dottore smiles, “why aren’t you giving me a reaction? It’ll be simple. I’ll cut you up, insert some things inside you, stitch you back up,” he says carelessly. “Hm. Perhaps it will be painful…but good things come at a price. With this, you’ll be a better prototype than anything else. You’ll be special — to me. You want that, don’t you?”

What is my purpose? You want to ask, why am I different from the other people?

“And on that thought, I suppose you can withstand pain. You’re a robot — a false creation. I might have programmed you to make you feel pain, but now a new thought has occured to me: I certainly can’t have any painkillers messing up the careful system in your body.” The Doctor stares at you, hard, “but you’ll be willing to do that, right?”

Pain, you think. The word explodes in your brain. You don’t know what that word is. It’s strange to think that you understand human language: that you can somehow articulate it out, like it’s been annotated in the blood of your veins — but you can’t live it. Words have no meaning to you: after all, you have not learnt or earned them. Is pain the feeling of aching when you feel blood burst from your body? You are a machine, but yet you’ve been gifted flesh. So what exactly are you?

“I will,” you whisper, “I can.”

“Good boy,” Dottore hisses quietly, “now, be a pet and behave, will you?”

You nod your head.

.

.

—

.

.

For the next few weeks, Dottore indulges in you. He buys you sweet treats he knows you can’t taste, he comforts you when you cry, he makes you dependent on him. Soon, your whole world consists solely of him, just him, your creator. You wonder if he’s forgotten about his whole promise to “tweak” you, to perfect you, but finally, the day comes.

Dottore’s hands are gentle as he props you up the operating table. You look around, noticing that it’s just the two of you.

“The others —” you manage a shaky sentence, “they aren’t helping?”

“As advanced as they are, they aren’t me. Now that I’ve laid my eyes on your perfection: your potential for perfection, that is: I cannot risk anyone else touching you, tainting you: destroying you…” Dottore shakes his head. “Now lay down, Y/n.”

You obey, lying flat down on the operating table. You expect a subtle, soft kind of pain — the kind that you’re accustomed to: but instead, he stabs into your jugular, and you scream. 

Blood — there was blood — that burst from your neck, soaking your skin. Your eyes started to tear, but still you lived.

“How interesting, right?” Dottore muses as he continues to dig the knife through your skin, “how strange. I needed to acquire quite a bit of blood to ensure that you functioned just like a human, while retaining the qualities of what a God would be like. So I imagine it’s quite painful for you. Right, Y/n?”

You’re convulsing now, screams slipping from your mouth.

“I forgot. You can’t exactly speak now, can you?”

“D-Doctor,” you rasp out, “will I be stronger after this? Will I be better?”

“Of course, my dear,” Dottore hums, “it’s just a slight tweak in your body, and you’ll be better than ever. Do you know what? I’m aghast, really, at those who call this human experimentation. I suppose in your case, since you aren’t quite human to begin with — well, you were made from human extracted parts — it’s not quite counted. But when I take little test subjects, there are some who mock me. I remember the ruler of Sumeru quite well: quite a pathetic Archon she was — saying, and I quote: experimentation is an insult to the very concept of life…do you agree, Y/n?”

Your body recovers frighteningly fast. The pain is there, but the wound closes as quickly as it has appeared. Dottore stares at it with fascination, with a small ah of gratification.

“No,” you say, words muffled with sobs, “I don’t agree.”

You feel another knife press into your skin — your belly this time. He doesn’t cut you up first — he carves into you, a bloody insignia on your skin. “With me, or with her?”

Your creator is never wrong. “Her,” you choke out.

“Bingo!” Dottore hums in delight, “correct. I’ve always believed that there is potential for weaponization. Discussions of research on beings like you have to be increased in the future. Humans have unlimited potential. It may be foolish of me as a researcher to say this, but with enough input, I might be able to reach the level of a 'god', or so people might call it. Some say it’s heresy. I disagree.”

You splutter. The surgical knife has made it past the first layer of skin: he’s flaying you alive. 

