#you could say i could have drawn it this whole time

[luvleyshif4]

rafe x reader.... she's touchstarved. Maybe size/height difference. Just the wonderful feeling of him being the protector (and 'provider'). They've only been dating for a little while but he figures out that her love language is physical touch. And she's so surprised bc she isn't used to receiving love. Prob a bad family setting... thanks, love <33

JUST HOLD ME

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Mention of family issues, emotional vulnerability, emotional repression, medium angst turned into fluff, reader is touch starved, implied toxic family dynamics, reader might have body dysmorphia (N/A).

Word count: 1.22k words

Authors note: heyy bb!! Tysmmm for requesting this!!! I already had something like that sitting in my drafts so I thought I’d just add some changes to suit your idea🤞🏽🤞🏽🤞🏽honestly your idea made it sooo soo much better!! HOPE YOU LIKE IT CAUSE I KNOW I DO💗💗 (also I didn’t proof read this so let me know if there’s any grammar mistakes😝😝)

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt heavy yet comforting. Rafe’s truck hummed softly beneath you, the glow of the dashboard lights casting faint shadows across his face.

He had picked you up an hour ago, like he always did when your texts grew short and vague, as though he could sense the things you didn’t say. The roads were empty, a blur of dim streetlights and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.

You sat in the passenger seat, curled slightly toward the door, your oversized hoodie swallowing you whole. Rafe’s hand rested on the gear shift, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm as the faint hum of music played in the background.

He wasn’t saying much tonight, giving you space like he always did, but you could feel his eyes flick toward you now and then, studying you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked, his voice breaking the silence but staying soft.

You didn’t answer right away, your fingers playing with the strings of your hoodie. The truth was, you didn’t know how to talk about it—the way your chest felt tight every time you thought about home, the way your family’s sharp words had a way of cutting deeper than they should. It wasn’t new, but it felt heavier lately, like you were dragging something you couldn’t shake off.

“I’m fine,” you said, the words automatic and hollow.

Rafe glanced at you again, his jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t press, though. He never did. Instead, his hand shifted, brushing lightly against your knee before returning to the gear shift. It was such a small gesture, but it made your throat tighten. You turned your head, staring out the window, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your hands were trembling slightly.

The silence stretched on, comfortable for him, suffocating for you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Rafe—you did, more than you’d ever thought possible for someone you’d only been with for a few months. It was just that you didn’t know how to let someone in like this. You didn’t know how to let yourself be seen, not when you’d spent so long trying to shrink yourself down, to take up less space.

Rafe, of course, noticed everything.

He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the shift when he slowed the truck down, pulling over to the side of the road. The engine idled softly as he put the truck in park, turning to face you fully. His brows were drawn together, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Your chest tightened again, and you shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, barely meeting his gaze. “Just a long day.”

Rafe let out a soft, disbelieving huff, leaning back slightly. He didn’t look frustrated, just… concerned. And that concern was somehow worse, more overwhelming than if he’d been annoyed.

“Come on,” he said, his tone lighter but still holding that edge of care. “You don’t get this quiet unless something’s really messing with you. I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well tell me.”

The weight of his words hit you harder than you expected. You glanced at him, your lips parting as if to say something, but the words stuck in your throat. Rafe’s gaze softened even further, and without thinking, he reached over, his hand hesitating for a moment before he grazed the back of his fingers against your cheek. The touch was featherlight, and yet it sent a shiver through you. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into it, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if savoring the warmth.

Rafe stilled, watching you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. His hand lingered there, his knuckles brushing over your skin softly, reverently. “You’re allowed to let me in,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitched at his words, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you let yourself lean into his hand fully, your head tilting slightly as though you didn’t want him to stop. His thumb shifted, lightly grazing your chin, and your eyes opened just in time to catch the way his gaze flicked down to your lips.

It wasn’t rushed or sudden. His movements were deliberate, careful, giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and slow, like a promise. He kissed you with a tenderness that made your chest ache, his hand still cradling your face as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

Your body melted into his touch, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself. The kiss deepened slightly, but it stayed unhurried, every movement of his lips against yours making you feel like you were coming undone in the best possible way.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his thumb brushing gently over your chin. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name but felt down to your core.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But I need you to know that you’re not alone. Not with me.”

Your chest ached at his words, and you opened your eyes, meeting his. There was no judgment there, no expectation. Just him, just Rafe, offering you something you didn’t know how to accept but desperately wanted to.

Your lips parted like you might say something, but no words came. Instead, you let out a shaky breath and leaned into him again, resting your head on his shoulder this time. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, holding you tightly, protectively, as though shielding you from all the things you couldn’t put into words.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself be held. Safe, warm, and, for once, not alone.

[covenofagatha]

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 5)

Agatha takes you back to her house after the realization that you may have been responsible for the recent murders

Word count: 5200

Warnings: murder, purposeful thumb dislocation, violence

A/N: this got so long so fast so I had to split this chapter into 2 parts so as of right now I'm planning for 3 more parts

You can’t stop your teeth from chattering as you slide into the passenger seat of Agatha’s car. She followed you back to the motel so you could leave yours there, her headlights shining onto you the entire time, reminding you that she was right behind you.

Her lingering presence is ominous, rather than comforting. You just can’t put your finger on why.  

You’re not cold. The opposite, really. Your body is running hot, perspiration gathering on your forehead, but you’re shaking like a leaf. She turns up the heat, but you immediately reach over and turn it off. 

“I didn’t do it,” you say, but you’re not even sure if you believe it yourself. 

Agatha snorts. “Still think you’re being framed by The Witch and Lady Death?” She asks, and your heart spikes. Rio and her have been talking. Perhaps this whole time. Does she also know her wife drugged you? 

“Maybe,” you try to argue, but you know it’s just false hope at this point. How would they have gotten his blood under your nails? 

But how could you have killed him? You were completely unconscious the whole time. 

The knife from your motel found at the crime scene. Rio washing your clothes and being secretive about what was on them. And now this. 

You know you used to sleep-walk, but is sleep-murder a possibility? 

“Why did you want me to see it first?” You question, now latching onto something else. Agatha is a detective, she should’ve called the rest of the squad as well as you. 

Does she know more than she’s letting on? 

I’m just curious about something is what Rio said as she watched you succumb to sleep. 

What is going on? 

Agatha’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel and you’re momentarily distracted by remembering what they felt like inside you. Her fingers, Rio’s mouth, together? “Just wanted to see how you’d react,” she finally says, and it snaps you out of your fantasy about them. 

