#thanks for the ask I'm so sorry it's very late

[beef-brisket]

Adam and Lucifer stood to the side as Charlie was about to start another group session. Lucifer looked a tad nervous, because everyone seemed to be looking and pointing at them.

Adam: You seem tense.

Lucifer: I-I think they know...

Adam: About us? Nonsense. Let them fester in their curiosity. I do like some good gossip~.

Lucifer chuckled: You're so bad.

Adam: I had to get my reputation somehow~.

Charlie: Alright, everyone! Shall we start-?

Angel throws his hand in the air, Lucifer doesn't trust that smile he has on his face.

Charlie: Oh! Uh- yes, Angel?

Angel: Toots, we've learned about "Traits of a Good Person" three times already. I have an idea for another topic~.

Vaggie: We don't want to know, Angel.

Charlie: It's okay, Vaggie. I trust him. What's your idea Angel?

Angel: "The importance of telling truths and being open with other people"!

The room was stunned into silence.

Adam: Wow. That's a great topic, Angel. I'm impressed.

Angel: Oh, you won't be, baby~.

Adam tilted his head. He's definitely concerned and he feels a tad threatened.

Charlie: Okay! I like that idea, Angel ! Shall we each ask someone a question, and that person had to answer honestly. I'll go first as an example. Adam: what's your favorite thing to eat?

Adam: Oh! That's easy. Venison~.

Everyone was silent again. They definitely forgot how creepy Adam could be. Lucifer, on the other hand, was staring lovingly at Adam.

Charlie: Great! Now, Adam, you ask someone something.

Adam: Hmm. Oh, the possibilities- Peter!

Peter sat up straight and smiled widely at his boss. He wasn't a gest but he loved participating.

Peter: Yes boss!?

Adam: Who is a fantastic cleaner and most loyal employee of mine?

Peter: Oh! Oh... uh... m-me?

Adam: Very good~.

Peter: Me! Lute-me! Me!

Lute rolls her eyes. Stupid bastard.

Charlie: How sweet! Okay, Peter, you're turn.

Peter: Boss!?

Adam perked up: Yes, Peter?

Peter: Favorite colour!?

Adam: Gold.

Angel: My turn- Adam~. Baby~.

Adam narrowed his eyes as Angel, he didn't like where this was going: Yes, "Angie"?

Angel: Who ya fuckin lately~?

Lucifer blushed but managed to remain composed.

Adam: You're mom. Next question.

Adam smiled at Angel's offended expression.

Lute: Boss.

Adam sighed: Yes, Lute?

Lucte: What's going on between you, and the king?

Adam: ...Nothing.

Charlie: Adam, you have to be honest- and come to think of it, you and dad have been spending a lot of time together. Do you like to dad, Adam?

Adam: I- yes. He's very kind and sweet. Next question.

Peter: Can I watch you two have sex!?

Adam: Peter- we've talked about this. You can't ask people that.

Peter: Sorry.

Adam: Next question?

Vaggie: Are you in a relationship with him?

Adam: With who?

Vaggie: Don't play dumb! The king!

Adam: "the king" has a name. Thank you. And yes, technically i do have a relationship with him.

Angel: You're so fucking him. Come one Adam! Tell us!

Charlie: Are you sure you're not with my dad?

Vaggie: You're highness, I thought you hated him- he hated you Adam.

Adam: Not a question, Vagatha.

Lucifer watched everyone through questions at Adam. He was handling it pretty well, but Lucifer could tell he was going to lose it.

Lucifer: ...do you love me?

Everyone stopped and looked at Lucifer. Even Adam. His expression was shock and maybe a tad of offense.

Adam: Of course I do. Have I not shown you? What more do I need to do? Tell me- and I'll do

Lucifer: Tell them. About us.

Adam smiled and grabbed his hand. The whole room was duiet: Of course. Lucifer and I have been connecting for a few weeks now. We have it official last night.

Angel: ...wow. I was expecting you to fight back a little.

Adam: Perish the thought! I only fight when I feel threatened~.

Lowkey want an au where Adam has Alastors' powers.

The tentacles

The eyes

The changing size

The shadows

The sass

The deal making

Him owning Husk and Nifty

The musical numbers

The radio control

The tentacles- have I mentioned that before?

The rivalry with Lucifer

Maybe he replaces Alastor entirely. No Alastor. Only Adam. It's always been Adam.

Thanks for coming to my tedtalk.

Only Adam lol This is good! His Husk and Nifty could be Lute and Peter.

He doesn't have to smile all the time does he?

Yessss, and he plays rock instead of jazz lol And yes of course there is a rivalry lol

[varpusvaras]

Roy stands in front of the stove and stares at the soup.

He watches it simmering, the surface gently bubbling every now and then, and he tries not to think too much.

It's been pretty hard, lately, not to think too much, but he has to do it, because if he starts to think, he will get angry again.

Roy can't afford to get angry. Not yet, anyway.

He stares at the simmering soup until it is ready, and he turns the stove off and takes the pan off of it, and he takes the nice bowl out of the dishwasher and starts to ladel the soup in it, because, damn it, he is using the nice bowl for this. Would it be safer to use the less nice ones? Maybe, but Roy doesn't feel like playing it safe and behaving like the nice bowl is above this.

He is getting way too agitated about bowls. Roy stops, breathes in the herbal scent of the soup, and continues to get the soup from the pan into the nice bowl. He then gets the high glass from the cabinet, because the nice bowl of soup needs a nice glass of water to go with it.

He then takes both and makes his way to the bedroom.

He stops at the doorway.

The ceiling is off, because Jason's eyes and head can't really handle too much light right now, but the desk light on Roy's side of the bed is on. Lian is laying on that side of the bed, curled as close to Jason as she can, with a book in her hands. It's one of Jason's, though Roy can't see which one from where he is standing, but the words he can hear Lian softly reading out make it sound very English.

Jason's eyes are closed, but his head is turned ever so slightly towards Lian, and from how he is breathing, Roy knows that he is awake.

It is something that any other time would only make Roy's heart swell with love and happiness, but right now, there is an ugly, bitter taste all over it, preventing him from truly enjoying it.

He clears his throat a bit. Lian turns to look at him over her shoulder, sees the bowl and the glass, and she takes the book and scoots to the edge of the bed.

"Lian."

Lian looks at him little pleadingly, even though by now, she already knows the answer.

Roy shakes his head. Lian turns her eyes down. She puts the book on the nightstand, and reaches to wrap her fingers around Jason's for a second, before she slides off of the bed. Roy steps into the room to get away from the doorway, so she can get past him and out of the bedroom.

"Thank you", Roy whispers to her as she walks past him. He then nudges the door closed and walks up to the bed.

He turns on the desk light on Jason's side of the bed. Jason twitches a little, his eyes flutterin and his brow pinching a bit.

"Sorry", Roy murmurs. He puts the bowl and the glass on the nightstand to have both his hands free. "I'm gonna move you up a little."

It's a familiar dance for both of them by now. Jason hums affirmatively, Roy steadies his back and neck and pulls him up a little against the headboard. Jason's jaw clenches because by now, the painkillers have stopped working and he is more lucid and definitely more aware of everything that is going on with his body, but he wants it this way, because being more lucid means that he can kind of eat on his own.

'Kind of' in this context means that he can swallow without spewing anything on himself, and that is something that Jason is willing to take, even if it comes with more pain.

Jason opens his eyes when Roy lets go off him to pick the bowl back up.

"How're you feeling?" Roy asks. He tries not to ask it every time Jason is even marginally awake, but it's difficult, because every time Jason closes his eyes, Roy can only see him laying there, bloody and still and him looming over his body.

It's been weeks now, and still, Roy can't seem to forget how he had felt back there, when for a one moment, he had thought that Jason was dead.

Jason just breathes for a moment. He has to do it a lot, as he cannot breathe very deeply at all.

"Fine", he says, which Roy deciphers as meaning not worse than the last time you asked. It's good enough, all things considered.

"That's good." Roy gets some soup on the spoon. Jason's left hand is in theory capable of holding onto things, but in reality, it still shakes too much for him to be able to do anything precise with it. So what he gets is Roy spooning the soup for him.

