#The Scalpel and the Soul

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Temple of the Heart with the super moon. Burning Man 2023 [Rand Larson]:: [Camp Envy]

* * * *

This invisible support is "The" reality, after all, that we depend upon. The love and help that comes our way is always right on time and so appreciated.

“No one accomplishes anything in this life on his or her own. Even when we stare in awe at what might appear to be a solitary feat - like climbing to the top of a mountain alone - there is invisible support. There are loved ones at home who cherish the adventure. A mentor to teach. A colleague with whom the experience can be shared. And unseen magic too.”

― Allan Hamilton, The Scalpel and the Soul: Encounters with Sugery, the Supernatural, and the Power of Hope

[pearly-sims]

I can’t believe these are the first pieces of fanart I’ve made for @comicaurora

[mic-check-stims]

Day 4: Make a board based on your favorite spooky movie

X-X-X X-X X-X-X

[beeejayy]

She looked me dead in the eyes, and says

"Hey Brian, if you still believe in the lord above, get on your hands and knees, and pray for us."

[quick-attack]

Some DragonDuel illustrations I'm fond of.

(In order: Salamander, Shield of the Skyknight, Dancing Flame, Skyfish Courier, Swordmage's Strategy, Scrying Eel, Rotting Nobleman, Skeleton Knight, Soul Sacrifice, Bone Excision)

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Friendly neighborhood forensic pathologist Danny Fenton is a new master of The Court of Owls? (Dead on main, of course) +Part 2: Talon Dick

Don’t underestimate what a ghost will do for a higher education. You see, it's the custom of the Fenton family not to run away from things they are afraid of but to face their fear. So Danny Fenton, who has learned to fear scalpels, steel clamps and surgical retractors, decides to do something about it and to dedicate his life to giving souls of those who died a violent death the final rest and justice they deserve.

Well, it didn’t really come to him at once. It started out as a simple joke:

Danny didn’t think he could continue his education after school. Frankly, his grades suck. However, Tucker for fun applied for a scholarship for gifted villains from Gotham University on his behalf.

And hell, they are willing to pay money for his education. Pay in full! Living in Park Row is also incredibly cheap. And with his flying ability, he’ll also save on transportation.

Danny is not a villain. And he’s not planning on becoming one. But he couldn’t lose that chance.

Why do you deserve this scholarship? “My parents are renowned ecto scientists, and I’ve seen their dissection work at its best. Medical school is expensive, and this scholarship will help me accomplish my goal of becoming a forensic pathologist and helping maintain the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead…or use it for my own ends. Of course.”

Well, Mr Two-Face was fully confident that despite his grades in the subjects, Danny was fully committed to achieving high academic achievement. Finally, work experience of Dan came in handy somewhere.

There were only few things about the death that Danny didn’t find on his own or from his ghost friends, so he managed to graduate in record time. Young Fenton thought he was lucky enough to get a job near Crime Alley. It was odd that the job was available. Even a new specialist like him was allowed to work full-time. And the salary was very decent.

~~~~~~

Danny: Yes, Jazz, everything is just fine. I found a great job and I’m trying to relax and find a hobby, you know. Started feeding the local birds. Apparently they were abused, the poor things are so shy and aggressive.

The local birds:

~~~~~~

Let’s say that a returned Jason as undead cannot be killed for forever. The stab wounds heal quickly, the bullet holes sometimes itch unpleasantly for a few days, but in general his regeneration is at a level with some metahumans. This is convenient. But when Red Hood wakes up in the morgue after a particularly severe injury, he’s not happy. Sometimes even looking in the mirror at his dissection scar is difficult for him. And this situation is a fucking nightmare. Danny: Oh. Are you awake now? I’m sorry I didn’t have time to put you on the couch, I didn’t have clean sheets and my assistant would have killed me because of the new stains. Red Hood: What the hell? I’m sorry?! It’s fucked up! I’d love to see you wake up on the dissection table. Danny: Been there Done that. But hey, I didn’t put you there. You didn’t get here on my shift, give me a break.

Jason: …So, what's now? Danny: Well, I can offer you tea or coffee. Of course, only after I sew up the hole in your stomach and give you a change of clothes. Or I could go after the documents and pretend I didn’t notice one of my bodies got away. But then don’t dream about novocaine blockade. Pretty liver by the way, you don’t see that much in crime lords. Jason: Um, thank you? But you’re weird. Usually people are praised for the beauty of the face or eyes rather than… Danny: Wow, now I feel attacked.You wake up in your helmet. I can’t compliment what I can’t see. Jason: Gee, I’m surprised your colleague hasn’t taken it off yet. Danny: And lose important evidence? It is not customary for us to put curiosity above professionalism.

~~~~~

Jason learns quickly that although Batman is willing to go anywhere to track him, there are always exceptions to the rule. The morgue was one of them. Not surprisingly, the emotional constipation and uncomfortable theme of Jason’s death worked like a perfect bat repeller. Over time, Jason becomes really interested in a guy who genuinely laughs at his death jokes and listens to his problems at work without judgment. Danny is too cute and nice.

Danny*works*: No visitors allowed here.

Jason: Unless you are a zombie, right?

Danny:...Still not one of your hideouts. The book is where you left it, make some tea if you want it.

~~~~~

Jason, once again delivered without a sign of life to Danny after the fight, woke up during pupillary reflex test.

Jason: Oh, beauty, you are just dazzling today.

Danny: As I thought, your regeneration didn’t cure your concussion before your resurrection. I’ll give you referrals for all the tests and examinations. And we really should stop seeing each other like this. Please take care of yourself.

Jason: I don’t think you have the right to prescribe them to me. Danny: Technically I do not. But we live in Gotham. And for some time the hospital where I work at night is very sensitive to my requests.

Red Hood: And why? Danny: It’s hard to explain… Red Hood: Doctor Handsome, I’ve been through some shit, so try to surprise me. Danny: Okay, okay. Look, you are a crime lord for not too long, right? But criminals and cops are afraid of you and kids and your henchmen really likes you. Jason: ..So what? Danny: Can you please recommend how to maintain a reputation but so your people aren’t afraid of you? Jason: Why do you need this information? Your assistant finally realized you’re friends with walking corpses? Danny: It’s not about that! Although, like.. you aren’t wrong? It’s complicated. I may, well, accidentally, honestly, have seized power over a local secret aristocratic criminal society.

Jason: Baby, please tell me everything. I have a restaurant as a front for a business nearby. It’s a date. Let's go. Danny: Let me finish a few stitches first, Jay.

~~~~~

Red Hood and Red Robin fight near Batman: Hood: Replacement was on patrol without permission! Red Robin: And Jason is dating the new owner of Court of Owls! Batman:.. he's doing WHAT? Jason, how could you take such a risk? it is completely unprofessional and Red Hood: At least he loves me for what’s inside me! Red Robin: Yeah, like a beautiful liver. It’s a great relationship base. Red Hood: I’m talking about my feelings and interests. Dumb lil stalker with a big mouth! I’ll teach you not to bother my boyfriend.