“Rio drugged me earlier,” you tell her, watching her face closely for any sign of recognition or confusion. 

She remains neutral. “Oh?” 

You grit your teeth. They are both so good at keeping their cards to their chests. “Neither of you think I’m being framed. You seemed pretty certain that the body from yesterday wasn’t from them, that it was someone new.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “Do you think I killed both of them?” 

You’re not capable of that. There’s no possible way you did. But you want to hear what she thinks. 

“I think,” she pauses to choose her words carefully. “I think that I believe you when you say you think you didn’t do it.” 

“I couldn’t have,” you say weakly, needing more than anything for it to be true. 

She glances at you with pity. “We all think we couldn’t. People can surprise you.” The look on her face matches the darkness outside. Is she speaking from experience? 

The drawer opens and your fingers wrap around the handle of one of the knives. 

“I didn’t do it,” you insist. 

You park by the woods and ask the first man you see for help finding your dog who ran into the trees. He’s wearing a flannel and pants, and has the most brilliant blue eyes. 

Agatha reaches over to pat your leg. 

The kitchen knife cuts his legs surprisingly well and he slumps back against the trees, blood rushing from his wounds. You get immense pleasure in watching the cerulean in his eyes fade. But it’s not enough. You want to send a message: a heart on his chest. A nod to the shape drawn on the sticky note from The Witch and Lady Death, and to their calling card. 

A whimper tears its way out of your throat and you clamp a hand over your mouth. Agatha hears it and looks over, raising an eyebrow. “You okay, superstar?” 

Your head is spinning. Are these memories real, or not real? Is your mind playing tricks on you?

The femoral arteries were too quick, too easy. You need something more. It’s only too easy to lure this man into the woods. 

“I don’t know,” you gasp out. You’re hyperventilating now. You were supposed to protect this town, stop the killers, but instead, you became one. 

Plunging the knife into his throat sent a thrill like you’ve never felt before tingling down your spine. You drag it down, grunting with the effort, but the blood pours out and you’re breathless. The red on the white snow is almost angelic. 

What have you done? 

Memories, dreams, images, whatever they are, come rushing into your brain, almost completely overwhelming you. 

You killed them. 

Were you really unconscious, or were you just erasing the memories to protect yourself? 

But you were asleep, at least at first. Did you wake up and decide to go on a murder spree? How does that even happen?

“Pull over,” you demand. Agatha scoffs but you say it again, more sternly. Your entire body feels awful and you know what’s about to come. 

Thankfully she obeys, and the second her car screeches to a halt, you’re throwing open the door and barely making it two steps away before you double-over and retch, puking your guts out. It burns your throat and your lungs ache, but it feels like you’re cleansing your body.

Agatha quickly runs over to you and holds back your hair while you continue to vomit. She rubs gentle circles on your back and then you’re finally able to stand up and breathe normally. 

“Did you know after the first one?” You say, wiping your mouth and turning to face her. 

She shrugs, but there’s an affirmative glint in her eyes. “Figured you were bound to snap eventually. Didn’t realize how drastic it would be until Rio told me about the bloody clothes you had her wash.” 

You’d throw up again if there was anything left in your stomach. She 

But she’s not done yet. 

“And then we got the call about the body with all the blood and I had a hunch. But you not knowing anything gave me a bit of pause,” she admits, swiping her thumb on your lip affectionately. “Thought you were just a really good actor. But then you said you’d been sleeping for the past few hours, so I wondered.”

You cough, still tasting acid. Things still aren’t adding up. She fucked you after thinking you murdered someone? “Why didn’t you turn me in?” Not complaining exactly, but why have they been holding onto this? “Is that why Rio drugged me? She wanted to see if…I’d what? Murder someone else?” 

Agatha tilts her head back and forth, like she’s partly agreeing, and you back up from her, the gears in your brain turning. She gives you a look as if to say Really? and starts advancing towards you. You put your hands out to stop her and flinch, and she freezes. 

“If you’re feeling better, get back in the car,” she orders, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand. She takes one more step and stops an inch away from you, eyebrow raised like she’s anticipating your next move, and you gulp before obeying. “Good girl,” she says in a low voice, closing the door on you, and you hate the way your body betrays you. 

She gets into the driver’s seat and locks the doors and it makes your heart lurch. Why do you feel so unsafe right now? 

The key gets turned in the ignition but the car won’t start. “Fuck,” Agatha swears, turning it again and again. Panic starts to climb and settle into every crack and crevice in your body; what if you have to spend the night with Agatha on the side of the road? 

What if you fall asleep and accidentally kill her? 

Is that something you do now? Can you just never sleep for the rest of your life? 

The engine finally clicks and turns on, just taking a bit longer in the snow. But Agatha is almost out of gas, so she pulls into the next gas station she finds on the way to her house. 

“Have you eaten?” She asks gruffly, something seemingly changed in the air between you. 

The moment she brings up food, your stomach grumbles. You can’t remember the last time you ate. Tony would kill you, if you had heard from him at all. It’s weird he hasn’t called you back yet. Unfortunately, you have been sleeping though. You’re not sure if he would be proud. 

Agatha gets out of the car and slams the door and you quickly scramble out too. “We’ll go get you something to eat after I’m done filling up.” 

“I can just run in now,” you offer, desperately needing a moment to yourself. You can’t breathe next to Agatha right now. 

She scoffs and presses the pump into her car. “You’re a mess, superstar. I can’t risk you confessing to her about what you’ve done, or worse.” 

You bite back a sarcastic comment, still weary of her mood shift, and you tap your foot until the pump stops. She follows you into the station, watching carefully as you pick up a slice of pizza from the hot food area. You snag a drink and walk to the cash register, where a woman is snapping her gum. 

“Hi,” you say politely, putting your stuff down. Agatha’s hot breath is on your neck. “Oh, and can I get these too?” You quickly slap down a container of cinnamon mints. 

She looks you up and down, and winks. “On the house,” she says and Agatha steps even closer to you. The cashier’s eyes flicker to her. “Anything for your mom?” 

Agatha practically growls behind you and yanks your head back by your hair so she’s able to capture your lips in a bruising kiss. You try to pull away in shock, but she holds you there and slides her tongue into your mouth. You can still taste the little flap of skin from where you bit her when she fucked you. 

After she’s sufficiently stolen all the air from your lungs, she stops and grabs your pizza and drink from the counter. “Come, pet,” she says in a low voice that makes you hotly tingle all over and you make brief eye contact with the cashier, who looks severely taken aback. You wonder if you look as flushed as you feel. 