Are you even alive? Can you be associated with the words of life and death, when you are not even human?

My name is Y/n, you desperately think. My name is Y/n. Y/n. Y/n…!

I’m human. Tell me that I’m human, please.

“And others say I blasphemous further against human life as a member of the Fatui, by creating clones or "segments" of myself. But really — I do have convictions. Just different from everyone else’s…” Dottore strokes your tear-stained cheek, tilting his head. “You’re such a good one, aren’t you? You aren’t even refuting what I say. The earlier ones before you — subject 43 in particular — kept making a fuss. You, however…” his eyes are gleaming. “Might be fun to play around with.”

You aren’t wriggling anymore. You aren’t shaking. You force yourself to be ramrod straight on the operation table. The knife is embedded in your skin.

“You are both machine and human, and yet you are too much and too little of both to be truly worth anything…but really, all you need to do is to stay loyal to me. When people like Capitano, Pantalone, or even Childe approach you — do not speak to them,” Dottore says softly, so softly you have to focus on his voice to hear him — “you understand that, don’t you? Because you are my perfect creation…no one else can tamper with you. Not even for a minute or second.”

You nod your head.

“Good. And now, for the matter of your heart,” Dottore tells you, “your heart, Y/n, is unlike any other. It’s an amalgamation of all the artificial blood vessels I’ve managed to make from other projects. But frankly speaking, I think you might be better without it: my clones have told me that you seem to feel too much. And weapons do not feel. They never do, Y/n.”

“I understand.” 

“So — I will do this —” in one quick motion, Dottore rips your heart from your chest, holding it as thuds in front of you. 

You freeze.

Your heart is there. There’s a gaping hole in your chest, and the presence of absence has made itself known. You watch as Dottore bites into it: in front of you he feasts; his mouth bloody and your heart rimming his teeth. There’s blood pooling in your mouth too, dripping onto the table. Your skull has never felt this light. Pain was present in every inch of your body, but still your heart continued to beat. 

“I might need to rewire your brain too,” Dottore looks at you intently, “if your loyalty is skewed. But if you prove that you’re loyal to me, then of course, that won’t be needed.”

All you can think about is: your flesh lines his throat. But you’re a dirty being. 

“I’ll prove it,” you gasp, “I’ll prove it. So don’t discard me.”

“Your desperation is adorable,” Dottore coos, “did you know I based your heart off a pomegranate? Delicate hands are required for it, to peel back later after layer. And it is red that dyes your fingers when you touch the juice sprinkling out — like blood. There’s concentration needed to break the surface, a certain strength needed to crush the seeds between voracious teeth and sip up the sweetness of the nectar. Then the juices will hemorrhage your tongue: it’s supposed to remind you of your actions. Similarly, you — Y/n — you have stained my tongue. Don’t you adore their idea?”

You nod again, weakly. “I do.”

“And on that note, I find you a remarkable project: you hardly ever scream, you hardly ever move, and your wounds heal beautifully. You’re just so perfect for me, aren’t you, Y/n? Just for me, right?” Dottore continues on, words honeyed and sweet, “oh, Y/n…” he strokes your hair gently, shushing you softly as little hiccups escape your lips. He thumbs at your waist, his face a breadth away, “you are so endearing. So flawless.”

Your skin is covering the empty hole in your chest. Dottore pulls you to the lap, steadying you, before he kisses your lips softly. His words are the knife — heaving, forceful, hungry. And when he kisses you, only then can you taste yourself, your shame, guilt, pleasure. You wonder if you taste as rotten as you feel — if there’s a part of you that can be cradled. You feel like an open wound, your guts ready to spill out. He continues to kiss you, and slowly, your body becomes the atlas of your twisted relationship with Dottore; marks and bruises scattering across your once unblemished skin, a map of what he has done.

Kisses.

Your creator has kissed you.

