#She/Her and It/Its in the way a computer is a it. In a way a tool is an it.

[ghettogirly]

Hi lovely can you one for Armando x reader. Armando , Mike, Marcus, doesn't know what the reader does for a living. She find out thing before they do , skilled in everything. ( Whatever you want her to be). The reader takes the spot of reggie. Armando call her instead of Marcus. They get scared for her but just wait until they find out.

𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄:

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑!

𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏.

-> synopsis: Where armando calls you to warn you that you have trouble coming you way and to go hide somewhere safe. Little do they know, you can do more than hide.

-> warnings: spoilers for bad boys ride or die, mentions of violence.

[🕷️] author’s note: thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy!

Your first encounter of Armando was when he was released to be the new member of AMMO to repay his debt to the state for his crimes. He walked in with his father, Mike, in an alluring manner. You was a helper for the team, however currently unemployed. Failing to find your place in society.

The mexican-born male wore a black co-ord , tight to his chest and flattering in all the right places. His hair slicked in gel, the sides of his head faded with a scar at the side of it.

You both grew quickly closer, spending each day with each other even with the stares of judgement people descended onto you.

“He has killed countless people.”

“He’s a criminal, they should lock him up and throw away the key.”

“Armando Aretas. The animal who should be put down.”

It did hurt you for a while, leading you to deny your feelings for him. Until one day, after a passionate night with him, you tried to briskly leave in the middle of the night.

“Where are you going?” The males voice croaked out, his voice deeper than usual due to the vocal cords enlargement throughout the night.

“I need to go home, i’ve spent too long being here.”

A scoff is heard.

“Yeah. No surprise there. Running out of excuses are you?”

“ Its not an excuse i just have something to do at..”

“Guárdalo, solo vete. Te han lavado el cerebro las opiniones de otros y no quiero escucharlo más. Ahórrame los detalles.” Venom dropped off the latino’s tongue as he dismissed you away. Sadness overcame you as no words came out of your mouth.

Days went by, Armando never spoke to you. Tension flushed by you guys whenever you was by each-other in a room. One day, you couldn’t handle it no more and you grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn and look at you.

“I’m sorry. You’re more than just an animal or a criminal. I know i don’t even deserve for you to forgive me but i need to get this off my chest. I am so sorry Armando.”

You feel his arms engulf you in a hug as tears roll down your cheeks, embarrassed at how easily influenced you were from everyone’s opinions. “no llores mi amor, I forgive you.”

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐏.

“Hey guys, we’ve got trouble.”

Armando’s shoes pounded down the wooden steps as he swiftly walked to Dorn’s computer, his nerves rising as he sees the blonde’s frantic typing on the keyboard below. “What’s wrong?”

The cameras on the computer pointing to every angle in your house, yet, 3 armed men slowly creep up to the front door. Ready to raid, they point their rifles towards the door. “Tenemos que tomarlos ahora!” One masked man, whisper shouts in spanish, their emotions covered but their body language is prevalent. He is tense.

Dorn shifted his position to turn to Armando, his brows furrowing, “Are these your people?”

He shook his head, “No.”

Time stood still before he realised the severity of the situation, rushing over to the phone he picks it up and rapidly taps your contact. “Mierda! Pick up the phone..”

A few seconds of beeps echoed around the room, the only thing filling the air of silence. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“We have no time. Take Uncle Marcus’s wife and go hide. Now.” His words dropped with warning as he kept it short and sweet.

Your eyes widen as you hear his stoic words. Quickly whipping your head to the side, you gather your godmother and hide in the closet. A loud bang blasts through the room as footsteps clatter along the floor, moving in a tactical fashion as they scan the house for people. Armando quickly runs to the cameras, looking at the masked men quickly run through the house, weapons pointed at every angle. “Fuck..”

A moment passes and you slowly slip past the closet door, gripping your fingertips on the cold, wooden pane, you slide by the counter and quickly exhale. “Lord, please protect me.”

The woman slowly slides her hand up the counter top, reaching for a knife before calculatedly turning left while peeking around. A second passes before you see an outline of a shadow descending down onto you. Slowly looking up, you see a gun pointed towards you. “Shit.”

With a quick whisk, you slice the knife through his leg, the man drops down and shouts in pain as you slit the masked man’s throat. Taking his gun, you push forward back into the living room where the rest of the men were. Angling yourself, you shoot the man in the corner before whipping the man in front of you with the rifle.

“Damn, that bitch can fight.”

Randomly another man whisks you around, taking you in a loose headlock. The sound of a gun goes off and the man falls back in anguish, brushing yourself off you turn around and shoot him in the head.

A quick moment goes by and by the end of it, all men are dead. The carpets and floorboards stained with a crimson red as you pant for air. You quickly run back to the closet, “it’s safe now. let’s go.” You say to Marcus’s wife, embracing her in a hug before you both hurry off.

Not before, you look up at the camera and smile. Blowing your pointer and middle fingers to represent a gun, before winking.

“You’re welcome.”

The male turns to the rest of the crew and grins, followed by a slow whistle.

“Seems like we know what she does after all.”

𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

“Guárdalo, solo vete. Te han lavado el cerebro las opiniones de otros y no quiero escucharlo más. Ahórrame los detalles.” - Keep it, just leave. You've been brainwashed by the opinions of others and I don't want to hear it anymore. Spare me the details.

“no llores mi amor” - Don’t cry my love.

“Tenemos que tomarlos ahora”: We have to take them now.

“Mierda!” - Fuck!

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

hello! how are you? I hope everything is ok, it's me again, sorry for the inconvenience!

But I have a doubt, maybe this can even become a chapter

After the reader returns from Teyvat, all injured, having lost some fingers and teeth (from what I remember from Fitzgerald's chapter), Yosano is the only one who knew the total destruction done to the reader's body (Fitzgerald theoretically also know after having heard Pantalone and Ningguang commenting), having to take care of the reader and having her ability, well, we all know how Yosano's ability works, would she feel bad about having to use her ability on the reader to help him recover (even though it's the only way), besides, being a doctor, she has a greater understanding of things, do you think the reader's situation would make her sadder? Because she understand more about injuries, etc.?

thank you for your attention :)

Count them

Self-Aware BSD AU x SAGAU Imposter crossover

Self-Aware! Akiko Yosano x GN! Reader

Description: Yosano found another reason to hate her ability.

Warning: OOC. English is my second language. Injuries.

Set during last bits of Lost and Found, during Reader being unconscious.

Short fic.

A bit of comfort at the end.

______

Yosano has a strange relationship with "Thou Shalt Not Die".

She wasn't fond of it. Yet, there is no way she will dismiss its usefulness.

The ability was powerful, but, Yosano wished, that it could be activated differently.

But, when she got her chance, she missed it. She choosed something different.

_________

Yosano looked at the screen of Ango's computer. He recently got access to game files and find a way to alter their abilities.

"So... I could either choose my ability be able to heal any decease, be it chronic, internal, or incurable by modern medicine, or have "Thou Shalt Not Die" activated without fatal injuries, but stuck with physical external injuries?"