They don't speak while Jason eats. Just the act of eating takes too much of his energy, and he needs to focus to it in order to get it done. It is all familiar by now as well. After Jason has gotten at least some food and water down his throat, Roy will give him his next dose of painkillers, and then talk to him while he falls back asleep.

Roy knows that Jason hates it.

They have talked more than enough of their childhoods at this point. Roy knows all the unsavory details of Jason's story, and right now, at this moment, the ones of his mother, almost always unresponsive towards the end, with Jason trying his best to keep her alive by any means necessary, are at the forefront of both of their minds. Roy knows it.

He also knows that it is the one place Jason never wanted to end up in, and he's been there once already.

It is why he doesn't want Lian to see him right now, no matter how much he adores her. Jason had been alone, back then, taking all the responsibilities of adults when he had just hit double digits in age, and the last thing he wants is to make another kid go through the same. It's not the same, since Roy is there, but it is too close for Jason nevertheless.

Roy has tried to explain it to her, so she wouldn't feel like she's done something wrong. She understands, but with that understanding, has only come the need to help even more.

Roy loves her so much. He wishes that she never has to go through anything bad in her life.

Roy also loves Jason, and while he knows that there is nothing that he could've done for him before, he will never forgive himself for not protecting him now.

He doesn't say that out loud. Not yet.

Jason finishes half of the bowl before he just simply cannot make himself eat more. He accepts enough sips of the water to not be dehydrated and to get the painkillers down. Roy lets him stay sitting for a moment longer, before he lowers him back down onto the bed.

He says other things out loud. Simple things. Simple, loving things, that don't reveal how much Roy wishes to take all the pain from Jason and give it back. He will, eventually, because Roy knows Jason, and he knows that for Jason, saying those things out loud is love as well.

But not yet. Not yet, simply for the fact that if Roy does so, he will have to do as he says, right there, right then, and he cannot yet.

Not yet, when Jason still needs him like this.

Jason closes his eyes, slowly, as the awareness in them dims, and eventually his breathing evens out, as much as the painkillers allow him to not care about everything in him that has been broken.

Roy watches him sleep.

He is happy, now, that he listened to Jason and never told anyone, not even Dick, about them. As much as Roy loves Dick, he is now a safety hazard, a possible breach in this place that Jason has for himself. A place that no one will know to come and look for him from.

That is good. That is exactly what he needs right now.

That is exactly what Roy wants.

Batman will not be able to find Jason. He will not be able to come for him.

No. When the time comes, it will be Roy who comes for the Batman, and when that time comes, Roy will be ready for it.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 86 (Family Drama)

The next evening, before Heather and Conrad left for their date, her youngest sister, Hazel, arrived in Brindleton Bay to watch her niece and nephew.

Ash excitedly called to her from the computer as soon as she walked in the door. "Aunt Hazel, Aunt Hazel, come check out my new game!"

"Thanks for driving out here so Conrad and I can have a night out," Heather said. "The security cameras are working and Conrad's getting the kids fed before we go, so just get them to bed at a decent hour and no horror movies."

"It's just food colouring," she protested, but with Heather's stern glance she nodded obediently. "Sorry, Ashy. No Moonlight Massacre tonight, after all."

Heather changed the subject before Ash could complain. "I'm sad you won't be in town when we're in Henford this weekend to meet River and Cass' new baby boy. Dad says you don't call home enough."

Hazel laughed. "Dad tells me you don't call enough! None of us could ever call home enough. River still lives there and Dad probably thinks he doesn't get to see enough of him, either."

"Missing out on Dad guilt tripping us to visit for a political conference in San Myshuno's pretty cool, though. Ash, that's enough game time. Conrad's almost finished making your dinner."

Ash moaned, but he turned off the computer and headed for the kitchen as Hazel picked up her niece for a cuddle in her unicorn onesie. "I'm kind of glad to be out of Henford for the night to get in time with Ashy and Lava. Has that weird old dude been a problem lately?"

Heather made sure Ash was out of earshot. "Not since the restraining order," she said, the relief on her face more than evident. "And you're stuck on those nicknames, huh? I thought nicknames were too corny for you."

"It's not my fault your kids are just as cool as volcanoes, big sis."

Heather grinned. Hazel, the baby of their family, could get away with anything and dripped charm to spare, but Heather could tell something was weighing on her mind. "Are you doing okay?"

Hazel took a deep breath, setting Lavender down before she moved to the sofa. "What made you realize you wanted to be single when we were in high school?"

Heather laughed. "It was just easier than having feelings. It's still easier than having feelings, but finding the right person is better. What's wrong?"

She frowned. "What if Nicola and I got married too young? We're different people than we were as teens. When her dad died of a heart attack a few months ago, it felt like I wasn't married to the same person anymore. I know she's grieving, but what if we didn't wait long enough into young adulthood to figure it all out?"

Heather could empathize with her sister's confusion over love and relationships. Not too long ago, Heather would have found it unthinkable to offer her siblings, of all people, relationship advice, but Conrad had shown her what great love could be.

"You know I've never been very flirty or romantic, and I held on to my relationship with Malcolm too long because I didn't think I deserved any better. I'd never recommend it, but I also know Nicola's not Malcolm Landgraab. If you trust her, you can tell her the truth."

Hazel nodded. "No, she's definitely not like Malcolm."

"If you're truly unhappy, don't force it because you think you're supposed to. But if you're asking me, I think it means there's still some fight in you to keep it together."

(Lovestruck's new relationship and chemistry features went after Hazel and her new wife, and I'm rolling with it to see what happens. I cheated their relationship back up a bit - as if what Heather said encouraged her to fight a little more - and we'll see how it goes with them.

The way I said that probably gave away what might happen but pfft you don't know!)

Grateful for her eldest sister's advice, Hazel turned her attention back to Lavender, while Heather joined Ash and Conrad in the kitchen.

"Tomorrow night we'll pack some things into your backpack for your weekend at your dad's," Heather said to her son. "He'll pick you up after school on Friday and take you to his place for the weekend."

"He'll probably send their driver like usual," he shrugged. "But Ray's cool."

"What do you mean, 'like usual?'"

Ash looked at her with confusion etched on his face. "Daddy's reporting til seven on the news every weeknight, Mommy!"

Heather stared at Conrad, wide-eyed. "He told me he does those hits pre-recorded."

"He always sends Ray, and Ray always takes me to get ice cream before we get to Daddy's penthouse. Why do you look pretend happy, Mommy? I love ice cream!"

"Your mom just hasn't met Ray, buddy."

"But Mommy, he's not a stranger. He's Ray!"

Heather plastered a smile, and Conrad reached under the table to caress her clenched fist. "I'll be at school on Friday afternoon when Ray's there to pick you up at three," she said. "If he's as nice as you say, I don't want him to be a stranger to me."

Ash smiled. "Okay, Mommy, that's a good a idea."

Heather felt constantly undermined by the Landgraabs. But there was little she could say without disappointing her son, and she didn't want bitterness to affect her night with Conrad. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: Their date continues Monday but tomorrow there will be a bonus post inspired by @purplesimmer455! 👀

NOTE 2: Also noting, since this is an episode where nothing much seems to be happening, there are a few subtle hints in here, too, about how Conrad is on a pedestal, especially when Heather compares him to Malcolm, even though we all know he's keeping this massive secret from her, too.

[darkmatilda]

╰┈➤ the pumpkin reaper

epilogue

previous parts:

1 2 3

in which you and reid are visiting your brother in hospital after he tried to commit a suicide

tw: mention of a suicide attempt

contents: spender reidxfem!bau!reader, it's an epilogue, please check the previous parts if you missed them!

words: 3.1k

You couldn’t believe those words came out of your mouth, but they did. And what’s more, they were sincere.

It was late in the evening when you were heading back to the office in Quantico. No case ever ended with just catching the unsub – after that came the long hours of report writing and paperwork. After everything you’d been through, the team almost forbade you from taking on that task. Instead, they insisted that you go straight home and get some proper rest.