~~~~~

Henchman: Boss. We shouldn’t go into that area, the rumors are that there are Talons here. Red Hood: All under control, they won’t touch us. Henchman: How can you be sure? The poem says 'Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow..' Red Hood: Yeah yeah "speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head". I’m sleeping with their boss, of course I’m sure. Henchman: Boss, don’t kid like that. Red Hood: I don’t pay you for gossip. Let's go.

Dick, to whom the memories began to return, haunts Jason because he did not cut for Lil Wing apple slices like he likes for lunch: Talon came to finish the job. Henchmen: scream

~~~~~

Jason *shows Danny 'Red Flags' on youtube*: Hey, baby, want to be a little shit on our date? I know where Brucie Wayne’s having dinner tonight, so you can meet the family.

[thejollywriter]

The point of writing is to put humanity on the surgical table and do the goddamn autopsy. Your pen if the scalpel and this is the work.

And inside, between those ribs and amidst the gore and the pretension do you know what you find?

Everything.

The human soul is Pandora's Box and inside that you find all the cruelty, misery and grief and sadness you can imagine, and more you can't.

And you'll also find joy.

Incredibly there are flowers growing between those ribs and the blood doesn't stain them.

You'll find humor beyond measure and grace enough to drown the rage. And you'll find happiness, too, a desperate relief at being alive.

And this is what you write about. Anything and everything in between.

[foggyfrogss]

« MOIRA › fate; destiny

Gojo x Reader | Warnings: Pure Angst | Discord 18+ | One Shot List

Synopsis— You are reminded of the horrors of Jujutsu, witnessing the last moments of Satoru Gojo and Yuta Okkotsu.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Your mind repeats the phrase, over and over.

“Wake up…”

It had just been you left in the room.

No other signs of life. No other signs of life.

On the metal he lay, motionless and coated in red. It’s all red.

There was no way he could be dead.

“Wake up!” It’s a selfish act, pleading a dead man to wake up.

Oh how you only wanted to see those eyes just one more time. Just one more time.

His face is still, holding an expression you’d never seen him make.

Satoru Gojo was at peace.

Though severed in more places than one, cut in half and bleeding out; he was at peace. A peace he couldn’t find living, even if he searched far and wide. It was an unreachable peace for a man who was as burdened as he was. He was free.

Tangled in your soul, he stays, making it difficult to breathe.

The short time you had alone with him had not been enough, you wished for more— but Shoko had been insistent on preparing his corpse.

Satoru was good at many things, one thing being that he always kept you out of the loop of his plans. “You’re what?” The words fall from your lips in a shocked tone, devoid of anger but filled with horror.

You couldn’t be angry at Shoko for something out of her control. She wanted the same as you; you could see it on her face and in the amount of finished cigarettes on the floor.

“If we hit rock bottom— meaning we have no other choice, if Yuta can’t do it,” Shoko begins to explain as she rids Gojo’s face of the dried blood, “we are to swap Yuta’s consciousness into his body.”

“He was okay with this?” You ask, motioning towards Gojo. Shoko nods, but only once. Her tired eyes jump from his corpse to meet your eyes. “He was sure he��d win, but then expressed that he did not care what happened to his body… if he were to die.”

In silence, though standing back far enough to give Shoko room, you watch her prepare his body. The squeaking wheels of a cart could be heard as she brings over a tray of medical tools.

She cleans off the dried blood after removing the scraps of his torn shirt. In silence, Shoko stitches the man’s body back together. Almost like a puzzle.

She cleans the remaining blood, and then pauses; she’s looking up at you, brown eyes peaking up. Though her face is masked, she’s showing her concern.

“The next part may be hard to watch,” she says steadily, holding up what looks to be a type of scalpel.

One part you had completely missed was how the consciousness would be swapped.

“Wait,” you’re saying, “what are you about to do?”

It’s silent for a beat, and you don’t miss the way her fingers slightly tremble. “The curse that was inside Geto’s body- Yuta will be copying that technique to use Gojo’s technique.”

It was clear as day now, and your eyes widen.

“You’re using-“ you are cut off with a loud popping sound. Ui-Ui appears out of thin air, holding— to the best of his abilities, Yuta Okkotsu.

Once again, all you see is red. It’s spilling onto the floor, a lot faster than Gojo’s had been. Yet, as you watch in pure horror, you see the way Yuta is still alive. He’s still moving, but slowly. Yuta’s energy flickers as it clings to life.

Shoko had dropped everything in her hands to push another metal table over, helping Ui-Ui place his severed body onto it. Piece by piece, careful not to hurt him more than he already was.

Just like Gojo, Yuta matches his sensei’s fatal wounds.

Seconds after Yuta’s arrival, the double-doors to the morgue/medical area are busted open. A kid, who you faintly recall as Amai, and Nitta flood in. Both of them rush to Yuta’s side, doing what they can to help him.

With a few minutes passing, you feel the tension in the air rise. It thickens uncomfortably, making you more anxious than you already were. “It’s no use,” you hear Nitta express. “All my RCT is doing is pausing it— it’s not getting better or worse.”

“Rika is how I’m still conscious, b-but that’s at its limit too…” you hear Yuta’s strained voice choke out. It’s absolutely gut-wrenching, hearing a kid— Satoru’s student, you grew to know so well suffer in such a way. “Ieiri, we’re doing it,” he says, “we have to do it. There’s no other choice.”

For a second, it’s deathly silent. All that could be heard is the strained breathing of Yuta Okkotsu.

“I have finished the stitching on Gojo’s corpse. As soon as you have moved in, push your reverse cursed technique to its maximum and get the body ready,” Shoko is turning slightly to lock eyes with Amai. “Amai, you will help me support him.”

“You have the option to stay and watch or save yourself the grief.”

You are already grieving, what more could make it worse? You stay silent, practically unable to speak.

Her words make you glance up at her, tearing your eyes away from Yuta as you watch Amai move towards his extended right hand.

“Come with me,” you feel Nitta take hold of your hand, pulling you towards the exit.

As if you’re on auto-pilot, your legs take you with her. Your head stays turned as you leave, watching as Shoko begins cutting into Gojo’s head.

The sight is gruesome, making you sick, but the double-doors shut before you can watch any further.

Unable to move any further, you’re falling to your knees, releasing a pained sound as you feel the grief finally take hold of the wheel. It’s painful.

“No…” you gasp out, shutting your eyes tightly together. The last thing you wanted to do was cry, but the tears find their way out, falling down your cheeks in heavy streams. “This isn’t real,” you say, clenching your teeth. “Satoru couldn’t have just died like that.”

Nitta is silent.

When you no longer feel Yuta’s cursed energy, you know.

After peeling yourself off the ground, you’d found a seat in a row chairs just outside the morgue. You assumed they were for grieving people such as yourself. People who needed to say goodbye one final time.

It’s quiet. A quiet that leaves you bare and lonely, alone with your thoughts. All you can think about is how you’ll never see him again.

As you sit in the depths of your mind, wading through heavy thoughts and feelings, a sharp feeling strikes you. It hits you hard, making you jolt.