“My darling, my beauty,” Dottore smiles, crimson still staining his teeth, “is this not the most human action one can do?”

a/n: unedited, I apologise. sorry if it’s wonky or whatever I’m just experimenting lol || reposts, likes, and comments are always appreciated! leave a comment to tell me how it was :)

[skeletonrodeoqueen]

Bret Hart, Shawn Michaels, and Diesel, Monday Night Raw 5/30/94

[glossysoap]

ready to comply vii - Желание

Желание or longing, is defined as ;

a strong desire or craving especially for something unattainable.

warnings/tags: 141 mourning reader

prev chapters here!

word count: 2,165

🏷️: @viylikescats @warenai @briacreations96 @fullmoon-94 @breadboyye @kiroshang @zvdvdlvr @lunitalloronaa @itzzjxlyn @lonely-ofc @m0rganit3 @badbishsblog @wolfyland07 @angelsdemonsmonsters @unkn0wnd3ad @itstokyo-cos @c1rice @venusianlustt @bugonawall @wakusbonkus @blackrose4242 @blackgaladriel @lilpothoscuttings @thvxr @tapioca-marzipan @undercover-smutlover @nickangel13 @luvmeijii @atjamesbbarnes @h-leigh @writingmybeloved @chloeforde @divine--serenity @hunterbunter3000 @zittles3000 @thriving-n-jiving @mar-mar-mel @kitty-satan1 @namgification @ivymarquis @crazy-phan-girl13 @goodsoup03 @schaarfyx @rhyanna6012 @abbiesxox @kenz-ee (if ur name is scratched out, it means tumblr won’t let me tag you, sorry!)

Eight weeks have passed since your disappearance that day on January ninth. Eight weeks since the task force had last seen you in person before you had been tricked into boarding that helicopter — that helicopter that would soon prove to be your downfall.

Six weeks since the Task Force learned of your disappearance and saw it all happen for themselves. Six weeks since they watched that devastating footage of you getting stabbed on that helicopter before it sunk to the ocean floor. Six weeks since they heard your cries and screams of pain and saw your face scrunched up in agony.

Six weeks since you were pronounced killed in action.

Six weeks since the task force had started mourning their medic.

Six weeks since a hole starting digging in the chests of Simon and Johnny.

Six weeks since they made the trek to your empty quarters, a trek that really only lasted a few minutes but felt like thirty.

Six weeks since the two men walked into your quiet room and took notice of all of the memories left behind. The medical records and sticky notes. The picture frames full of the three of you together. The scented candles that decorated your dresser.

Six weeks since Johnny fell asleep in Simon's arms and the two men held each other tight — holding what little they both had left.

Constantly suffering restless nights, tossing and turning in your bed. The two men would suffer nightmares for weeks on end after you died.

Johnny would dream that he was forced to watch the footage of you dying over and over. He would be in that conference room again, tied in a chair and the footage would be playing from the projector on an endless loop. He would be forced to witness the woman stabbing you over and over again. He would be forced to see the blood pool from your chest and soak your uniform. Your screams would ring out in his head, somehow getting louder with every loop. Your screams of agony would morph into cries for help as you wailed his name.

“Johnny, help me! You said you would protect me!”

His sleeping face would quickly mirror yours in the dream, scrunched up in pain with tears streaming down his cheeks as he tossed and turned.

Simon would immediately rouse from his own sleep the second he heard Johnny’s whimpers and felt the Scot thrashing beside him. His heart would sink in his chest when he realizes that his boyfriend was having a nightmare. He would be forced to yank him from his nightmare, gently shaking his shoulders to wake him up. He would quietly call his lovers name, letting the timbre of his voice bring him back to reality.

Simon would take him into his arms and rock him gently, stroking his hair. He would feel wetness on his shirt as the sergeant cried into his chest.

“Why did they have to die? Why couldn’t I save them?” He would sob into Simon’s chest, throat becoming raw.

Your cries for help would echo in Johnny’s head for days following every nightmare.

Simon on the other hand, would dream of all of the people he’s lost in his life. His mother, his brother, his brothers wife, and little Joseph. All bloodied and mangled, their dead bodies strewn across Simon’s living room. Eyes wide and mouths gaping open in a silent scream, faces frozen from their last dying breath.

