#homemade trauma soup

[randomreasonstolive]

Reason to Live #8163

  Some really good homemade soup. – Guest Submission

(Please don't add negative comments to these posts.)

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ THE COLLAPSE (2)

pairing: captain john price x f!reader

2.1k. you’ve been captured. *tw: non/dubcon

John lets you out of the hand cuffs when you prove to him you’ve calmed down a bit.

Just the ones on your wrists though — the ones around your ankles are still keeping you firmly in place on the bed. He lovingly rubs a green salve into where the handcuffs have marred your delicate skin, talking softly to you as he does. You’re not quite sure what he says, you can’t help it when you tune him out. The part of your brain that tries to save you from trauma, you think.

You beg him, plead with him, to let you use a bathroom. Almost cry for it. He makes you go in a bed pan and it's then that you realize you’ve been nude this whole time under the blanket he's placed on you. It’s embarrasing — having to go while he watches and then him cleaning you up after, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if some part of him enjoys it. Like he was meant to be here to take care of you. You tried to clean yourself, rip the cloth from his hands, but he warned you in a low growl not to and it scared you straight enough to let him continue.

You’re too smart to ask him to let you go. That can’t happen yet. No — you’re going to have to earn your freedom, little by little, like you did with the handcuffs. You almost did beg him to let you go in the beginning, when you were still in hysterics. John is smart. He’s a planner. That much has been obvious from the start.

The first night John feeds you every bite himself. It’s homemade soup and bread and you hate yourself for thinking how good it is. You briefly considered a hunger strike but realize not only would he probably force feed you — you also wouldn’t accomplish anything from it. You need to keep your strength up.

It’s been a few days, as far as you can tell, and that’s only by keeping track of the meals John’s been feeding you. They are actual meals too. Breakfast is sausage or bacon with toast and eggs. Lunch varies, but usually something light (you found the soup from the first night was actually his leftovers from lunch that day). Dinner is a full, homecooked meal — meats, veggies, the works. John’s even promised dessert when you ‘earn’ it, but hasn’t said what that means yet.

He doesn’t seem to take issue with your silence. You’ve barely spoken to him since he brought you down here, but he’s also been relatively quiet — only saying what he deems necessary, only soothing when rubbing that damn stinging green paste on your wrists. It discolors your skin but actually seems to be working.

No matter how hard you try, you always fall asleep at night — you get tucked in after dinner, he reads to you from his book (he’s currently reading The Old Man and the Sea), and he ends the night by kissing you softly on the forehead, turning the lights all the way off as he exits. You wait about 30 seconds before scrubbing where his lips met your skin, facial hair leaving a slight burn behind.

On the fourth day after breakfast, John enters the room, a caddy in one hand and a bucket of steaming water in the other. You can just barely make out the tops of bottles and a rag or two in the caddy from where you lay on the bed. He kicks the stool over to the bed you’ve been calling home and takes a seat.

“Time for a bath, love.”

Your throat is scratchy from underuse, but you still let out a small thank you — even if it is just a whore’s bath and not a real shower, you’ll take anything. You sit up on one elbow and reach with you other hand for one of the rags. John tsks at you.

“No, darling.”

Eyes wide as saucers, you look up at him. “B.. but you.. you said I could have a bath.”

“You are havin’ a bath,” he states matter of factly, as he plops a rag into the steaming hot bucket.

John grabs a towel and rips off the blankets covering you. You can’t stop the shiver that ripples down your spine, the whine that escapes from low in your throat. He shimmies the towel underneath you, caressing your side with light touches as he does.

John reaches down to grab the rag and wrings out the excess. He wraps it around a bar of soap and gently, very gently, starts to massage it into your skin. He starts with your feet, working his way up and up and up.

He dips the rag back into the bucket just before he reaches the seam of your pussy and a fat tear rolls down the side of your cheek. He swipes it away with his big thumb without a second’s thought. “Shh, now. None of that love.”

The rag runs across the outside of your lips gently and you let out a muted whimper. John grunts and palms the tenting in his pants before continuing to wash you. When he gets to your breasts he takes extra care to clean them as delicately as he can.

Once he’s finished on top, his strong arms grab you to sit you up. He sits on the bed behind you and washes your back hurriedly compared to the rest of your body. Once he’s finished, he takes the other wettened rag and quickly wipes the soapy residue from your skin.

“If you’re a good girl, I’ll wash your hair too,” he murmurs, his scruff brushing against your ear. Your body shudders in response. “You gonna be a good girl for me?”

Your lip finds purchase between your teeth before you decide to nod in response.

“Good,” he practically purrs, before getting up from the bed. He pushes you down onto your back with a tenderness you didn't know was possible.

“Now for the inside.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Wha-” you start, before you’re cut off. John’s warm mouth wraps around your folds, his tongue spreading you open. A whoosh of air releases from you and your hips buck up towards the ceiling. John reacts immediately and wraps a strong arm around you, effortlessly keeping you on the bed as his tongue assaults your sweet pussy. He laps up your juices like you’re the first water he's come across after days in the desert. Like he just found the fountain of youth between your legs.

You squirm and try to push yourself back towards the head of the bed, but it's useless under his firm grip. You’re not sure if your tears are because of just how insanely fucking good this feels or because you want him to stop. You should want him to stop… right?

“Sit. Still,” he growls, hot breath against your folds making you shudder. His tongue laps against you, splitting you open. It’s so wet. All of it. You feel the wetness pool against the towel beneath you; across your inner thighs; inside of you. John’s beard irritates your skin slightly as he assaults you.

John backs his mouth away from you only for a second to coat one of his thick fingers in saliva. He rubs it against you and you jump, a yelp escaping your lips. He hums to himself and he slowly rubs his finger up and down and around to your clit before he pushes his tongue inside of you again. You bite your lip hard enough that a metallic tang assaults your senses for a brief moment.

He splits you open slowly with that thick finger, dragging through your folds until he’s pushing inside. He’s purposeful in his movements. Once his finger is in to the hilt, he gives you a short lick. You whine. “Good little kitten,” he murmurs.

His finger rubs against your gummy walls while his tongue laps against your cunt with a ferocity you didn’t know existed. You can’t hold back your moans of pleasure now — you’re crying out for him. Screaming his name. Begging him to stop. Heat shoots up your spine and pools in your core. Your hips buck off the bed — or at least they try to but you can’t fight against the grip John has on your hips.

He only pauses for a moment to console you. “Shh, love. You can take it. Go on now, take it.”

He slips a second large finger inside of you and the stretch has you moaning. You struggle to catch your breath. Your toes curl, you grip the sheets hard enough to rip the fabric.

You ride out your orgasm on John’s face and fingers. Tears well in your eyes and spill down the side of your cheeks. John hums in approval the entire time.

His face is drenched when he sits up to look at you. He winces as he palms his stiffened cock. You suck in a terrified breath.