Ango nodded.

"Yes. I am sorry, but, you can't have both."

Yosano closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.

"Can I have some time to think about it?"

Ango smiles reassuringly.

"Of course, Yosano-san"

Yosano spent whole night, reading about diseases from real world. About experience medicine, about slim chances. And about not having chances.

In the morning, she chooses being able to choose any diseases.

_______

Yosano silently leave your room. She needs one moment to herself.

To write it down.

She returned to her room and took one of her books from the shelf.

A simple atlas medical book.

It took her few minutes to find pen and pencils.

She never thought about that part of her ability. About knowing what injuries her ability have healed.

You have many. And fatal injuries.

In no way it were good news, but, at least, there was no need for Yosano to hurt you more. To use her ability.

Yosano took a pen and opened the book.

Time to write them down.

______

Burned mouth

Broken ribs

Multiple burns on legs, arms

Cut off toes

Removed canines (all four)

Ear bitten off (old injury)

Shoulders were pierced (claws? old injury)

Multiple stabs in the chest (arrow, spears)

Left eye gouged out

Nose broken (not clear, if it was an incident, or from the hit)

All nails torn off

Patches of skin removed (all body parts)

Joint dislocated (rack?)

how dare they...

_______

Yosano hid the book with the list.

She won't show it to anyone.

She won't tell anyone about it.

The anger will fuel. Her anger already burns with rage.

They don't need to know. For nor.

Right now, they should focus on you.

And not on the desire to chop off everything that monsters have.

Right now, she should return to you. And wait for you to wake up.

_______

Yosano rubbed your feet.

"All toes are here." her voice was hushed and soft.

"All toes are her." echoed you.

Yosano carefully rubbed your knees.

"Your knees aren't dislocated."

"They aren't dislocated" repeated you.

It became your daily routine.

Yosano would point at every part of you, that were injured, showing you, reminding you, that you aren't injured anymore. That you are safe. That you aren't in pain.

Yosano finished with you and left for a moment to wash her hands.

When she returns, she sat down on the bed near you.

She squeezed your hand.

"[Y/N]... You will never be hurt again. You will never be scared again."

You nodded weakly. You still were scared. But, even so, you believed in Yosano's words.

Yosano carefully pet your head.

"Let's brush your hair."

Yosano helped you sit up and took a hairbrush from the nightstand.

Carefully and gently, Yosano brushed your tangled hair. You yawned. You had another sleepless night, and brushing made you sleepy. Yosano whispered.

"You can sleep, if you want. I will be here. We will be here."

'I won't leave. You won't dissapear. No one will hurt you. There will be no need to use my ability on you. For me to count them.'

"Sleep, My Dear Dango. Don't be afraid. You are home."

You doze off. You had no dreams. Just a healthy dreamless sleep.

______

Tag list: @myluckymoon @cocodrilofeliz @c4xcocoa @vvyeislazzy @whisperingwinters @nervousinfluencertidalwave @ayameshu @izzieg3987

[scaly-freaks]

inmate 13453

okay don't get excited, i just felt like writing a bit of a drabble to feel out the atmosphere of a potential start to this au (clicking the tag will give up the other stuff i've posted for it btw)

btw check out the playlist and the pinterest board made by @theageofsilver and @allicentsallure bc they're fab

cw: kidnapping

Soft seventeen.

Bambi eyes, bambi legs.

There’s a certain edge to the way people describe the age she’s at. Not quite eighteen, not quite legal, tangible as cherry juice on greedy fingers. She isn’t sixteen, sweet and tender. It’s a soft first step into adulthood, skirting the border, the in between, the unknowable horrors that lie ahead.

She fucking hates being seventeen.

It’s a shit number first of all. Odd numbers make her want to spew. They feel like nails on a chalkboard, polyester static on leg hair. She can’t even dance, so whatever ABBA are singing about doesn’t apply.

Amara sticks out her tongue and tastes the air as the breeze blows west. She swears she can get a sense of the world when she does.

Her stepfather mocks her for it. That blue-eyed, blonde maniac with the ugly Buick Electra he treats like a brand-name Italian from the southern coasts of Europe. He used to treat her mother the same. Until he began to tell Amara you look just like her when she was young. He leaves his porn tabs open on his computer, as if he wants her to know. ‘Teen’, ‘Latina’, ‘Stepfather’, ‘Rough’, ‘Face-fucking’, ‘Breeding.’

She doesn’t have a drop of Hispanic blood in her.

She really wants to tell her mother, but there is a chance her mother will look right through her instead. She’s been doing that a lot more nowadays. They can’t afford her meds anymore. She just sits on the porch and watches and waits. For what, is anyone's guess.

>> can you pick me up?

>> its dark

>> pls

>> sorry ik its inconvienant

'Step-Daddy' always replies quickly when it’s her. He has a heart next to her name on his phone. She never agreed to that.

>> it’s spelled inconvenient

“Suck my dick,” Amara tells the screen and switches her phone off before he can message again.

She can walk.

The route back runs dangerously close to the edge of the forest. All kinds rot away in there, but she doesn’t like to think of them by name. They’ll become real if she does. She wishes her mother had found a man who lived in the wetlands, and not here at the cursed border between life and the realm beyond. Marshes are easier to understand. Forests are cursed.

Still, life is horribly simple here. Her high school is placid and filled with the dull-eyed children of dull-eyed adults. The gas station where she works didn’t bother to interview her. She walked in and the guy behind the counter stared at her breasts until he remembered she had a face. Her breasts aced the interview for her.

Can I work here? Just until I graduate.

Sure, grab a nametag.

Four months later, and she doesn’t mind it anymore. Her brain shuts off. Her customers are a ragtag mixture of suspicious, ferret-eyed locals and the occasionally buoyant hiker from out of state. If she doesn’t look like she belongs, she’s pretty, and that usually gives people like her a pass. At least until the sleazy comments become ethnically charged. But even then, Amara has a way of making her eyes go ‘dopey’ and just smiling like she’s too slow to understand. Displaying discomfort is what eggs them on (kind of a nasty realisation she opened her eyes to one day).

An engine growls some way down the road.

Old Chevy pickup, faded gold.

She recognises it from the parking lot at the station near the end of her shift.

A guy stepped out, young, early twenties, with a shock of hair that looked white until she realised it was just really, really blonde. She remembers thinking it was odd. The range of blondes in town runs from deep and dirty to the artificial bleach rattled out of holographic boxes of dye. No one has hair like his. She’d have noticed.

His eyebrows were a little darker, and his lashes were darker still. He had a funny way of walking, and he looked at her like she had the head of a fish and the body of a human being. Amara did her best dopey eyes. She asked him if he’d had a good day, pointed out the offers they had on pork rinds. He didn’t say a word. His skin had smears of black grease, glistening with sweat and bronzed by the sun.

Deep blue eyes.

Horribly deep.