And just like every other nightmare, Simon couldn’t move. It was as if he was standing in quicksand, getting pulled under with every step he tried to make.

Although in these nightmares, you were there too. One of the last people he ever wanted to see like that, save for Johnny. Your bloody body was there, strewn along with his murdered family. You wore the exact same uniform that you wore that day in Russia, still all tattered and stained crimson. You lay limp on the carpeted floor, blood steadily pooling around you, flowing from the stab wound in your abdomen. Your hand was clutching the open wound, blood pooling out around your hand. Your mouth was gaping open in a cry for help, coughing and gurgling as crimson trickled out of your lips. Your eyes were wide open in terror and glossy with tears. Tears streamed down your face as you gasped and sobbed, looking straight at him. Your hand that was clutching your abdomen moved to reach out to him, fingers shaking.

Your hand was drenched in your blood, and suddenly all he could think of were all of the times he held your hands before losing you. How he would squeeze it in his rough hand, comforting you when you were anxious and grounding you to reality. How he would grip your smaller hand in his large one while the two of you snaked through a crowd of people, not wanting you to get separated from him.

The hand that he loved to hold so much was now covered in blood. Blood that he could never scrub clean no matter how hard he tried, blood that tainted the hand he would never get to hold again.

“Why did you let me die?”

Simon would jolt awake from his nightmare every time, your words echoing in his head. He would be covered in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. Your hurt and accusatory voice would follow him for weeks after that nightmare. Blaming him for not saving you, for not being good enough.

Those nightmares never stopped for Johnny or Simon.

Six weeks had also passed since the two men began to take over your empty room as theirs, without even meaning to.

Bringing their blankets and pillows to sleep there at night, before cuddling together in your bed. Desperately inhaling the sheets, burying their faces in your old comforter trying to find some remnants of your scent only to come up short every time. Their hearts grew heavier and heavier with each attempt.

Coming back to your room after every mission instead of returning to their own rooms — kicking off their boots and yanking off their gear and tossing it in your old dirty laundry basket. Still wishing that you would be waiting for them when they opened your door, wishing that you would be hunched over at your desk working on reports or curled up in your bed.

Constantly wishing and wishing. Constantly reminded that you were never coming back. That you were dead and gone. Cold and rotting somewhere in Russia.

Alone and scared.

As more time passed, your room had become filled with their belongings and their own musky, woodsy scent. Your small personal touches were accompanied by their own trinkets. Their history books and sketch pads now sat on your book shelves. Soap’s art supplies sat on your desk, right next to your dried out gel pens that you used to write medical reports with. On your nightstand, Ghost’s skeleton combat gloves laid next to your old earbuds. A carton of cigarettes and a black lighter sat in your drawer, next to medical magazines that you had collected over your years of studies.

Your closet was filled with your clothes that hung on hangers, collecting dust and becoming cold. Scrub tops in navy blue, with your name knit on the breast pocket in white thread. Civilian clothes, like the muscle tops you enjoyed exercising in, or flannel jackets that you loved to wear in the cold weather.

The worst part was that when they took a fistful of your old shirts and sniffed them, all they smelled was fabric. None of your usual scent of rubbing alcohol or (perfume/cologne) notes of vanilla and mint. Your scent wasn’t ingrained in the clothes anymore.

Their throats would tighten as if wrapped with barbed wire and tears would prick their vision every time when the realization hit them that they would never smell your scent again.

Your desk that used to be covered in medical records, was now riddled with mission reports that they needed to complete. The few picture frames you kept on your desk was now overtaken by their own picture frames. Even your fragrance that flowed from a plug-in started fading away, covered by their own cocktail of teakwood and gun smoke.

The two men had been so desperate to keep your presence alive in some way, that they took to burning your candles every day. Every single day, for weeks on end. Until the wax was gone in all of them and only the wick remained.

Whenever they left on a mission and didn’t have the luxury to stay in your old room, they made sure to bring a keepsake of yours.