You rolled your eyes and nodded, like a child whose mother insists they zip up their jacket. Hotch was nowhere to be seen, Morgan was listening to music with his eyes closed, Emily and JJ were absorbed in their conversation, and Rossi… well, Rossi was doing whatever it is Rossi does. So, you reached for the case files and tucked yourself away in a quiet corner of the jet. You wanted to go over everything again, even though you knew that as soon as you saw Logan's photo, all the unpleasant memories would come rushing back with relentless force.

 But before you could open the folder to the first page, someone simply took it from your hands. You looked up to see none other than Reid—blue shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up, a look of perpetual sleeplessness, his usual worry, and… joy. Small, but noticeable.

You, too, were almost disturbingly happy. Escaping death filled you with a mood akin to the high after smoking two joints back-to-back. Of course, it would only last for a brief moment; by tomorrow, you’d likely be tossing and turning in bed, plagued by nightmares. A familiar pattern.

"I don’t even want to see you trying to work right now," Spencer said, taking a seat next to you and placing the folder beside him, just out of your reach. Or at least far enough that you’d have to put in some serious effort to grab it—and your sore ribs had no intention of letting you do that.

"Then what do you suggest I do?" you asked, rolling your eyes. "I don't want to sleep."

"Kafka on the Shore?" he suggested.

"I've already read it. By the way, what was the deal with the soldiers and the hut in the woods at the very end?"

"Well, that's an element that leaves a lot of room for personal interpretation."

"Thanks for the explanation, that told me a lot," you chuckled. You pulled your knees to your chest, trying to get more comfortable in your spot, but the movement triggered a wave of pain. You hissed.

“They should have kept you in the hospital for at least one night,” Reid said, suddenly straightening up. “Do you need anything? There might be some ice around… or I could just leave, and you could lie down…”

“No. You’re staying,” you decided firmly. He raised an eyebrow at your abrupt response. You quickly followed up with an explanation. “Well, I’ve finished reading my book, and you took my files. So now you’re responsible for my potential boredom. It’s your duty to entertain me.”

“Yeah” he agreed with a smirk “It’s my duty” 

"So, how do you plan to do that? Are you going to dance? Sing? Juggle?"

"I can't dance or sing, and I don't have anything to juggle. Is it enough if we just talk? Or is that too common of an entertainment for you?"

You pretended to think for a moment.

"Fine, I guess."

"Then what are you planning to do when you get back?"

"Visit Jeremy."

"Oh, right, sorry…”

"Come on," you interrupted, waving your hand. A moment of silence followed as you hesitated before speaking again. However, you remembered that you had decided to stop staying silent about your worries and problems, at least in his presence. "It's just... it really stresses me out. I don't know how I should talk to him, I'm afraid I'll panic when I see him..."

Spencer cleared his throat before answering. 

“That... can really be tough,” he said, not bothering to lie or reassure you that everything would go perfectly. “But hey, remember that he’s probably looking forward to seeing his big sister. Even if you start talking about something you think is silly, he’ll be happy just to have you there.”

He made you smile, though the corners of your eyes began to gently dampen. You wiped them discreetly, not wanting to burst into tears on the jet.

"I hope you're right. And I hope he doesn't hate me for not being there for him..."

You stopped, feeling him take your hand. You realized you had been clenching it into a fist for quite some time.

"I don't know Jeremy, so I can only guess how he'll react. But I'm sure of one thing—he definitely doesn't hate you."

For a long time, you simply stared at your hand in his warm grip. Your fingers relaxed, releasing the tension that had been between them, becoming limp yet yearning for the touch.

"Spencer," you said suddenly, taking a deep breath. "I don't know if I can ask you this... but... you've been there for me this whole time and... okay, I’ll understand if you say no, but... would you maybe... want to visit him with me? I don't know if I can do it alone."

You waited for his response, your heart beating faster with each passing moment. Maybe it was too much? Maybe you shouldn’t be asking him for something like this; maybe it crossed the line of your acquaintance? Just a year ago... no, even a week ago, you never would have imagined you’d be begging anyone for something like this. You would have forced yourself to do it alone, ignoring your fear.

He simply smiled.

"Of course, you can ask me to do that. And I'm glad I'll be able to accompany you."

*

The sound of quickly pressed keys echoed as you gave the hospital receptionist your brother’s last name.

The stark whiteness of the place and the blinding, intense light felt like a scene straight out of a horror movie. The thought of seeing Jeremy soon made you tremble. You had so many questions for him, including why he even tried to take his own life, but you knew you couldn’t ask them just yet. He didn’t need an interrogation to satisfy your curiosity; he needed support.

You were so overwhelmed at the thought of seeing him that you shifted impatiently from foot to foot. You felt stressed but also excited. After all, he was your little brother, and you missed him. Standing beside you, Reid smiled slightly, noticing your behavior. If you were hurting him by squeezing his hand as tightly as you could, he didn’t let it show.

"Who are you to the patient?" the receptionist asked.

"His sister."

"And you?" she turned to Spencer.

"A frie—" he began, probably intending to say friend.

"Fiancé," you interrupted, quickly offering a word that began with the same letter. You worried that if the woman found out he wasn’t connected to you or Jeremy, she might ask him to stay in the waiting room. You didn’t expect him to go into Jeremy's room with you, but you wanted the reassurance that he’d be right outside, not on the other side of the hospital.

Reid first looked at you like you were crazy. You tried to silently signal him to join in on your desperate act. Luckily, he caught on incredibly fast.

"That's right, fiancé. Basically, husband. We're getting married... tomorrow," he improvised, nodding with such conviction that he almost seemed to believe it himself. "Well, actually, not tomorrow, but the day after, because tomorrow is Sunday, and we’re Catholic. In our religion, 

“Darling,” you gritted through your teeth, seeing the receptionist’s confused expression.

“In any case, I’m very close to the patient,” he emphasized.

If he said anything more, you would’ve nudged him with your elbow.

“Well… in that case… the patient is in room number fourteen. It’s that way…” She pointed in the right direction. You thanked her with an overly wide smile. “And… congratulations.”

“God bless you,” Reid said as he waved goodbye.

You quickly turned around, so she wouldn’t see your burst of laughter. As soon as you were out of the receptionist's sight, you hit him on the back so hard that a woman with a cast on her arm almost dropped her coffee. He laughed, and you awkwardly tried to hide how much the whole situation amused you as well.

“If I had let you say one more word, she wouldn’t have let either of us in,” you complained. “She would’ve thought we were freaks. Religious freaks. Or maybe point us to the psychiatric ward.”

“Hey, I’m not the best actor. You should know that,”

“I didn’t know. I’ll remember for next time, though I’m not sure if there will ever be another situation where you’ll need to pretend to be my husband.”

"Fiancé," he corrected. "You decided that yourself."

"Basically a husband. You decided that yourself."

You didn’t say anything more, only grabbed the edge of his coat sleeve to slow his pace. You were standing outside room 14, right in front of the door. You didn’t even peek inside; you weren’t ready to see Jeremy just yet.

“I need one more minute,” you whispered.

“Take all the time you need,” he replied gently.

 The playful mood that had accompanied you both was gone. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you stood on tiptoe and began adjusting his poorly tied scarf. 

“Sorry,” you muttered under your breath. “It’s been bothering me since I saw you.”

"I'll wait for you here, okay?" he asked quietly. Because you were so close to him, he barely had to raise his voice at all. "Jeremy doesn’t know me, I don’t want to just show up unannounced..."

“Are you coming in or what?”

You turned around, startled, to see none other than Jeremy. Lying on the hospital bed, poking at a container of chocolate pudding with a spoon, and most importantly, awake. 

At first, you were surprised, but soon emotion took control of your body, and you ran to him as if he were about to disappear.

"Oh my God, I can finally see you..." His shirt, which you hugged tightly, muffled your words.

"The pudding spilled on your jacket."

"I don't care."

He chuckled into your hair, holding you tighter. You stayed like that for a moment, desperately holding back tears. If even one had surfaced, you would’ve fallen apart like a child.

ou pulled away after a long time, immediately noticing that his eyes were also filled with tears. However, he quickly wiped them away with his hand. Still, he was a sixteen-year-old boy, and crying in front of his sister felt like public humiliation for him, a shame that would last forever. You tried to do everything you could to avoid looking at his wrists. Both hands were wrapped in bandages, and from the conversation with your father, you learned that they had put in a lot of stitches. You focused on looking at his face—young, similar to yours, with the same blue eyes.