It was him. It was his energy.

“Satoru…” you’re saying to yourself, in disbelief, picking yourself up from the seat. Nitta notices you immediately, quickly reaching for you, but you slip away.

Your anguish had blinded you. All you wanted was him and currently all you could feel around you was him.

In a haze, you’re opening the doors to the medical area, wincing from the bright lights. Your body reaches for him, grasping at the air. It’s like a magnetic pull, unable to resist the force, you’re scanning the room for him.

Your heart thumps, sending a wave of tingles through you as you finally spot him.

Lost due to the overwhelming events, you weren’t sure what to expect. It had completely slipped your mind as to what Shoko genuinely meant when she’d explained… though you understood, nothing could prepare you for what you found.

Shoko is eyeing you worriedly.

The man turns, locking eyes with you.

Oh how you only wanted to see those eyes just one more time. Just one more time. Yet, when that wish is granted, when you lock eyes with this man— it’s not the same. At all.

They are distant, lacking the vibrancy of life Satoru Gojo once held when he looked at you. Blue, striking and bright, they’re now cold. Cold like the body that lay on that table moments ago.

The peace was gone, as was Satoru Gojo.

Dead man walking, he moves awkwardly, like a reanimated corpse trying to learn how to walk again.

Disheveled hair, you can see the fresh stitching across his forehead; Geto’s face pops into your mind.

Next to Gojo’s body, Shoko moves away, going to the other side of the room. The air around her has completely shifted, and you understand immediately.

In the background, you can hear Shoko clean the tools she’s used for surgery.

“Yuta,” you say, directing it towards Gojo’s body. When his mouth opens to speak, you feel as if your heart is ripped from your chest.

Gojo was not free. Though death has lifted the burden of his status off his soul, he is unable to rest. He is not free— a weapon, taken advantage of and used selfishly by your fellow sorcerers for their gain. For Japan’s gain. Call it selfish, but you understood why the plan had been kept from you now.

Hell would freeze over before you agreed to such a thing, even if Gojo was okay with it.

To have a body; to just exist, is to suffer— it was what you learned from him in the handful of years you had known Satoru Gojo.

He was not a man to speak up, especially about himself; you could see it in his eyes rather than being told in words. The second his blindfold was removed in the comfort of your home, his entire story would be told, expressed only to you in private.

He was a man, a human, just like any other sorcerer... just as Geto was.

To be used in the same way as his late best-friend, but this time for good; it was more than tragic... disturbing and unforgivable.

“Hello,” he says your name after, following the greeting.

It is his voice. It is his voice.

Under a white sheet, Yuta’s body— now corpse, lays still. His brain, and complete consciousness, residing in the corpse of your late lover.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says before disappearing from the room. His voice is pained, as if he had been in your shoes himself. As if he had been the one to witness his lover's body being used as a tool.

Silence follows his departure, filling the cold room.

You hadn't known warmth since he turned cold.

[cordeliawhohung]

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [11]

pet!au | ghoap x fem!reader | tag list

old memories

cw: non-con, PTSD, anxiety, slight suicidal ideation, manipulation, extremely unsafe handling of firearms

No matter how many years pass, Johnny’s still in that tunnel. 

Those damp walls follow him everywhere, and the humidity clings to his body like a second skin. Smothers every pore of his body until it’s screaming for air. Or, is that blood? The substance that trickles down the side of his face, sticky and warm? It envelops the line of his jaw like a tender lover. Like devoted fingers caressing the pain that florescences on the soft side of his skull. He needs the nails to puncture the bone. Seep into the tissue of his brain and remove the anguish that festers like a bad wound. 

A great roaring volume drowns out his senses as hands paw at his chest. He’s shaken like someone attempting to rouse their child from slumber but he doesn’t want to wake up. He needs to seep into the concrete. Liquify and soak into the cold, unforgiving ground, but he won’t. The hands dragging him by his vest refuse to allow it. He can’t die because someone wills it otherwise. Then comes the metal. Tongs and needles; scalpels that slice and tear; saws that grind marrow into dust — it hurts worse than the impact. Worse than an entry wound that bubbles and flattens into a cavern nothing can reach.

When he opens his eyes, there’s nothing but white. Walls, linen, clothes; it’s a blank canvas for him to paint on, and yet he can’t see the image. Gentle shapes and sounds, he tries to remember his cousin’s name but can’t. Wants to shape his mouth into the word but his tongue has forgotten the dance. He can’t remember the number assigned to him when he used to play keeper in football. The memory of his mother’s voice is distorted. Something is broken about his father’s face. He can hardly recall the name of the man always at his bedside. 

Ghost. Is that it? Weird bloke with the mask and dark eyes. There’s vague memories about him. Good ones. Ghost barks at the nurses and doctors who come to see him, always questioning what they’re doing. Why they’re injecting him with certain things. Johnny watches him. Thick fingers clench and relax like waves along the coastline. There is more to his name. It’s shrouded in fuzzy memories. Wading through the static, he plucks the word and lets it sit on his tongue until he’s able to get the useless muscle to move. 

“Simon?” 

Things hurt more after he says that word. That name. Calls upon the devil; sells his soul to a demon with dark eyes and lips that can’t properly curl anymore because of the scar tissue. He fights. Shreds skin with sharp teeth. Doesn’t care who the skin belongs to. Johnny’s regressed. Gone backwards in evolution. Has turned into nothing more than a bad dog locked in a cage, left alone to lick his wounds. Only the clink of his collar keeps him company. 

But the only thing that makes a dog bad isn’t because they bite or bark — it’s that they’re scared. Confused. He flails and howls lamenting cries as he tries to make sense of the collar and cage, or why his name seems to be something he can’t recapture. The only thing that’s there, repeating in his mind like a broken record, is the bullet. Gunshot ringing loud, lead ripping through his cranium; all he knows how to do is fight. Fight dirty. Fight hard. Slicing claws, bared teeth; something in him still craves blood. Still covets the taste of iron in his mouth. 

That desire is siphoned out of him. Drawn free from his body until not a single drop remains. It breaks down and decays in his body until there’s only fuzz left. A distorted reality. Things are better this way. Happier. Now, there’s nothing but that collar and cage and Simon and Simon and Simon and Simon —

“Fuckin’ hell, Soap, wake up!” 

Instead of the unforgiving metal bars of a kennel, Johnny feels a plush mattress. Sheets and blankets twist up his legs like ivy reclaiming some man made structure — something that doesn’t belong — and his limbs thrash in an attempt to free himself. He’s restrained. Thick arms wrap around his torso, pinning his appendages to his chest. Lips press against the shell of his ear as Simon grunts in frustration, attempting to hold his misbehaving dog down. 

“Easy now, easy. Down boy,” he murmurs. 

“Ah need tae go home,” Johnny rambles, hands pawing at Simon’s forearms. His chest heaves. Rib cage expanding just to crush right back into his lungs as he exhales, throat constricting like it suddenly feels the weight of the collar around it. “Need tae go home.” 