Simon would carefully stuff your favorite scrub cap into his luggage, the (favorite color) fabric bringing a sense of familiarity and homeliness wherever he traveled. Whenever he saw it in his duffel bag, he would remember all of the occasions that he saw you wearing in.

The very first time he met you, you were wearing that very scrub cap. He remembered it as clear as day.

You had been working in the med-bay, finishing up an emergency surgery when Price introduced you to the task force. You wore a shy smile, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you looked up at the Lieutenant with wide eyes. You were intimidated, he could tell. Behind the skull mask and black paint, you couldn’t see that he was just admiring your raw talent as a surgeon. That memory was ingrained in his brain, you standing there all bright eyed and bushy tailed.

He chose to remember you that way. Instead of remembering how you looked on January 9, eyes wide in terror and mouth open as you screamed in pain. Blood pooling from your abdomen and drenching your uniform.

He chose to remember you as being innocent and unharmed, not terrified and brutally murdered.

Johnny would snag one of your old pens and stuff it into his duffel bag — it was one that had some ink left and he would use it when he sketched. The rubber grip on it still had indents from you holding it for months on end, writing reports and surgery summaries.

He could remember it so vividly. You would always have it in a vice grip whenever you were burnt out, burning the candle at both ends to get reports submitted. Whenever you were anxious or bored, you would spin the pen in your hand, twirling it between your fingers.

He found himself doing that too whenever he was stumped with a sketch. He would catch himself twirling the pen between his fingers just like you used to, and he would pause and chuckle. Warmth would flood his chest at the memory of you. Carrying the pen with him made him feel like he was carrying a part of you with him with every pen stroke.

What the two soldiers treasured the most, though, was their favorite polaroid of you. It was a candid shot, one where you were caught off guard on the field. You were still wearing your scrubs and you were covered in a sheen of sweat. Your hand was reaching up to wipe a drop of sweat off of your forehead before it hit your eye. You were laughing at one of Simon’s awful jokes when Johnny snapped the photograph at the perfect moment, capturing the crinkle of your eyes and the quirk of your lips into a smile.

It captured you in the best way, unabashedly happy and vulnerable. Not worrying about getting injured or taking care of others. Just pure bliss and joy. Whenever the boys looked at the photo, warmth flooded their chests and their lips quirked up into a rare grin.

That photo is easily their most prized possession, the thing they cherish the most. While they might carry different items of yours with them on missions, they always find a way to share the photo. Whenever it’s Simon’s turn to keep it, he would have it folded delicately in his gear jacket pocket, making sure the pocket is zipped up. Whenever it’s Johnny’s turn to keep the photo, he would fold it carefully into a square and place it in the vest pocket directly over his heart. He would make sure it was secure in that pocket before patting it tenderly, as if he was carrying you around with him on the mission.

Whenever they carried that picture around, that’s what it felt like — like they were carrying you with them. So they held that picture close to their hearts, just like you held space in their hearts when you were alive.

All they could do was hold onto all the memories, and refuse to let them go. Burnt out candles, surgical journals, your favorite scrub cap, and that damned photograph. That was all Simon and Johnny had to hold onto for a year.

next chapter

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[gaybuttyogurt]

do you have the raw image of mithrun aggressively making the noodles from the kitten post... i can't remember when that happens, i tried googling it to no avail 😔💔

yes! it is from chapter 94, page 9, specifically when the canaries are brainstorming hobbies for Mithrun to have :3

[likehephaestionwhodied]

I want someone to hold me and look at me the way Diesel holds and looks at Shawn Michaels

[cashmoneychiyo]

hello, this is the same anon that sent the ask about the GSNK web radio before- i found the files, so please feel free to ignore the previous ask!! (my thank you for your hard work on the scans are for forever though!!)

but just in case there aren't any translations around and anyone else is interested in the raws, you can get them here: https://radibrary[dot]tistory[dot]com/tag/%EC%9B%94%EA%B0%84%EC%86%8C%EB%85%80%20%EB%85%B8%EC%9E%90%ED%82%A4%EA%B5%B0

you have to download all of the split 7z files, rename each file you download to the name they have the file displayed as (i.e.: nozaki#06.7z.001) and then open the first split file (001) with a program like 7zip!