“Sorry about that,” you say sheepishly, face hot, and slap a ten dollar bill on the counter, scampering after Agatha. “What the fuck was that?” You call after her, and she whirls around, face contorted into something scary.

“Get. In. The. Car,” she demands, seething, anger radiating off her in waves and almost knocking you back. 

There’s silence the rest of the way to her house as you eat your pizza. It’s a cute two-story house, hedges trimmed neatly out front, and another car in the driveway. 

Your heart begins to race at the thought of seeing Rio again, at the thought of dealing with them together. 

What are you doing here? Are they going to blackmail you? What could they want from you? 

You trail Agatha to the front door and then into the kitchen, where Rio is trimming a bouquet of flowers in a vase. Yellow, blue, red, and a flash of purple. 

Brows furrowing, you try to get a closer look but Rio steps to the side, unknowingly blocking your view. 

“Hey, Aggie,” she says, her back still to you. The glimpse into domesticity and the nicknames makes you feel a longing pang inside you. 

In the past, girls had been too put off by your line of work, by your fascination with female serial killers, even by the scar on your stomach. You just wanted someone that could accept every part of you. 

Agatha walks over, leaving you standing awkwardly in the entrance, and presses a kiss to Rio’s cheek, murmuring something in her ear. Rio’s body stiffens and she turns around, a wide grin stretching over her face when she sees you. 

“Welcome, doll,” she says and you fight the urge to run away. She motions to a fresh batch of cookies cooling on the stove. “Want one?” 

You don’t budge. “Did you poison them too?” 

Rio’s head tosses back with a laugh and Agatha smirks bemusedly. “Touché,” Rio says, grabs one, and chomps on it. She brushes her hands free on the crumbs once she’s done and holds them up to show you that she didn’t lace them. 

“What am I doing here?” You ask, wanting to cut to the chase. There’s some ulterior motive, one you just don’t know of yet. 

Both of them beckon you to follow them into the living room. They sit on the couch and you sit in the chair facing them. 

“‘What am I doing here?’” Agatha mocks in a deep voice and you roll your eyes. 

Rio takes all of you in, eyes flicking up and down your body several times. “Such a trivial question. Why don’t you ask something better than that?”

You think about it for a moment. What do you really want to know? “Did I kill those men?” 

“Boring. Ask something you don’t already know the answer to,” Rio criticizes and your cheeks burn. 

“Why did I?” It comes out quieter than you intended, your voice breaking. 

The two of them finally look interested. “Why do you think?” Rio asks, ever the therapist. 

“I…don’t know,” you say lamely.

Agatha snorts. “Come on, superstar, we know you’re smarter than that. Use that brilliant brain of yours.”

Knife from the drawer. Slicing through fabric to cut the arteries. Hearing a squelching sound when you plunge it into the chin. 

Blood.

More blood. 

A brilliant blaze of fire erupts. 

You jolt. Fire? “I think…” You trail off, feeling shaken by the new revelation. Is the fire something that happened in the past, or something that’s about to come? 

“Yeah?” Agatha whispers, leaning forward. 

You try to search your head for the answer. “I think I wanted to know what it felt like,” you say slowly, testing the words on your tongue, still not completely sure if they’re right. 

You’re remembering more of the murders, remembering being in a trance-like haze when you woke up, getting into your car, coming back to the room after, stripping naked from the bloodstained clothes and scrubbing your skin in the shower until it stung. And then laying back down. 

Some sort of psychosis? Or just your unconscious mind fulfilling one of your darkest fantasies? 

Rio’s breath hitches. “And? How did it feel?” 

“It felt…powerful,” you say, and you know what the feeling in the woods with Agatha was now. It was the feeling of taking in your own work, seeing what you had done, somehow remembering the feeling even when you didn’t remember doing it. 

Agatha licks her lips, her eyes dark. “Holding their life in your hands, it’s a sensation like no other. That control makes you feel like a god, doesn’t it?” 

The way she phrases it sounds like she knows how it feels. How could she? 

Can you brush it off to her being a detective? Surely she’s had to make a decision like that once in her career, but there’s a nagging in the back of your mind that is sounding alarm bells. 

You cautiously look back and forth between them, between their faces with an indescribable hunger, and things start to come together. 

The Witch and Lady Death. 

Lovers, two brunettes, one thinner and taller, the other shorter and fuller. Just like Rio and Agatha.

Both Agatha and Rio were so convinced that there was a different killer. 

Both Agatha and Rio knew that you killed someone, even before you did, yet neither of them made any effort to get you in trouble. 

If anything, they pushed you to do it again. 

Rio said she wasn’t The Witch, but you hadn’t asked if she was Lady Death. 

Which means…

Agatha is The Witch. Rio is Lady Death. And you’re in their home, with both of them.

It’s ingenious though, really. Being the lead detective on a case trying to catch yourself, able to throw a wrench into any leads that the squad may happen to get. 

That must be why she was so nitpicky with all your theories. She knew all the right details the entire time.

Although, it never really seemed like she was shooting you down, it was almost like she was guiding you. 

Did she want you to catch them?

And Rio, being your therapist to find out more about you, get inside your head and understand how the profiler on their case thinks. 

You’d almost be impressed if you weren’t scared for your life right now. 

The only question is: why? 

Why murder all those people? Why break into your motel room and leave you all that stuff? Why help you in catching them, if that’s truly what they’ve been doing? 

Why not just kill you already? Unless that’s what they’re planning on doing tonight. 

“Can I, uh, use your bathroom?” You ask, praying they can’t hear how fast your heart is beating. 

They’re both regarding you with careful looks. “Second door on the left,” Agatha says, pointing down a hallway. You nervously smile and try to walk normally out of sight. 

Just make it to the bathroom, you chant. Then you can text Tony, text the police chief, text anybody. If you can keep up the pretenses, you might be able to hang on until reinforcements come. 

But as you’re walking by the first room on the left, you see that the door is ajar ever the slightest. 

You shouldn’t. You should go to the bathroom and get help. You absolutely should not open this door. 

It creaks as you push it open and you stop breathing, waiting to hear footsteps or one of them asking if you’re okay. 

Nothing. 

The door is open just wide enough for you to slip in now, and you can’t help the loud gasp that escapes your mouth. 

Purple azaleas are in a vase on the table, along with vials upon vials. Information about every single person in Westview on one wall, red circles highlighting either victims or a list. 

But what’s most startling is the shrine they have for you on the big wall. Pictures of you, case files, every piece of information accessible that concerns you is plastered there. 

