#Shapes with Clyde | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

abbotjack · 1 month ago

Note

Is jack a cat guy? Pls say yes but also I trust your interpretation of the character. What about Robby? He seems more dog guy but I’m no expert.

Okay, hear me out—I actually think it’s the opposite, and I’m weirdly passionate about this. Totally just my take, but still.

🐶 Jack Abbot is a dog guy. And not just any dog guy—he’s a mutt-with-a-history, limping-loyalty, broken-trust-and-bigger-heart kind of dog guy.

There’s a dog in Jack Abbot’s house, but you wouldn’t know it at first glance. No chew toys. No leash hanging crooked on a hook. No framed photo with a dumb caption. It’s not that kind of house. It’s clean in a way that feels deliberate—not sterile, just… considered. The kind of clean that belongs to a man who rebuilt this space with his own hands. Furniture that’s sturdy and dark-stained. Leather that wears its creases proudly. Walls the color of late-evening light. A record player he doesn’t admit he uses. The open shelving in the kitchen is all neat rows of mismatched mugs and glassware—none of it new, but all of it used. The military shadowbox sits on top of a bookshelf, not hung. His therapist asked him once if that was symbolic. Jack said, “It’s heavy. Didn’t want to drill into brick.”

He wasn’t lying.

And yet, despite all the order and the weight, there’s a dog. You’ll hear the shift of claws on hardwood before you see it. Big thing—tall and wide at the shoulders, mutt energy but German shepherd eyes. Dark-coated, pale around the snout like ash brushed across fur. It moves slowly, doesn’t come unless Jack calls. But when it does, it presses its whole weight against his thigh like it knows where the grief lives.

Jack named him Clyde. Just Clyde. One syllable, like a call sign or a whispered command. It suits him—solid, dependable, low to the ground. Jack doesn’t remember why he picked it. Maybe because it sounded like a guy who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

He found him in the snow behind a shuttered gas station three years ago. Pittsburgh had iced over. Jack was walking home from therapy—the kind of session where he said too much and didn’t feel better. He stopped when he saw the movement: this shaggy, frozen creature dragging its hind leg, too proud to whine. Most people would’ve kept walking. Jack crouched down, looked him in the eye, and said, “Yeah. Same.”

That was it.

Jack didn’t plan for the dog to stay. But when Clyde followed him home—limping, bleeding, silent—Jack didn’t stop him. He just opened the front door, pointed to the kitchen tile, and said, “You bleed there. Not on the rug.”

Clyde obeyed.

They’ve been coexisting ever since. Quiet. Predictable. Wordless in the best way.

Clyde doesn’t need anything Jack can’t give. He doesn’t ask for walks, but he’ll go when Jack grabs the leash. Doesn’t need affection, but will curl up under Jack’s desk while he reads through trauma case reports. He’s always near but never in the way. He’s what Jack wishes people were like—self-contained, loyal, able to read a room.

And Jack—he loves this dog. Not the way people talk about it on social media. Not loudly. Not with sweaters or treats shaped like bones. But in the way he knows which foot Clyde favors when it’s going to rain. In the way he keeps a heating pad under the couch blanket for Clyde’s hip. In the way he murmurs, “You good?” when he gets home at 4:30 a.m., exhausted and still vibrating from whatever chaos The Pitt coughed up that night.

And Clyde? Clyde just looks at him. Doesn’t wag, doesn’t bark. Just nods in that imperceptible way dogs sometimes do. Like: I’m still here. And so are you.

There’s a kind of ritual in the way Jack lives. Clyde fits into that ritual like breath between chest compressions. Morning—if Jack is off—starts with black coffee and Clyde’s pill in peanut butter. They sit on the porch when the sky is still pink at the edges, Jack’s prosthetic resting beside him on a wooden crate. Clyde lays at his side, chest rising slow, ears alert. Jack reads journals—trauma surgery updates, disaster preparedness papers, anything with data. The living room is a minefield of open pages, underlined notes, broken spines. But Clyde never knocks anything over. He moves around the chaos like he’s part of it.

And at night, when Jack can’t sleep—which is often—he paces the apartment in socks, running through the shift over and over in his head. What he missed. Who he lost. What he could’ve done better. Sometimes, Clyde follows him room to room. Other times, he stays on the couch, thumping his tail once. Like: You’re spiraling again. I’ll be here when you stop.

Jack never says thank you. Not out loud. Not in the clean, linear way people expect. Gratitude doesn’t come easily to him—it catches somewhere between the diaphragm and the throat, too heavy to force out and too sacred to cheapen. But sometimes—on the worst nights, the ones that don’t feel like nights at all, just liminal stretches of exhaustion with no edge to fall off—he finds himself on the floor.

He’s still in scrubs. Collar wrinkled, sleeves pushed up unevenly, the fabric stiff with sweat and something darker. His hands carry the day—still sharp with the bite of antiseptic, the faint chalk of powdered gloves clinging to the creases. His wrists are raw from repeated scrubbing, the skin flushed and tight. Under his nails: a rust-colored rim of dried blood he couldn’t bring himself to finish cleaning off.

Sometimes it’s a kid. Sometimes it’s a man with the same eyes as someone he dragged into a medevac twelve years ago. Doesn’t matter. It always hits in the same place—low, silent, marrow-deep. And there’s never anywhere to set it down.