“We’ll start slow, love. Even though you let that wanker fuck you the first night,” he says with a growl. John unzips his jeans and pushes them along with his boxers off his thighs, flinching slightly when they catch on his thick length. His cock springs free and slaps against his stomach and your mouth waters. A shiver trails down your spine.

John approaches you like a predator approaching his prey. Steady, confident in his success. You know then that you’re absolutely fucked. You’ve known it for a while, in the back of your mind, but this solidifies it. Watching him saunter over to you, heavy cock palmed in his fist.

He pushes his head against your lips and you squish you eyes closed, mouth shut firmly. “Now, now pet… it’s my turn.” He brings his large thumb to your lips, his other fingers cupping the underside of your jaw as he pushes his thumb solidly into your mouth. His thumbnail grazes your gums as he forces your jaw to unclench and open around his thumb.

“No teeth,” he warns lowly, before slowly bringing his cock to your lips. Prespend wettens the tip and makes it glide into your barely open mouth. He pushes until he hits the back of your throat and you involuntarily choke, teeth barely grazing his fat cock.

He flicks your nose hard enough that you feel as if you just went underwater without holding your breath. “Watch it,” he growls. He goes achingly slow as he pulls back out, a string of your saliva the only thing connecting you two. Another tear falls and he gently wipes it away. The delicate skin on the side of your eyes starts to burn.

He fists some of your hair at the back of your head before pushing himself in again. You start to choke before he’s soothing you. “Easy, love. Breath through your nose,” he gently commands — voice low and scratchy — all while petting your hair. You do as he asks but only because you can’t get enough oxygen to your lungs.

“Little further,” he coos, slowly sliding himself again to the back of your throat. Your nose tickles on the dark coarse hair of his pelvis. He grunts at the squeeze. John watches you reverently in this position. He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He can’t wait to break your stubborn streak, once he fucks your pretty little cunt. Can’t wait to stretch you open, feel your walls clench around him. You’ll be a good girl then. He just knows it.

Both of his large hands paw at your head now as he sets a steady pace. He almost cums just looking at the sight of you taking him. It takes every last bit of his reserve not to just blow his load right there. He grunts and shudders everytime his tip slams into the soft wall of your throat. Saliva runs down your mouth, tear tracks marking your beautiful skin. The prettiest sight he’s ever seen.

He fucks your mouth until he can’t hold on any longer. Ropes of his cum trickle down your throat and he pulls out faster than he would like to in order to keep your jaw closed completely. He watches you carefully as you struggle to swallow his load. Once he’s certain you have, he lets go of your face and you suck in a deep breath. You sputter, your lungs burn. The thick coating of him lines the inside of your mouth and you try not to gag.

“Sweet kitten,” he soothes, lovingly petting your head. “Come now, let’s wash your hair.”

[mothiepixie]

If I may, and if you haven’t answered it yet, how do all the boys react to Mottie being/getting sick?

Absolutely!! I hope you enjoy

Sans:

He knows something is off immediately; Maybe he hasn't gotten a call or a text like he's used to that day. He tries to think nothing of it but usually before noon he gets at least a text. He sends a quick meme that he knows would have her key smashing a reply, but he gets nothing. He lets it be and just figured she's busy, but when half the day has gone by that's when he decides to give a call.

The moment he hears her voice, he grimaces at how coarse it sounds. “geez, have you been chewing glass?” And he knows it's bad when she doesn't retort and just hears a quiet sigh.

“yeah, i agree.. not one of my best jokes… hang on, kiddo.” He doesn't give time for Motti to think and hangs up. He'll show up at her house with a bag full of soup and such. He's nonchalant about the hold thing, but he's pretty worried. He doesn't like that she barely responds.

He stays late making sure she's okay.

Boysen:

Their world isn't soft when it comes to caring for others. Boysen has different ways of showing affection, and only will get better in the later years that doesn't have to do with showering in gifts. And so, when Motti first gets sick he is concerned but he's also unsure what to do. He is a bit of a germaphobe and human sickness is always something that disgusts him.

So, there he stands at Motti's side; he has gloves on, clear up to his elbows, an apron while holding a tray of soup, juices and medicine. Through his mask, he tells her sternly that she's to finish it all and to shower after and he'll wash her clothes. She'll thank him and he just says “Don't thank me, just quit being diseased.”

Big Red:

He doesn't realize right away that Motti is sick, but when she blatantly tells him, he inwardly panics. He's reliving trauma from his younger years of when he,or Papyrus, was ill, and they had to hide it. Staying locked away or pretending they weren't weak in fear of someone coming for them at their worst.

He doesn't know how to react other than telling her she can't leave their house and to stay out of sight. It confuses her, and freaks her out a little, and Red gets more angry at himself for frightening her.

He barks at her to relax and obviously she can't now. So in frustration, he asks what she needs and he'll get it. He doesn't know how to take care of her needs since monster illnesses are different from humans, and he hates how he feels helpless.

Although there isn't much for him to do but watch her sniffle and hack her lungs out, he sulks and gets frustrated when she tries to do anything herself. “ya dont gotta get up, damn it! i'm right here!” And will grumble all the way to the kitchen.

Farmer:

It's nearly the crack of dawn when he gets a call from Motti. She can barely get a word out without going into a coughing fit. He hears her sniffling, but he cannot tell if it's because of her stuffy nose or she's crying.

“I'm so sorry, but can I ask you to take care of my animals for me?”

The cracking of her voice breaks his heart. “you never have to ask, peaches.”

He has the majority of her chores done before the sun even rises. Of course, Papyrus helped as well since he was already up, but he pushed Sans to go check on her frequently.

Homemade soup was brought over frequently and Farmer tells her about how sassy Creampuff has been since Motti has been bedridden. Farmer is a master at playing it cool, but when he goes home he lies in his bed worried about her. He doesn't like that she's alone and ill. He thinks about changing that.

Dream:

He senses it and will come to check on her. Although he's never been sick himself, he has felt it through millions of lives and knows just how miserable Motti is.

He is the best at taking care of her because he will know when the symptoms get worse or come back before she does. She'll wake up and he will be there with a glass of water and medicine, urging her to take it before her previous medicine fully wears off. She doesn't have to ask, seek or express her needs and Dream is there with whatever she requires.

With him being there also improves her mood and makes her feel better faster.

Cross:

He fumbles around the most when he realizes she is sick. “Oh whoa, okay. Let's get you to bed, yeah???” but he's quick to make sure she's taken care of. He feels a bit awkward and not sure what she needs so he looks up what's best for humans. But he also realizes humans can die (that's his fault for looking at webmd)

But he'll make chicken soup from scratch, and feed it to her. He doesn't like how miserable she sounds and he will pull her into his lap to let her rest against his chest. He doesn't know how else to help but feed her and comfort her. He's not a big fan of feeling helpless and secretly panicking that she has some terminal illness disguised as a cold.