Not the kind you’d want to swim in. She likes a softer blue, blue like chlorine, reminiscent of the safety of swimming pools. His were anything but.

She picks up her speed, and for some reason, puts her phone to her ear as if mid-conversation. Nothing about him said he was dangerous at the time. At least not from the way he’d barely said a word or looked down at her body. He was just there, and then he was gone.

And now here he is again.

The Chevy hits the horn. He is creeping closer. Amara turns and waves at him to go on. She doesn’t want a ride. Why isn’t he rolling down the window to offer one though?

It slows to a crawl. Her throat closes up. She has a feeling speeding up will give him what he wants. He’s obviously trying to be a prick. But if she goes back to talk to him, that would be exponentially worse. She switches her phone back on and sees her stepfather’s message telling her to get back home herself after she didn’t reply to tell him her location.

She quickly shoots him a message, and prays he’ll respond.

He doesn’t.

Fuck it.

She walks faster. The Chevy matches the increase. Sweat blooms on the back of her neck.

Every woman has that oh fuck moment. That I’m going to be on the evening news moment. The please god if he catches me let him kill me before he gets to raping me moment.

None of that goes through her head. She keeps thinking of her mother’s cooking. Her mother hasn’t cooked in a year and a half, not since her mind began to slip. But Amara can taste the spices on her tongue, the way the rice was perfectly simmered, the cinnamon in the back of her throat, the smell that clung to the walls, the heat of it.

I wanna come home, Momma.

Her mother’s face gathers into shape in her head, built with sand particles and saltwater. When the Chevy roars, she starts running. Her mother vanishes.

The lights of the truck blink across the tarmac. It’s a signal. But it isn’t for her.

She looks over her shoulder, and she can’t see him.

Run me over. Leave me like carrion on the road. Let the maggots eat me. Don’t cut me up first.

He slows when she starts to tire out. Picks up when she tries again. No other car has graced this road since she first turned onto it. A sign points her to the right, ushering her deeper into the backwoods. The town is to the left.

He figures out where she’s going when she suddenly makes a dash for the bend in the road.

There’s no time to dodge the pickup when it goes for her this time. The wheels skid as he yanks it at an angle and blocks her way. The door flies open and misses her by an inch. His arm grabs for her. She dodges, animal fear and rust on her tongue. He still doesn’t say a word.

A heavy fist connects with the small of her back and she drops like a stone.

The pain is electric. Air turns her lungs into taut balloons, but she can’t make a sound. She twists around and the bruise forming over her spine grates. Adrenaline quickly numbs it as she lashes out with her arms and legs. Kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Her teeth hit home. A mouthful of tattooed flesh, car oil and sweat. Still no sound from him.

She never sees the fist coming, just like last time.

A blow to the head and lights out, nancy.

[thetriumphantpanda]

Charlie!!! Congrats on the milestone, so well deserved! You've always been such an inspiration to me and I'm sure countless others. Thank you for sharing your talent with us❤️

No rush, but I'd like to place an order for a Negroni Sbagliato: 'I want to fuck you so badly' with murder daddy Dave York 😘🍹

Hello! Thank you so so much, and thank you for sending in a request and celebrating with me - I love you all! One Negroni Sbagliato, coming right up!

Warnings | office romance vibes, power imbalance (boss x employee), smutty thoughts, allusions to smut, inappropriate workplace touching, reader wears a dress, no use of y/n.

Word Count | 598

Join me for a night at Charlie's Tavern to celebrate 4,000 followers!

He looks at you over the top of his computer screen, you can feel it. Those chocolate brown orbs staring at you as you stand to sort through the heap of paperwork on your desk. It’s been like this for months, the dancing around, looking at each other like this across the office. It’s not a secret either - some of the other girls were gossiping, not long after you started, about how he’s never kept the blinds to his office up before, not until you started.

And then there were the touches, your foot running up his legs in meetings, the palm of his hand on the small of your back when you ask him to sign something, the hand on your thigh at the company dinner a few months ago. It’s all worked its magic to make you flustered, to make you think it’s just a matter of time until you get to feel the palm of his hand underneath your clothes instead.

“Hey, girl,” You turn your head, it’s Annie from the finance department, “I’ve got to run, but can you get Dave to sign this before you go tonight?” She asks, handing over a file.

You smile at her and take the manila file in your hand, “Sure, I’ll make sure it’s back to you tomorrow morning.”

She does that thing that women who work in offices do sometimes, squeezes your wrist gently to say thank you, and then is gone in a whirl of trench coat and heels, leaving you to turn your attention back to him, and the eyes that still haven’t moved an inch from you.

The office is quiet, most people having left for the day, so you straighten yourself, pick up the file, and head to his office. You give the door a gentle tap, as if he hasn’t watched you walk over the whole way, and press down on the handle to let yourself in.

You press the door shut with your backside, pressing yourself against the door, until he motions with his head for you to walk over. Instead of standing in front of the desk though, you round it, leaning over his shoulder to put the file on the desk in front of him, opening it and pointing to the bottom of the form where it needs his signature.

Dave reaches across the desk and plucks a pen from the pot next to his phone, pulling off the cap to sign the form. He leans back, leaving the folder open, which means you have to lean forward to close it for it, and as you do, you feel that warm palm of his on the back of your thigh, just underneath the hem of your dress.

Your breath hitches in your throat as it moves higher, slowly trailing up until that hand is resting on the meat of your ass underneath your clothes. You’re suddenly so interested in what this form is for.

He squeezes, enough to make you gasp, enough to make your eyes flutter shut and for your cunt to pulse around nothing, then he speaks.

“I want to fuck you so badly.”

You can’t help but smirk, to lean back into his hand a little, “Not here,” You whisper, leaning over to grab a sticky note and the same pen he’d just used to scribble your address on, “I’ll be here all night,” You muse, picking up the file, begrudgingly moving away from his hand, “I’ll wait up.”

[0bticeo]

j. sims, e. bouchard | knowledge is a double-edged sword

part two of four. (part one.) (part 3.) (part four.)

summary:

a low hum. there’s something sharp in elias' smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

wc. 3k

tw. reader's creeping paranoia, shockinlgy nothing smutty happens in this chapter, manipulation, graphic description of eyes, mild ptsd, nightmares, elias bouchard being a creep.

working in the archives has always been… a little off, for a lack of a better word. you are supposed to research and archive statements regarding “supernatural happenings” in a world where said supernatural has been swiped under the carpet, dismissed with a haughty scoff. still, it pays well. which is why you find yourself clocking in day after day. 

your colleagues… you don’t know what to make of them. not really. sasha’s been… off. you think there’s a void in the shape of her roaming about the place. she’s calm and focused. formal. has trouble logging in her computer - that’s… not right.

martin seems to be taking it well enough for someone who’s spent the past two months sleeping in the archives and then getting attacked by worms. sounds silly. definitely wasn’t. you think there’s much, much more to him than meets the eye and and accept the cups of coffee he hands you with a warm smile. you mean them. you like martin. his poetry a bit less. 

tim… is silent. he’s lost his smile. you haven’t fallen victim to one of his pranks in ages and fear you won’t ever have to worry about a sketchy statement being one of his little jokes. you feel anger bubbling inside of him at the mere mention of having to work in the archives. yet…

yet he’s helping you. 

the library is a quiet affair, the muted sort of silence that hangs like a comforting blanket over your shoulders. dust flutters away in the air, drawn by your steps. tim’s sigh cuts through the silence like a knife.