They know exactly who you are. They’ve known. 

Fighting the nausea that climbs into your throat, you step closer. There’s something that draws your attention in the bottom left area, a medical record with your name on it from Salem, Massachusetts almost fifteen years ago. You don’t remember ever being in the hospital when you lived there. 

You bend down to see what it says and 

Snow. 

The frozen creek. 

Laughter and red birds when you step on a stick. 

The person whirls around, long dark hair flipping with the momentum, blue eyes cutting through the darkness. 

Fire. Sparks fly and land at your feet, hissing in the snow. 

“Well, well, well,” a voice says behind you and you spin so fast you almost fall over. Agatha and Rio are standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “Guess the secret’s out.”

But you don’t care about that. 

Because the woman from your memory has a name now. 

“It was you,” you accuse, jabbing a finger towards Agatha. The face in the flashes was a bit younger, but you’d know her anywhere now. 

A cold feeling sinks into you when she bares her teeth in a smile. “I see my wife’s techniques have been efficient.” 

Your head starts to pound. “How…?” 

“Why don’t we go back into the living room and we can talk about this?” Rio suggests gently. 

“So you can kill me?” You spit, completely disoriented. How did you know Agatha fifteen years ago? Why didn’t you remember? 

What did she do to you? 

Agatha scoffs. “Really, you think if we wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be dead already? Honey, we could’ve had your heart the instant you stepped into town.” 

Your hand grabbles at your belt, trying to grab onto the gun that isn’t there. 

Fuck. 

You ran out of your room in such a hurry earlier that you forgot to grab it. 

“So what do you want from me?” You ask, trying to sound even the slightest bit braver than you feel. You fail. 

“We want you to join us,” Rio says, being uncharacteristically straight forward. “We see you and what you’re capable of. We’ve known it. We want you, all of you.” 

You shake your head. “No, absolutely fucking not. You two are crazy. I don’t know how you know me, or what happened in the woods all those years ago, but I would rather die than kill more people with you.” 

They both sigh like they were afraid you’d say that. They start to walk over to you and you feel prey being stalked, being hunted. 

“What are you–” 

Agatha shushes you. “You’re just confused, superstar. But don’t worry. We’ll give you some time to think about it.” 

And then they grab you and drag you kicking and screaming upstairs into their bedroom. 

This is it. This is how you’re going to die. 

“Wait, wait!” You scream as they throw you onto their bed. “I’ll do it.” You can pretend, you can make them think you want it until you can get out. 

Rio bends over and grabs your chin, scanning your teary eyes. “Oh, doll, you’re an FBI profiler and you’re still such a bad liar,” she tuts, roughly pushing your face away. 

Your body goes numb while they stretch your arms out and pull handcuffs – real handcuffs – from the nightstands and cuff you to the bedposts. 

Agatha smirks and waves the key in front of your face and you snap at it with your teeth. She chuckles darkly and puts it on the nightstand, just out of reach. 

“We’ll be back later, pet,” she says. “We have to go teach someone a lesson about taking things that don’t belong to them, and then The Witch and Lady Death are going to strike again.” 

Rio cackles and then picks up the bottom half of her skeleton mask and holds it to her face, widening her eyes at you. You strain against the handcuffs until they sting your wrist but you don’t stop struggling as they walk out of the room and close the door behind them. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

You are absolutely reeling. You met Agatha when you were ten years old. Something happened, something with fire? And the medical file from then, is that related? 

It can’t be a coincidence that you’re here now, working on a case in which she’s a killer. 

What happened that made you want to think like a killer? It’s the question that Rio asked when you first met her, that she swore she didn’t but now you think she was just fucking with you. 

You didn’t know the reason, couldn’t remember it at the time, but that was what made you start having these flashes of repressed memories. 

Is Agatha the reason? 

Did you see her kill someone at ten years old, but then your brain blocked it out because it was too traumatic? And then you spent the rest of your life determined to figure out what made her do that? 

It seems to make sense. 

It still doesn’t answer the real question as to what they want with you, and why they went through all this trouble. 

But you’re not going to find anything else tied up in their bed. 

The Basic Field Training Course at Quantico taught you several important things, like how to fire a gun and how to read a person’s posture and how to solve a case. But perhaps the most valuable lesson to you now was learned from a classmate, who taught you how to dislocate your thumb. 

Jimmy Woo had dislocated his thumb twice during lacrosse in high school so he could now do it whenever he wanted. It still hurt obviously, but the damage was less serious, it was easier to dislocate, and it was much easier to pop back in. 

All it took for him to teach you was a six pack of beer. You didn’t know exactly why you were so set on being able to, but you couldn’t be happier now. 

You remember the first time you did it. It had taken four shots of vodka to get your courage up before bending it back on a table. The ligaments had strained, not wanting to give, but through sweat and tears, you had persisted. 

Jimmy immediately took you to the clinic to get it wrapped up and you told them you had done it while throwing a ball with Jimmy. 

You’d only done it a few more times, but it got to the point where you could do it with minimal crying and could relocate it by yourself. 

Taking a deep breath to prepare yourself, you duck your chin down to grab ahold of your sweater between your teeth to have something to bite down before positioning your left thumb against the bedpost. Better to do it with your non-dominant hand, Jimmy always said. 

You can almost hear him encouraging you as tears spill down your cheeks and your whimpers are muffled. 

Pressing harder, a slight sheen of perspiration breaks out on your head. Fuck, you’d forgotten how much it hurts. 

Finally, finally, there’s the desired pop and pain floods up your hand. It almost entirely overwhelms you and 

Snow. 

Frozen creek. 

The woman turns toward you and looks surprised to see someone else in the woods with her. 

She waves to you and you’re pulled forward by an invisible string. When you get closer to where she’s partially hidden by shadows, you see she’s not alone. 

A younger woman with pale skin, dark hair, and wide hazel eyes. 

But there’s another woman too. 

The throbbing in your thumb pulls you out of the flashback. 

Rio.

Rio was there, too. You’ve met both Agatha and Rio before.

But you don’t know who the other woman is; you didn’t even get a good look at her. 

Focus on that later, you tell yourself, whining as you gingerly pull your hand out of the cuff. You lean over and snatch the key off the nightstand and quickly unlock the other cuff. It hurts like hell to use your dislocated thumb to turn the key, but you don’t know how else you’d use it. You take another slow, deep breath before popping that thumb back in. 

After moving it around and massaging it to get the blood flowing back in, you scramble off the bed and run downstairs. 