Ink:

Unfortunately he doesn't really take care of Motti. He will hang around her and keep her company, maybe grab a few things for her here and there, but he's more interested in distracting her. If he drinks one of his vials, then the worry sets in and he comforts her.

Nightmare:

He will feed off her misery and surprisingly that makes her get well faster? Forces the others to take care of her though and gets agitated if they buffoon around. Ends up doing himself and snippily if anyone points it out.

[ghostofthemost141]

Essence

Pairing: Ghost x F!Reader, First POV, no use of (Y/N)

Word Count: 2,264

Themes: Fluff, Comfort, Suggestive Themes and talk so !18+!

About: After Simon comes home from a rough mission, you decide to pamper him.

Notes: I feel like Ghost would be vulnerable to his partner after they have been together for a long time because mans has a lot of pent up trauma and emotions he needs to let out. Name for you here is Sage. And I am sorry if this feels rushed, I just have been busy and wanted to get this out. Enjoyy!!

“Si..” 

I almost didn’t see him walking through the front door as I was in the kitchen. His shoulders were flat and his movements were slow and monotone. 

“Sage..” Simon softly said as I placed my hands on his chest. 

“Love, take all this off of you.” I suggest, messing with the clips of his tactical vest. 

“Hm.” Simon mumbled as he let me unclip his vest and pull them off of his chest. 

“I’ll take it.” Simon said. 

I nodded as I handed him the vest and he went and put it in the garage. I just hope he is up for some warm homemade soup that I made. Tomato soup with some grilled cheese. It was a rainy, cold day so soup was a good call. Simon likes my cooking, I just hope he is alright with it. Simon came back in, all of his gear gone from his body. 

“There’s my racoon.” I joke, referring to the black paint that was still around his face. 

“Oh shite.” Simon chuckled. 

“I made some homemade tomato soup and I can make grilled cheese if you want.” I told him as I followed him into the bathroom. 

“That sounds lovely. I’ll take a grilled cheese, if you don’t mind.” 

Simon turned the sink on to carefully wipe the face paint off so as to not stain the white sink we have. I leaned in and kissed his cheek, quickly but passionately. 

“Of course I don’t mind, Si.” I reassure him. 

His doe brown eyes stared into mine, but I could tell he was tired. Very tired, but he was happy to be home. 

“I’ll give you a minute and go make your grilled cheese.” I announce. 

“Thanks, Sage.” Simon thanked me. 

I smiled at him as I turned, left the bathroom and went into the kitchen. Even though I am always happy for Simon to be back home, I always give him a minute or so to be alone so he can wind down and decompress and become Simon Riley again and not Ghost, even though that mask of his looks so damn sexy on him. Both the skull mask and the balaclava skull mask. I smeared some butter on both inside and outside the bread, put a slice of cheddar, muenster, and american cheese into the bread, put it together and put it face down onto the hot pan on the stove. Suddenly I felt a pair of hands behind me, but I didn’t fret. 

“Simon, you scared me.” I half joked, “your alias name is true to its name.” 

Simon chuckled, leaning his face into my neck, placing a kiss on it. Although I love Simon, he was being overly affectionate this time. I wonder if something happened while he was deployed. I felt his hands land on my hips, massaging them. He always knew what spots to get with me. I flipped his grilled cheese, a perfect golden brown color being revealed. 

“Just how I like ‘em.” Simon said, feeling his hands sink lower. 

I pretended to not notice what he was doing, but I was secretly enjoying it. Simon’s hands then went down to my ass, his big hands cupping each cheek. 

“Simon Riley!” I jokingly disciplined him. 

“Wha’, my love?” 

“You’re gonna make me burn your grilled cheese.” 

Simon just chuckled, kissing my neck passionately. 

“I missed ya.” 

“I missed you too, Simon.” 

Simon moved his hands around my waist, brought me close to his chest, and he leaned his head onto my neck, just holding me. Simon's grilled cheese was done and I took it off the pan and onto a plate. Simon remained silent but it was normal once he got the ‘I missed you so much’ hug and kiss out of the way when he first got home. I like to think it's his brain trying to decompress from being out in the field and remind himself that he is home now. Simon and I sat at the dining table, eating in silence. I wanted to converse with him, but I also wanted to give him as much space as he wanted before overwhelming him. I noticed then that Simon had finished his bowl of soup and his entire sandwich. 

“Did you like it?” 

“I did. It was the best bloody fucking thing I had in a long time.” Simon commented, making me chuckle. 

“Do you want some more? I made plenty.” I offered. 

Simon went silent, eyeing the big pot of soup that sat on the warm burner on the stove. He shook his head. 

“Are you sure?” 

Simon nodded again, without speaking. 

“Is everything alright, love?” I ask, reaching for Simon's hand and holding it. 

Simon held back softly and gently as if he was afraid I would crack easily like glass. 

“Yes.” 

Just by his plain response, I could tell he had a rough mission, whatever it was that he did. He tells me some but I don't want to know a whole lot unless he wants me to know. Simon silently got up with his dishes and went and put them on the sink, washing them. 

“Love, go sit down and relax.” I half joked, approaching him. 

Simon didn't say anything. He just kept washing his dish. 

“Simon.” I called him. 

Finally he stopped, turned and looked at me. I was about to demand to talk to him, but his doe eyes stopped me in my tracks. They pierced mine, as if he was trying to non verbally tell me something. His shoulders were down and his body was limp. Relaxed. 

“Let's go freshen up in the bath. Hm?” I suggested. 

Simon did a half smile. 

“Okay.” 

I cleaned up the soup mess quickly and then led Simon to our master bathroom. I held his hand the whole time and I could feel his body relaxed but tense at the same time. I knew asking him about what's wrong would be useless. He will tell me when he wants to. 

“Bath or shower?” 

“You pick, Sage.” 

I wanted to dedicate this to him and him only, even if he thinks he doesn't deserve it. I walked over to the faucets and turned them on, making sure the water was at a good temperature. Once it was at a good hot temperature, I pulled the drain plug up to clog the hole. 

“Oh.” I mumbled as I turned around to see Simon undressing himself. 

“Wha'?” 

“Oh nothing.” I smirked as I walked up to him. 

I placed my hands on his chest, feeling his rough but soft skin. Simon didn't bore a six pack but he was definitely muscular in the arms and upper chest. He was good looking to me no matter what but his chest has to come to be my favorite pillow. He had a few scars on his chest due to his years in the Task Force but I think they make him more attractive and they each tell a story that he has already told me. 

“You're so pretty.” I mumbled, rubbing my hands up and down his chest. 

“I'd like to think that you're prettier than me.” 

“Stop it, Simon. You're beautiful.” 