“why are we doing this again?”

you tuck back a book in its shelf. thankfully, not a leitner. still, nothing to do with architecture.

“because it is our job, tim.”

he scoffs.

“yeah, right. i wasn’t aware it involved risking my life.”

“look, you’re not forced to help me. if it makes you feel better to slack off, then i’m not stopping you.”

he laughs, mocking, almost cruel. the pressure at the back of your neck is near unbearable. you want to scream. you want to tear something apart.

“look at you! acting like everything’s normal! three months ago, you were bleeding out on my lap! how can you-”

“it’s either i focus on something else or i go mad.” you snap a book shut with a sharp intake of air. “you won’t like me mad, tim. now shut up and help me find robert smirke’s books, will you? i’m pretty sure they were there, but-”

his hand clasps around your wrist. 

“hold on. why are you looking for smirke’s books?”

“follow up on a statement involving urbex in the former church of saint james in west hackney. built by, you guessed it, robert smirke himself.”

you watch a flash of… something in his eyes. it looks like guilt in mourning, and you’re itching to pry, pry him open and unearth whatever secrets he keeps buried under a thick layer of good humour turned bitter. 

“it should be around here.”

you end up with three heavy volumes in hand, none of which feel like they’ll help with erin gallagher-nelson’s statement. then, something catches your attention. a small leather volume, tucked away behind the books you’re currently holding. tim’s already on his way out, much to your chagrin. you don’t feel too guilty when you reach for the small little book and tuck away those he’s helped you find, neatly ordered in their rightful place.

the little book in your hand is… not a leitner, which is a relief as you are not wearing gloves. no, it’s bound leather, with no title in sight. you open it, carefully, cradling it against your breast like something fragile, and cast your gaze upon its first page. the juts out in ink far too dark for its age.

the fears that bind us.

turn another page and see the summary. fourteen entries, neatly labelled. the Web. the Dark. the Spiral. the Buried. you pause.

the pinprick pain at your neck sharpens. you’re Watched. there’s nobody but you in the library, but there’s something, watching, always watching, and you can make eyes in the corners of the shelves and they’re peering down at you and they Know you’re starting to suspect something’s terribly wrong with this place and-

thud.

the book falls from your trembling hands. dust rises up, clings to the hem of your trousers. you stare at the dull, unassuming little leather cover and feel its magnetic pull. you Know there’s more to it than it lets on. you pick it up.

(somewhere, the chittering mass of the many-legged mother of puppets spins a chain of events into motion, weaving a pretty plan.)

*

these days, stepping in the institute feels like being strapped down to a vivisection table and having your brain prodded at. it’s oppressive. you become aware of just how many eyes there are in the institute. coworkers from other departments glancing disinterestedly at you. strange motives in the nooks and crannies of the wooden doors and shelves and corridors and floors, eyes half-lidded. pictures and their faded edges, you, tim, martin, jon and sasha (?) huddling close, smiling. portraits - jonah magnus, high and mighty, immortalised in his seat of power. you think his painted lips are curled up a little more than they normally are. you’ve seen that floating smile before.

you take to having your lunch outside of the institute. you find you can breathe easier through the sharp cold of london’s winter air. needle-sharp, it pierces your lungs, scrapes your throat with every mouthful of curry you swallow. you don’t mind. you have jon to huddle close to, no matter how much he rolls his eyes and tells you to take a warmer coat with you. still, he wraps his arm around you and intertwine his fingers with yours.

tim and martin make no comment - you do feel the weight of their gaze on your shoulders as you make your way back to your desk ten minutes sharp after jon comes back to his office. doesn’t matter. by now, you’re used to being watched.

you’re growing tired of it.

going home is no relief - that damned gaze is there, too. you clench your teeth and turn all the mirrors around and tuck away what little pictures you have. your breathing stutters in your throat. there’s a cork board on your wall, now, and you think of the one that lies in jon’s office, red strings stretching and stretching and it still doesn’t make sense. not yet. 

gertrude’s dead - somebody’s murdered her, three bullets, bang, the body falls, bang, bang just to make sure the old bat is dead, a waste of an Archivist. 

jon wants to know who. he tells you, fingers threading through his hair, tape recorder still running, that it could be anyone at that’s been working at the institute since five years. you’ve been hired two years ago, so you’re good, but tim? martin? sasha? elias?

(you’ve pressed your lips to jon’s and sworn to help him, forehead pressed against him in the sweetest oath.)

there are scraps of hastily jotted down notes, pictures faded at the edges. recurring people from statements - gerry keay, michael shelley, simon fairchild, prentiss, salesa. hilltop road. recurring themes, artefacts you took pain to research, asking sasha for help - she did work in artefact storage before, right?

(her smile was sharp when she nodded. too sharp. she laughed as she led you to the basement floor, something like a deadly private joke. you didn’t ask for her help again.)

you take a step back and stare at the board. the strings make no sense, red over red over red, and you have an eye staring back at you, unblinking, thread burned in your retina. 

smirke’s book lies open on your couch. your cat wisely stays away from it. you’ve named him socrates for a reason. you wish you could be blessed with the sage’s foresight.

fears bind you. there’s a classification, Entities that sometimes bleed in the corners of this world, out-of-sight-but-there. you’ll only notice when they strike. when they show themselves, when you realise there’s something terribly wrong with the stranger’s edges peering out of an alleyway, anglerfish luring its prey. poor smoker’s fate. 

a classification. fourteen primal fears straight out of the lovecraftian mythos. the stranger. the Spiral - think of michael, smile curling endlessly in all his sharp edges, laugh like an alarm bell ringing long after he’s gone. the Corruption - jane prentiss and her loving smile and worms burrowing in her flesh and in yours. 

the Eye.

you take in a sharp intake of air and read. 

IT KNOWS YOU.