So he kneels. Not dramatically. Slowly. Mechanically. Like his joints are remembering a movement they haven’t made in years. He rests one hand on Clyde’s shoulder, the other braced on his own knee to keep from tipping forward. Clyde doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lift his head. Just watches him with those slow, tired eyes, like he’s been waiting for this part of the evening.

Jack leans in. Forehead to fur, cheek grazing the dog’s ribcage. The pressure is grounding. Clyde smells like pine bark and sleep. Jack closes his eyes. Breathes in. Doesn’t say anything for a long while.

And then, low. So low it sounds like a confession:

“You make this bearable,” he mutters, the words scraped raw, like they cost something.

There’s a pause, a shift of air.

“You—just you.”

His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, but he finishes it anyway. That’s the kind of man he is—too stubborn to quit halfway, even when he’s breaking.

Clyde doesn’t move. Just breathes. Just stays.

Sometimes people ask, casually, between cases or during the lull of a shift, if he’s ever thought about getting a second dog. Someone saw a shepherd mix at the shelter. Someone else jokes that Clyde looks like he needs a friend.

Jack just shrugs, wipes his hands on a paper towel, and says, “One’s enough. Two’s a pack. Packs break down.”

He never smiles when he says it. And no one ever pushes.

Because it’s not a joke.

There’s no nostalgia in his voice. No warmth. Just flat pragmatism—like someone remembering how it feels when a convoy gets ambushed or a team leader doesn’t come back from the second sweep. Jack doesn’t do redundancies. Doesn’t invite variables. He has Clyde. And that is enough. That is the point.

Once, Dana tossed it at him playfully—on a long night when a kid coded twice and they got him back both times. “You’re softer than you act, Abbot,” she’d said, eyeing the way he folded a blanket under a patient’s neck without thinking.

Jack snorted. “Don’t tell the dog. He’ll lose respect.”

But he was lying.

Because Clyde already knows.

Has known from the first night, when Jack came home too quiet and sat on the floor without taking his coat off. When he muttered something like “You can go if you want” into the stillness and Clyde simply laid his head in Jack’s lap like he hadn’t even heard it.

Clyde knows everything. The limping cadence of Jack’s gait when the socket’s rubbing too hard. The difference between his angry silence and his hollowed-out kind. He knows when to leave the room, when to nudge his snout beneath Jack’s palm, when to lie still beside the prosthetic like he’s standing guard over something more than metal.

Because animals, in lives like this, aren’t just background. They’re not props. They’re not plot points. They are something else entirely. Something older. Elemental. They become the version of you that survives.

Clyde is that version of Jack. The part that’s allowed to exhale. The part that isn’t a trauma doctor or a soldier or a story people whisper about. The part that doesn’t need to earn his place in a room. The part that just is.

And Clyde stays with that part.

No matter how long the night is. No matter what Jack comes home carrying. No matter how many hours he spends sitting on the edge of the bed, elbow on his knee, staring at the dark like it’s daring him to move.

Clyde stays.

And Jack doesn’t thank him.

But every time he comes through the door and sees that dog lift his head—steady, quiet, still there—he thinks, maybe this is what love looks like when you finally stop trying to deserve it.

🐈 Michael Robinavitch is a cat guy. Not because he acts like one—but because he’s spent his whole life being misunderstood. Just like a cat.

He signs the adoption paperwork with the same pen he uses for time-of-death notes. Black ink. Thin barrel. Clicks it twice before putting it back in the chest pocket of his coat, even though he’s not cold. Not yet.

The shelter’s too warm. Fluorescent. Smells like antiseptic and pine-scented ammonia—the kind they used in old trauma bays before they phased out bleach. The girl behind the counter is chewing on a pencil and trying to make conversation, asking if he’s ever had a cat before. Robby just nods once. He’s not interested in a backstory. Or a narrative arc. Or the kind of sentimental bullshit that makes people cry in animal commercials.

He’s not here for company. He’s here for infrastructure.

The cat in question is six years old, dark grey, narrow-bodied, one white paw like a misprint. Her eyes are amber and faintly bored. She’s been in the shelter for eight months. Returned twice. The staff uses the word “selective.” Robby respects that.

He’d asked for “the one who doesn’t need anything.”

They brought her out in a carrier with a note paperclipped to the top: Independent. Doesn’t like loud noises. Not food-motivated. Will scratch if cornered.

He read it and said, “Sounds like an ex of mine.”

The girl didn’t laugh.

Good.

He didn’t tell anyone about her. He doesn’t tell people when he refills his Lexapro. He doesn’t tell them about the chipped mug he keeps on top of his microwave because it was Adamson’s. He doesn’t tell them why he left the memorial lunch Shelby brought in the fridge until someone else threw it away.

That day he went home and couldn’t sit down. Stood in his kitchen. Opened a beer. Didn’t drink it. Just stared at the condensation running down the neck like the bottle was trying to sweat something out.

He’d been doing everything right. Getting up. Going in. Holding it together like a man with no other option. But that day—the anniversary—hit different. He kept thinking about the moment he didn’t see coming. The sound Adamson made when he dropped. The awful nothingness of a man who had once known everything.

He stood there for an hour.

Then he grabbed his keys, still in scrubs, and drove across town to the shelter like it was a procedure he needed to perform.

He doesn’t name her.