I planted a small kiss on his shoulder, hearing a soft rumble come from him. I turned back around to find the tub was full so I went and turned the faucets off. I stood there and waited for Simon, who was left in his boxers. 

“You gettin’ in?” 

“You first. I want to pamper you.” 

Simon was a little surprised by my response but obliged. He then pulled his boxers off of his body, and slowly stepped into the bath, wincing in the process. 

“You okay?” I got close to the tub. 

“Y-Yea’. Just bloody fucking sore.” 

“I'm sorry.” 

“Not your fault, love.” Simon said. 

“Where are you sore at?” 

“Me back.” 

I immediately went through the bathroom cabinets and drawers, eventually finding what I wanted. Massage oil. 

“I got you, Si.” I say. 

Simon eyed the massage oil and then back to me. 

“Please.” 

Simon grumbled as he leaned forward, giving his back full access to me. I put some oil onto my hand and rubbed it onto his upper back. 

“Hmhm. Fuck.” Simon grumbled. 

“Is that it?” 

I immediately felt stupid asking that. No, Sage, that can't be where it hurts the most if he curses in pain. 

“Yes. Right ‘here.” 

I don't know how Simon tolerates me with some of the stupid shit I say but he does. And to this day he still loves me. Hearing confirmation from Simon, I started rubbing the oil more onto his back and dug my fingers into his back harshly but gently at the same time. Simon groaned in pain every time I moved my fingers and I felt bad but I know it's needed and he will feel better once I get done. My fingers were absolutely slick with the massage oil as I was pressing and moving my fingers into the middle upper part of his back, close to his spine as that's where most of his pain resided. 

“Oh fuck, love.” 

Did..Did he just? What he said immediately went straight to my stomach, my face burning red and warm. I know he did it out of pain and relief from his back, but my God did he have to say it like that? 

“You okay, Simon?” I ask, trying to forget what he said. 

Simon sighed deeply as he leaned back, his head resting in between my legs. He opened his eyes and stared upright at me. 

“I am now.” 

I giggled, moving little strands of his blonde hair out of his face. 

“Did that help any?”

“Yes. Thank you, Sage.” Simon thanked me. 

I leaned down and planted a kiss on Simon's lips. Suddenly feeling his teeth nibbling on my lips. I pulled back to see Simon with a shit eating grin. 

“Maybe later~” I say with a smirk. 

“You tease..” Simon mumbled, raising his head up and facing forward. 

“Now,” I started as I washed the massage oil off of my hands and reached for his shampoo, “tell me how your operation went.” 

I could hear Simon sigh, but he should know me by this point. I always want to know how his missions went, even if he can't tell me much about them. He remained silent as I squirted some of his shampoo into my hand, rubbed my hands together and began lathering the soap into his hair. 

“It was..a mission ‘lright.” Simon mumbled out as I got down to his scalp. 

“How so?” 

Come on Si. 

“Well, we had to rescue some hostages.” Simon started. 

I squirted some more shampoo into my hands due to Simon's thick ass hair. 

“Oh shit, how did that go?” 

Simon was silent once again as I finished washing his hair. I have always wanted to call him Goldie Locks but I'm afraid he would kill me for that. Still going on without saying anything, I rinsed my hands in the bath water. 

“I need to rinse your hair, Si.” I told him. 

Simon scooted forward as I sank down and silently cursed at myself, being forgetful of the fact that I was still wearing jeans as I sat down into the bath. Oh well, you're lucky you're worth it Simon. Simon leaned all the way back till his face was above the water still. He remained in strong eye contact as I rinsed the soap out of his hair. His eyes were a gorgeous brown, I could get lost in them. 

“Done.” I announced and Simon rose up, his back facing me. 

I sat on my knees and grabbed some of his body soap. 

“The mission went good. All of the hostages were saved and unharmed. But..” 

“Hm?” I say as I started to lather his body in soap. 

I could hear him wince a little bit, but not as bad as he did earlier. 

“There..there was a kid.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Youn’ kid. Couldn’t have been older than five. When Johnny and I were trying to calm down the hostages, the kid kept latching to me. Even though I had a skull mask on, the bloody kid wouldn’t let go ‘f me. Even when he got reunited with his mum, the kid wouldn’t let go of me.” Simon explained as I finished bathing his body. 

I felt my heart race a little bit as Simon told me all of that. We never really discussed having kids. The conversation has certainly came up before though and Simon was iffy about them. But the fact that most normal people are terrified of him, rightfully so, but a young kid latched onto Simon during a scary moment in their life warmed my heart. 

“He knew you were a good and kind soul during that scary moment.” I say, rinsing his body off. 

“Yeah,” Simon chuckled, “cause upon my appearance you’d think I would be a good and kind soul.”

“You are to me.” 

Simon sighed deeply, not out of annoyance but more as he was processing what happened. 

“You’re a good man, Simon.” 

I leaned my head onto his shoulder and wrapped my arms around him. Simon held my hands, just embracing into my touch. I kissed his shoulder, as a gentle reminder that I was here for him and always would be. No matter what happens with him or what becomes of the both of us, I would always be here for him. Simon Riley. Simon. Riley. 

“Thank you, love.” 

END

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Vesuvia Weekly submission: Brainrot and the M6

I know, I know, the prompt is "your MC/their LI's dynamic", but I just play as myself and I keep my blog character neutral so @vesuviaweekly platonic selfships, here we go -

With Julian: this guy is my adopted older brother. We get to unleash our inner theatre kids and make excessively dark jokes about our trauma together. The drawback is that neither of us has a speck of self preservation -.-

With Asra: when I tell you that the vibes just boil down to "warm, fluffy, and creatively unhinged" XD I would make us homemade hot chocolate so they could add peanut butter to it. He would show up at 2 AM to help me dye my hair

With Nadia: we'd have difficulty connecting at first, not gonna lie. until we find something interesting to analyze, like canal patterns or the courtier's psychological patterns. now we have tea parties and build profiles together

With Muriel: shared physical trauma aside, I have a mighty need to bake and cook large quantities of food and then fill someone's plate multiple times. I'm about to visit this guy weekly, right after bread baking day, with soup

With Portia: she's a bookworm. I'm a bookworm. we're going to swap each other's favorite novels and have heated character and plot discussions while we try to trick each other into sharing baking secrets/tips and tricks

With Lucio: look, I know he's done some awful stuff, but that guy could use a hug. I'm giving him a hug. and then I'm going to task him with finding good places to party because he has a much bigger social battery than I do

[insomniumstella]

something in the orange

bucky x witch!reader 

summary: the pretty witch James met in Bucharest holds his heart. she’s been there ever since he regained his freedom, mending the soldier’s broken soul through tender loving, but if the aching suspicions deep in his bones are correct, she’ll soon become nothing more than a bittersweet memory. 

warnings: angst-ish fluff, memories of trauma, a lil’ sprinkle of nsfw — implied smut

word count: 1,615

author’s note: words we never said ☾ if you enjoy listening to music while reading, please play the song je te laisserai des mots. it captures the emotion behind this perfectly:( this is a link to a post about Bucky’s Bucharest apartment, which i used for both inspiration and visualization, and absolutely recommend reading

The little apartment is enveloped in the smell of chicken noodle soup when James steps through the door, dropping a bag of plums on the sofa. Though every window is blocked out with newspapers, the dying sun manages to flicker through the pages, casting an orange glow on the single room.