Simon shushes him. Demanding fingers grip Johnny’s forearms as he pulls him closer. He’s become a living straight jacket. Yanking back on his mutt’s leash until he calms. Until the storm passes.  

“You are home. Home with me, ‘member?” Simon attempts to coddle. The softness is foreign to his voice, but he tries anyway. “Look, even Bonnie’s here. Yeah? Your sweet bird? Look at ‘er. Look at ‘er, Johnny.” 

Confused eyes peer through the darkness until he finds you standing to the side of the bed, your back against the wall. Your parted lips look heavenly in the dull glow of the moon seeping through the windows, and he finds his heart quelling in his chest. Then he looks at your eyes. Wide as saucers. Dilated. Chest heaving. Breath escaping you. 

“Yeah, you see ‘er now. You’re home with me. Home with Bonnie. Better now?” Simon asks. 

“Ah still feel it. Digging ‘round in mah fuckin’ skull,” Johnny babbles, feet still kicking at the cloth that holds his legs hostage. His teeth grit so tightly he can hardly get the words to flow between them. 

“Need ya to relax, Johnny,” Simon huffs. Frustrated eyes glare at you, and your throat visibly bobs as he motions for you to come back to the bed. “Want Bonnie to help?”

Following Simon’s orders, you crawl onto the mattress. You shuffle along on your hands and knees, head bowed low but your eyes stay on the men in front of you like they’ll bite if you don’t. Johnny sees the trepidation that lurks in your gaze. Can nearly smell it as it collects like sweat on your skin. He doesn’t like it. That fear in your eyes. Are you scared of him? Why do you look at him like that? 

“Good girl, Bonnie,” Simon praises flatly. Without warning, his hand dives into Johnny’s boxers where he greedily palms at his cock. It’s still soft, having no chance to harden, and yet Simon is unrelenting. Johnny feels the urge to jolt, to fight back against the stimulation as he watches you sit back on your haunches, bottom lip quivering. “You want ‘er, dontcha boy? ‘Course you do. You picked ‘er out and everything. Doesn’t she make ya feel better? Feel at home?” 

There’s a dull buzz in the back of Johnny’s mind that attempts to rewire his brain. To slice away the coax seal and bare the metal cords to the damp air of his skull. To weave things until the pain stops. Until things make sense. But that buzz wanes and dies as his cock begins to harden and he becomes drunk on Simon’s words and the way he tugs at him. When he looks back at you, you are excited. Body quivering with anticipation, on your knees waiting for him like there’s nothing else in the world that can satiate your desire but him. 

“Aye. Ah do,” Johnny groans. 

Simon smirks against his ear. 

“Good boy. Go fetch.” 

Johnny eats you alive after that. Takes you while you’re face first into the mattress, cock pumping into your cunt at an abusive pace. You cry this time. You’ve been good about keeping it bottled inside, tears along with it, but seeing him screaming in his sleep has your anxiety high. Watching him thrash like that, curse, and beg. Like he had been possessed. Like he was somebody else. Fear courses through you like it’s the only component that builds the cells of your blood. Guttural sobs and wails are muffled by the way Simon shoves your face into the bedding and barks at you to quiet down. You are thankful that this time he fucks you on the bed. There’s no unforgiving wood to press into your palms or the side of your face as you grieve into the blankets. Still, it hurts all the same. Your cervix splits and bruises, walls stretched impossibly wide as he pistons into you, ripping you apart from the inside. 

He feasts on your cries. Mumbles that you sound so beautiful, moaning like that. 

All for him. 

When Johnny’s finished, he goes back to sleep. Curls around you like a devoted dog, arms lazily slung over you — nothing but dead weight. Before long, both men are snoring while you sniffle and writhe. There is no sleep to be had, not with the wounds that plague you. After so much time spent in the den of these beasts, you were hoping that your skin would become thicker. Calluses would form from use, and eventually this agony would remit. But scars can’t form if you don’t allow the wound to heal, and Simon is all too willing to tear at the scab until you’re bleeding all over again. 

He likes the taste of brine and iron. 

Morning comes and you still haven’t slept. 

It was a foolish idea to believe you could have. Laying with monstrous men and listening to the rattle of their breathing keeps you awake worse than any creature that could go bump in the night. You promise yourself you’ll sleep when they’re awake. You’ll sleep when Simon’s hands are busy working away at the garden and Johnny’s drawing sketches of your motionless body. It’s easier to rest when the sun is up. When you can open your eyes and make sense of your surroundings and not be swallowed by darkness and terror. 

Simon is the first to rise. He always is. Even the sun lags behind him in sputtering rays as he slinks out of the room. His movement is enough to rouse Johnny who finally relinquished his grasp on you in favor of turning to lay on his stomach. You breathe easier without the weight of his arm on your chest, but it does nothing to quell the ache that still burns in the pit of your stomach. That never-healing wound. That scar which will never quite mend. 

You stir when you hear the shower begin to run. Its creaky faucet strains against the old pipes, squealing as the liquid shoots through it. Lifting yourself up, you muffle your groans behind gritted teeth as you slip off the side of the bed. You’ve gotten good at being quiet. Soft as a mouse trotting through rotten walls. As silent as the flap of an owl’s wings in the dead of night. Even as you dress — fresh cloth pulling over soiled skin — there’s nothing, not even a peep, out of you. Johnny huffs, body missing your presence. You ignore him as you leave the bedroom. 

Morning birds chirp in your willow tree. You’ve decided it’s your tree. Beautiful branches, dancing leaves — Simon has Johnny, and Johnny has you, isn’t it only fair that you have something of your own? Finches chatter as they buzz from branch to branch, excited feet scurrying as they chase one another. They peck and chew at berries and nuts they’ve foraged in the bountiful forest that lay beyond the property, and you stand in front of the window for a moment watching them. 

They force an old memory to resurface. Something from when you were a child. A science class lecture that’s been buried in the grey matter of your brain for so long it had almost gotten lost. Evolutionary pressure. Finches are an example of this. Darwin’s finches, especially. They’re diverse. Changing for better survival. There are some with fat, wide beaks, others with small, dainty growths. Animals evolve fast to adapt and survive. To endure the earth and her cruel games. 

You wonder if you could test this on yourself. Stress your body to the point it has no choice but to morph into something stronger. Something better. If you climbed to the top of this house, or the ridge of those trees, and jumped, would you survive? Would your body scream and cry out for you to change and sprout wings before you hit the ground? Before you’re caught in Johnny’s maw for good? Is this just some foolish notion? Would you just shatter on the pavement below? 

Your sigh mixes with the chirping, free and sovereign. Either way, it would not be an issue for you anymore if you failed. Your wounds would never heal, but you’d be too dead to care about it. 

Simon’s shower turns off with a squeak and the sound snaps you back to reality. This is all a facade. You are not a bird, you are not a woman, you are a pet — nothing more. 