"Are parents visiting you?"

He shrugged.

"Father, surprisingly, more often. Mother drops by irregularly and talks about strange things. Apparently, our neighbor's dog has worms, and it really pisses her off. My mother, not the neighbor. Though, probably the neighbor too..."

You didn't know why you started crying.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." you mumbled, your words slurring. “I should have gotten here earlier, and I didn’t. I regret so much that I didn’t, I’m sorry. I should have been here the moment you woke up.”

He didn’t say anything, letting you lament. Finally, you wiped away the last tear, then apologized to him about eighteen more times. You sat together in silence for a moment, busying yourself with wiping the dirty jacket. He wasn’t joking about the pudding.

“How are you feeling?”

He shrugged.

“Tolerable, I guess. By the way, who was that guy who came in with you?”

You turned toward the entrance, but Spencer was nowhere to be seen. He must have sat on one of the chairs outside the room, and knowing him, he’d probably started reading some medical brochure.

“A friend,” you replied briefly. “I hope it doesn’t bother you that I brought him... It’s just…”

You didn’t know how to explain that you couldn’t have made it here without support.

“He works for the FBI too?” he asked, suddenly curious. “Would he tell me more about the job than you do?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, pretending to be dead serious.

“I won’t let him tell my little brother any graphic details.”

“I’m not a kid!”

“To me, you are, and always will be.”

He looked like he was holding back from sticking his tongue out at you.

“Call him,” he asked. “I’d love to meet your friend. Is he a friend, or a friend?”

“Jeremy, you’re ridiculous…”

But you fulfilled his request. Spencer stared at you with wide eyes when you told him that your brother wanted to see him. As he entered the room, he almost tripped over... probably his own feet, since there was nothing else to trip on. And that’s how the rest of the visit went, the three of you together. Jeremy alternated between complaining about the hospital food and bombarding Reid with questions about absolutely everything related to being a profiler. He had always been fascinated by it, but after everything that had happened to you, you couldn’t, with a clear conscience, recommend that job to him. Spencer had been explaining everything in detail to him, and for the next hour, you almost felt like an intruder in their private conversation, which amused you instead of offending you.

Spencer left a moment before you, giving you a chance to say goodbye to your brother privately. When you finally released him from your embrace, promising you'd come back tomorrow, the same nurse who had spoken with you at the reception entered the room. She was checking Jeremy’s condition as you headed for the exit.

“Wait,” she suddenly said. “I think your husband left his scarf.”

She held up the purple scarf, indeed Reid's. You were about to thank her and take it when you noticed Jeremy’s mouth hanging open, and with horror, you realized what she'd said.

"Forgive me, dear sister, but what the fuck?”

*

“So, he’s convinced that we had a secret, spontaneous wedding that you didn’t tell him about?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

In reality, Jeremy had probably realized immediately that there was a misunderstanding, but he just couldn’t pass up the chance to tease you. He would likely bring it up again for the rest of your life. You were also worried that you'd get an angry phone call from your mother asking why you didn’t mention your “wedding,” but overall, you were content with how the meeting went.

You both walked together in an unknown direction, neither of you sure when you should part ways or if you even wanted to. You didn’t want to, but you had no idea about him. The weather was much better than in the town where you had spent the last few days. The fewer trees meant that autumn wasn’t as pronounced. It was only present in the chilly, gusty wind.

"If you don't have any plans, how about going out to eat?" you suggested.

"Sure." Reid agreed immediately, and the corner of your mouth twitched at the speed of his response. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Well, anything. There's a good restaurant on the corner of this street... Oh, God, I just remembered, I owe someone dinner as a thank you."

"Dinner? As a thank you?" he repeated with a strange look on his face. Before he could say anything else, he caught himself and snorted. "Interesting. Just curious, is it someone I know?"

"Oh, you know him." You continued with a barely suppressed smile. "Do you remember James Rivas? The forest ranger?"

Reid literally stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Dinner? With him?"

"That's right. Well, he saved my life, so I guess I owe him that."

You were shocked when you learned how your team knew where to find you after you were kidnapped. The bunker Osborne took you to was unknown to the local authorities, hidden deep in the forest, far from any paths. When the rumor spread through the town about who was responsible for the murders and that an FBI agent had been kidnapped, the forest ranger showed up at the police station. He revealed that he knew the place where you might have been held because, as a child, he used to go there with friends, including Logan Osborne.

But of course, you had no intention of taking him to dinner. You just wanted to laugh at Reid's reaction.

"You're absolutely not owed anything by him!" he blurted out with emotion, a hint of anger in his voice. "If he'd only remembered that he knew about the existence of some bunker, you wouldn't have been kidnapped in the first place. You wouldn't have had to go through that hell, and I wouldn't have been losing my mind the whole time, not knowing what happened to you. Plus, have you forgotten what an awful person he is? He's arrogant, self-absorbed, and full of self-admiration—do you really want to have dinner with someone like that...are you laughing?"

He furrowed his brow, completely confused by your reaction.

“God, Reid, I was just joking! I’d rather die than spend another hour with that jerk. Especially voluntarily,” you explained, laughing between words. Something in his remark made you smirk. “Were you really losing your mind when I was kidnapped? “

“You’re impossible," he snorted. “Where’s that restaurant?”

“Wait, don’t change the topic and answer my question”

He simply looked at you, tilting his head to the side.

 “Isn’t it obvious?”

taglist: @miriamnox @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @nightfullofparadox

thank you everyone for reading <3

[randomingoftherandomness]

modern au whete zyc is a stripper and zyz is an older businessman whos at the club with work friends and is initially bored af until he sees zyc and goes hmmmmmm

A/N: I finally caught the bug that has been going around. So I was laid up for the better part of the weekend. I see the fic prompts in my inbox, so thanks everyone so kindly for sending them in! Sorry for the lack of fics from my end. I'm afraid this week will be very jam-packed on my end, but I shall endeavour to keep the fics coming :)

Enjoy this one!

--

Li Lun has always brought out the best and the worst of Zhu Yan. Lately, it has been a lot of the latter.

Friends since the moment they first met, they'd changed jobs together, climbed the corporate ladder, backstabbed and schemed their way to where they both are now -- titans of their industry who were both competitors and collaborators all the same. You couldn't speak one's name without mentioning the other, and it was just right too.

But twenty-five years of the hustle is, for better or worse, starting to weigh on him. He has seen it all.

The bloodthirst that is only slaked by a vicious takeover. Walking arm-in-arm into the most exclusive parties with the most beautiful people, tasting the best champagne and the best caviar, sleeping in the most expensive hotels that money can buy.

Zhu Yan has done it all. And he did it with Li Lun by his side.

It's another Friday. Another looming weekend that he has to stare down the barrel of, wondering what will it be this time -- a weekend he will lose to the sex and the drugs in the arms of someone his assistants will make sign ironclad NDAs before they make the hotel lobby? Or a weekend holed up in his giant penthouse watching something on his television without actually watching him.

He's about to leave his office when Li Lun slings an arm around his shoulders, talking his ear off about this new place one of the boys found. Zhu Yan is only half-listening, not even paying attention when he is steered towards the VIP parking spaces, parked in the passenger seat of his own car as Li Lun takes the wheel.

By the time he comes back to himself, Li Lun is laughing in his ear as the music swells along with the cheers of the crowd when the spotlight singles down on the stage.

There's a pole on the said stage, plenty of half-naked people playing the wait staff lingering around, and equally just as many dangerous-looking men in the perimeter of the room. Zhu Yan's not that slow as to not put two and two together.

He is about to turn to Li Lun, to ask him what's going on when the music stops and all lights but the spotlight turn off.

And out of the shadows, steps an angel.

He has nothing on but a silver thong and a pair of wings the colour of a raven's that sit dark and flared on his back. The hint of purples and blues glitter and shift as he walks into the light. But the first thing that Zhu Yan notes when the angel comes into full view is how everything else falls away at the sight of his beauty.