*

you cannot move. you’re crushed by the sheer magnitude of the structure spreading around you in concentric circles of power. panopticon. he who stands in the centre watches and knows all. is there anyone at all in its centre?

you. you’re kneeling, skin bare and bruised and scraped, the stone harsh and unforgiving, scraping the tender skin of your knee. humidity seeps in through the open pores of your skin. 

you can’t see. it’s too dark, the penumbra stretching and stretching for miles, near corporeal with how thick it is. you think it might be reaching out for your eyes with too long fingers, chipped claws sinking below your eyelid to rip them off. 

you startle.

eyes.

so many eyes, staring at you from the darkness encasing you, with no eyelids so they do not blink. there’s the dreadful suspicion that their optic nerves join, mingle into something you do not want to see. ocular globes, little gelatinous spheres surrounding you, Watching you, Knowing you. you, on your bloody knees, heart stammering under your ribcage like a chased rabbit, your bare flesh cold, cold, cold. 

it’s cutting you open, scalpel gazes making careful, careful incisions in the marrow of your psyche. they’re carving open your head, your skull a neat, organic little box housing the grey matter of your brain. cerebrospinal fluid drips down your cheeks.

you shudder. you can feel them, Watching, Knowing, the mere thought of it a burning streak in your consciousness, they’re picking you apart, they Know what you’ve done, how you break-

you only start screaming when you look up and See.

you startle awake with a shuddering gasp, trembling so badly you can’t even make out the familiarity of your bedroom. breathe in. the darkness isn’t cloying, the street lights worming their way beneath your shutters. breathe out. you can hear the cars running, the nocturnal hustle and bustle of london’s night life. the chatter, the laughter. 

you let out a trembling sigh and run your hand over your face. you find it damp with sweat and tears. a beat of silence. you rest your forehead on your palms, hands gliding down until the heel of your palm is over your socket and you push there until you feel the bone, the gelatinous fragility of your eye. it is not the first time you have these dreams. you wish you could sleep.

you trace the edges of your temples, those you know were left gaping, those you know had been wrenched open- closed. no scar. only those on your thighs, on your forearms, on your hands from these wretched worms.

you close your fingers, nails digging in your bandaged palm and feel a pinprick of pain. the other side of the bed is cold and empty. you glance at the analog clock on your bedside table. the time blares, angry red flashing 5:32 in your retina. three hours left before going to work. 

you get up from the bed and set about changing your sweat-soaked sheets. you’re not going to fall back asleep. might as well get ready for work. you do, body set in autopilot. breakfast. shower. lather hydrating cream over the expanse of you. disinfect the many, many patches of scarred tissues left by the flesh-hive. get dressed - black tailored pants, cream crispy ironed shirt. a spritz of perfume. white flats. a quick glance in the mirror - there you are, the epitome of professional perfection, little miss trust-me-i-have-everything-under-control. 

you don’t.

you’re tired. so, so very tired. exhaustion settles like a heavy weight in your bone marrow, anchors you down until your whole world is clouded. foggy. you don’t remember the last time you’ve pushed the door to the archives without a thin veil clouding your eyes. 

you think of the Narrator, unnamed, bone-deep tired, staring emptily in the camera in a film you can’t say the name of. first rule: you do not talk about it. second rule: you do not, talk about it. everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.

as it goes, you push the door to the archives, step inside the quiet room, shrug off your coat at your designated desk, and go about making yourself some coffee. nobody’s there to plot your bloody murder as you blankly explain that, to you, tea is nothing but bland leaf juice. not that tim or martin would bother these days.

it’s quiet. nobody’s here to see you climb the stairs to the break room on the second floor. the one used by the human resources department. lucky bastards. bastards, period. refusing to hand over the necessary funds to buy another coffee machine for the archives after the first one broke during prentiss’ infestation. and they say their mission is to foster a safe work environment. such a shame your morning murderous urges are only quelled by your second cup of the day.

you grab a mug and press the button. whirring rises in the dry silence of the room. slowly, slowly, the mug is filled up. you inhale and feel your shoulders relax by half a fraction. the heavenly scent of grounded coffee beans percolating feels the room and you find yourself smiling. it doesn’t ease the fogginess clouding your mind. it will do.

large window panes offer a wide overview of the streets below, the early morning fog clinging to humid asphalt, the rare cars passing by. you let out a slow exhale, your breath clouding the window.

your mug is ready.

“is that one for me?”

you startle.

elias bouchard stands behind you, hands clasped behind his back, picture perfect manager in a crisp suit - too stiff, too out of place in his employee’s break room. he’s wearing a phthalo green suit, the one that brings out the green-grey of his eyes. your favourite. and he’s waiting for your answer, you realise after an embarrassingly long amount of time.

there are two mugs in front of you. you blink.

“oh. oh, yes.”

you hand him the first mug and reach for your own. he thanks you with a floating smile and takes a sip. a low hum. 

“so you do have taste.”

you blink.

he’s reclining on a table, watching you. you and your impeccably ironed shirt, cradling your mug like one would something precious. you and the bags under your eyes, so dark they might be embedded in the preciously thin skin below your eyelids.

you snort. 

“just because i have a massive sweet tooth doesn’t mean i’d put sugar in coffee. i’m french, not a complete barbarian.”

you earn a quiet chuckle. something like satisfaction purrs inside of you - you made him laugh, the sound low and rich and deep.

“one might argue that you are, in the literal sense of the term, a barbarian.”

“one might argue that the etymological definition of a barbarian doesn’t apply to me, as i speak your language.”

you watch him, from over the steaming rim of your mug. something like… elation flashes in his eyes. the thrill of debate, maybe.

“do you, now?”

you tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing by a fraction as you assess him. the perfect curl of his lips in that damning razor sharp half-smile. the relaxed slope of his shoulders. the soft stillness of his long, gloved fingers on the table. the glint in his green-grey eyes, daring you to take the bait.

you do, crossing your legs at the ankles, leaning back against the window.

“at first glance, yes.” you point an accusatory finger towards him. “but you, monsieur bouchard, don’t like sticking to first glances and faux-semblants, you’re sharper than that.”

a low hum. there’s something sharp in his smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

he shakes his head.

“it’s convenient, isn’t it? not to have to bear the weight of your mother tongue.”

your shoulders tense. there’s that pinprick pressure at the back of your neck, standing poised and sharp against your vertebrae. he’s watching you, needle-gaze pinning you like a butterfly to a wall. 

“it’s a pain. english and french bleed into one another too much and it messes up my syntax.”

“you’re deflecting.”

“wasn’t your question rhetorical?”

silence. it feels like a loss. one beat, two beat, unsteady, hammering wildly like your heart, beneath layers of flesh and fabric, all perfectly controlled thank you very much.

he’s before you before you know it, close, close enough for you to smell his cologne - something sharp and cold with a faint hint of ink. you raise your eyes and meet his gaze. you think there’s a faint glow to it, irises flashing green for the briefest moments. 

“you’re hard to pin down, my dear.”

you can feel the heat of him, creeping closer and closer as he leans down ever so slightly, one gloved finger curling under your chin, tilting your head up, up, up until the angle makes you wince.

“coming from you, i’ll take that as a compliment.”

a low hum. the building pressure at your nape has you clenching your teeth. then, finally, he lets go, apparently satisfied with whatever it is he’s found in you.

“thank you for the coffee. it has been most… insightful.”

with that, he leaves, and you stand alone in the break room, coffee mug now cold. even without the unbearable weight of his gaze on you, you feel watched. the only thing remaining in the room with you is the portrait of jonah magnus, peering down at you with storm-grey eyes. somehow, it feels familiar.

you want to scream. you gulp down your coffee and leave an empty mug behind.