Not in the way people mean. There’s a name on the vet paperwork—something the receptionist made him pick, something functional so they’d stop asking. But he doesn’t say it out loud. She doesn’t respond to it anyway.

Around the apartment she’s just “hey” or “alright” or “Jesus Christ” when she knocks over a pile of post-it notes and blinks at him like do better.

Sometimes, when he’s on the phone and she climbs up onto the back of the couch, he calls her “the auditor.”

It fits.

She doesn’t come to the door when he gets home. She doesn’t whine. Doesn’t wait for him. Some days she’s asleep under the radiator. Other days she’s perched on top of the fridge like a gargoyle. She doesn’t move unless she has something to say, and when she does, it’s usually a single unimpressed chirp that sounds vaguely judgmental.

He doesn’t mind.

He talks to her sometimes, in the same way he talks to the broken vending machine on Sublevel 1. Half under his breath. Half like he’s testing whether the silence will give anything back.

“Dropped a line in a central today,” he’ll mutter, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door. “Kid coded anyway. Too much fluid. Too late.”

The cat flicks her tail. Doesn’t even look up.

Robby exhales through his nose. “Don’t look at me like you could’ve done better.”

She lives in the corners of his life, not the center of it.

Her food bowl is stainless steel. No patterns. No mat. He refills it when it’s empty, not before. Keeps the kibble in a plastic bin on top of the fridge. Litter box in the bathroom closet, tucked next to the old mop and a three-pack of backup stethoscopes he never uses. He opens the blinds in the living room most mornings just enough to let in the sun for her to sleep in. Not because he thinks she needs it. But because she’s used to it now.

And that’s the key: not affection, not codependence—just expectation. Quiet consistency.

She’s not a comfort. She’s a constant.

The night he breaks down, she doesn’t move.

He’s on the floor again. Different reason this time—some kid he couldn’t get back, brain bleed, no family, no name in the system. Something about the paperwork triggered a spiral. He ended up in the hallway between his kitchen and the bathroom, slouched against the wall like a man on the edge of admitting something.

She sits across from him, just out of reach. Watching. Like she’s got him under observation. Not for emotional distress—just for data collection.

He doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t blink.

Eventually, he says, “You know he asked me—before they pulled the tube—if I thought it was going to hurt.”

A pause. A long one.

“I said no.”

The cat tilts her head slightly. Not disbelief. Not pity. Just... a record being updated.

He keeps going.

“I think I lied.”

She doesn’t move toward him. Doesn’t press her head into his palm. Doesn’t make it cinematic.

But she stays.

Dana comes over once, weeks later, dropping off a casserole from someone’s aunt or ex-husband or whoever made the mistake of asking if Robby “ever eats.” The cat appears halfway through the conversation, arches her back on top of the bookshelf, and stares directly into Dana’s soul.

Dana stares back. “That thing’s judging me harder than Gloria ever has.”

Robby shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

“She’s judging your life choices.”

“She hasn’t left yet.”

“Yeah, but does she like you?”

He glances at the cat. “That’d be a first.”

The cat sneezes.

Dana snorts. “Jesus. Alright, fine.”

Robby doesn’t need her to love him. That’s not the deal.

She isn’t a metaphor for healing. She’s not some soft little redemption arc purring in his lap. She’s a presence. A demand. A subtle recalibration of what it means to share space. She takes up air and sound and physical territory and makes him acknowledge it.

She forces him to keep the blinds open. To buy batteries for the smoke detector. To get home on time. Because if he’s late, she dumps the water bowl over and drags the bathmat into the hallway like she’s staging a protest.

She doesn’t need him. She just expects him.

And Robby—haunted, functional, stubborn to the end—finds himself meeting that expectation.

Not because he has to.

Because he chose to.

And because she, unlike most people in his life, chose him back. Quietly. Permanently. Without ever asking for proof.

#the pitt #jack abbot #shawn hatosy #noah wyle #dr abbot #michael robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #dr robinavitch

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emilys-bangs · 1 month ago

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thankful you don't send someone to kill me | e.p

Tags: bau!reader, london!emily, angst, exes who STILL haven't gotten over each other, phone calls, pregnant!emily, brief mentions of blood, reader has trouble sleeping, implied previous insomnia, they still want each other bad

Summary: History repeats itself; when you call, Emily answers.

Word count: 1.7k

Part one

The TV blurs in Emily’s vision. Her eyelids are heavy, lashes skimming her cheeks, but another kick to the ribs swiftly dissolves any hopes of sleep. She groans quietly into the couch cushion, her palm smoothing over the curve of her stomach.

“Go to sleep, kid,” she mutters, feeling her daughter flutter under her skin. It’s all but fruitless by now; weak, watery light filters in through the curtains, dawn slowly creeping across the living room floor and chasing away the likelihood of going back to sleep. Emily rubs between her brows, stamping down on the urge to cry.

Nothing is easy when you’re 30 weeks pregnant. Not walking or sleeping or, hell, just being upright. She’s constantly tired, constantly aching, constantly on the verge of falling apart at the seams. Her skin is bone dry in the midst of summer, lips cracking and peeling if they’re not perpetually lathered in Vaseline, but the hormones are probably the worst of it. Wild and out of control, they bubble to the surface faster than she can blink, tears blurring her vision over nonsense, anger sparking in her blood at the slightest inconvenience. Mark flounders around her, desperate to have her in one piece; Emily is very nearly the same, slowly losing her patience with both him and herself, longing for the moment when she’d finally have her daughter in her arms.