Slender and pale, there is a litheness in his body as he hypnotises the crowd with his walk. Dark hair slicked back, an alluring blush sits high on his cheekbones, accentuated by plump red lips that invite the most ardent of kisses.

Then, the angel tilts his face up to the light and opens his eyes.

They're the most stunning shade of blue. Contacts, perhaps, but to Zhu Yan it only serves to accentuate the almost cold aura the angel gives. The world hushes when he takes a hand to the pole and pulls himself into position.

He can vaguely feel Li Lun saying something into his ear and a drink being pressed into his hand, but to Zhu Yan, all that exists at that moment is the way the angel is dancing in the spotlight.

For a beat, Zhu Yan feels a deep sour twist in his gut when the men and women closest to his angel reach out for him. Clamouring, arms outstretched, they look like devotees worshipping their god. For another beat, Zhu Yan wishes he was there with them. On his knees in supplication, lips kissing the arch of his angel's feet.

The angel twirls, legs stretched showing off his incredible flexibility. Zhu Yan's eyes follow when he dismounts, rolling his hips, and tossing a look over his shoulders as he goes. It makes his heartbeat stutter and Zhu Yan realises that this is the first time in a long time that he can honestly say that he feels alive. Alive in the way that matters. Present, in the moment, no longer just a passenger in his own life.

With that in mind, even before his angel steps off his stage, Zhu Yan is calling the maître d over to make his introductions. Li Lun is raising his eyebrows at him, no doubt thinking about what he could tease him for come Monday, but Zhu Yan does not think that this will be something for the weekend.

No. Zhu Yan knows that he won't rest until his angel is his alone and no one else's. And as he leaves the glass of liquor that he has yet to drink from, ignoring the way Li Lun is calling him back, he has a feeling that he will do everything in his power to make sure that he at least knows his angel's name before the night is over.

[klywrites]

how much french did you need to research/study to create the fantasy french names in RS?

None because I live in Canada where we are taught Canadian French up until... 9th or 10th grade? (the cut off may have changed now since I was in high school)

I've forgotten 90% of my French because I've never had to actually use it... but the "French" in RS is bare minimum anyway. Like you mention, it's just a handful of names, which are simple to create once you've seen enough words

[biblically-accurate-dca]

*Hands this Sun drawing to you and then scampers away like the little gremlin i am*

i just drew this in ibis paint on my phone at 4:45am.

(This is my neurodivergent way of saying HI!!!! I LOVE YOUR ACCOUNT!!!!!)

starts crying,,,,,, THANK YOUU!! ♡

[violinist-rachel]

Rachel, did you love karl again

"H-huh?... Carl who...? Sagan...?" "I -hic -enjoyed watching his show growing up, but I haven't -hic- met him in person before..."

[blindmagdalena]

First I’m literally obsessed with the way you write homie it’s literally so in character.

Second, how do you think he would react to having a thicker gf and seeing them being verbally harassed bc of it? I feel like he would lose his mind

this fic has been rewritten and given a smutty follow up! check it out here. ;)

Tonight's gala is a significant one. Not only does Homelander have about a dozen deals to grease with a firm handshake and some oily promises, it's your first time attending one of these events at his side. He couldn't be prouder. You took his breath away in your formal wear; a sight to behold that had him clapping his delight. "You're gonna knock them dead," he whispered in your ear, savoring the flustered, breathy way you laughed.

Strange now that when he looks for you, Homelander doesn't see you on the event floor. You had gone to get drinks while he spoke with this senator—who has officially lost any and all of his interest in the wake of your disappearance—but you've been gone too long. Like an itch at the back of his neck, something doesn't feel right. "Ah, apologies, senator, I seem to have misplaced my date," he says, flashing his best award winning smile. "Gimme a minute to find her. Make sure she hasn't gotten herself into any trouble," he says, throwing in a wink for good measure. His pleasant expression falls off as soon as his back is turned to the boring little man. When Homelander doesn't find you on the event floor, he steps out. He listens for you, filtering out the music, the chatter, the noise of the world. He seeks what is familiar to him, what he would know from a meter or a mile away, and what he hears puts a lump of ice into his gut. You're crying.

Homelander moves swiftly down the hall, finding the women's bathroom in a heartbeat. You've gone far from the event floor, bypassing the nearer bathroom to use one further away. You're hiding, he realizes, but he can't fathom what from. He moves faster, imagining that you're hurt, that someone has you, that— "Babe?!" Homelander calls sharply, slamming open the door. He doesn't mean to scare you, but he can see in your expression that he did. Your eyes are wide and red, tears trailing black mascara down your cheeks. You stand with your hand lingering on the bathroom sink, and as the shock fades, your expression falters.

He's never seen you look so... sad. It twists in him like a hot knife, the discomfort he feels at it turning immediately into rage. Anger comes quick and easy to him. His voice is low when he demands, "Tell me what happened." "It's nothing," you try to dismiss, picking up the tissues you dropped on the floor to toss them into the garbage. "I just got overwhelmed at the party." "You're crying in a bathroom a floor down from the event, it is categorically not nothing," he argues, taking hold of your arms once he's near enough. He pulls you into him, lifting a hand to cup the side of your face. Thanks to plenty of experience with makeup in film and television, he knows better than to smear the blackened tears on your cheeks, though the impulse to wipe them away is there. "C'mon. Tell me."

You lean into him as you always do. He is a pillar, just as you have been for him. He can't fucking stand seeing you like this. "I don't belong here. I don't... talk, or dress, or look like these people. They're all..." You lift your hands, gesturing vaguely. Your voice sounds hoarse. He can't bear the sadness in it. "Perfect." "You have to be kidding me," Homelander says, his disbelief genuine. "The gaggle of sycophants and suits back there? They're insipid. Boring as all hell. I can't even tolerate being in the same room as them without you anymore," he says, huffing a laugh in an attempt to ease your mood. Anything to bring back your smile. "Seriously, what brought this on? You've never given a shit about all that pomp before." Your gaze drops. He knows you're hiding something from him. "Hey, c'mon," he coos, using the knuckle of his index finger to tilt your chin back up. "Tell me, and I will make it better."

One way or another.

With visible reluctance, you take a breath. "I... went to get the drink, like I said," you begin, fidgeting with the zipper on his glove. "When a group of people kind of cornered me at the bar. They seemed nice at first, they were asking questions about me, about us, which I know you said to expect, but then..." Your eyes prickle, he can see fresh tears well up as you speak. Homelander slips a hand to your back, rubbing it, his brow furrowed.

Sounds like someone's going to die tonight.

"One of them commented on my dress, she said that... Vought must not be used to dressing women my size," you say, voice falling quieter with every word. New tears fall. Homelander's jaw tenses. He looks away from you, blinking back that familiar crimson burn. "They all started laughing, and I just wanted to disappear," you say, a tight little sob escaping your throat as Homelander pulls you in against his chest, rubbing your back. "I'm sorry I didn't-" "No," Homelander interrupts, his anger making the word sound harsher than he intended. "No," he says again, correcting himself to be gentler. This rage isn't for you, after all. "No apologies. Let's get you cleaned up, alright? Get back out there." Someone is definitely going to die tonight. You tense up, pushing back from his arms to look up at him. "Please, I'd really like to just go home." "We will," he assures you, smoothing his hands up and down your arms. "Soon. I want you to show me the group who spoke to you."

"I don't want to cause a scene," you plead, flattening your hands to his chest. "They're not worth it." "No, they're not. But you are," he says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips. He holds you firm until he feels you begin to melt, yielding to the warmth of him. By the time he draws back, you look sufficiently pliant. "Okay," you say quietly. He bites back a predatory smirk. "Nothing too dramatic, please?" You plea, leveling him with an attempt at a firm look, despite your big teary eyes. "Me? Dramatic?" He asks, feigning outrage. "I mean it," you stress, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There it is, Homelander thinks. There is not a single heinous thing he would not do to see you smile. "Relax," he purrs. "I'll handle this."

When the two of you return to the event floor, it only takes you a moment to point out the offending group. With a hand wrapped securely around your waist, Homelander brazenly guides you to them. He feels you squeeze his hand anxiously, but he isn't the least bit deterred.