Knowing breakfast is soon to follow, you preemptively wander toward the dining room. If there is one thing to be grateful for in this meticulously crafted hell of yours, it is that you are well fed. There is no such thing as going hungry under Simon’s careful watch. He is not a good man — a good person — but he at least knows how to take care of his pets. You turn into the room —

— there is a gun on the table. 

Solvent hangs faintly in the air next to bottles of cleaners and old toothbrushes that dot the tabletop. It’s the same set up you recall seeing a few weeks back when Simon cleaned his rifle — when he reminded you that hunting season is fast approaching — but there is no rifle on the table. A hand gun sits in its place, resting on its side, aimed toward the wall. It’s not gutted. Each spring and screw lies perfectly in place. Primed. Ready to kill. 

It’s a proper handgun. At least, you think it is. Not one of the six shooters you always see portrayed in old American Western films. It’s deadly. Something officers or Army men would use. Your stomach sinks as you approach it, like it’ll decide to discharge from a mere glance alone. Sleek black metal covers the frame and grip, making it all look uniform, save for some wear and tear scratches. Some of the scratches look deep — long and gnarly gashes like the item itself had been through hell and back. You reach a hand out, floating and careful; your fingertips brush against the grip; wary, like it’ll bite.

“Shouldn’t be touchin’ that.” 

Retracting your hand, you jump as Simon’s voice cuts through the air with as much venom as a viper. You step back as your eyes jump to look at him. Shirtless, skin still freshly wet, he stands like a drowned barbarian as he stares at you. An apology bubbles up in your throat, but you won’t let it escape. You keep it trapped in your larynx as he slowly approaches with feet more quiet than you could ever wish to be. 

“Ever seen one before?” he asks. He crowds you, forces you back another step as he reaches for the pistol. Large hands dwarf the metal frame as he turns it over in his palm, showing it off. “A gun like this?” 

You shake your head. Knives are plenty common in England, but handguns? Something other than a hunting rifle? You thought handguns were banned. Though, Simon’s never been one to shy away from illegal acts. 

“Yeah. Didn’t think so. Fittin’ for a civilian,” he chuckles with crass humor. 

Simon does something unthinkable — he hands you the gun. 

There’s nothing but care as he holds it out, grip faced toward you, muzzle off to the side pointing at neither of you. Your heart leaps into your throat, swells in your esophagus, and then throbs. All you can do is stare. It stares back. Screams at you. You’re all too aware that this item acts not only as your executioner, but as your ticket out of this place. 

“Take it,” he urges. 

Like always, you obey. It feels too thick in your palm, and when he lets go, it’s heavy, much more than you could have anticipated it to be. Everyone in the movies always wields them so flippantly — as if they’re light as air — but the weight it holds screams its deadly intent. Simon’s fingers brush against you, adjusting your grip, and you try not to grimace at the feeling of his skin and tainted metal against your hand. 

“Is it loaded?” you question. You don’t know why you ask it. Maybe you want to know so you can be wary. To not hurt yourself. Or maybe you want to know so you can see if the risk raging in the back of your mind is worth taking. 

“Dunno,” Simon shrugs. Once more, he repositions you. Gently prods your hand higher and higher, elbow bent, muzzle resting against your temple. Maneuvers your pointer finger until it’s hooked around the trigger. A dead woman walking, he forces you to stand there with the gun to your head. “Wanna find out?” 

What a cruel world this is. The earth with her singing birds and sprouting flowers and bright blue skies, and you’ve hardly been able to enjoy any of it. All it has been is pain, and here you are wondering if you’ll ever get the chance to heal from it. Your heart thumps like an amateur drummer; without sense and rhythm. It demands to be heard. Forces you to listen to his cacophonous melody as it drowns the rush of blood in your ears. Your finger twitches, and the trigger gives way, but not enough for anything to happen. 

“C’mon. We’ll get you matchin’ with Johnny, huh? Ugly fuckin’ scar on the side of your head.” As he says it, he eyes the spot where the mouth of the gun meets your trembling flesh. He says it like he’s already imagining the gaping hole. “Pull the trigger, Bonnie.” 

It can’t be loaded. You’re certain of it. There’s no way he would leave something that dangerous around within reach. But it’s so heavy. As if it’s crammed to the brim with bullets ready to riddle your body full of holes. Your breathing stutters. Seizes the muscles of your chest and forces them to jitter. You stare at Simon’s chest. Nothing but pale, thick skin stares back at you. If you pull the trigger, you might paint him red. Red and pink and yellow. You wonder if that’s what he wants. If the feeling of water never feels as warm or embracing to him as fresh blood does. 

“I told you to pull the fuckin’ trigger.” 

Panic writhes in your stomach — you don’t want to die yet. 

Click!

The hammer strikes against nothing and dry fires. It rings louder than the terror in your mind and the vibrations that rattle your trembling body as your arm gives out, gun lowering away from your head. Of course it’s empty. How stupid of you to think of anything different. Simon would never allow you to leave before he’s ready to let go. 

When Simon laughs, your stomach lurches so fiercely you nearly vomit. Once you’re able to force yourself to face him, you’re met with the largest smile you’ve ever seen him wear. Crooked teeth sit between scarred lips as he swipes the gun out of your limp fingers. Taking a step back, he nods; utterly amused. It isn’t long before that sneer wipes off of his face and he’s back to wearing that biting, stoic expression he always does. 

“Atta girl,” he huffs. 

Sliding the gun into the waistband of his sweatpants, Simon saunters past you into the kitchen, leaving you to stand alone next to the table. Unstable knees nearly give out as your palms slap against the top, slowly dragging your body into a rickety chair. It hurts to sit, soreness jolting through your core with unforgiving electricity, but you refuse to make a sound. You sit there with tears welling in your eyes as you try to forget the way deadly metal feels in your hand. 

This is Simon’s greatest round of torture yet. He’s given you the keys meant to aid in your escape, but he’s changed all the locks. You bite into your bottom lip to get it to stop quivering. After living here, you’ve learned pain is the best enforcer. Only, it doesn’t quite work as well when it’s self-inflicted. 

Another click sounds, and you wince at it. Holding your breath, you wait for something else to follow — a sonic boom, a scream, a death rattle — but the only thing you hear is the sizzling of bacon on a hot pan as Simon prepares breakfast.

[thotsoflore]

I don't love my body. It is not a precious vessel that melds with my soul to make one being.

It is a vehicle. A tool. One that was given to me in the wrong configuration and that I will shape to my purpose. I will and have molded it in my image. With needle and scalpel and searing iron.

I am not my flesh. I am a soul and mind that exists separately and as a whole being and I will form a vessel of flesh and silicone and titanium and any thing I deem necessary or pleasing to hold me.

Mankind shapes its own destiny. we are not bound to these forms. We are not bound to gender, to flesh, or even humanity if we choose to shed or alter them.

We belong to ourselves

We are our own simple gods

Shape your altar as you wish

[gnocchibabie]

The Realm's Tragedy

Chapter 1 - The Porcelain Princess

aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!oc

next chapter --- masterlist --- ao3

Summary: Maevys Targaryen is born into a kingdom overshadowed by calamity. With her mother Aemma Arryn gone, King Viserys consumed by grief, and Princess Rhaenyra adrift in sorrow, young Maevys finds herself at the heart of a fractured family. As she emerges from the shadows of tragedy, she must navigate the delicate balance between the remnants of a broken lineage and the impending storm of a new era.

As the dragons dance, the princess must learn to accept an unforgiving truth: All Must Choose.

Warnings: gore and blood, graphic descriptions of violence/traumatic childbirth

Wordcount: 1.2k

112 AC – King’s Landing

The piercing screams of Queen Aemma Arryn echo through the halls of the Red Keep, filling King Viserys I Targaryen with a sickening dread as he hastily rushes to her chamber. The cries are not those of labor but are more akin of an animal in its final moments. The merriment of the tourney presumes outside the castle walls, unknowing of the chaos that swarms within. 

When Viserys finally pushes open the door, the sight of his wife – disheveled and dripping with anguish – has him rushing to her side. 

Aemma had always had great difficulty bearing children – it was a wonder Rhaenyra had even been brought into this world – but this, this was different. All color had been drained from the Queen, leaving only a layer of cool sweat covering her pale form. Hair sticking to her face, breathing labored, and grip weak on her husband’s hand, the King felt his wife drift further and further away from him.

She looked more spectral than alive.

Aemma.

Viserys looks around to the handmaidens attending to his wife, though they skillfully avoid his gaze.

“Mellos.” The king breathes out, leaving his wife to speak with the maester. 

A grim look paints the face of his most skilled healer, “My King…during a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to make an impossible choice.”

Viserys blinks incredulously at the man before him as his wife continues with her agony, “Well speak it!” His heart pounds.

“To sacrifice one…or to lose them both.” Mellos replies, voice measured despite the chaos surrounding them. Viserys listens to the man describe the technique taught at The Citadel – the barbaric ritual of cutting the babe from its mother, in hopes it may be saved. The King hears his words, but finds it hard to truly listen to them.

Mello’s stern face wavers for a moment, “But the resulting blood loss-”

“Seven Hells, Mellos.” The King took a deep breath to keep his panic from setting in, from blurring his better judgment. 

The Gods punish me…They set an impossible decision before me. 

Viserys looks back at Aemma once more, seeing his wife has calmed, her pain momentarily subsiding. A handmaid dabs a damp rag to the queen’s pale forehead, and she almost looks serene. He thinks of his son, stirring within her, waiting to come out into this world. To be set forth into the realm he will one day rule. 

Expelling a shaky breath, Viserys turns his back to her, “You can save the child?”

“We must either act now, or leave it with the Gods.” Mellos replies.

It feels as though a piece of Viserys, some portion of his soul deep within, withers away at the choice before him.

All he can muster is a grim nod to his maester as he returns to his wife, one final time. 

Aemma, even despite her current torment, finds a faint smile at seeing her husband once more. Her mind is less clouded, her body less addled with pain as she properly greets her king.

“Viserys…” Her voice is faint and wispy, as though merely speaking was a herculean task. 

Tears cloud the vision of the king, though he hides them with a smile to his wife. His Aemma.

“They’re going to bring the babe out now.”

And so they did. 

Amidst the screams of his wife, a sharp steel scalpel pressed against her soft, swollen belly – blood soon pouring out from within the queen like a deep red sea, staining her linen underdress and the pristine sheets below her. Amidst her thrashing turned feeble attempts of escape. Amidst her moaning turned to fleeting breaths. 

The last thing Aemma Arryn experienced in this world was great pain, and great fear. 

A babe, quiet and still is pulled out from her at last.

“A boy, Your Grace.” Mellos replies, though any celebration from the revelation is soured. 

The infant is silent, and the room grows cold. The King holds the bloody, small thing in his arms and weeps for his wife and son.

“Maester Mellos!” a handmaiden voices, “There is another!”

The room blurs around Viserys as another babe is pulled from Aemma Arryn. With a few strong pats to the infant’s back, it’s bawling fills the room. A flicker of life is breathed into the somber scene.

“A girl, my King.” The maester announces. 

A daughter.

Viserys looks at the small, crying baby now being swaddled in soft linens. Muck and blood wiped from her as her crying continues. Tears blur his vision once more, barely able to see the small patch of white hair crested atop her head. 

For a moment, he is filled with the overwhelming desire to name his newest daughter, Aemma. After the mother she will never know in this life. Though, looking at the ghastly scene before him, he thinks better than to condemn the girl to such a fate. 

A name was a powerful thing, and Viserys was a man of many cryptic beliefs.

Aemma would not do.

“Maevys,” he breathes. A new name, a fresh start, a blank page. “Maevys…my daughter. My princess.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To suddenly be an older sister was an odd thing, Rhaenyra Targaryen had thought.

To suddenly be a motherless child, an even odder one. 

The eldest princess looks down at the babe lying in her fine wooden cradle, swathed in soft cloths. Maevys had finally quieted, after hours of squawking and shrieking, as if her cries should make up for the one’s her brother never had the chance to utter. 

Her sister was small, too small for even an infant. Pale as well, as though all her strength had been drained from her from the mere attempt of being born. 

If you could call it such a thing. 

Rhaenyra was haunted by the news of what had become of her mother. Her mother, once so full of life and laughter and love – reduced to a broodmare of a woman. So much so, that it became her undoing. 

The image of her sister however, soothed the princess. Perhaps a piece of her mother still lay before her.

She had a little sister, a girl to love and cherish and tell stories of their mother to. A girl she and Alicent could parade around with and take under their wings. Is that what sisters did?

Rhaenyra leans closer to the cradle. Did I look like this once?

The infant has all the hallmark Targaryen features: silver-white hair and expressive purple eyes. Perhaps she even had the Arryn look about her, some remnants of their mother. Though, only time would tell.

Rhaenyra feared, though, that the girl would not live very long at all. The babe was a weak looking thing after all. She even heard hushed whispers amongst her mother’s handmaidens, that the maester did not expect the girl to live past a week. The nickname, “The Porcelain Princess” had already begun to circulate throughout the castle walls due to her sister’s delicate state. Though no one would dare utter the words in front of the girl’s father or older sister.

“Maevys,” Rhaenyra breathed and watched as the little girl stirred, as though she already recognized her name, “You must prove them wrong, Maevys. You must stay.” Her voice quivers at the end of her plea, a hand grasping the babe’s cradle so hard, Rhaenyra’s knuckles turn white. 

And so, Maevys did.