On her — the girl who inadvertently saved him.

She stands by the stove in nothing but his woolen sweater. It reaches her knees, and she pushes the sleeves up to her elbows at times to prevent the edges from broth stains. The otherwise silent atmosphere is saturated in delicate sounds of piano creeping out of her broken laptop, and as the soldier continues to observe her, a bittersweet wave of emotions drowns him. Brooklyn is no longer his home, she is.

“Hi.” James chuckles softly at the sight before him.

Ancient spells books and corked glass containers clutter the counter. Bundles of herbs, dried and fresh alike, float around her as she studies the open grimoire, waving her fingers in a circular motion to stir dinner.

“Hi, bun.” She mutters without paying him a glance, hastily reading the last bit of instructions for a healing potion. “Are you feeling better?”

The witch buries her nose in the crinkled pages often. The words that lay upon the paper are peculiar to James. Dragon’s blood, wormwood, lapis lazuli are several terms he stopped seeking to understand, focusing to unravel the boundaries of the relationship between them instead. Friends was the only label ever spoken, and yet somewhere along the way of the pair’s whirlwind journey, the edges of their connection became stained.

Almost a year ago, when James stumbled into a hidden coffee shop by accident, or fate, it was unmistakable she was merely a stranger, but then she shared her cinnamon bun because he only had enough money for a cup of tea, and their destinies blurred together. She shared again and again until it was two strange months later that she announced, “we’re friends, bun,” after James questioned the reason she’d always split the pastry. Suddenly, the days were brighter, and the nights not as lonely. The shoebox of an apartment turned warm. She spent many hours exploring the world, but James would find caramel bars on his refrigerator and fresh flowers on the counter, he’d light the candles she’d accidentally leave or read the loose pages that slipped out of her journals. If his kitchen was empty of food, she’d arrive at his place with a tote of ingredients to prepare a homemade meal. James never witnessed where she sleeps most nights, except she goes thrifting a bit too much and rarely pays for bus tickets, sneaking in when the conductor isn’t looking. She has very little of her own, and she chooses to care for him in every way she’s able.

He doesn’t deserve it, he often thinks. Solitude was written in his future as a punishment for the crimes he committed. James earned to suffer in the constant chaos of his rotten mind, and he shouldn’t come home to a friend, whose cooking chicken noodle soup because the harsh Bucharest weather provoked a simple cold.

Friend. Trust was a word forgotten in his vocabulary, and she returned the meaning, melding the broken pieces of James Buchanan Barnes through tender love. Before the soldier could truly grasp the imprint she’d forever leave on his soul, he was subconsciously searching for her in the sunsets or the olden books in the city’s library, catching her in the morning’s dew or the bright stars. The diary, which stored his memories, adopted stories of her, and the single cup of coffee doubled. Gentle smiles painted over his usual frowns, and the metal arm abruptly became capable of affectionate touches.

She is not a friend, for the words he’s scared to say are I love you.

“As a matter of fact,” the soldier wraps his arms around her waist from behind before placing a tender kiss on her cheek, “yes.”

The girl melts into his embrace. While she’s a resident of the world, escaping to faraway locations when the circumstances twist sour, Bucky’s embrace is the only place in which she could ever sincerely find safety.

“Good,” she grins, turning around to capture his lips. The kiss is brief, and before James could steal another, she’s clutching a glass vial to push it into his hands. “The potion has cinnamon and ginger to relieve the cold and is infused with moonstone to banish anxiety.”

The weight of her statement rests in his stare, “anxiety?”

Caressing Bucky’s biceps through his red henley, she grimaces at the tinges of betrayal in his tone. “I promised to stay out of your head,” she begins, tracing his rigid chest muscles, “and a promise is sacred,” especially the kind a witch would grant to a former assassin, “but I can sense the anguish that plagues you without hearing, or seeing it, in the first place.”

“Oh,” James sighs, and the rest of the sentence seems to die on his tongue.

It was a foolish mistake to imagine the girl could possibly miss the wrenching concern at the pit of his stomach. James attempted to bury it, but for the last three weeks, the sorrow was evidently carved in his stiff expressions and nervous glances. She continued to revel in the pleasure of his touch, but it no longer resembled peace, tarnished with an unspoken goodbye.

And perhaps, it is. Suspicions of The Winter Soldier’s potential attacks flicker in the air as a harsh reminder — he’s a complex affair in her heart solely because the perception of James as a mindless killer remains unchanged in the eyes of others. Someone seeks to find him, whether it be the government or Steve.

“Sit,” she urges, maneuvering to locate a set of ceramic bowls.

The table bears a cheap bottle of red and two clashing glasses she thrifted. A Nokia lies atop a pack of cigarettes, and James hastily shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. It’s not the scent of tobacco on her clothing that drives him insane, but rather the scent of cinnamon underneath it, which he cannot entirely reach. She sprinkles cinnamon on coffees or oatmeal, and into the bread she makes once every blue moon. Cinnamon envelopes James in a warm hug every time the soldier smells it, and it’s frustrating how easily tobacco seems to overpower the spice.

“Did I leave the door unlocked again?” Bucky questions, messing with the wax on an empty wine bottle before he decides to ignite the candle, situated inside, using y/n’s pink lighter.

A moment of stillness settles upon the couple, and when she speaks, her voice is a lot more gentle. “On the contrary, I used alohomora,” she bites the inside of her cheek, unsure if she should say the words swirling around in her mind, “you’re healing, Buck. Sometimes the pain may distract us from miscellaneous tasks.”

Pain is the single steady matter in his prolonged lifetime. It left a gaping hole in his heart and a rooted crack in his soul without remedies to cure it. At least she silences the constant buzzing in his ears the gruesome memories bring forward and patches up the endlessly crimson wounds. Some days, James is barely a man, and yet his rain never smothers the fire within her.

“Alohomora?”

“Mmmh,” she hums, mouth entirely full of soup. It’s when she swallows does y/n genuinely answers, “alohomora is a spell in Harry Potter to pick locks.”

“Does it work in our reality?” James asks, bringing a spoonful of steaming broth to his lips. The taste is nostalgic and comforting, and it makes him briefly reminisce of every time his mom or sister would cook a chicken noodle dinner from a can.