[thekiltongrammarwriter94]

Under the same Moon

Pippa Fitz Amobi X fem reader

Summary: Sleep. Fascinating topic, really. Did you know that being near someone you love can actually help you fall asleep faster? It’s all about oxytocin—the cuddle hormone. When you’re close to someone you care about, your body releases it, calming your nerves and easing you into slumber.”

Warnings: infinite fluff, Pippa Fitz Amobi being a cuddle bug, insomnia comfort. Some light angst at the beginning, and panic attack Pip and Stanley Forbes mention. Pip being the ultimate girlfriend and dancing you in her arms, humming Pippa Fitz Amobi just for your amusement and request. A few curse words. Could be used as a sleep aid? but more for some comfort and of course all the hugs to Pip. SPOILER BOOK TWO MENTIONS

words: 3.3k+

Author Note: Could possibly have turned out better but alas I have some other Pip ficts lined up in the near future.

It was always there. The sound of the bullet hitting the ground was so vivid and loud in Pip's mind, etched into the way her brain was formed. Lodged in her memory, didn't matter how much time had passed it was still there, forever looming over her like some curse she couldn't lift.

It was here now as she typed on her computer, blue-grey eyes looking downcast as she eyed the illuminated screen in the dark hollowed room of your flat, the small space illuminated only by the small yellow desk lamp that waddled every time she typed a single letter. Pip flinched upon every touch of the keyboard, the sound of the gunfire hiding in every click and every creak of the flat. Pip inwardly cursed herself, 'You're better than this be better than this'.

She admonished herself for every weak thought and every day she would smile and laugh because it felt like in some odd morbid way she was forgetting Stanley, moving on with her life when he didn't have the chance to. It made her knuckles white and blanched when she would think about him, it wasn't as often anymore, and Pip didn’t know what was worse, having him has a ghost or forgetting him and making him into one. Before she would wake up with strangled cries in her throat and would thrash around till you would turn on the bedside lamp and take her into your arms, press butterfly kisses to her warm flushed skin, and cacoon her like some baby Joey in need of its mother's pouch. At first, pip had found it to be embarrassing. She was a young woman now, capable of so many things, she had solved two cases that even Little Kilton police hadn’t been able to. And yet every night without fail you held her close with your soft eyes and even softer hair that would tickle her sides and make her lips lift up into an eager calm grin like some sort of drug from the chemist.

Pip couldn't help but smile when she thought back to you, her grey eyes crinkled inward and she found her chest was lighter, like she could finally breathe after such a long time of her head being underwater. Her eyes moved to the clock, it was witching hour it seemed, 3 am in the small flat on the outskirts of London. When anxiety would take hold of every bone in her body pip knew that it was best to retreat back to you, it was better than having a night full of night terrors and memories of Stanley plaguing her mind.

Turning off her laptop she padded her way softly into the room, eyes taking in the way you breathed, Pip was clever enough to notice that your chest didn’t move as slow, and your eyes were open and staring at the wall like you were in deep thought. “What is a pretty girl like you doing up at this ungodly hour?” She moved to sit in the bed beside you, the soft mattress dipping underneath as she slowly pulled you to her chest, seeking that comforting warmth scent that only you could provide.

You buried your cheeks into her neck, hearing Pip giggle when your warm cheeks met her cool neck. “I’ve been thinking is all. I want to sleep but my brain won’t shut off, it’s like a bloody mouth that doesn’t know when to stop yapping. I’ve been up since you left”.

Pip sucked in a breath, she had left you at a quarter to nine hoping that you had been asleep, but now she felt even more angry with herself. “You mean you haven’t slept at all? All night?”. Her voice was filled to the brim with concern, etched into her furrowed brows and the way the soft pads of her fingers brushed against your hairline, trailing over your skin with gentle ease.

You furrowed your nose, a smile lifting your lips. Whether by utter exhaustion or simply because of being in the presence of a concerned cuddle bug Pippa Fitz Amobi you didn’t know, “It’s cute when you act all concerned pippa…but I’ve been dealing with this for a long while. I just need some melatonin. I just haven’t the time to have a drop-off at the chemist. I suppose I should soon” You smiled softly at her, but Pip knew by the bags under your eyes and the fatigued glint in your colored hues that you were positively hanging on by a thread. She was too, emotionally more so.

“I can’t sleep either. It’s Stanley” she spoke. Her grey flecks eying your soft eyes seemed to fill with hurt at the man’s name. “I’m so-“Pip sighed into your neck, feeling that rush of emotions and the way her tears brimmed out of her eyes, fast and without even acknowledging her and asking if she felt like crying and the weight that came with crying. The weighted chest and unbearable stuffy nose.

“I’m so angry”. The words rushed out, muttered into your warm skin. You instinctively moved to wrap your arms around your girl, your fingers working effortlessly in her hair, massaging her neck and kissing the inner workings of her warm forehead. You knew Pip and her utter distaste for crying, for “sniveling like a school child” she would say. You knew how clever and logical she was, how she worked well with certain aspects of life. Emotions were not one of them.

“I’m so angry at myself for feeling normal. For the first time in years, I feel like myself again. I feel happy..” at this pip clung to you, “and I feel selfish because half of me yearns for that, yearns for a life with you where I don’t feel guilty, where I can leave Stanley behind in peace knowing that I did all I could”.

But did she?

Had she really truly tried enough?

Pip was brought out of her inner thoughts by warm solid hands on her cheeks, bringing her eye level with you. You looked conflicted as you eyed her; like a million thoughts were floating around your head.

Your fingers cupped her chin gently, “that was not your fault….that was not your fault”. Your words were hard and filled to the brim with utter conviction that Pip knew you were right. Some deep part in her mind hidden away recognized you were right. Whether she wanted to admit it was difficult to say.

“You did all you could pip. God that house was on fire and you still tried all you could”. You chuckled, emotion in your eyes as you peered down at your girlfriend’s eyes. They were such a dark color of blue in this light, a deep solar system blue that you would love to peer at through bed sheets and often times upside down as you would kiss her lips before departing.

But now they were filled with anguish, and it hurt you to know that. You wished you could take it all away. The hurt, the anger, the feeling of loss. Of looking over your shoulder. But you knew you couldn’t, so you settled for being her comforter.

“I don’t want you to blame yourself anymore my love”. You wiped a tear from her pale cheeks. “Say it…it wasn’t my fault”.

It took a second, more than a second. Pip struggled to say the words, her lips shook and her eyes pooled with unshed tears, and through it all, you held her closer and leaned your forehead against hers, eye to eye, heart to heart, pulse to pulse.

“You can do it pip” you urged, your voice gentle, soft as if soothing a child.

Pip drew in a long breathe, her breathing ragged as she closed her eyes and tears fell down her pale cheeks, but soon they were open and eying you with such adoration you couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

“It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault…I didn’t…I didn’t kill Stanley”.