Author's Note: hello there! i hope you enjoyed this very depressing and grim first chapter (I promise they wont ALL be like this). this is the beginning of what will hopefully be a pretty lenghty fic, which will come to focus on the ~eventual~ relationship between maevys and aemond. this is my second aemond fic (i am not immune to his charm) and i will be updating this alongside another project that is currently ongoing. because of this, updates may be a little sporadic, but i am dedicated to both series :) i hope you all enjoy this story! i have many ideas for many characters that i cannot wait to put to page and share with you all. thank you so much for reading <3

[abilouwrites]

I KNOW YOURE WORN AND EXHAUSTED

THIS IS ALL, THIS IS LOST ON YOU

(Aged up!!) I’ve been cooking this up for so looonngg

I love my life, I have a husband who loves me, a toddler who seems to be developing faster than might be good for her and a job that keeps me on my toes and pays me well. But it’s a job that keeps me away, a job I wasn’t willing to give up when I got pregnant. Katsuki had the option, paid maternity leave for a whole two years.

A thing I encouraged him to take, and though I believed he wished I was the one to stay and become a house wife but my career as a neurosurgeon doesn’t wait. There is no waiting while my tools are in the brain of another living breathing human.

“I just don’t understand why you can’t take more time at home? Is that too hard to ask?” He questions, it’s two in the morning. A reckless drive home under my exhausted worn eyes, “I come home when I need to. Why is it so hard for you”

“Because I’m saving the lives of people! People you can’t protect. Y’know today. I saved the life of a five year old girl who was going blind because of a tumor pressed against her optic nerve. That’s what I did today” I toss my purse onto the table and slip off my shoes.

“Suki took her first steps today. You wanna know what you missed? You missed our baby walking. That’s what you missed today.” He announces, “you don’t know how to quit. You can’t give in. You’re so obsessed with being the best you’ve given up everything that should be important to you”

His remark makes me laugh, “you realize that’s who you were when we first met. You were so power hungry for number one you pushed me aside. You forgot my birthday. Twice because you were so driven for that spot” I chastise, pushing my arms out of my jacket and dumping it on the couch.

His expression softens before he murmurs, “I will never understand you” so quiet I can barely hear it, so soft I only see his lips part slightly. But I know the words. I’ve heard them so often in my life I’ve grown accustomed to it.

It hurts my heart, but I feel the same as I did in my anatomy classes. Alone with a scalpel. Slowly opening a chest. I feel so alone, the one person I felt like I should’ve been able to talk to. Doesn’t understand what I do.

He doesn’t utter me a quick and heartless apology as he usually does when I go to bed. The bed is cold when I’m out of the shower, no body. No soul stuffed into our king sized bed.

I wear my own baggy shirts to bed, not my husbands, not anymore. He doesn’t even feel like my husband anymore. All I want is to talk about my day with him and have him understand that I love my job and my family and that I want to do both. All I’ve desired at the end of the day is to curl into bed with him, wrap my arms around him and kiss him and tell him that I saved a life today. To have him praise and appreciate me. There is no more of the sweetful bliss we used to share.

“Are you going to bed?” He asks, pulling the tucked covers and slowly sliding in.

I hum a little, staring at his back. Littered with scars and divots where skin was ripped and stitched back together. I want to talk to him, talk about everything, “did Suki go down well?” I ask as he rolls over to face me.

“Yeah. She misses you” he’s sorrowful and a little mournful when he confesses, “I miss you. I miss us”

Guilt doesn’t subside as his hands reach for my hips, a habit we’ve never broken. Throughout our fights and bickers we end our nights in a sweet embrace.

I want to apologize, but I can’t. I cant bring myself to apologize for something I love, “let’s just sleep” I can’t bring myself to face the situation I think I’ve caused myself. I close my eyes and I wonder if maybe I could’ve been happy being a housewife. If in maybe another life I wouldn’t stay in this marriage that sucks the life out of me.

“Oh. Ok, goodnight, I love you”

“I know”

[sims-with-soul]

Cosy, Aesthetic Gameplay Mods For Self Care & Hobbies | The Sims

Hey soul mates ♡︎ Today we're reviewing some gameplay mods for 2024 in The Sims 4! These mods enhance your aesthetics through functional self care objects, hobby mods and more activities to do! See the full video here A lot of these mods are base-game only, with just a few that may require some packs (seasons or get together). I'm currently playing The Sims on my MacBook without all the packs, so I hope I can show you that you don't need to have everything in order to start creating! Lots of love and light, Sims with Soul ✧ - Those marked with a * require additional packs, otherwise the rest are base game compatible and FREE to download! - Some mods may require an XML injector which allows it to show up in your game - please read all mod descriptions carefully! HOBBY SELF-CARE: ✧ AM & PM Traditions & Me Time Traditions - by Sims With Shan *Seasons ✧ Let's Get Fit Modpack - by Cepzid ✧ Flowfit - by @simrealist ✧ Pole Dance - by @mercuryfoam *Get Together For Dance Skill ✧ Paint It Up - by @simminmybestlife ✧ Flower Arranging Table Override (Wreath Making) - by @littlbowbub *Seasons ✧ Flower Arrangement Override (Pots) - by @simkatu *Seasons ✧ Functional Magazine - by @largetaytertots ✧ Book Cover Default Replacements - by @simkatu ✧ 50 Real Readable Romance Books - by @simkhira ✧ Its Movie Time - by Tank Mod ✧ Ink For Yourself Memory Keeper - by @ravasheencc CLEANING / MINI SELF-CARE: ✧ Scent To Be Oil Diffuser - by @ravasheencc ✧ Scrub Father Sponge Default Replacement - by @apricotrush ✧ Fabulous Spray Default Replacement - by @apricotrush ✧ Water Glass Default Replacement - by @cocogamess DRINKS SELF-CARE: ✧ Functional Tray for Tea & Coffee - by @somik-severinka ✧ Floral Teas & Teapot - by @icemunmun-spicy-scalpel ✧ Juice Dispenser - by @alwaysjustjay ✧ Functional Drinks Tray - by @somik-severinka ✧ Champagne & Gift Box - Ferrero Rocher - by @somik-severinka [need their Cookbook Mod for it to work] FOOD SELF-CARE: ✧ Gift Boxes - Chocolate Strawberries - by @somik-severinka [need their Cookbook Mod for it to work] ✧ S'more Options - by @ravasheencc ✧ Love Day Hamper - by @icemunmun-spicy-scalpel ✧ One Pot Appliance - by @icemunmun-spicy-scalpel EXTRA SELF-CARE: ✧ Slice of Life - by @kawaiistacie ✧ Social Activities - by @littlemssam ✧ Rabbit Hole Activities - by adeepindigo ✧ Dreams & Nightmares - by @alainbm-mods

[yandere-romanticaa]

Here are some crumbs about yandere mortician! From now on, his name is Viktor. (I'll make a detailed post about him, his personality, looks later, I promise.)

masterlist.

Viktor can often be seen with headphones in his ears, his expression neutral and eyes glazed over with a sheen of nothingness. When he's spotted in public people want to give him the benefit of doubt and say he's just lost in his own world, consumed by the sound of music. Perhaps he's just so in tune with the lyrics, maybe they speak to him on a level which people often seek out when listening to music. His playlist is filled with all sorts of songs - be it long ballads, cheesy love songs, generic pop, heavy metal, screamo, classical music, frankly some songs you wouldn't even expect someone like him wouldn't even listen at all(a la WAP by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion).

Even while working, Viktor likes to have something playing in the background. His co-workers often joke about his music taste but he just shrugs them off without saying anything. It's all just a rollercoaster, a complete mess but he likes it that way. It's fun to be on his toes.