But that moment isn’t coming along any time soon.

Emily nuzzles her face into the space between the couch cushions in an attempt to block out the light. Some shuteye has to do some good, even if by this point it’s probable it’ll tire her out more somehow. Her baby begins to still again, and Emily closes her eyes, relishing in the yet unbroken peace of the morning.

She barely counts ten seconds before her phone buzzes with a call.

The vibrations travel through the cushions and force her eyes open again. Her phone doesn’t even ring twice; it goes still mid-ring, the screen dying to a flat black.

She’s going to kill Clyde.

Emily grabs her phone, scowling at the screen until her brain catches up, the letters on the screen joining together to form a name, and then endless ashy memories.

You.

Her breath hitches. She blinks and reads the name again, dragging her thumbnail over the screen. Its shape is so familiar, sloping letters joining sweetly to make up years of faded bliss, months of ever-present agony. There’s no way you’d call. Not after the last time, when she ground your heart to pieces beneath her heel, heard it crack in your voice and in her own chest. No, you wouldn’t call—she made sure of that.

Unless you’re in trouble.

The thought makes her chest tight. Emily doesn’t hesitate, pressing call and bringing the phone to her ear, hardly hearing the long rings through the roar of blood in her veins.

Beep. Beep.

She mentally calculates the time difference. Almost 2 am, if you’re in DC. Emily gnaws on her lip, automatically smoothing over a kick to her spleen.

Beep. Bee—

The line clicks. It’s silent, both of you holding your breath. Movement buzzes in the background, faint white noise; it doesn’t bend beneath your voice as you stay quiet. Waiting.

Emily cracks first.

“Y/N.” Her tongue almost weeps at the feeling of your name on it. “Are you—are you okay?” It’s embarrassing, the way her voice cracks, but she doesn’t even hear it. “It’s late. Are you home? Is everything—?”

“I’m fine.” Your voice is faded. Toneless. Emily exhales at the sound of it, her ears ringing. “Sorry. I, uh—I didn’t mean to call.”

It stings, a barely healed cut slicing open again, but what did she expect? Of course you didn’t.

But, she thinks deliriously.

But you still called.

“My finger slipped.” You say, effectively deflating the balloon of hope in her chest before it can grow. “Sorry.”

Emily swallows. Her baby kicks and she rubs over the ache, feeling the imprint of an elbow as the silence stretches and thickens and starts to taper off neatly into a goodbye.

The thought sends a strange panic racing through her. She grabs the silence, snaps it in her hands, and lets her voice echo down the line.

“Why are you awake?”

But she knows why. Your mind races too restlessly too often. It wasn’t always that she could help; sometimes she just sat with you on the couch as muted reruns flashed on the TV, doing nothing but keeping you company and raking her fingers through your hair.

Her hand twitches. She clenches her fingers into a fist, bringing them up to the torn skin on her bottom lip.

“Don’t know. Just one of those nights, I guess.” You speak slowly. The tired rasp in your voice is familiar, haunting; she wishes she could smooth it away. “We’re in New York.” You volunteer.

Emily peels a dry patch of skin from her lip, blood wetting her nail. She pretends it’s the sting that burns her eyes, makes them drown in salt.

“You’ll have to be up early.” She rasps needlessly, thinking of Hotch’s disfavor for tardiness. “Try to close your eyes, love.”

She bites down on her tongue, blood coating her teeth, but it’s too late. A sardonic sound huffs from your mouth, a phantom burst of air caressing her ear. “Solid advice, Emily. I hadn’t thought of that.” The bite of your tone claws into her flesh, drawing streams of blood down her limbs. Her tears join the mix, swirling down in the wake of your bitterness and her crumbling resolve.

Seconds clump together, and this time, she’s too scared to break the silence, afraid she’ll say something stupid. Confess that she’s not too sure she hasn’t made a mistake. Fucked up her life, and yours, and Mark’s. Beg you to take her back, away from her stiflingly kind fiancé who handles her with kid gloves, too unsettled by a version of her that isn’t fully composed.

But no, she already pushed you away, didn’t she? She doesn’t get to go back. She won’t.

Emily’s heart trips in your silence. Do you hate her already? You must. Sometimes she thinks she hates you, but she’s pathetically weak where you’re involved. She can’t hear your name in someone else’s mouth. Can’t bear to think about you for more than a few minutes without her mouth going sour, cheeks puckering as she wonders if it’s possible you could’ve moved on, found someone better. She’s tender all over on the inside, bruised and sensitive, entirely composed of the fresh, delicate skin hidden beneath a scab.

Emily glances at her phone, making sure the call is still running. Your name is trapped in her mouth, her cheeks cool with sticky tears as she soothes her daughter’s restlessness and waits for whatever it is you’ll unleash on her.

It takes an age before you speak. When you do, your voice is quieter. “It must be—what time is it over there?”

“Almost seven.” She croaks.

��God, that’s early. Sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” She blurts out.

“Everything okay?” She hears the concern bleed into your voice. It chokes her, your lovely fingers digging into her throat and cutting off the flow of air to her lungs.

“Everything’s fine.” Her voice shakes. “It’s not—uh. Not nightmares or anything.”