[thereignclub-trc]

100 foods that you should eat:

1. Oysters

2. Liver

3. Eggs

4. Wild game

5. Salmon

6. Bone marrow

7. Kefir

8. Microgreens

9. Steak

10. Shrimp

11. Scallops

12. Raw milk

13. Blueberries 

14. Pomegranate 

15. Kiwi

16. Potatoes

17. Butter

18. Olive oil

19. Ghee

20. Chicken

21. Rice

22. Spinach

23. Carrots

24. Clams

25. Mussels

26. Avocados

27. Coconut oil

28. Watermelon

29. Yogurt

30. Sauerkraut

31. Kimchi

32. Sourdough 

33. Raw honey

34. Bee pollen

35. Cacao

36. Fresh herbs

37. Sweet potatoes

38. Lobster

39. Crab

40. Pork

41. Bone broth

42. Raw cheese

43. Onions

44. Zucchini 

45. Cucumbers

46. Garlic

47. Ginger

48. Turmeric

49. Strawberries 

50. Blackberries

51. Raspberries 

52. Colostrum

53. Honeycomb

54. Dark chocolate

55. Sardines

56. Tuna

57. Cod

58. Pumpkin seeds

59. Brazil nuts

60. Mushrooms

61. Grapes

62. Oranges

63. Apples

64. Dates

65. Asparagus 

66. Cherries

67. Lemons

68. Limes

69. Bananas

70. Mango

71. Dragonfruit 

72. Olives

73. Pineapple

74. Peaches

75. Grapefruit

76. Brussel sprouts

77. Beets

78. Cabbage

79. Cauliflower 

80. Mahi mahi

81. Seaweed

82. Salmon roe

83. Cod liver

84. Lamb

85. Coconuts

86. Tomatoes

87. Pickles

88. Artichokes

89. Beef tallow

90. Squash

91. Avocado oil

92. Spirulina

93. Eggplant

94. Celery

95. Chia seeds

96. Flaxseeds 

97. Pistachios

98. Cinnamon

99. Goji berries

100. Vanilla

[depressedhouseplant]

🔞 Just Fucking Write - Day 94 🔞

Prompt: Straight Sex (blame @m-is-mickey for the suggestion) - Juyeon x Giselle (Aeri)

Tags: Unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids), lewds/nudes, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, multiple orgasms

A/N: I picked Aespa’s Giselle because she & Winter did a TikTok with Juyeon & Eric. My other option was Illit, but shockingly people get their asses on their shoulders if you ship a legal member of a group if there’s any underage members. Whatever. All of Aespa is legal. Let’s move on, shall we? This is separate from both the Hyunjin & Jumil Cheating Universes.

Aeri-bae: WYD? 😘

Juyeon picked up his phone when it went off on his bedside table.

Juyeon: Lying in bed. Why?

A pause.

Aeri-bae: Naked? 😏

Juyeon snorted.

Juyeon: Has anyone told you that you think like a guy?

Aeri-bae: Regularly. Wanna fuck then get ramen?

He definitely couldn’t turn that down. Half the group was out of the country and everyone else had gone to bed. He could leave without being interrogated. The girls had just moved into a new dorm and all of them knew to turn a blind eye when Juyeon showed up.

Juyeon: Be there in 10

Aeri-bae: Make it 7. I’m soaking my sheets already

Juyeon’s cock stirred at the thought of Aeri with her pussy out and dripping. Juyeon grabbed a sweater, his wallet, and keys and was out the door. If the traffic was in his favor and he caught the bus at the right time, he could get to their dorm in 7 minutes. Everything worked in his favor. Jimin opened the door and rolled her eyes when she saw him.

”You know where to go,” she sighed as she let him in.

”Thanks,” Juyeon grinned. “We’ll try to keep it down.”

”I got earplugs after last time,” she replied. Juyeon went down the hall and knocked on Aeri’s door. He heard rustling then she peeked out from behind the door. “Close your eyes. I have a surprise.”