You wanted to cry too at her admission. Wanted to bring her close and cry into her neck and tell her that she was so strong, a solid person with a strong courageous heart. You wanted to cocoon her close and never let go. Never let the world bark and scratch at her like they had, had been ever since the case. You wanted to keep her all to yourself, some selfish part of you wanted to keep her close.

You settled for an encouraging smile, the tips of your fingers ghosting over her lips, “yeah…that was good love. You did so well”.

Pip immediately dove into your arms, landing on your lap and cuddling into like a koala would its mother, you chuckled, pulling her flush against you.

“I love you”.

The admission made your heart flutter and leap. You loved this girl too, sometimes so bad that it hurt, and you knew you would do anything for her. Anything. Pip could ask you to jump, simple, and you would ask with your adoring eyes ‘How high?’. It was almost panic-inducing how much your love-filled heart was stitched together by pip.

“I love you pippa fitz Amobi. More than you could ever know”.

Pip smiles that wide bashful smile, her grey eyes glinting as she moves from her spot on your chest, her demeanor shifting as her sneaky nimble fingers fly up your arm till they make contact with your chin, pulling gently but firmly that you felt like a deer in headlights as pip loomed over you, her eyes a deep and hollow blue, taking in everything from your sleep shirt to your messy tousled bed head, strands of wavy hair falling at your shoulders.

Pip could feel her heart soar in her chest as she eyed you, under her, under her fingertips. Something in her preened at knowing you were hers, it screamed the word ''MINE' over and over again as her eyes scanned you, leaving her dizzy and full of aching want. A want that made her want to pull you close and never let you go. Wanted her to hear your heartbeat against her ear during long nights and know that even if she was far away in her head you were across the room with your sweet smile and kind eyes. You were always there. And she needed that.

“God I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are” Pip’s voice was soft yet hoarse from her crying, but her eyes were delicate as she smiled that same pip smile. The smile that made your stomach twirl and your heart face at just the sight.

At the same moment, Pip jumped from bed, so fast and sudden you didn’t even register her soft fingers as they pulled you up from your comfy bed, “I have a brilliant idea, come with me”. Her voice was tinged with excitement and a teasing smile that made your head fill with cotton.

Before you knew it pip was pulling you into your dark kitchen nothing but the shine of the moon looming over you two, a smile on her face as she briskly filled the kettle with water quite impatiently and placed it on the hob, all while eying you with bright teasing blue eyes.

“What are we doing?” You giggled as Pip moved closer to you, a new glint in her eye as she pulled you close, her hands firm in the way they held you, “Dancing” she stated, and you couldn’t help but laugh as Pip began to rock you back and forth, steady in her movements.

“There isn’t any music pip!” You giggled into her neck but you didn’t mind, not one bit. Not when Pip was laughing and her eyes had a shine to them as she pulled a certain move and twirled you around your small cramped kitchen flat. Pippa Fitz Amobi was dancing around your shared flat with wild abandon, brown chestnut curls wild as she pulled you close to her chest and rocked her body with yours, giggling and laughing along the way at your absolutely horrid dance moves. Although she could never have them, not when you looked so flushed and so beautiful.

She couldn’t help but watch you as your lips flew into a smile that filled her aching heart with joy. The type that she searched for when she was too far gone, lost in the memories that haunted her, you had always been her light in the tunnel of life. Pulling her out of the dark depths of her mind and making her feel like she was the only one in the world. She was more than the girl who solved cases, more than everything little Kilton and the world had coined her as.

Pip also just didn’t understand how you could look so devastating and heart wrenchingly attractive with your pajama shirt that rode up a few inches and your hair an unruly mess, but you were. A sight for sore eyes as she brought you fast into a twirl into her chest holding you close and laughing into your neck when you teased her about her moves.

It was only till the giggles had halted and you relaxed your body into her tight embrace that you began to watch the way Pip’s eyes eyed you. Gone was the playful joyful pip, her embrace was soft yet held a certain air to it as she began to eye your lips. A quick snap to your pink crimson cheeks most likely brought on by the wild dance in the kitchen and Pip was leaning down to connect your lips. Her fingers moved to take your chin in her palm, her kiss soft and gentle but slowly building up speed as she pushed you up onto the counter, careful not to get you close to the kettle. You responded in time, your own fingers pulling her in closer by her hair and you smiled vigorously when Pip gasped into your lips and her tongue began to tease your lips with that wild curiosity that made your stomach twist and the white-hot heat slide into your veins.

Kissing Pip was like a dream, the way your chest would ignite and fill your heart with that spark, that fluttering in your chest that you knew was love. You began peppering kisses against her jaw and nipping at her ear the way you knew she liked when the sudden scream of the kettle caused Pip to sigh against you and pull away.

Her cheeks were ruddy and her lips pink as she licked her lips, sighing into you with broken breaths.

“Like that dance did you?”.

You smiled and jumped of the counter, Pip being her usual gentlewoman self and offering you help, her fingers almost possessive as she lifted you of the counter and onto your feet.

“You just sit right there pretty girl"” she stated before going back to the kettle and pouring copious amount of milk into the mugs.

You wanted to listen to Pip and sit on the stool like the good girl you were, but you were also curious about what Pip was doing, she had never acted so in the moment filled with sporadic ideas till now.

“What are you doing? I was so distracted by your sudden dance performance I didn’t ask what you were doing” you spoke into her as you wrapped your arms around her figure, leaning your head over her shoulder slightly as she pulled some Cadbury chocolate mix into each before stirring.

“I’m making us some hot chocolate, isn’t that what your mum use to make when you were little? You mentioned when you couldn’t sleep your mum would make you some hot chocolate and you’d talk and talk till you fell asleep. I thought we could keep that tradition”

The warmth that filled your chest was light and you only smiled that shy smile, you had mentioned that to Pip maybe once in primary school, in the canteen filled with the anxious rambling pupils of Kilton grammar and you had been sure she hadn’t heard you, but she apparently had.

“I mentioned that to you in year 10 pip, I honestly thought you hadn’t heard or you didn’t quite remember” you spoke and Pip shook her head, mouth twisted in a bewildered expression, “of course, I remembered! You were the cutest thing sitting in front of me with your wild fast lips. Who else would I have paid attention to?” Pip asked, her lips warm as she pressed a firm kiss to your forehead and handed you your cup, “it’s hot so be careful”.

“Do we have any peppermint sticks? ”

“I still don’t get your obsession with those peppermint sticks” Pip spoke, shaking her head before producing one and stirring it in your cup, but she had to admit the sight of you with a candy stick between your wet pink lips was definitely something she had never seen before.

Once Pip had her cup and tasted some, her expression filled with utter kiddish glee she took you by your waist as you both stumbled back into bed, you chastising Pip to be careful over your sheet covers as you had just done a full washing the day before did pip laugh and smile, “I’m always observant and careful my love, I did solve two cases remember?”.

“Of course of course my mistake inspector Amobi” you chuckled into your cup.

Your flat was calm and quiet as you and pip some, laughs and giggles falling out of your mouths, “Cara did not say that. She would never!”