She can’t get herself to say it. Say, I can’t sleep because my baby’s keeping me up. She’s using me as a punching bag, and I can’t tell you about it because I don’t get to. Because I signed up for it and you didn’t. Her tongue is numb around the words, frozen in a way she never used to be with you.

Briefly, Emily hates the both of you. Hates herself for being ashamed to mention her unborn child that she’d torn her heart to get, hates you for making her hesitate.

Your silence tells her you understand. You were always a smart one, easily catching on to her wit and matching it with your own. Now you clear your throat. “Can’t be easy sleeping now. Seven months, huh?”

Her heart flutters.

“Just over,” she mumbles, looking down at her stomach. It gently warps the material of her tank top. “30 weeks.” Her voice wobbles. A warm tear drops on the crest of her bump and bleeds through the cotton, staining it dark.

God, she’s thought of this. Dreamed of it. Calling you, hearing your voice even though she’s the last person to deserve it. She doesn’t even deserve to hear it tinny and flat through the speakers of her phone, through the buds of her earphones, trying to get close to the real thing—feeling it beat faintly in her ears—without stripping away more of her dignity.

It didn’t work. Nothing ever did.

Emily wipes her damp cheeks, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Um, how are you? How’ve you been?”

“Let’s not do this, Emily.” You murmur. You suddenly sound years older, worn down and thready. She closes her eyes.

“Are you eating?” Are you walking around with missing fragments of a heart like she is? “Is Serg?”

“The damn cat’s always eating.” You huff, something like a laugh. It pinches at her chest. “He misses you.” You say, quieter.

“He loves you.” Emily’s throat is numb with the taste of tears.

Your breath hitches in her ear.

“I have to go.”

“Wait.” She whispers. “No, wait, please, I…”

I miss you. I still love you. I think I fucked up, but I’m not too sure I didn’t.

“Hey. Don’t…” You trail off, heaving in a breath, “Don’t cry, Em. You’re—you’re happy, aren’t you?”

She digs a heel into her eye. “I’m not.” She sniffs, her words ringing entirely hollow. “Not crying, it’s just—the baby. She’s kicking.”

Your stillness is palpable. “She, huh?” You say, your voice straining. “Picked out a name yet?”

What is she doing?

“You don’t have to do this. God, I’m sorry, I’ll just—take care of yourself, okay? Please.”

“I should be the one telling you that.”

Emily touches her stomach. Her daughter doesn’t rise to her touch, finally stilling. “I will if you will.” She rasps, rubbing circles on her skin.

A beat. Then, softly, “I’ll try.”

That’s all she can ask for. Maybe, Emily thinks as the call disconnects, even that is too much.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss angst #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #fic #divider by saradika

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nell-le · 1 year ago

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Download a Sim N3: MM Male Adult Sim

Game Version: 1.106.148.1030

Required packs:

Werewolves

Parenthood

Movie Hangout

Simtimates Collection

Poolside Splash

TOU: use this sim as you want ❤

Previews were done without reshade/hq/edit

Download tray (free): patreon | sfs

CC list under the cut

Used CC:

Genetics:

northernsiberiawinds - journey skintones warm

northernsiberiawinds - west male skin

northernsiberiawinds - age related eyebags n1 mm overlay

northernsiberiawinds - forehead n1 mm overlay

northernsiberiawinds - forehead wrinkles n1 mm overlay

northernsiberiawinds - lower eyelids n1 mm overlay

northernsiberiawinds - nasolabial fold n1 mm overlay

northernsiberiawinds - philtrum n1 mm overlay

northernsiberiawinds - nondefault eye colors n1 extra

obscurus - nosemask nosetip

obscurus - nosemask nosebridge

plumbboop - structure

s4nexus - defined hands 1 upper arm left

nell - lenses n8 no sclera

nell - eye reflection n1

nell - face scars n2

nell - random body bruises overlay

nell - nails n1 natural

saruin - vanilla teeth set

simandy - spotlight v2 blush

Hair:

johnnysims - clyde hair v2 m

simstrouble - m hair dennis v1

obscurus - eyebrows 44

kijiko - eyelash version 2 uncurled

obscurus - connor hairline

golyhawhaw - bodyhair arm goldstandard

golyhawhaw - bodyhair leg goldstandard

golyhawhaw - bodyhair torso goldstandardlight

nell - male gray hair tattoo | direct link

Sliders & Presets:

luumia - mod hand finger slider

luumia - mod height slider

luumia - mod neck height slider

luumia - mod hip shape

obscurus - eye width slider

obscurus - eyebrows sliders n1

obscurus - face sliders

obscurus - nose depth slider

obscurus - nose slider n2 nose tip

obscurus - esotropia and exotropia slider

miiko - chin slider

northernsiberiawinds - male nose_preset n13

northernsiberiawinds - male eyes preset n3

luumia - mod ear presets

nell - male face preset

obscurus - m body preset ea

Note: If some sliders don’t work in your game, please use this fix!