“No,” she shakes her head and reaches for the bottle to graze his glass, “but a bobby pin does.”

“Thank you,” James chuckles as his eyes soften, “for the soup, and the potion, and—“

“Stop,” she settles on his lap, the bowl of food forgotten. “I nurture you not out of pity but rather because in you, I see myself.” A corner of her mouth quirks up into a meager smile, one James seems powerless to understand. “I was eighteen, alone, and purple with bruises the human eye cannot see.” The witch’s tone is sprightly, but the tremble in her voice unveils the bitterness of the memory. “All I craved was for someone to offer me a touch of kindness, and just maybe, a hand to hold. People help the people,” she remarks, stroking a faded scar above his eyebrow, “you shall not express gratitude for such simple actions.”

Traitor. The gravity of the word claws at his bones. James needs to speak of the burdens and of the fears tormenting his head. She would always be a temporary destination in his peculiar journey. It was etched into the stars above. The universe bestowed an angel upon evil, proposing a restrained offer set to soon expire.

James Barnes is a coward, he decides, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss instead of confessing. Clutching her hips, the soldier brings the woman closer, tracing the curves of her body to store it deep within his consciousness. She straddles him, tangling her elegant fingers in his chestnut hair.

“I like to express my gratitude,” James whispers into the crook of her neck before kissing the delicate skin, “you’re too good to me, plum.”

And when she grinds on The Winter Soldier’s hardened length, savoring the roughness of his denim jeans against her thinly covered cunt and bare thighs, she doesn’t particularly care enough to argue.

[ziorite]

JOHN ???? JOHN HARLAN KIM???? HOLY SHIT I FORGOT HE WAS IN SEASON 3

oh god he’s so cute and smiley he’s like a puppy i’m gonna start crying

GODDAMMIT CHIM. albert is quite possibly the squishiest tiniest EVER and i want to wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup. chimney also needs a serious hug but after he stops taking his childhood trauma out on his poor brother !! hugs for the hans all around methinks.

i will say that showrunners did a damn good job with albert and the way he talks. he has a subtle accent that i noticed mostly on t’s, talks in a way that’s definitely fluent but also distinctly not super natural. the metal balloon idiom mixup, using phrases like i apologize and very much, plus the word presumptuous— that all screams someone who learned english by reading and practicing, not talking to native speakers. very awesome and cool of them!! (plus, my mom actually does the homemade frozen dumpling thing as well— a little oil in the pan, fill it about a third of the way with water, slap a cover on it and fry till the water’s gone, then bam. sure we have jiaozi and not mandu but i guarantee u both are delicious as fuck.)

obligatory buddie bonus:

absolutely deranged, proceed sir.

[bootleg-nessie]

One of these days I’m gonna put my entire life’s savings into making a bait house to lure burglars, then once they enter the doors will automatically go into lockdown, trapping them in a Saw-like nightmare. I’d then psychologically torment for several hours before finally releasing them in an undisclosed location 50-100 miles away with their newfound trauma, a thermos full of homemade soup, and a written threat not to tell authorities

[writereleaserepeat]

Peanut Butter and Jelly

Devin has a peanut allergy. Adrian, while more than willing to torture Devin until he breaks, has the decency to keep his home peanut-free - or so Devin thought. Is it worth it for a taste of freedom?

WC: ~3500

TW: suicide attempt, off-screen suicide, general whump themes, anaphlyaxis

idk y'all this isn't even whump anymore just a story with a whumpy backstory/setting

Devin could hear the TV playing in the other room. He could picture Adrian now, sprawled across the couch with one leg up, a can of beer held loosely in his left hand. That same hand had red knuckles now, skin raw from where he’d let out his anger on Devin earlier in the day. 

Devin’s ribs ached from the memory of the blows, and a patchwork of fresh blue-green bruises spread across aging yellow ones. Turning his attention to the sound of the TV did nothing to alleviate the pain as it often did. He felt none of the comfort he usually received from the familiar, friendly voices of the CNBC sportscasters, their tones endlessly cheerful and upbeat. 

Adrian wanted a snack, so of course, Devin had been tasked with putting one together. If he got it wrong, somehow guessed Adrian’s unspoken desires incorrectly, he’d bleed for it. But if Devin got it right, maybe, just maybe, he’d be granted some small luxury. Perhaps it would be a night without a beating, perhaps a shirt that would inevitably be stripped away, or perhaps even a proper meal. 

He didn’t risk stealing a bite of whatever he prepared at Adrian’s request. Even after Adrian had begun to leave Devin alone in the kitchen, he remembered his early lessons in this house: even sneaking a brief taste of the food he prepared would result in pain beyond his wildest imagination.

These days, he just hoped senses other than taste could guide his creations, that smell and touch alone could make them palatable for Adrian. Too much salt, or not enough, would result in a beating all the same.  

There’d been packets for homemade dip in the cupboard, right? Perhaps a spinach artichoke dip, just like his family used to make on game day, would satisfy Adrian’s hunger. 

Devin paused. Did his family make dip for chips on game days? He wasn’t certain they ever did, but the idea had to come from somewhere, right? His memory was always fuzzy these days, his mind too occupied with the pain that spread across his body, accompanied by repeated head trauma that made memories more distant and inaccessible. The aches, the pulling of the scar tissue, the bruises and fresh wounds. It all severed him apart from the warmth of the past before Adrian and brought him into the unbearable present with his torturer. His mother’s face was nothing more than a smile that wavered in and out of focus even on his best days, now.  

What did his mother’s face look like? He wasn’t sure he could remember. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes at night, he could hear her whisper his name. A name that was slowly being replaced by curses, slurs, insults, derogations… 

Still, Devin pressed on. He grabbed the stool from beneath the counter and hauled it over to the pantry. He climbed atop it with shaking legs, dizzy from how weak he’d become, but found his balance soon enough. With careful hands Devin started to move cans and spices aside, searching for the packet he swore he’d seen there just a few weeks ago. He worked meticulously, first looking on the bottom shelf, and then going up one by one. Cans of soup, cans of corn, cans of beans, spices, all things that made his mouth water but were only given to him at Adrian’s grace. 

Finally, nothing but the top shelf remained for inspection. Devin couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to go up so high in the cabinet, if ever. Reaching his arms up above his head hurt and he winced as the long scars across his shoulders strained. Some of the recent wounds felt like they were going to split open if he continued to push his limits like this.

But the only way to avoid new wounds was to try and satisfy Adrian’s hunger. Whether it was for food, or for violence, Devin had to find a way to try and provide. To try and survive. 

His fingers brushed across various cans and jars of spices - goodness knows what they were, or if they were expired - until his fingers came across an unexpected texture. It was a large, plastic jar, one with a ridged texture across its lid. Unable to see its label even from atop the stool, and with curiosity still getting the best of him amidst defeatism, Devin grabbed it and brought it down to see. 