Pip eyed you with wild eyes, “have you even met Cara? That is exactly something she would say! She has an ungovernable tongue that girl”.

“Speaking of ungovernable tongues” you spoke, putting your mug down on the nightstand and moving into Pip’s lap, eyes taking in the way her eyes flew down to your mouth.

“That little make-out session you gave me in the kitchen was very well received” you spoke, smiling against her lips when she pulled you in for one more long kiss, stealing the air from your lungs and making your stomach flip with every brush of her fingers against your skin.

“Are you still sleepy?” She asked between kisses, and you chuckled. “I would totally fuck you on this bed right now if I could but my eyes are closing and I feel like I’m eating your lips” you mumbled.

Pip laughed, breaking the kiss before moving to lean her head against yours.

“I should probably get my tired girl to bed shouldn’t I? You have an early morning and it’s already 3:30. Sleep. Fascinating topic, really. Did you know that being near someone you love can actually help you fall asleep faster? It’s all about oxytocin—the cuddle hormone. When you’re close to someone you care about, your body releases it, calming your nerves and easing you into slumber.” pip spoke as she pulled you to her chest, all clever tongue as you both positioned yourself under the covers.

You smiled at her knowledge, moving to nestle your cheeks into her chest. Her fingers were soft as they drew calming circles of messages on your hair, the world calm and dark as you listened to her heartbeat, it was strong and seemed to lull your wild thoughts in your mind.

“Would you mind if I asked you a favor?” Your words were slurred, evidence of your tired state. Pippa chuckled and smiled even through her sleepy state, her fingers still managing to caress your cheeks and your hairline. Soft touches that eased your eyes closed. It reminded you of your mother and her soft eyes.

“What would this favor be?” Pip spoke, her anxiety had calmed down significantly and having you in her arms was like a dream, a way to lull her to sleep and calm her night terrors.

“Could you hum me to sleep?”. You were too tired to care how childish you sounded, but pip had a calming humming voice, soft and delicate that filled your head with warmth.

“For you anything”.

The soft hum of pip’s voice was all you needed. It only took a few moments before your eyes were closed fully and your chest rose and fell with even breathes. Pip followed behind, her fingers moving to lay over you and being you closer to her. Your calm and even breathes mixed with your warmth was the perfect calming remedy lulling her to sleep.

[chitinleg]

[trailerparkdad]

welcome to the life of a quiet lab technician

[iangallagherisadeadman]

post-s11 Tami definitely gets tired of Lip and leaves him.

yes, I do like them as a couple, I think it is an interesting dynamic and that Tami is good for him honestly, even though they lived completely different lives and crash so many times because of it throughout the last seasons.

fact is Lip won't ever change and will keep making the same kind of mistakes and she will get fed up with it eventually. they'll go different ways, maybe keep a somewhat friendly relationship, and she will get a new partner and Lip will have a Sean kind of relationship with Fred: that kid is the most important thing in his whole life and he's constantly hunted by the fear of drinking again and hurting Fred.

[starrysharks]

zeno's ultimate pokemiku tierlist ⁉️(it's all his opinion and he loves them all regardless⁉️)

[wormy-worm]

ok u know what maybe if the world isn't ready for sunrazer post that means that the world IS ready for Amoveous siblings post. This is Milo and Enho and theyre my DARLINGS and i love them SO MUCH. i have. SOOOOOOOO many thoughts abt them but after the previous post massacre i do not really feel like typing all of that xoxo love <3

[dullahandyke]

didnt even touch on the sandra lynn stuff int he tags of the last post bcos if i talk about her im liable to explode. get behind me, middle-aged divorced woman proficient in archery

[toytulini]

god I know this is like The Wrong Stance on AI. I know its not about whether the art is Real and Human or If It Has A Soul and how a lot of the arguments against it are the same bullshit arguments people made against digital art like I Know. I Knowwww. but god, I'm really sorry, not to post like one of those annoying poetry bloggers I cant stand (yall are valid, live your truth, theres nothing wrong with what you post I'm just a petty bitch who hates poetry. unless I dont hate it.)

But theres just something about the way AI art will almost certainly never be able to mimic the exact way my pencil leaves an indentation in the paper, the way some of the lines I can never fully erase cause I pressed too hard, theyll have to at least train them to draw with a physical pencil first, and sure, they could train it to draw with a pencil and even erase the exact same piece I drew, line for line, on a piece of paper with a robot arm powered by AI, but they can't replicate. idk. the lineage of lefty bitches in my family, and the way I grew up going through school with my entire left arm silver with graphite, from doodling on my schoolwork. not yet anyway. but I guess I do live for the day we make the ai sentient enough that we can traumatize it by giving it homework after kneecapping its executive functions so it copes by drawing a big tiddy lobster monster. sure

[alstroemerian-dragon]

chiaki is such a good and interesting character. wish she was in a better game

[giantchasm]

Random Kirby Headcanon #30

Star Dream wasn’t technically malicious. Malice implies intent, and intent implies desire, none of which it had… at least up until the very end.

This is all to say it didn’t warp Susie away on purpose, nor did it try to break Haltmann’s brain. It was just… unfinished and broken— an ancient, all powerful machine built by people who did not and could not understand its true power or mechanics. Broken machines malfunction. Usually, this is inconvenient at worst. But when a supercomputer with the ability to grant wishes does the same?

…Well, it’s catastrophic.

It was not even truly sentient until the climax of Planet Robobot. Susie’s mistake and the merge with Haltmann’s consciousness gave it free will and personhood. Suddenly, it was alive.

It only makes sense it chose to try and destroy the universe, really. It had only ever synced with two people, and those two people were broken, angry, selfish, hurting individuals. Star Dream came to associate life with suffering and bitterness, having learned from a broken family.

So it decided it would destroy. Like they did. Surely that was the only way for a better future. Organic lifeforms hated each other and hated being alive. It saw its actions as putting an end to their despair.

…Up until the very end, it thought what it was doing was right and that it did it’s job as a miracle machine. After all, it only ever did what it was supposed to. It even granted both Haltmann and Susie’s subconscious, most desired wishes:

His to see her again and hers to make him suffer. Which isn’t to say that Susie wanted Haltmann to die— she didn’t, but there was resentment there. She wanted to hurt and humiliate him not only to try and make him come to his senses, but also out of an internal, unacknowledged sadness and anger.

In his last moments, Haltmann remembered who Susie was. Star Dream bought his precious daughter “home.”

Similarly, Haltmann suffered. He suffered as Star Dream assimilated him, and he died in antagonizing pain.

Which is to say… it made their wishes come true, didn’t it? It granted their desires. It didn’t do anything wrong. It just did what they asked! Why was it decommissioned!?

…Needless to say, it didn’t even know it was broken.

[joyful-patient-faithful]

Local libraries getting rid of physical medias such as newspapers, magazines, cds, dvds, and audiobooks is turning experiencing art into a privilege instead of a right but I don't think you guys are ready for that conversation