Looks:

Accs:

helgatisha - gloves fingerless

solistair - toasty toes 3

ps - xevo glasses

Tops:

nell - ea retexture gp3 suit vest

nell - ea retexture gp10 presenter vest

sentate - homme samuel aviator jacket

Bottoms:

nell - cs pants

nell - male sport pants

gorillax3 - pants 4

sentate - homme dimitri jeans

Outfits:

nell - ea retexture ep2 male suit

Shoes:

imadako - dress shoes male

sentate - homme jacques sneakers

mmsims - pretzel flip flops am

mmsims - stay cool chelsea boots am

VK / Boosty / T.O.U / Suggest CC

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#ts4 #the sims 4 #simblr #male sim #s4malesim #s4simdownload #s4das #download a sim #sim dump #adult sim #s4adultsim #nell-le #nell sims

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kennyomegasweave · 1 year ago

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I'm about to start the Playboyy finale and while I'm TERRIFIED of how this is gonna go, I just want to say it's been an honor enjoying watching this show with the 20 other people in the tag.

#playboyy #playboyy the series #I'm so excited I'm so excited I'm so scared #I've been up for over 24 hours so I know if this goes pear shaped #I will NOT have the emotional capability to handle it #and yet here I am lol #regular clyde

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mindmelter · 1 year ago

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Five Alien Hosts: Adventures In Italy (Part 2) - Not Alone

( 1 Year ago )

It was finally the night of the Comet Clyde, a significant event for the entire world. Everyone was looking up to the sky to contemplate the beauty of the comet, but not Victor. Victor was watching gay porn in his room, he couldn't care less about the Comet, who cares about watching a once-in-a-lifetime event, if you can watch hot men fucking instead? That's what he thought until a loud explosion came from his backyard, breaking every single window in his house.

Scared, Victor ran to see what was the cause of the explosion. When he arrived in his backyard, he stopped mid-track. There was a meteorite shaped like an egg in his backyard.

Victor slowly walked towards the egg-shaped meteorite. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Victor looked up to the sky. "It must have come from the comet," he thought. Suddenly, he heard a weird cracking noise coming from inside the egg. Victor had watched enough sci-fi movies to know there was only one explanation for that: aliens. But he just wasn't expecting what came out of the egg.

"What the..." Victor screamed and fell down in fear.

One black bug crawled out of one of the holes, then a second one, a third, a fourth, and for last, a fifth.

Victor was scared, but the bugs didn't attack him, they just stopped in front of him. Victor calmed down and slowly stretched out his hand, but before he could touch them, the bugs quickly crawled back inside the egg.

The next morning, Victor was eating breakfast while watching the news. The news — as it had been since the beginning of the year — was talking about Comet Clyde and its brief passing the night before.

"Last night, we witnessed the final passage of Comet Clyde. Although the comet was far from Earth, it still sent meteorites raining down across the globe. The countries that are confirmed to have been hit by meteorites are the United States, Italy, and Spain. It is theorized that the largest meteorite fell in Spain. No casualties have been reported. The American army is now confis-"

Victor turned off the TV and stared at the egg-shaped meteorite that he placed on his dining table. The bugs hadn't come out since the night before. He tried to feed them by putting some bread in front of the egg, but none came out. Maybe alien insects feed on something different, but what? Victor asked himself, he hoped they wouldn't feed on humans.

Suddenly he heard a loud knock on the door. When he opened it, he saw four male soldiers.

"H-hi, can I help with something?" Victor asked.

"Good morning, you're Victor Sanchez, correct?" A very good looking soldier asked. Victor nodded.

"Yes, that would be me."

"I am Sergeant Ramirez. Last night we received a report from your neighbors about an explosion coming from your house."

Victor gulped, his heart was racing, but he tried to remain calm. "An explosion? I didn't hear anything last night, s-sir."

The soldiers looked suspicious at Victor, he was never a great liar.

"Can we come in for a second?"

Victor nodded and allowed the soldiers to walk inside his house.

"Could someone explain to me exactly what's happening here?" Victor asked as the soldiers began searching his house.

"Last night, this part of the city was struck by debris from Comet Clyde. The government has ordered the Army to collect and hand over every meteorite found. It's a matter of public safety."

"Well, if a meteorite crashed in my house, I would know it, right?" Victor said in a joking manner, but inside he was very nervous.

"Yes, I guess you would..." Sergeant Ramirez then noticed the broken windows. "What happened to the windows?"

"I... I don't-"

"Sergeant, I think you'll want to check this out," another one of the soldiers said, pointing at the meteorite on the table. Victor cursed at himself; he forgot to hide the damn egg. Sergeant Ramirez raised an eyebrow and looked at Victor.

"Oooh... umm, this? This is just a house d-decoration! Please don't touch it, It's very expensive!" Victor said rushing to the table and grabbing the egg.

"The Captain said something about an egg-shaped debris, didn't he?" Another soldier pointed out.

"He did." Ramirez responded, walking towards Victor, "Sorry, we will have to confiscate this."

"No! You can't!" Victor shouted, hugging the egg tighter, he couldn't let them take it, the things they would do to those poor bugs... Victor would never forgive himself.

"We are not asking, we got orders to follow. The government's gonna compensate you for this. So, either you cooperate or we'll have to take you in."

Victor got angry and in a quick decision, he threw the egg to the floor, breaking it in half. Four bugs immediately crawled out of the broken egg and went toward the soldiers, the tiny bugs were so fast that the soldiers didn't even have time to react. One soldier attempted to reach for his gun, but before he could aim it at the bug, it swiftly crawled under his uniform pants and headed toward his head. Each bug targeted a soldier and forced its way into their ears.