Devin’s eyes widened. 

There, in his hands, was a weapon he’d never expected to find in Adrian’s home. He’d never have expected to find this after Devin had confessed, spilled words out in abject terror, confessed his shortcomings. On that first day in this hell, he’d been too afraid to touch the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that Adrian had tossed into the basement, that place where Devin had long since been imprisoned. He’d been able to smell them, their poisonous innards burning his sinuses from across the room, and he’d told his captor the truth as fear had seized him. He couldn’t eat those sandwiches, he wished he could if it meant surviving another day, but it would be lethal.

Adrian hadn’t yelled. Instead he’d only smiled, taken the peanut-filled sandwiches back up the staircase, and shortly thereafter replaced them with jam sandwiches alone.

“Well, I went through too much trouble to get you here, so it would be a shame to kill you with a sandwich now. I’ve got plans for you yet, so I suppose I can’t feed you peanuts - that’s easy enough.” 

Ever since Devin had been allowed out of his cell - under Adrian’s supervision, of course - he’d never seen any nuts in the home. Not in the fridge, not in the cabinets, not in the freezer. But now, here in his hands, was a half-empty jar of peanut butter. Smooth and creamy, the peeling label boasted, made with all natural ingredients. No added sugar. 

Devin didn’t care about the specifics. Here in the kitchen, with all of its knives locked away under Adrian’s key, he still had a weapon. It was the first time in his many months here, countless time spent looking at every door and window and drawer for an escape or a weapon, that Devin had finally found a way out. With the football game having just started, this was as good a chance as any. Adiran would wait at least fifteen minutes before inquiring about where his snack or next drink was, an inquiry certainly made with a closed fist. 

He knew it would hurt. He knew that there would be the panicked struggling for air as his throat closed in on itself, his mind and lungs starved for oxygen. But that wouldn’t hurt any more than the months of agony that Adrian had already inflicted upon him. It would be quick. It would be an escape after escape had already proved a futile dream, a dream that had left his chest laced with deep scars that would never go away. 

Devin climbed down from the stool carefully, jar clutched in his hands with precious reverence. It was surprisingly light considering the death it carried within its flimsy plastic walls. 

He wondered what it would taste like. He’d had peanut butter as a child, once or twice, before his parents had figured out what was wrong with him. An Epi-Pen had been attached to him at the hip ever since. An Epi-Pen he hadn’t seen since he was taken by Adrian, anyway. 

Was it salty? Maybe it was supposed to be subtly sweet, if this brand boasted that there were no added sugars. Perhaps it would taste earthy, rich on his tongue. 

Maybe it would hurt. That wouldn’t be anything new. 

With a careful hand, quiet as could be, Devin slid open the silverware drawer. He drew out a soup spoon, choosing the largest that he could find amongst the cutlery inside, and set it on the counter. Hopefully this process would be quick, quicker than Adrian would come to his senses and realize Devin hadn’t come back yet.

 Hopefully it would be quiet, merciful, the only thing that Devin could dare to pray for after all this time. 

The jar opened just as quietly as the cutlery drawer had, nothing more than a whisper. An overwhelming stench hit Devin’s nostrils as soon as the lid was set aside, a warning that he was about to embark on a deadly journey. It was a journey he nonetheless embraced. He dug the spoon into the substance that was pock-marked with countless spoons before him, moments Adrian must have stolen away while Devin was stowed in the basement. 

A dollop of rich brown sat there atop the glinting silver. It almost taunted him with its perfection, its dull matte glow, the gentle curl atop the lofty pillow of nut butter. No matter how its odor scalded his sinuses, Devin knew that was a melody serenading him to his final breath. 

Even if he made it out of this place, even if he survived Adrian, there would be no meaningful after. The scars and the shame would follow him until his death. The memories of what Adrian had done would never fade, never disappear, playing on repeat in Devin’s head over and over until it drove him to madness. He’d be cursed to live an existence where every waking moment was filled with the pain of what Adrian had done to him. 

So, he figured, why not speed up the inevitable? 

He knew if he waited much longer that he would lose his nerve. So he took one last look at the spoon in his hand, took a final deep breath, and shoved it fully in his mouth. 

Textures and flavors exploded across Devin’s palate. It was thick, and it was rich, and it was both salty and sweet all at once. It reminded him of the heady scent of acorns that fell in the early autumn, and of the peat that blossomed alongside them. It was also slightly sweet, even more subtle than he’d imagined, like a gentle hand brushing across his shoulder and whispering in his ear.

Most of all, it burned. It burned like a fierce fire as it stuck to the roof of his mouth, against the back of his teeth, in a throat that was already rebelling. He couldn’t conceive how anyone was supposed to swallow something so oppressive even if their body wasn’t actively trying to reject it. The presence was cloying on his tongue, and an animal panic made it hard to swallow. Something was terribly wrong, and his body knew it, but he pushed on. 

He swallowed once, swallowed twice, swallowed thrice. It stuck to every inch of him now. His teeth, his tongue, his throat, his mind. The same mind that had screamed at him to die now begged him to spit it out, to live.

His gasps were silent. He fell to his knees on the floor, trying to draw in his last breaths, fully aware of the burning that spread like wildfire from his esophagus to his stomach. An itching blossomed on his skin. Devin’s nails were bitten down to the nub, unable to effectively scratch at the fierce sensation that grew like fire across the skin of his throat. He wanted to cough, but each breath was growing more difficult than the last, lungs contracting with vanishingly little air to draw in.

Had it been seconds, or had it been minutes? He wasn’t sure. His gasps were quiet, muffled by his forearm tucked firm over his swollen lips, his death just soft enough that Adrian couldn’t hear over the blaring advertisement for the latest Kia holiday sale. It was all Devin’s oxygen-starved consciousness could do not to chuckle with the last of the life left in his body. Would that really be the last thing he heard in this lifetime? 

What happened now wasn’t quite breathing, but a pathetic whine of air that couldn’t bypass a swollen obstruction. He was sure those whistling gasps were audible from the living room, background noise of the commercials playing or otherwise. His limbs were twitching as he tore at the supple skin of his own neck in an animalistic bid to live, as if tearing out his own throat would somehow resolve the autoimmune reaction that had just taken place. 

For a moment he wondered whether corpses bruised, whether his last struggle to survive would be painted on his body along with the many other scars Adrian had given him. 

By the time Adrian had been roused from his half-drunken state, Devin’s consciousness was already fading. Instinctual panic had given way to flashes of desire as his vision faded. The desire to have someone there with him, to not be alone as he went, to be anywhere but Adrian’s kitchen floor. The deep yearning to see his family one last time, the family he knew cared about him, the family that might still be looking for him after all this time. What he wanted most of all was to see his mother one last time - not as he was now, but as he had been before Adrian had taken him. 