You need to go back to your motel room and get your gun, not even bothering to look and see if they have any, but first you need to go back into their room downstairs and see if there’s any hints about where they might be going. 

It appears that all the photos that have red circles on them are past victims, so you have absolutely no idea where they might be. 

You’re about to leave the room and go back to the motel when you remember the medical file from Massachusetts. It looks like they have pictures of a copy; how would they even get that? 

But you bend down to read it and a searing pain splits through your forehead. It hurts so bad it forces your eyes shut and you’re only able to comprehend a few words and phrases. 

Hypothermia…18 hours in the snow. 

Pneumonia. 

Head-induced trauma caused retrograde/post-traumatic amnesia. 

The pain in your head brings you to your knees as you try to make sense of the record. You remember learning about types of amnesia in your psych classes, and retrograde means you can’t remember things that happened before the accident. 

Is that why there’s a block? Or is it because of something you saw in the woods? 

Nothing is adding up. 

Why didn’t your parents ever tell you about this? Is this the reason you left Salem so quickly? 

The throbbing in your head has leveled down to a dull ache and you’re able to stand up. This is all connected somehow, you just don’t know how. 

What you do know is that you need to find them and stop them. 

You dig around the drawers in the kitchen to find a set of keys to Rio’s car, you’re guessing, and you’re peeling out of their driveway, not even caring about the speed limits. You blow through stop signs and red lights, but it’s late enough that no one else is on the road. 

Throwing the car into park once you get back to the motel, you shoulder open the door to your room and come to a halt. 

It’s the smell that hits you first. 

A sickly sweet honeysuckle scent wafts into your nose and you almost retch. Purple azaleas litter the floor in a path from the front door to the bedroom door, candles lit on both sides like a romantic rendezvous. 

They were already here. How could they have known you’d come back? Are they in the other room? 

Heart pounding, you gulp before reaching for your gun on the table and cautiously stepping toward the bedroom. You close your eyes and say a little prayer that you’re not about to be killed, and you kick it open. 

There’s more azaleas, and enough candles to perform a ritual. Your gaze scans the room, breaths getting shorter and shallower. 

And then you see the bed and your hands clamp over your mouth in order to smother the cry that comes out involuntarily. 

It’s the woman from the gas station, sprawled out like a starfish, completely naked from the waist up. There’s a lace from one of your pairs of shoes wrapped tightly around her neck, face tinted blue. 

Your body violently shakes as you walk over to her and you see her chest. 

The letter “O” is carved around her right breast. The letter “U” around her left. “R” is carved into the right side of her stomach, and “S” into the left. 

OURS. 

We have to go teach someone a lesson about taking things that don’t belong to them. 

Ignoring the heat running through your body, you spot a notecard clenched in her hand and you wrench it out. 

On one side, it says: Sorry, baby. Xoxo. On the other side, there’s an address. 

You know it’s a trap, like this right here was, and like everything else may have been, but what choice do you have? 

Your fingers tighten on your gun and you get back into Rio’s car, punching the location into your phone. 

This ends tonight. 

[shnowyfox]

Jollyformers AU (

so basically i turned the holiday themed au. i haven't had the time to flesh it out obviously. TFONE megop regardless of this au is Last Christmas by Wham!

lore! so instead of cogs they have sleigh bells! usually worn via a collar though harnesses are worn as well to hold more bells that are decorative only. Idk what im doing with transformation yet but i think either it's completely replaced by the bell's allowing flight, or, transformation into creatures to pull the sleigh (basically everyone has a beast alt, deer and ungulates being the most common) Optimus obviously being a reindeer, megatron (krampus) is a goat to fit with his krampus thing, b-127 (glee-127, Badassaclaus) is supposed to be elf like with his g1 style horns supposed to look like elf ears too but they can be seen as budding antlers as well, and elita I haven't drawn yet but she's either a reindeer too or gazelle. (also considering giraffe with that neck dayum girl)

"Prime" has been replaced with "Claus"

hats are just for jolly good fun. like this whole au. and a bit of religious healing. anything goes rlly.

and now a snippet of a rewrite I never was able to finish up. Some of this HAS been retconned. i'm still working at it. mainly the occupation and the backstory stuff. (Context: Bartholomeus is another name for Krampus i dont remember where or when but that's what Megatronus has been substituted with.)

Deer Trax: (chuckles) Okay, fellas! Thanks for the jolly start. You want to give me another one?

Sentry 1: You’re naughty!

Deer Trax: I’ll take that as a no.

Elf-16: (grunts) Hey! Watch where you’re going!

Sentry 1: Oh… What did you say, no-bell?

Elf-16: Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean you. I was referring to the elf who was behind you.

Sentry 2: What? Where’d he go?

Elf-16: The joyous red and blue elf? Has a big grin, merry cheer, gives off a yankee candle scent?

Sentry 1: Where is he?

Elf-16: He went that way.

Sentry 1: When I get my hands on that elf…

Elf-16: All right, all clear.

Deer Trax: Okay, D-16, I may be a little vanilla, but “Yankee ”? That is too far.

Elf-16: Let me guess. Chased out of the cookie jar?

Deer Trax: (laughs) Yeah. I had to jump out of a sleigh this time. Almost got an ouchie (laughs) It was wild.

Elf-16: And digging through fortune cookies is worth getting an ouchie?

Deer Trax: Yes, it is.

Elf-16: I need a new best friend.

Deer Trax: If there are clues in our recorded history that can help locate the North Star, they’re in the cookie jar.

Elf-16: Sentinelf Claus, the Sentinelf Claus, is up in the blizzard right now, risking his merriment for us in search of the Star.

Deer Trax: That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying to help him.

Elf-16: Yeah, okay. (laughs)

Deer Trax: The sooner cookies bake again, the sooner we won’t have to make toys ourselves. Don’t you want to choose your own path, do whatever you want?

Elf-16: We’re toy makers. We make toys, that’s all.

Deer Trax: No, there has got to be something more I can do. I can feel it. (Dentistry?)

Elf-16: Oh, yeah? Like the time you had a “feeling” you could fly without a bell?

Deer Trax: You said you were never gonna mention that again.

Elf-16: Took me three days to dig you out of the snow. Your feelings get you in trouble.

Deer Trax: Yeah, yeah.

Elf-16: Just trust in Sentinelf Claus.

Deer Trax: I do trust in him. Hey, if we did have bells…

Elf-16: I’d fly hooves first into your chest

Deer Trax: I don’t like how fast you answered that. But listen, if you did kick me, I couldn’t give you this awesome Bartholomeus Claus thing I have here. It’s cool. I’ll give it to someone else.