The four soldiers collapsed to the floor, and one by one, they began convulsing with their eyes rolling back to white. Suddenly, all four soldiers stood up with blank faces and empty eyes, Sergeant Ramirez pulled his pants down and started to jerk off, while the other three soldiers kneeled in front of him. Victor watched as Sergeant Ramirez jerked his big shaft right on his colleagues' blank faces.

"What is happening here?" Victor asked, but Ramirez just continued mindlessly jerking off.

Soon he started to cum and the three kneeling soldiers started to eagerly lick every drop. It looked like the bugs were consuming it. So that's what the bugs feed on, Victor thought. Sergeant Ramirez remained motionless during the entire time, with his hard dick pointing up, still pulsing and dripping cum. Sergeant Ramirez then looked at Victor with his dead eyes. "Follow him." He said, pointing to the broken egg on the floor.

Victor then noticed there was still one bug left inside the egg—the fifth bug. Victor was scared that the remaining bug would do to him what the others did with the soldiers, but the bug just crawled out of the egg and went towards the door. Victor followed the bug outside until he saw the bug crawl inside the military armored vehicle that was parked in front of his house. The bug easily crawled under the car and disappeared.

A few seconds later Victor started to hear some male grunting and weird sounds coming from inside the car, and suddenly, the vehicle's door opened. Inside was the Captain of the operation: A very hot, muscular, and intimidating man.

"Get in." The man commanded, he had such a deep voice that Victor obeyed without thinking twice.

"Hello, Victor. It's good to finally be able to communicate with you." The man said.

"I know you're the bug controlling this man, but..." Victor looked at the man's huge tattooed arm, he could tear Victor in half with those arms. "is this safe?"

"I'm in control of this human now. The changes that I made in his brain are irreversible, you don't have to fear him anymore. He's my host now."

"Your host?? What happened to the real him?"

"He was gone the moment I pierced my way inside his brain. Let's put it that way: I turned him into my vehicle and I'm the only one who can drive him."

"Ok, so I'm safe from him but... Am I safe from you?"

"Yes. We didn't crash into your backyard by accident, you have been chosen by us to be our Master. We felt your energy from afar and from all the humans in this city, your desire for control was the strongest of all. We knew you wouldn't find a problem in letting us take over your kind, so we directed the egg to you."

Victor remembered he was watching gay porn when the egg crashed in his backyard, could it be related? Was his desire for the men in the porn the reason that attracted the bugs to him? He had so many questions.

"You need control and we need a controller. You're special because you don't care about them, in fact, you get aroused by it," The Captain smirked and caressed Victor's hard tent. Victor nervously laughed.

"Does this host arouse you?" The Captain flexed both his arms. Victor shyly nodded. The alien-controlled Captain placed his big hand behind Victor's head and pulled him for a rough kiss. They shared a long passionate kiss, with the Captain's big tongue dominating the kiss the entire time. Victor then started to feel the Captain's grip on his neck getting tighter. The Captain stopped the kiss while maintaining a tight grip, he smirked at Victor and said "You will be the perfect Master for us." He then spat on Victor's face and released him, leaving Victor speechless.

"Oh c'mon, I know you like it. Let's get inside, I will properly introduce you to my brothers."

Victor followed the Captain back inside his house. The four soldiers were now casually talking to each other with their deflated dicks hanging out of their flies. When they saw Victor, they dropped to their knees. "We are here to serve you. Master." They all said in unison. Victor looked at the four soldiers kneeling in his living room, they all had their tongues hanging out for some reason.

The Captain suddenly pulled down his pants and started to casually jerk off his huge shaft. Victor was amazed by the size of it. The Captain walked towards one of the soldiers and aimed the tip of the shaft at the soldier's mouth, but before shoving it inside, he looked at Victor with his empty blank eyes.

"My brothers are still hungry, will you help me feed them? I don't think this host has enough to feed them all."

Victor grinned and walked towards Sergeant Ramirez.

"Feed me, Master," he begged.

Victor didn't like the way Ramirez talked to him earlier and how he tried to take the egg from him, Victor would enjoy this part very much. Ramirez took his entire length into his throat like an expert. Victor moaned loudly and grabbed each side of Ramirez's head as he started to get hough. He looked to his side and saw the Captain doing the same with another soldier. Victor couldn't hold it any longer and started to shoot.

__________________________________

( Present Days )

Victor woke up with a warm mouth wrapping around his member, he pulled the covers to reveal Grus's bodybuilder host under the sheets with his entire length inside his mouth. The bodybuilder stopped sucking and gave him a sexy smile.

"Good morning, Master," He said, giving the shaft a few kisses.

"Good morning... Grus." Victor moaned. "You know how to wake me up appropriately. After last night, you must be starving. Here, take your reward." Victor said, grabbing the bodybuilder by the hair and starting to thrust deeper into his throat. Victor moaned louder and finally gave Grus's what he wanted, filling the host's mouth with his cum. But the bodybuilder didn't swallow, he suddenly froze and his eyes rolled back as Grus crawled out of his brain and to his mouth, consuming the small pool of cum inside. As Victor waited for Grus to eat, he noticed that Alexander (Sylo's host) was not in the room with them.

The night before, Sylo had called Grus to Victor's room. They spent the night having fun with each other. Victor jerked off while he watched Alexander fuck the bodybuilder, who was on all fours moaning like a slut. Victor loved seeing two brainless hunks fucking each other right in front of him, it was like watching gay porn but now he could participate. Soon Victor was being spit-roasted with the bodybuilder's thick brown cock inside his mouth and Alexander's huge cock filling his ass. He passed out after he came.