"Heyyy, what's up!" Homelander greets boisterously, bulldozing into their conversation with the friendliest of tone. Only you are wise enough to recognize the venom dripping from the corners of his mouth. His canines glint sharply in the light, as if eager for a bloody meal.

The air is strange, a mixture of drunken excitement and surprised nervousness. It's not every day Homelander himself steps into your conversation. A few of them look at you before they exchange glances, but clearly enough alcohol has been imbibed that they're feeling brave. They don't see the danger they're in. Homelander runs his tongue along his teeth. You clueless fucking idiots.

"Homelander, oh my god! I was hoping to run into you," one of the women announces. He can smell the liquor on her breath when she leans in, putting a bold hand on his arm opposite to the one he holds you with. "I'm such a fan, you have no idea. I've seen every one of your movies," she says, flushed giddy.

"Always great to meet such a dedicated fan," he says, lying through his teeth. A glance through her bag gives him exactly what he needs; her Vought security badge. She works in communications. "Kathleen, right? In Communications," he says, pointing a finger at her, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if he's just now recalling this information. "Oh, I-wow, yes! I can't believe you know who I am," she says, glancing back at her companions.

"I try to know everyone I work with," he lies smoothly, subtly shrugging her hand off of his shoulder, placing his hand on his hip. Not all of them work for Vought, but each of them has their ID on them. A quick flit of his super powered vision between them is all it takes for him to know each and every one of them.

Homelander cocks his head to the side, giving her a once over. Her dress is richly patterned, a myriad of black, white and red. The belt bears a familiar double C logo.

“Wow, Kathleen, look at you. Chanel, huh? Oh, wait…,” he stops himself, leaning forward to take a better look at the details of the dress. He clicks his tongue, standing straight. “Nooope, I misspoke. Chanel doesn’t bleed. Not a bad knock-off, though,” he says with a brief downturn of his lips, shrugging. Immediately, all eyes fall on Kathleen. There are a couple of stifled giggles and some childish oohh's. The man to her left, seeming eager to play along with Homelander’s little game of Mean Girls, readily chimes in, “Busted.” “I’d be quiet if I were you, Chuck,” Homelander says, rounding on the man so sharply, his laughter falls immediately silent. The shock on his face is understandable. He doesn't work for Vought. Homelander has no right knowing his name. “I can smell the red paint on the bottom of those misshapen Johnston & Murphy’s you’re trying to pass off as Louis Vuitton. Now that’s embarrassing.” This time, no one’s laughing. There’s no mirth left in Homelander’s voice, and they've all finally realized it. His gaze is drifting from one potential prey to the next, his mouth set in an unyielding line. He lifts his brows, waiting for them to continue their jeering.

“What? No one has anything to say to that? How about you, Jason?” He asks, startling one of the other men. “Why don’t we talk about those fucking ugly veneers of yours? I mean, god damn. I’ve never seen a more square smile in my life. It’s like staring at white slatwall every time you open your mouth.” Homelander begins to laugh. The sound of it is thorned, vicious to behold. “Aww, c’mon, don’t be so fucking sensitive. You wanted to have a laugh at my girl, right? Let’s laugh, then,” he says, lifting a gloved hand to snap his fingers impatiently, demanding, “Laugh!” Like a bark from an obedient dog, a single man amidst the group forces a stilted laugh. Homelander hones in on him with the precision of a seeking missile, dropping his hand. Deadpan, he asks, “Something funny, Jim?” Jim audibly gulps. “Y-you said-” "Y'see, that's your problem. You're all just a bunch of fucking sheep, so desperate to be seen as somebody, you end up being no one at all. If you put half the effort you put into kissing ass into a personality, you might be a fraction as interesting as she is," he says, gesturing to you with the hand he doesn't have holding you close.

"But instead you prop yourselves up on all this..." Homelander spins his hand loosely through the air before sighing, "Bullshit. It's boring. You're all so fucking boring and miserable with yourselves. You reek of it," he says, lip twitching in a near snarl. "Go. Get the fuck out of my tower,” he rumbles, voice set low. “All of you. Before I throw you off the balcony myself.”

There's a pregnant pause before Homelander snaps, "Now!" Like roaches, the lot of them scatter. Homelander watches them with a sneer. He would have preferred literally tearing them apart, but it's neither the time nor the place. "Holy shit," you whisper. Homelander hums quietly, turning to look down at you. Before he can say a word, you grab hold of the back of his neck and kiss him absolutely senseless. He grins against your lips, turning to pull you properly into his arms. His ego swells immediately, the kiss speaking volumes. You're pleased. Pleased with him. He greedily soaks up the feeling of your body against his, lips moving against yours, eager to chase away the salt smell of your tears with something a little more salacious. The two of you break apart before the kiss becomes any more scandalous than it already was, the buzz of the crowd around you dulled by the fervency pulsing between your bodies. "That was... the hottest thing anyone has ever done for me," you whisper, your heart beating heavily in your chest.

"That so? Might not be for long. This dress on your body has been driving me positively wild. All. Night. Long," he says, punctuating each word with a kiss. You bite your lip, inhaling a sharp, flustered little breath. "Can we get out of here yet?"

"You're damn right we can," he says, kissing you again.

That night, Homelander fucks you in and out of the dress. The truth of it is that whether you're dressed to the nines or laid completely bare, he will always be wild for you. You're beautiful, you're his through and through, and he's going to make sure every inch of you knows it.

He can deep fry those morons another night.

[illiana-mystery]

thoughts on Norman’s gas chamber scene?

What do I think about the gas chamber scene?!

Oh I love it! It's my favorite part of the movie, in all honesty. But that's also because we have this nice view for most of it:

And also I love seeing this man go absolutely feral. That shit is so hot to me, not gonna lie.

But yeah, that's basically my thoughts on the gas chamber scene. 😁😉

[animatedjen]

Hi! So I am relatively new to the Jedi games but became so quickly and deeply obsessed, and seeing another user send you a headcanon has inspired me to share one too, because I have no one I can talk about this stuff with IRL, haha. I guess a warning that it's kinda nsfw (like, VERY mildly), so it's TOTALLY okay if you don't want to post this.

Ever since finishing the game I've been thinking so much about Merrin and Cal and how their relationship will change now that they've admitted and embraced the fact that they have feelings for each other. Part of me for a while was thinking maybe Cal had his "first time" with someone he met through the Rebellion in the five-ish years between Fallen Order and Survivor, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt that it would be more in character for him to uphold the part of the Jedi code that forbids romantic attachments. Like, he was just so focused on fighting the Empire that even when a slight interest in a person did arise within him, he convinced himself that it was not only against the code, but a distraction from the fight. So, he pushed all those feelings away.

This leads me to my headcanon that Cal's first time is with Merrin after the events of Survivor. While I don't have lots of specifics in mind as to when or how it comes about, I imagine that when it does happen, it is the softest, slowest, sweetest first time in the history of first times. I like the idea of Cal, this person who dives headfirst into everything and (as Cameron once said himself) "kind of likes to fight," just being incredibly thoughtful and deliberate and maybe even nervous about allowing himself to be that vulnerable with another person. Like, all these powerful emotions and powerful physical feelings would be overcoming him, and the sheer magnitude of it all would cause him to slow down and ask Merrin to lead the way, and he'll follow, so that he knows he's not hurting her or taking things too fast.

And Merrin, who is always ribbing him and teasing him and having silly banter about who's stronger, who's faster, etc., abandons all of that during their first time and is just purely kind, patient, attentive, and present with him, taking pleasure in taking the lead and cherishing the trust that he's put in her. And when it's over, I like to think they just lay together talking quietly for who knows how long, with Cal holding Merrin tight against him and Merrin tracing her fingers along his skin, maybe along his tattoo or his scars, while they tell each other stories and pretend like they'll never have to get up and leave this wondrous place <3

My offline Star Wars community is pretty small, so it's nice to have people on here to share ideas with :) So glad you enjoy the Jedi games!!

There's a lot of narrative weight to Cal and Merrin: the Nightsister massacre being led by a lightsaber (Grievous), the manipulation from Malicos, the Jedi views of attachment and dark magick. They're both survivors of a war that destroyed their families, and they take turns helping each other heal and grow.