”Okay,” he agreed and she pulled him into her room by his wrist.

”Open,” she said. He opened his eyes to see her standing in front of him in a black lace lingerie set. There were no panties, just a garter belt, and the bra barely qualified for the term.

”Holy fuck,” he breathed.

”I want you to take some pictures before we get started. Something we can both enjoy when we can’t see each other,” she told him.

”With what?” He asked dumbly, still trying to take in the sight in front of him. He noticed a distinct glisten on Aeri’s inner thighs.

”Your phone works, doesn’t it?” She teased.

”You want me to take pictures of you in lingerie and have them on my phone?” He asked.

”In progressively less and less lingerie to be specific and I can show you how to encrypt the folder,” Aeri replied. “All the other boys were very enthusiastic.”

Juyeon knew they weren’t exclusive. They’d agreed on that early on.

”How many others?” Juyeon asked.

”Four, but you’re my favorite. And the only one I let raw me,” She grinned, climbing back on the bed. She made a point of crawling so he could see how wet her pussy was. He was dying to get a taste of her before he fucked her.

”I’m flattered,” he said as he stripped to his underwear.

”You should be,” she replied and leaned back on the bed. Juyeon began taking pictures as she posed. Then she reached back and pulled the bra off, leaving her tits exposed.

”You -,” he began.

”Keep going. I’m gonna be naked by the time this little photo shoot is done,” she said.

“Okay,” he nodded, already starting to feel pussy drunk and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Juyeon kept taking pictures until Aeri was completely naked and reclined on the bed, casually rubbing her pussy.

”Let me see,” she held out her free hand. Juyeon gave her his phone and she swiped through the pictures. “You’re also a better photographer.”

”Thanks,” he said as she handed him his phone back.

“Have I tortured you long enough?” She asked.

”Please let me taste you,” Juyeon whined, his dick hard enough to cut diamonds, but still in his underwear.

”Take off your undies and you can have my pussy,” Aeri replied. Juyeon almost fell off the bed trying to get out of his underwear and not lose sight of between Aeri’s legs. She laughed. Once he finally got them off, Juyeon plunged his face between her legs and began licking and sucking. She tasted like honey and it was addictive. She dug her fingers into his scalp and moaned as he licked every drop he could get. He stuck his tongue in her cunt and began fucking her with it.

”Fuck, Juyeon, I’m gonna fucking come all over your face,” she panted, bucking her hips in his face.

”Do it,” he pulled back for a moment. Then he resumed his position between her legs and kept tongue fucking her until he felt her thighs start to shake. Then her pussy started to flutter around his tongue. A few seconds later, she was dripping come all over his nose and mouth. Aeri had thrown a pillow over her face to muffle her cries of pleasure, mostly so she wouldn’t get bitched out by her roommates later. Juyeon sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. She hadn’t fully come down from her first orgasm before he slid into her tight pussy. Even fucking four other guys hadn’t loosened her up. The fact she stayed tight was part of the appeal. She wasn’t as tiny as some of the other girls he’d fucked, but she was the one he kept coming back to. Tight, sexy, and not afraid to tell him exactly what she wanted.

”Should I make more of a mess of your pussy?” He grunted as he thrust into her.

”Fucking ruin me,” she pulled him down into a kiss. It was more teeth and tongue than was comfortable, but Juyeon enjoyed it anyway. He sat back on his heels, pulling Aeri up on his lap. He took her waist and began fucking her on his cock.

”Shit, what the fuck,” she grunted as he manhandled her.

“You said ruin you,” he smirked.

”I did, didn’t I?” She grinned. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck for the taking. No marks. That was the only firm rule in the industry. Juyeon wanted to mark her up. To show the other guys he was her first choice. Instead he had to settle for mouthing at the smooth skin as she bounced on his dick.

”Ready to come again?” He asked against her throat.

”Always ladies first,” she teased.

”And more than once if I can arrange it,” Juyeon added.

”Finish me again,” Aeri kissed him again, this time with a little more finesse. He reached between them and teased her clit with this thumb. He felt her body momentarily lock up, then she was coming again, her face buried in his shoulder.