Truthfully, Viktor never liked music. He never bothered paying attention to the lyrics nor the meaning or even the tune of the song.

He simply can't stand the silence.

Viktor is a walking contradiction - he dislikes most people and yet wishes to be a part of them. He wants to be someone. But he doesn't know how to do that. His way of coping became listening to music. He even learned to play some instruments growing up, thinking that maybe someone would take a liking to him.

Even so, no one bothered with him. He was still a nobody.

Some did admire him, from a safe distance at least. His aura was black as charcoal and posture stiff as a board. Even if one dared to look at him for too long it felt like Viktor would pluck their eyes out if he caught them looking.

Perhaps he would. He wasn't sure either.

The sounds had no meaning to him. It was all used to cover up the silence, pure white noise. Nothing more, nothing less.

All of that came to a screeching halt once he met you, his tiny piece of sunshine.

You'd go through his playlist, sometimes scoffing, sometimes liking the things you saw. His eccentric side never failed to amuse you. Amongst that jungle you'd ask him who his favorite artists were, if he had anyone specific he liked.

Viktor said the names of some random artists he thought you fancied yourself. He wanted you to like him.

His answer ultimately did not matter in the end as you would still recommend some of your own personal favorite songs to him. Viktor promised he'd give them a listen as soon as he could.

Later that evening, he was hard at work. As he was putting on his coat he turned towards his phone and reached towards it, slightly eager to see what you had in store for him. The song played quietly in the background as gently rain tapped against the window, giving the morgue a more tranquil feel than it ought to have. The person on his table tonight was an old man who presumably died of a heart attack earlier this morning.

Poor soul. That was all he could bother to say.

The evening went on as it usually did but Viktor could not stop thinking about you. His sweet little sunshine, he was so touched by the fact that you bothered to go so far for him. He could feel his heart racing as unfamiliar butterflies started to flutter in his chest.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

If he wasn't careful he would be the next one to die of a heart attack.

The music got a bit louder as it reached the chorus, its tune almost perfectly in sync with his heart. He hadn't even realized that he started to sway his hips gently. Left, right, left right.

It felt like the correct thing to do.

Viktor also picked up the sound of a male voice humming which was odd, considering the fact that the singer of the song was a woman. He nearly dropped his scalpel as he realized that the one who was humming was him, not someone else, him.

For the first time in his life, Viktor bothered to pay attention to the song. The singer detailed her undying feelings for her lover, promising herself to them and them only.

Viktor thought about you the entire time. He never fancied himself as a dancer but if he could, he would want nothing more than to dance with you.

Would you want to dance with him?

For the first time in his life, Viktor found joy in the music he listened to. And it was all thanks to his sunshine.

🔪 TAGS: @shamelessdarkprince

[coopers-hand]

mercury and why you're given your voice

TLDR: mercury in your natal chart is your mind and your voice, the very ability to speak the words and communicate the ideas. the sign it's in represents the purpose of your own voice, and the house represents the medium, through which your mind is spoken to the world. to gain more insight, look at the aspects, at you 3H and your 9H, as well as to the gemini-saggitarius axis in your chart🎐

~ what is your voice?

aries: your voice is straightforward, fiery and penetrating to the very essense of the thing you're talking about

taurus: your voice is comforting and soothing, bringing comfort and sense of stability to others

gemini: your voice is sharp, bright and even sparkly, if i may say so. it is like a ray of sunshine being reflected from all of the facets of the crystal, lighting up the minds of others

cancer: your voice is soft and muted, making sure that the message reaches only the ones that can truly appreciate it

leo: your voice is warm and cheerful, making the atmosphere of any room you walk in welcoming and lit up with your presence

virgo: your voice is sharp yet muted, dissecting the ideas with the precision of the scalpel

libra: your voice is harmonious and graceful, creating the atmosphere of harmony and concord

scorpio: your voice is deep and pervasive, uncovering every little thing that has been hidden

saggitarius: your voice is bright, loud and expansive, filling up the room with optimism and exploration spirit

capricorn: your voice is solid and robust, bringing up structured ideas and providing people with the sence of reliability

aquarius: your voice is like a lonely echo from up above, bringing up uncomfortable truths and ideas that cannot be brushed off and are in a deep need to be explored

pieces: your voice is a dreamy song of a magical creature, that sounds like a hallucination inside of people's heads

~ how does your voice speak to the world?

1H: your voice is spoken through your own self-expression, through embodying your true self

2H: your voice is spoken in a vocal way, whether it is a beautiful song or a magnificent speech

3H: your voice is spoken through your own ideas, your own words and speculations, no matter what form are they expressed in

4H: your voice is spoken through your presence by inviting people to see beyond your protective shield

5H: your voice is spoken through things you create, through every piece you've put your own soul into

6H: your voice is spoken through your actions, through the structure of your routine, through what you choose to vitalize and what to let sit dead

7H: your voice is heard through communication with others, through the ways you are directly relate to the world

8H: your voice is spoken directly from the depths of your being, raw and unfiltered, almost in a telepathic kind of way

9H: your voice is spoken from the tribunes, stages and places, where you stand in front and above millions of people, your voice is here to lead the humanity

10H: your voice is spoken through the projection of yourself you put into this world, through the ways you embody your perfectly curated highest version of self

11H: your voice is heard when you dream, when you are hopeful and excited about the future and the life itself. it is expressed through your highest vibrations of pure loving and ever-accepting nature.

12H: your voice is spoken in half-tones, through indirect and almost subliminal ways, getting straight into other's subconsious

[ohraicodoll]

I love that in the Podcast they specifically said they wanted to frame the hospital fight not as this action packed scene, but as sad. Because Joel has completely disassociated. He’s checked out because trauma can do that to a person, let’s you separate what’s happening. They said this is him burning his soul for this one girl. He’s doing what needs to be done in the same way Marlene did but while her focus was humanity, his focus is just Ellie. It’s tunnel vision. He kills anyone who is a threat and even if they drop their weapon, they could change their mind and still shoot him and then Ellie dies. He doesn’t kill the doctor until he becomes a threat by wielding the scalpel.  And them saying Marlene actually signed her death warrant the moment she said “let me go” because it meant she planned to try and survive her wound. There would be a tomorrow and in that tomorrow, she would try and come after them. So of course she had to die because her living meant Ellie wouldn’t be safe.