Almost every main character in FO/Survivor is a foil to Cal in some way - but unlike all these fallen Jedi, Merrin looks to the future and finds new purpose while still honoring her past. I think that's something Cal really admires in her.

I love the trust and steadiness that they have together regardless of romantic attraction. Admittedly I haven't read Battle Scars and didn't go into Survivor wanting a relationship for Cal, so I may not be the best person to share intimacy headcanons with?? But I'm supportive of the story Respawn wants to tell, and recognize the weight/importance of their connection when it comes to Jedi 3. These tags on my recent post are kind of where I'm at:

Also Star Wars is very much lacking in the "healthy relationship that LASTS and no one DIES" department so if these two can break the trend, that'd be great 🙌

[spacebubblehomebase]

hi, just letting you know that ahmed 90s-ghost doesn't verify fundraisers anymore! he quit after it got too overwhelming, so you shouldn't @ him asking him to. you can probably find the post about it by searching his blog.

Thanks for letting me know, Anon...

I get it... I REALLY do.

I understand. Y'know I used to be so excited to get Asks. It means someone wants to talk about art and silly cartoon characters with me. But now all I feel is dread. Not because I don't want to help, but because the help I give is never enough. I used to privately mesage back to those Asks, but one became 6 became 10 to... Well. I can't donate. Euros and dollars are valued a lot higher here, thus the opposite is also true. The value of our money is but a paltry bread's worth and even if I split it in crumbs, with the amount of people who approach me for help, it'll soon run dry, but I'm just a student who still rely on my parents financially. So I thought I'd share instead, but that quickly got out of hand. I post one thing and get multiple asks by the HOUR. I already had to apologize for struggling to meet demands before and I only had 3 or 6 rare to come-by short Asks about art. Now I have a hundred and counting I have to check personally. I didn't want to admit it, but I've also long been overwhelmed. I just didn't feel like I had the right to say so. I still don't. But the truth is, anyone can say they're verified too, which is terrible because not only will I be partially responsible for my followers who got scammed by bots or scumbags who take advantage of those at war with fake fundraisers, but even worse is that the help and money may not even reach those who actually need it. I thought I would be fine the first time. I don't really like posting too much about our depressing reality or watching news in general because my account was supposed to be a "safe SPACE" and a "nice little BUBBLE" for us to be happy and escape for awhile, so I didn'tmthink much about rebloggingit at first. I only wanted to help. But it just kept going and I got swept away. There's so many of them, but there's only one of me and I've been spiraling lately. So for now, I will no longer take any Asks about this subject (which I always avoid mentioning directly because the algorithm has it out for putting you guys down and I wanted you all to make it so I didn't tag those reblogs with such). I'll still take Asks provided they're related to my actual content and of course I'll still support raising awareness for Pal est ine, yet I also get it if this may appear selfish to some of you. I tried. I really did. But if you'd rather ignore, unfollow, or block me for this decision, I understand. I'm just sorry it had to come to this and that I wasn't strong enough to help more. -Bubs.

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[ruvviks]

drastic + vincent please :3

DRASTIC [x] characters >> vincent mayer (oc), vitali dobrynin (oc) context >> july 2077; vincent and vitali are in tucson to try and figure out a way to stop vincent from dying after johnny silverhand has been successfully removed from his head total >> 1.6k words warnings >> death mention, hospital, needles, surgery mention

‘Vincent. Can you hear me?’

Wakey wakey.

Vincent could barely open his eyes, eyelids and head still heavy with sleep. The air surrounding him was surprisingly cool; as far as he was concerned it was the middle of summer, and he was in Arizona of all places. Wasn’t it supposed to be sweltering?

Someone gently took his wrist. The action itself did not hurt, nor did the feeling that followed– but it caused him instant discomfort that bordered on pain, the sensation cramping up his entire arm and it took him a second to realize it was the work of a needle that was stuck in the top of his hand.

He was in the hospital. He had just gotten out of surgery.

His eyes finally opened, bright light pouring in from the window on his left and momentarily blinding him as he groaned and tried to adjust. The nurse beside him gently placed his hand back on the mattress and hummed a song as she checked something on the screens, gloved fingers rapidly tapping on the keys of the digital keyboard as she typed in some information.

The soft hum of the devices around him was like a lullaby and Vincent slowly exhaled as he closed his eyes again; but a sudden weight on his chest– as well as the sudden realization of what the surgery had been for to begin with– violently ripped him back to reality and he gasped for air, as if all oxygen had suddenly been taken from his lungs.

‘Easy,’ the nurse said, placing a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from sitting up. ‘You’re alright, Vincent. Everything is fine. Try to breathe as normal.’

Easier said than done. He had a fucking cybernetic lung now– and sure, it worked, but the idea alone was more than enough to cause involuntary tears to well up in the corners of his eyes as he could feel his irregular heartbeat in every single inch of his body and his unstable breathing scraped painfully past the dry inside of his throat.

Ever since he had arrived in Tucson it had been one surgery after another. Preventive measures for the most of it– save from the removal of a bullet shard that had still been stuck in his head, the last bit Viktor hadn’t been able to dig out before– replacing damaged organs where possible and removing previously installed implants to minimize risks.

And none of it had helped so far.

Vincent was still very much dying, despite all their efforts. Initially thought to be the damage the Relic had caused in his body, irreparable at that; not so irreparable anymore but with all holes patched and the ship still sinking, he couldn’t help but wonder if Soulkiller was still working its magic.

Sure, the program had been on the Relic itself– but then again, all technology had gotten damaged by that bullet and with Johnny’s engram overwriting his psyche and then his psyche overwriting all of that to separate himself from the biochip, who knows what kind of malware had managed to sneak its way in in the meantime?

‘There’s a visitor waiting for you,’ the nurse said, shooting Vincent a gentle smile after he had managed to settle down again. ‘Would you like me to get him for you?’

‘Yes please, thank you,’ Vincent replied, not needing to ask for a name to know exactly who she meant, and he couldn’t stop his heartbeat from rising in excitement and relief when she left the room to call the man in.

It still managed to catch him off guard, to see Vitali Dobrynin out of his usual work attire. A sight he had gotten to grow more familiar with over the last few months– the whole situation with Johnny had driven Vitali out of the office often enough for Vincent to catch him in simple sweatpants and a hoodie on the regular– yet it still felt a little strange to him. “The man sleeps in a suit,” Jackie had once jokingly told him. Vincent wouldn’t have batted an eye.

‘How do you feel?’ Vitali softly asked as he sat down on the edge of the bed, sleeves of his flannel loosely rolled up and only partially covering his forearms. His hands were clasped together on his lap– for once not a single ring adorning his slender fingers– and he nervously ran his thumb over the side of his index finger.

‘Little strange,’ Vincent admitted as he reached out to take Vitali’s hand in his own. ‘The more I think about breathing, the harder it gets. I know it’s just between my ears, but– you know.’

Vitali quickly nodded, a light smile on his face as he shuffled a little closer and leaned in to press a kiss on Vincent’s temple. Which, of course, also caught him off guard; with the complete chaos of the aftermath of the attack on Mikoshi he had continuously forgotten about the fact he was dating the fixer now, and now that they could finally have some time for themselves it still did not feel entirely real to him.

‘Don’t you think all this is– I dunno, maybe a lil’ drastic?’ Vincent quietly asked, allowing the other man to cup his cheek and run his fingers down his face. ‘I mean– I don’t feel much different than before. Just increases risk of cyberpsychosis if anything. Even with all the removed implants.’

‘You might not feel it now but something is still happening in your body,’ Vitali simply replied, the pre-programmed answer he had been giving Vincent for weeks now. ‘Sooner or later you will start feeling it. And then you’ll be glad we had precautions done before it got too bad.’

‘Costs a shit-fuckton of money.’

‘Which I have.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘You don’t need to.’

Vincent clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply, the action causing his chest to tighten a little and he winced, brief panic overtaking him; but nothing else happened, the cybernetic lung doing its job perfectly fine, and he allowed himself to relax again.