Elf-16: What Bartholomoeus Claus thing?

Deer Trax: Ah, it’s nothing. Just a, you know, mint-condition Bartholomeus Claus sweater, first edition.

Elf-16: (gasps) What?

Deer Trax: If you don’t want it, I can just throw it away.

Elf-16: Throw it away? Don’t… That’s not funny. Let me see.

Deer Trax: Wait. Don’t grab. You’re gonna rip it.

Elf-16: You know, Sentinelf says Bartholomeus was the…

Deer Trax: The kindest Claus to ever live. I know, buddy. Looks good on you.

[maniwannadiezz]

Thank you. You make me feel sane for hating on vivs art😭 (she did influence my art in middle school, but now I see all the issues with it)

no problem! I think her art had a lot of bad influence on newer artists simply because at first glance it’s appealing and people like you (and me) thought why can’t we just copy it and go from there? Welllll problem is that just copying an artist will lead to you consuming and producing the mistakes they make or not fully grasp why they exaggerated something the way they did. Unfortunately those anime hating art teachers held some truth in their words, just copying right off of another artist without fully understanding the rules of art will lead to getting stuck.

I’ve gotten “stuck” before, my art deformed contorted to the style and gave me a mess where the heads were too big and the proportions too wonky when I could have spent my time understanding anatomy and proper colouring techniques. Of course there’s nothing wrong with just wanting pretty looking art and nothing more but if you want to expand and not hit a ceiling it’s better to learn the rules before you break them. You’ll probably learn things you never knew you never knew! Find things about your style you never dreamed you could have drawn before and expand into your OWN person and your OWN artist, instead of being the vivziepop drawalike.

DECONSTRUCTING VIVZIEPOP ARTISTIC ISSUES WE MAY HAVE CONSUMED AS CHILDREN (if her art has improved I haven’t seen but I will give her the benefit of the doubt! So let’s just isolate this to the past for US ex hazbin artists to understand where our problems truly began)

Anatomy: Vivziepop has a habit of not properly following even the anatomy of her own drawings let alone anatomy rules at all. I had to bend and meld what I thought a limb may look like from its transition from in front to behind a limb (like the legs) since the lines didn’t properly match up. Arms change size, legs have no knees, one thigh thicker than the other and hands that have fingers which melt into the palms.

you could say it’s stylistic, but considering she’s ONLY ever drawing stylistically whether she liked to or not this bad anatomy has become a crutch and down fall. If she wished to draw more realistically I will assume she can’t or can’t anymore…

Here’s a draw over. You can keep the stylistic effects while keeping your anatomy at least somewhat readable, especially the hands 💀

Shading: shading plays a huge role in not only give us context to the image like where the light source is coming from but also the shapes of the body. the body is comprised of different shapes (cylinders for arms and legs, circles and ovals for head, different planes for the face) with shading like vivziepop’s we don’t know where the light is coming from but also the shading blends into the drawing as visual noise, or worse makes things look flat and lifeless. Her legs especially are shaded as if they are two pieces of paper sticking out from under her dress.

Colours: we all know her main appeal in art is her colours, but designing your piece by just how pretty you can make all the colours also is ignoring fundamentals in what makes your art from good to BEST. With too much of one shade your whole piece blends together in the eyes of the viewer. With not enough contrast in the right areas you will have a focal point that bounces around (like us her chest the focal point? It’s the darkest spot on the piece! Or is it all those eyes that clutter up the whole drawing with the random stripes in the back…. Ouch! I can’t tell what’s what!)

conclusion: I leave you and others with this quest, you wanna get better at art? Take a moment to critique even your own favourite artists. You can have inspiration of course but question their decisions before blindly hoping on the hype train. Or you could be consuming their own mistakes and end up STUCK, like I was, like many have become.

Give critiquing these pieces a try, deconstruct them, trace them (don’t post) see where the lines match up- do the limbs look as if they existed behind the limb or do they go to a void and come up the other side a completely different size? You tell me…

[lizziesangel]

RAFE CAMERON - your locker

x FEM!KOOK!reader - MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: a note gets left behind when you’re standing in front of rafe’s locker

WORD COUNT: + 1k

GENRE: fluff

CONTENT WARNING: /

you’re sitting in the back row of your english class, doodling absentmindedly on the edge of your notebook. it’s not like you weren’t paying attention to the lecture—well, maybe you weren’t. it’s just that he, sitting three rows in front of you, had completely stolen your focus.

his back is to you, but it doesn’t matter. even with just the back of his head to look at, it’s like he’s the only person in the room.

“are you even listening?” your friend, laura leans over from the seat beside you, her voice pulling you back to reality.

“sorry?”

she follows your line of sight, her lips curling into a grin when she realizes where your attention has been. “oh my gosh, you’re staring at rafe cameron.”

your heart practically leaps out of your chest. “shh!” you whisper harshly, glancing around to make sure no one heard. “i wasn’t staring.”

laura raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. “uh, yeah, you were. it’s okay, though. he is hot. honestly, i’m surprised you haven’t, like, said something to him.”

“are you crazy?” you hiss, feeling your face heat up. “i can’t just talk to someone like him. he’s… well, he’s rafe cameron.”

“so?” she shrugs, acting like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “you’re you. you’re smart, funny, cute—”

“stop,” you groan, cutting her off before she can make you even more embarrassed. “he doesn’t even know i exist. there’s no way i’m talking to him.”

“you don’t know that.” sarah gives you a mischievous smile. “he could totally have noticed you. i mean, you’ve got the whole mysterious quiet girl thing going for you.”

you roll your eyes. “mysterious quiet girl? that’s a reach.”

she shrugs, still grinning. “all i’m saying is, you’ll never know unless you try. maybe i should just go up to him and tell him for you.”

“don’t you dare,” you whisper, your voice full of panic.

laura laughs, leaning back in her chair. “fine, fine. but i’m telling you, you’ve got nothing to lose. just go for it.”