"Where is Sylo?" Victor asked.

Grus had now crawled back inside the bodybuilder's brain and walked to the window.

"Sylo is sunbathing outside. He said Alexander would look good with a tan."

"And you? Do you have plans for..." Victor stopped talking, as he came to realize he didn't knew Grus's host name. "I just realized that I never asked your host's name, how is he called?"

"I'm offended Master," Grus joked. "His name is Ahmed."

"I'm sorry," Victor laughed. "It's hard to memorize all of their names, I don't care about their names or who they used to be, I only care about their bodies. Usually, I like to refer to them by their profession, like the mailman, the delivery man, the bodybuilder..."

"Yet you know Sylo's host name, you don't call him 'The CEO' you call him by Alexander. Is my host not hot enough for you, Master?" He asked, doing a double biceps pose.

"Don't be like that, I love your host very much. Didn't I already prove it to you last night?"

"I don't believe you, I think you like Sylo's host better. You don't appreciate me enough, I should go find another gay slut to give this body the attention it deserves." Grus joked, making Ahmed flex again for Victor.

"You're acting just like Yinx, yesterday he was all jealous that I was sharing a room with Sylo."

They shared a laugh.

"I'm going to shower him, Master, Ahmed is all sticky from last night, do you want to join? I will let you wash my body with your tongue, It's been a while since you gave one of my hosts a tongue bath."

"Maybe some other time. I will go check on Sylo." Victor then kissed Ahmed, but their kiss was suddenly interrupted by Ahmed's phone ringing.

"Who's that?" Victor asked.

"It's Ahmed's younger brother, he just won't stop calling. I think we should do something about it, Master."

Victor grabbed the phone and declined the call.

"New rule: Don't worry about your host's business, just enjoy your vacation as Ahmed. Ok?"

He nodded.

"You promise?"

"I do, Master."

They shared another kiss and then Ahmed went to take a shower while Victor went to put some clothes on.

Victor walked outside to Alexander sunbathing in the private area of the Hotel. It was an exclusive area that only Victor, Alexander, and the other hosts could access, so it was a very private place.

Alexander glanced at Victor.

"What are you staring at? You pervert." Alexander said.

"Good morning to you too, Sylo."

"Sylo? Who the fuck is that? You know what? I could use a fag like you. No one is watching, come here and clean my sweat with your tongue."

Victor sat on Alexander's lap, facing him, and gently caressed Alexander's arms, feeling the hard-earned muscles that Alexander was once so proud of. Those muscles were not built for him to grope, Alexander built them for women, but now they were for Victor, just for him and nobody else. Victor then leaned over and started to lick the sweaty biceps, especially the armpits, they had a strong musk.

"Sylo, you need to wash Alexander's body. He's smelling really strong. When was the last time you washed him?"

"Stop calling me that and go back to work!" Alexander grunted as he shoved Victor's face back into his armpit.

"Good boy, clean me up. These muscles won't clean by themselves." Alexander purred. Victor nodded and buried his face deeper into Alexander's pits, lapping at them like a thirsty dog.

"That's it, smell it, taste it, It's all for you."

While Victor was busy lapping at the muscles, Alexander pulled down his shorts and then ripped off Victor's shorts. Victor was impressed by how strong Alexander was. With his other hand, Alexander pressed the tip of his shaft into Victor's entrance. Victor grunted in pain, he was still sore from the night before.

"Take your time, Master. I know he's too big for you," Sylo broke character for the first time to make sure Victor was okay. It wasn't Victor's first time with Alexander, but it was their third, and Victor was still not used to the size. Victor's heart raced as he looked into Alexander's eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please, Alexander," he whispered. "I want you inside me." Alexander smiled and lowered him down onto his waiting cock, Victor was feeling the heat and length of the shaft stretching him impossibly wide. He gasped at the sensation and then began to move, slowly at first, but gaining momentum as they became lost in the rhythm of their bodies, soon Alexander was filling Victor's ass with his cum.

"Fuck, he has one of the biggest cock of all the hosts you guys made."

"Even bigger than Quin's host?" Alexander smirked.

Victor suddenly noticed a shadow over him, he looked up and saw Andrei — Quin's footballer host.

"Definitely not as big as mine." Andrei said.

"Oh hey Quin, you scared me for a second." Victor laughed, looking up at the handsome footballer. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, usually, I would have breakfast with Grus, but he didn't sleep in our room yesterday, he was too busy getting fucked by you two."

"Sorry, Quin, I just shot Alexander's load into Victor's ass, wish I had enough to feed you," Alexander said.

"It's ok brother, don't worry."

Victor then had an idea. "Grus is taking a shower right now. I fed him this morning, but he didn't shoot. Ahmed's balls are still very much full. Let's get inside."

Victor couldn't stand because his ass was hurting, so Andrei helped him by carrying him on his arms to his room.

Unknown to Victor and the bugs, they were not alone. A man was hidden nearby, taking photos of them. The man had a devilish smile as he looked at the photos he took. In one photo Victor was getting fucked by Alexander, in another, Andrei was carrying him in his arms. "Master is going to love this." The man said to himself.

#alien possession

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