It did not feel right to let Vitali pay for his surgeries. He had done so from the fucking beginning, no less– when Vincent had gotten a correction surgery on his chest and Vitali had told Viktor to put it on his tab, despite Vincent continuously telling him he’d get the eddies himself after his recovery.

But Vitali was a stubborn man– painfully so, insisting on helping Vincent wherever and whenever he could. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course; but definitely so out of guilt as well, having to live with the knowledge he had not been able to save T-Bug and Jackie and because of that so desperately trying to save Vincent while he still could.

If he even could.

Vincent lowered his gaze, softly biting the inside of his lip as Alt’s words echoed through his head again. He was dying; there was no denying it, even if he didn’t feel it just yet, and if they wouldn’t figure out what exactly was going on with him he wouldn’t make it to the end of the year.

If he had done the calculations right, he’d be on his deathbed on Vitali’s birthday of all days. He couldn’t do that to him.

But perhaps Vitali was right. Perhaps the surgeries did help and would at least give him a little longer than what Alt had predicted. Perhaps Alt had not even told him the truth; perhaps whatever was going on with him in that moment was only temporary and the effects would wear off the more time would pass.

But with more and more of his body turning into a machine, Vincent could not help but wonder if it wouldn’t just have been easier to transfer his psyche onto a fucking biochip too.

Would’a been a copy, V, you know that. At least you’re still you, now.

But for how much longer?

Even Johnny– or, well the voice in Vincent’s head pretending to be Johnny– couldn’t answer that.

Vitali suddenly turned, pulling his legs onto the bed and moving closer until he was sat directly next to Vincent, leaning back against the raised mattress. He wrapped his arm around his shoulders– and Vincent in return moved closer without hesitation, burying his face in his boyfriend’s chest, grateful the painkillers were numbing most of the pain in his upper body.

‘We will figure this out, my love,’ Vitali softly mumbled and planted a kiss on the top of Vincent’s head. ‘I promise. I’m not giving up on you.’

He had paused all his business and tossed aside all his responsibilities to help Vincent find a cure. Had left Night City behind– had left his business in the hands of Mikhail– and even now weeks later he was still there by his side, paying for his surgeries and keeping him company through it all. Of course Vitali was not giving up on him– and Vincent had never received such devotion before, to the point he had no idea what to do now that it had fallen right into his lap.

‘I love you,’ he simply whispered in return, on the verge of choking back tears when he felt Vitali momentarily tense up. ‘I love you so much.’

He didn’t know how much time he had left. He didn’t know if Alt was right, he didn’t know if any of what they were doing there was helping him at all–

But at least he wasn’t alone.

At least he had Vitali.

[sparky-is-spiders]

Title!

there was teeth in their kiss

Okay so I won't lie, this one really got away from me. I had like three different ideas and I was like "I'll just write a really short scene for all of them!!" only for the "really short scenes" to get... progressively longer. Oops?

I have two Lizardverse fics and one TMA (JE) fic. Because I don't want my Lizardverse stuff showing up in the JE tag and it's also The Longest One, so you can check the notes of this post to read it.

Also gonna be real I wrote these at ass-o-clock at night and Did Not Edit them, so.......

Oh shoot wait warnings! They only apply to the second one (you can stop reading at (Amaldyne)).

Body horror/mouth horror (mild?)

Non-consensual touching (non-sexual/non-romantic, but I figured I should still warn for it just in case)

(Send me a fic title!)

(Important Lizardverse Context (TM): The Overseer is a creature called a Grotle (think ankylosaurus but bigger, spikier, and omnivorous). He's also a very dangerous necromancer. His real name is Mihzarch (pronounced Miz-ark), and these are used somewhat interchangeably. Leoshgon wields a sword called the Godslayer sword. It's a very deadly semi-sentient sword that's bonded to his soul. He's also a Noctar (a much smaller, fuzzier mammal species.))

(Leoshgon) The Overseer liked to put his teeth to Leoshgon's throat. It happened in the night, mostly, when Leo was curled against Mihzarch's heavily plated body, throat bared in offering for the Overseer to do as he would. He was always very gentle, of course, and very careful. As if Leo was a priceless, fragile heirloom, not the most dangerous weapon in the world. But there was a pressure there, and Leo could feel the shape of the teeth even through his mane: the wide, shearing ones in the back; the broad conical incisors in the front, wet with saliva and dreadfully cold. The puff of chilled breath sent shivers down Leo's spine. Leo wasn't sure he liked the sensation, really. It was uncomfortably damp, for one, and also sort of boring to be held in place for so long (aside from that brief spike of fear, which really wasn't fair to Mihzarch at all, because the Godslayer Sword was the real danger here, but- that wasn't the point anyway). But he always bared his neck willingly. And when those massive jaws closed so sweetly around his throat, he leaned into it. And then Mihzarch would let out a happy rumble that sang through Leoshgon's entire body, and all would be well.

(Important Lizardverse Context (TM): Amaldyne is currently a (semi) unwilling servant of the ever-starving god of hunger. Eityr is weirdo freak bestie who want her to become as powerful as possible. Their relationship is. Uh. Weird. Amaldyne is a dragon becoming something More, Eityr is a Noctar)

(Amaldyne) "Show me." Amaldyne didn't look up when Eityr entered the room, nor did she turn to face her. In fact, she did not acknowledge Eityr's presence in any way at all. No matter. Eityr would not be so easily dissauded. Amaldyne's desk was strewn about with massive tomes and piles of documents and about a dozen bits of charcoal. It was as if some great beast of parchment had been savaged and slain atop it, and Amaldyne was trying to read the future in its bones. With a flick of her wrist and a stretch of her power, Eityr relocated them all to the floor, then hopped up onto the now-cleared metal. Amaldyne slowly raised her head to look at her with exhausted irritation written plainly all over her snout. "I want to see," Eityr said, "so show me." "Show you what?" the words were accompanied by a hiss of displeasure, but Amaldyne's wings remained loose and relaxed by her side. Unhappy, but willing to indulge. Were it anyone else, Eityr would find that infuriating. "Something happened, didn't it? There's something-" 'wrong' wasn't the right word. Whatever it was, it must surely be the opposite of 'wrong,' but Eityr struggled to think of an alternate descriptor. "Something happened to you, and I want to see it. Show me." Amaldyne nudged her down off the desk. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Eityr, and I don't have time to engage your every childish whim either, so please-" Sick of waiting and on a whim, Eityr grabbed at Amaldyne's lower jaw and yanked downwards. It split right down the middle, and the insides were coated with teeth that had not been there only a moment ago. Amaldyne let out a proper snarl then, shock intermingled with an animalistic rage. Her tail was poised to strike, stinger gleaming in the low light. But the tell-tale glow of dragonsflame never touched her throat, and so Eityr felt comfortable in running a paw along the seam where Amaldyne's mouth had split. No venomous fangs sank into her fur and no bite crushed the strength from her writs. Of course not. Amaldyne had always been content to let Eityr do as she would, why should this be any different? After a moment, Amaldyne pulled away. Her jaw clicked back together, and she watched Eityr through slitted, appraising eyes. "Satisfied?" She asked? Eityr saw no reason to lie. "No."

[itsahotsecondafter]

hdhdhdjd sorry if its feels like im being annoying or condescending. im not!! the "eclipse liking the cello" part was a reference to that one piece you did of solar playing the cello!! not surebif that was clear enough if so my bad sjhddj,,, but that solar piece lives in my head rent free for some reason idk why but i think about it!!! a lot!! no cluebwhy but yippeee!!!!

OH! NO SORRY THAT MAKES SENSE-I WAS THINKING ABOUT THAT POST WHEN I READ IT (my brain caught the tone of the thing but I kept thinking it was in reference to a specific piece and not the instrument for some reason-) BUT I DIDN'T WANT TO ASSUME IT WAS ABOUT THAT CUZ YOU MENTIONED ECLIPSE (and I don't wanna assume stuff about people's aus cuz that doesn't usually end well...) BUT THANK YOU FOR THE REFERENCE! AND THE EXPLANATION (i'm chronically stupid sorry)

i kinda wanna redraw that one actually cuz it doesn't look the way i wanted it to-but-uh- thanks! for mentioning me! and for clarifying!