”That…was cheating,” she panted when she finished.

”No, I just know how to properly pleasure a woman,” Juyeon teased.

”When you put it that way,” she kissed him. “Ready to fill me up?”

”Been ready,” Juyeon leaned her back down and balanced himself on his arms before fucking hard into her again. It wasn’t long before he was coming hard and fast into her pussy. He pulled out when he finished and admired the mix of their come oozing out of her red and swollen cunt.

”Can I take a picture of this?” He asked. Aeri looked surprised for a moment, then handed him his phone.

”Naughty boy,” she giggled, spreading her legs wider so he could get a good shot. He showed her the pictures when he finished. “You’re definitely sending me those.”

”Of course,” he grinned. They stared at each other for a moment like there was something more to be said.

”Time to clean up and get some food,” she said. She passed him a box of tissues as she pulled on a robe to go to the bathroom. Once they were as clean as possible and redressed, they left for the 24 hour ramen spot a few blocks from the girls’ apartment. Juyeon found himself holding Aeri’s hand. They probably should’ve worn masks or something else to obscure their identities, but it was 2am and they were both still fucked out. Dating “scandals” had been rampant recently even if it was just two idols of the opposite sex having a normal conversation.

Maybe in a different life, Juyeon thought to himself as they took a booth in the back. Aeri was about to pick up the menu when Juyeon stopped her.

”I want to get a picture of this, too,” he said.

“Seriously? I’m wearing a flannel and my glasses,” she huffed.

”Maybe I want a PG picture I can show my friends when they ask about who I’m seeing,” Juyeon said.

”Fine,” Aeri posed and Juyeon took the picture.

”Perfect,” he said and showed it to her.

”Thanks,” she tried to hide a blush and failed. “Now let’s order. I’m starving.”

[bunnysrph]

hi! do you have female fc suggestions that can fit in the bridgerton verse? preferably someone who has dark hair and is in a period drama as well so sourcing media can be easy :] thank you so much!

below are FEMALE, REGENCY ERA face claims. they are listed in alphabetical order, with their birth years && ethnicities. those in bold are my personal recommendations. please LIKE / REBLOG if you find this useful.

amber anderson (1992, scottish)

anna maxwell martin (1977, irish && scottish)

ashley park (1991, korean)

crystal clarke (1993/94, trinidadian && guyanese)

eloise webb (2003, unspecified white)

freida pinto (1984, konkani indian && mangalorean)

gugu mbatha-raw (1983, south african && english)

hannah herzsprung (1981, german)

henriette confurius (1991, german && dutch)

jenna coleman (1986, english, scottish, welsh && irish)

kaya scodelario (1992, brazilian, portugese && english)

lena headey (1973, english && irish)

lily james (1989, french, english, scottish, german && dutch)

mia goth (1993, english, irish, scottish, french-canadian, brazilian, azorean && ashkenazi jewish)

millie brady (1993, unspecified white)

orla brady (1961, irish)

rose williams (1994, english && italian)

suki waterhouse (1992, english && scottish)

zawe ashton (1984, ugandan && english)

[preservationofnormalcy]

Hello, what should an employee of a Jack in the Box do when the local Jack entity has escaped? Three recent customers have been reported missing and our branch's copy of "Keeping your jack in the box" has missing pages and is out of date.

█████ ██████ you let it out? Do they not train you people anymore? We had an agreement when JitB brought the Jacks back in '94. And I do mean brought back.

First thing, you should have called us WAY earlier. Call your region's Jack Suppression Manager ASAP. Tell him to engage Protocol Prodigal Son.

You NEED that manual. Until you have the updated procedures, do the basics: set out raw patties overnight to see if you can draw him back in. Hold tight until the Jack Enforcement troops arrive.

If you have the February '97 edition of Keeping Your Jack In The Box, for the love of GOD do not follow the procedures on page 76. The last time they did that publicly was in July '97, and I think everyone in Montgomery, Alabama remembers that.