“i could lose my dignity.”

laura scoffs with a smile, “you’re really dramatic.”

you glance back toward rafe one more time, catching the way he runs a hand through his hair. yeah, no. there was no way you were going for it. not today, anyway.

you’re standing in the hallway between classes, leaning against a random locker while your friends chatter beside you. your bag was slung over one shoulder, the strap digging slightly into your arm. the bell for lunch has already rung, the hallway filled with noise, a mix of slamming lockers, laughing, and the scrape of sneakers against tile. you weren’t headed anywhere in particular, just trying to kill time while waiting on the rest of your friends.

leaning casually against a random locker, you pull out your phone and scroll through a few messages, feeling the buzz of energy around you.

that’s when you hear it—a low chuckle from a few feet away. you glance up, instinctively drawn to the sound, and freeze. it’s rafe cameron and his friends. they’re walking in your direction, cutting through the crowd like they own the place, which, let’s be honest, they kind of do.

your heart stumbles at the sound. you look up, and there he is—rafe cameron, standing just a few feet away with a small, crooked grin on his face. his friends linger behind him, their gazes flicking between the two of you.

you try to act casual, busying yourself with your phone again, but your stomach flips as they stop a few feet away.

“sorry,” he says, his voice smooth and casual, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “mind if i grab something from my locker real quick?”

you blink, your brain struggling to keep up. his locker. you’re leaning on his locker.

“oh, sorry,” you mumble, clutching your bag tighter, before you can move completely out of the way, rafe gently tugs at the side of your bag, just enough to get your attention. “thanks,” he says, his hand dropping as soon as you shift.

as rafe spins the combination lock, you hear a quiet snicker from his friends. your cheeks burn, but when you glance at them, they immediately shut up. kelce and topper both give you these awkward little waves, like they weren’t just laughing. kelce even smiles, wide and kind of goofy, like he’s trying to make up for it.

“hey,” topper says, like he’s trying to be nice. “cool bag.”

“uh, thanks,” you manage, your voice barely audible over the thudding of your pulse.

you blink again, unsure of how to react. your friends, meanwhile, are unusually silent, their eyes darting between you and rafe like they’re watching a movie unfold.

he pulls open the locker door and starts swapping out books, completely unfazed by the small audience. his focus shifts briefly back to you. “sorry about that. didn’t mean to interrupt.”

interrupt? like he’d done something wrong. you shake your head quickly. “no, it’s fine. i didn’t realize… um, this was yours.”

he chuckles softly, the sound doing something traitorous to your heart. “yeah, no worries.”

and then, just like that, he closes the locker, flashes you a small smile, and walks off with his friends in tow.

your friends erupt as soon as he’s out of earshot.

“oh my gosh,” one of them says, practically bouncing on her toes. “did that really just happen?”

you feel your face heating up, still staring at where he disappeared down the hall. “i��� don’t know.”

but as you glance back at the locker—the one you’d been leaning on—you notice something slipped between the vents. something folded. something small and white.

your heart races as you pull it out, unfolding the paper.

“ you can lean on my locker anytime. :) ”

[to-be-spared]

i wrote about fadel having a fever and style taking care of him because today's episode broke me happy holidays

also on AO3 if you prefer it

“You have a fever,” Bison says, matter of fact, bracelets clinking in Fadel’s aching brain as Bison shakes the thermometer to bring it back to cooler temperatures.

The edge of glee in Bison’s voice makes Fadel attempt a frown in his direction, but he’s not sure he manages it as he tries to protest: “It’s just a cold.”

Fadel imagines the sceptical expression on Bison’s face as he can’t quite keep his eyes open to see it.

“Stay here. Rest,” Bison says, no, orders, tone uncharacteristically unmovable, something Fadel secretly envies: Bison’s aloof, reckless carelessness that allows him to be terrifying when he feels like it.

But Fadel is the eldest and he knows Bison is scared of spiders. “You’ll burn down the restaurant.”

“I’ll turn on a water tap,” Bison says, dry.

Fadel hears him step away, and if he could move he knows he would do something as humiliating as reaching out. Asking him to stay.

He thinks he should tell Bison that clothes stay the fuck on in the kitchen, but he’s busy gritting his teeth against his own hypocrisy, against the unpleasant warmth climbing up his throat. And then it’s too late, and his bedroom door closes painfully behind his eyes.

*

Bison has always enjoyed getting mildly sick, seeing it as an incontrovertible chance to rest and demand his favourite soup of Fadel and lay in bed with his restored Game-boy Color.

Fadel has never seen the appeal.

When he was nine, it had taken Mother’s assistant three days to realise he hadn’t gotten out of bed because he was shaking too much, because every time he looked around his room his vision became grey and fuzzy, because his whole body ached, worse than what he was used to with their training.

It’s laughable, but if Fadel isn’t bone-deep exhausted when he gets to bed, he’ll spend a few hours wide awake and terrified that, if he falls asleep, he won’t wake up again.

*

Fadel wakes up gasping, heart trying to beat its way out of his mouth, but there is a cool hand on his arm before panic can wrap itself tight around his chest.

“Sorry, sorry, I tried not to wake you – shit.”

Fadel blinks, fighting against the pressure in his forehead and the low light coming from a phone’s screen. “Style?” The name is a confused amalgamate of heavy sounds on his lips.

“Yeah, who else,” Style says, forgetting for a moment to keep his voice low. Fadel winces. “Your degenerate brother’s mouth was attached to Kant’s before the words Fadel and fever were even out of it.”

Style sits on the bed, uncharacteristically gentle with the world around him as he lays down next to Fadel, cool hands moving on Fadel’s forehead, Fadel’s neck.

“But,” Style continues, and Fadel knows he’s biting his tongue, lips parted as he ponders, “he did tell me to come here, so. I guess I’ll let him live.”

Fadel lets the words wash over him – he knows he has no hope of holding onto any of them, so he lets them be relief for a moment, along with Style’s cool hands. He lets out a sigh.

Style is quiet, and things being amiss have always drawn Fadel’s sharp attention, so he opens his eyes in spite of himself. Style’s face is barely bathed in his phone’s cold light, brows drawn as he searches Fadel’s expression.

“Hi,” Style whispers.

Fadel’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Some kind of fever. “You planning on killing Bison?”

Style frowns. “He shouldn’t have just left.”

There’s something for Fadel to solve about Style’s quick response, but it escapes him before he can get to it.

“Just sleep,” Style murmurs, soothing. His hand moves in Fadel’s hair slowly, like a silent lullaby that sends shivers down Fadel’s back. “Actually, no.” Style stretches over the side of the bed and the sound of rustling plastic fills the room. “I got you some medicine. Let’s give you that and some water and then you can sleep.”

Fadel moans a protest, squeezing his eyes shut as soon as the sound is out of his throat and past his lips, embarrassment warming his neck and face more than his fever has. Fucking hell. You’re not a fucking child.

A quiet chuckle escapes Style’s lungs in a gush of air. “Yeah, I know. But you’ll feel better.”

Fadel wants to nod, say yes and keep it at that, but he’s not a child except for all the ways in which he’s scared. “I hate being sick.”

Style pauses in his one-handed retrieving of the medicine from the plastic bag. The tips of his fingers find Fadel’s ear, the top of his cheekbone. “Being sick sucks,” he agrees.

“Don’t patronize me,” Fadel spits out, and he’s not sure that’s a more mature response but he can’t miss him already and he knows which regrets he can live with.

“I’m not,” Style responds, calmly, the outrage that usually accompanies his defensiveness absent. “I hate being sick, too.” And then he adds, even lower: “My mum hated being sick, too.” He clears his throat. “Nothing wrong with it. Being sick does suck.”

Fadel’s shame hesitates, shifting focus. “Sorry.”

“Shut up.” Style’s fingers keep moving on his cheek, in his hair. “It’s weird when you apologize. Just take your medicine.”

Fadel digs his elbows in the mattress, muscles aching as he pushes his back against the pillow – Style’s arm behind him, draped around his waist just in case.

The cold and the prospect of loneliness take a hold of Fadel’s core, making him shake so much that he almost drops the pill Style hands him. Fadel pushes it between his lips, quickly, and Style holds the bottle of water to his lips before Fadel can say I can do this.

“Good,” Style murmurs, and Fadel realizes they’re practised gestures, muscle memory, engraved gentleness.

The water is cool and harsh in his throat, and Fadel doesn’t manage more than a few sips.

Style helps him lay back down, and then he lies down too. He snakes his arm under Fadel’s head, pulling him close until Fadel’s hands are resting against Style’s stomach.

“You’ll get sick too,” Fadel protests, because he can’t say I’m already mourning this.

“You’ll have to take care of me, then,” Style says, reckless as he rests his cool palm on the side of Fadel’s warm neck.

A bitter smile curves Fadel’s lips. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

Style doesn’t respond for a moment, his unusual silence allowing the flaw to be forgiven. He presses his lips against Fadel’s, then winks at him. “I’ll let you practise.”

Fadel lets the illusion close his eyes. He wants to ask what does that look like?, wants to know how Style is imagining it because he can’t bring himself to, self-preservation always his top priority, always facilitating his denial.

He opens his eyes.

Style is still looking at him, cool fingers moving on Fadel’s skin.

Fadel thinks keeping Style in bed while sick would be impossible. He’d probably need to physically pin him down.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Style whispers.

He’s still real.

Fadel closes his eyes.

[ganondoodle]

with the rough draft for chapter two nearing its completion

if i may dare say this on main, but actually i am unbelievably excited to get to paint demise (tiddies) again

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

A whole new meaning to Gay Chicken.

(For: Anonymous raffle winner!)

[liauditore]

BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY! BDUBS DAY!

[joshuamj]

yall im almost filled my sketchbook, and this is gonna be the first time in a literal decade that ive done that my god.

Might post some pages from it once its done.. I feel like this is the first time ive really done a sketchbook "right." Before i always felt pressured to just fill it with finished pieces, but thats;; not really what a sketchbook is for. Its for practicing! Trying out things! Etc.! So with this sketchbook i gave myself a really hard challenge: draw almost entirely in pen. I always hate drawing with pens cuz, yknow. cant erase if you make mistakes. So whenever im inking something im a nervous wreck the entire time. but now i was gonna do *everything* in pen. All my mistakes with be left there, all guiding lines and such will show. And this was very hard to do at first, but now its really natural! I actually like doing it this way now, which is kinda crazy to say. And i've filled it with a variety of things! There's me practicing things, just drawing random characters, lots of pages of me playing around with character designs, many pages of animatic plans, and some that were literally just me smearing paint on the page to test the colors or how it behaved. I even have a few sticky notes in it, and ive taped a couple of things in! A while back i was trying out acrylics for the first time, so i ripped out a few pages to experiment with trying to fill the whole page with paint and see how the paper would fare. And they look atrocious, cuz i really didn't know how those paints worked, but hey! It was me trying things out! So despite me being slightly tempted to just throw them out, i actually taped them back in. And another time I didn't have my sketchbook with me when I was hit with inspiration for a character design, so i drew it on index cards and taped em in so all my design notes would be in one place. But more than one index card didn't really fit on the page, so i had to cut the others into weird pieces so they could fit. And these sorts of pages are my favorites! Its satisfying to flip thru my sketchbook and come across very different or "out of place" pages. Im hoping to do more stuff like that with the next one!

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

in my head I'm just screaming at my sister STOP GETTING ON MY CASE ABOUT THE THEATRE BOY all the time

[themyscirah]

This is technically a Diana's age poll but I framed it partially around Julia's rescue because that's the event I need to contextualize and whether or not Diana is a thing yet is p important for my purposes. I would keep the Pérez run and postcrisis continuity in mind when answering this bc that's when this is relevant but I'd keep in mind that even though Diana is very young there (like early 20s) we don't know I don't think if she ages differently as a child (esp as a themysciran AND being made from clay) and in some versions she is older than she looks and was made earlier

Edit: I accidentally logic-ed this out in the tags lol 🤦‍♀️but feel free to still vote however you want. Going to publish this anyway bc I think I made some good points later in my tags

[fingertipsmp3]

There are two wolves inside me. One is trying to convince me to do extensive research for the job interview tomorrow and the other is saying “wing it”

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[mako-island-moon-pool]

Why am I flipping tf out over my roommate going into my room when I wasn't home and leaving a package on my bed it's literally not a big deal and they were trying to be helpful but I am shaking right now I should be happy I got my new favorite shirt but I'm so angry

[unluckedtj]

i be been rocking back and forth while reading part 6-8 this is the COOLEST WAY TO BRING BACK NAI. ??!?!?! THE BRANCHES ? THIS WORKS WITH VASH’S ROOTS oh my god it’s so over. it’s gonna plague my head again what oh my go I FEEL LIKE A WINNER

Beware of major Trigun spoilers!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Read from right to left

Trigger warning for violence, blood, gore and body horror! Hooray!

If you want a little background music, try listening to "Everybody knows that you're insane" by QOTSA. I was listening to this when I worked out the chapter in my head and it fits Nai SO well, especially the lyrics! Yeah so, both boys are back from being human to part human/part plant now...I hope you like how this played out, even though it got a lot bloodier than the first parts. Please imagine me continuously knocking Nai on the head with a squeaky toy hammer. This is what I'm doing here in blorbo speach. Also, let me know what you think! I'd love to hear your thoughts and any feedback is welcome, as always! <3