Yet he needed nothing quite so deeply as he needed to leave, to be free from this place. The finality of release would be its own blessing. 

I don’t understand all the hype, Devin thought as his inflated tongue ran across his teeth one last time, the last of the peanut butter still sticking there. I mean, it’s fine, I guess. Is this really what I’ve been missing out on for more than twenty years?

Maybe it would have been better paired with some chocolate. 

---

“Hey, hey kid, take a deep breath.” 

Devin obeyed. He would have whether the voice told him to or not. His whole body contracted as he gasped, airway opened once more, lungs starved and desperate for fresh air. The fog of unconsciousness disappeared almost instantly, and he found himself staring up at the face of a young EMT, a practiced smile on her lips. 

“Welcome back,” she said, worry disguised by a soft chuckle. “Looks like that third Epi-Pen did the trick. I’m Lacy, this is my colleague Ginger, and we’re going to take care of you. We want to take a look at some of your vitals, then we’re going to be headed to the hospital, alright?” 

“I’m- I’m alive?” Devin managed between breaths, still panting. 

“Sure are,” Lacy said, smile unwavering. “Took a couple of shots of adrenaline over the last thirty minutes, but here you are, conscious and talking, and hopefully planning to stay that way. I’ll say that it’s nice to see you with some color back in those lips.” 

The sound of heavy footsteps nearby and radios beeping now pulled at Devin’s attention more than any of the monitors attached to his skin, or the IV that had found its way into the back of his left hand. He tried to crane his neck, look out of the kitchen, and find where Adrian had gone. 

“What happened to-” 

Lacy cut him off. To her credit, the smile didn’t budge, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Hey, don’t worry about any of that right now. My job is to make sure you’re okay, and that’s what you should focus on, too. Let’s do some breathing exercises together, yeah? I’m going to count in groups of four. You’re going to breathe in for four, hold for four, exhale for four, and then start again. A few rounds of that and we’ll be on our way to the hospital.” 

“But I need to know if he’s- if he’s going to-” Devin’s fear had returned. There were other people here now, and Adrian would never dare let his secret out. Where was he now? When was he going to come back to Devin and punish him for causing such a mess?

He tried to struggle to a standing position, look behind him to the sound of other voices, over to the living room where Adrian had been last. The first thing he saw was a puddle of blood with glistening white fragments spread out behind the counter. He thought maybe he could see a hand, limp in the blood, near the boots of what appeared to be a throng of police standing with their hands on their belts. He thought he could see bloodied knuckles on that hand, spaced in the same distance as the bruises on his ribs. 

Snapping fingers by his temple drew his gaze back to Lacy. 

“No, don’t look over there. You don’t need to see that. Look at me and do those breathing exercises, okay?”

Devin didn’t want to look away. He needed to see the body to believe it. It was a body, wasn’t it? If it was a body, that meant Adrian was dead. But why was Adrian dead, not him? 

“He’s dead?” Devin had wanted to make it a statement, but couldn’t help the question that came from still-swollen lips. 

Finally, Lacy’s smile tightened, turning into a grimace. 

“Yeah, kid. He’s dead. And you’ve seen enough tough things, I’m guessing, so let’s keep your attention on me while the boys in blue get him covered up. You’ll be out of here before you know it.” 

Devin didn’t believe her until he was rolled onto a board, then onto a gurney, then rolled past a familiar body that was barely covered by a white sheet. The police were still there, milling around the body, taking notes, talking to one another, giving wry glances at Devin as he passed by. 

Then he noticed it. He saw the spent Epi-Pen, its plastic case dotted with familiar stickers, just inches from where Adrian’s hand had been covered by the blanket. It was the same Epi-Pen he’d had in his bag when Adrian grabbed him, the same stickers that he and his partner had put on together one evening, trying to make it a little more fun. 

Tears pricked Devin’s eyes in an unexpected wave of emotion. 

“He saved me?” 

He didn’t mean to speak the words aloud. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. But the stretcher kept rolling, and Lacy grabbed his right hand in a reassuring grip. 

“Well, I’m not a doctor, so I can’t say for sure. But he used both of them before we got here, and from the looks of it, followed the instructions to a tee. I’d guess it bought you enough time for us to show up.”

What did that mean? What did it mean that Adrian had saved him, and then given up everything? Hadn’t he hurt Devin enough? 

“I don’t remember that.” Devin didn’t, in a way. There’d been the blackness of unconsciousness, yes, what he thought was the beginning of the end. But then there was something. It hadn’t been an angel, he knew that, but a roaring sound, a small gasp of air, hands on his body, fingers prying open his mouth, a banging sound. His memory had lied to him before - would he ever know what had happened? 

“I’m sure you’ve got a very busy day ahead of you,” Lacy said with another squeeze of Devin’s hand. “As if it hasn’t been busy enough. But I’m going to make sure that you’re taken care of. There are some great docs at the hospital, and we’ve already got a social worker ready to make sure no one bothers you. It’s going to be hard, but I think it’s going to be worth it.” 

I hope so, Devin thought. His wounds still ached, now more bothersome than the remaining symptoms from anaphylaxis. Would it really be so simple? Would he really be able to walk away from this house, and from Adrian’s body, and keep on living? 

 The front door - the same one that had once been locked behind Adrian’s thumbprint, and was now splintered in off its hinges - opened to a sunny day. Then the sunlight touched his skin, the fresh air of the outdoors caressed his cheeks, and Devin knew he was free.

[chiharuuu22]

About Whumpee's Meal

Here's a look at what Whumpee ate and felt over time.

When Whumpee was with Whumper, Whumpee never got a decent meal. Maybe it's just leftover food being piled up, food that's starting to go stale, or even not being fed at all. To get water, Whumpee relies on seepage in the walls. If Whumpee got his share of food still in shape, Whumpee would consider it a lucky day. Whumper will force Whumpee to eat roughly or make Whumpee eat in a miserable position.

When Whumpee is rescued, Whumpee may be unconscious and in a critical-weak condition, Whumpee will eat high-calorie food in the form of pasta or liquid. However, Whumpee do not eat through the mouth; they have to use an NGT tube from the nose, which is directly connected to their stomach.

After Whumpee regains consciousness but is still in a condition that does not allow eating by mouth, Whumpee still gets food through an NGT tube, but the Caretaker will stimulate Whumpee's mouth with warm water, or milk, or maybe juice little by little (of course this is with the approval of the doctor who treats Whumpee).

When Whumpee can remove the feeding tube, Whumpee will start the first meal with a thin porridge, or soup, or broth. Of course, this food tastes bland. I mean, what do you expect a sick person in recovery to eat? However, the Caretaker can always make Whumpee eat spoon by spoon. At first, Whumpee was only able to eat a few bites or sips, but it often ended in vomiting, so the Caretaker had to feed Whumpee several times.

After a few days, Whumpee could eat a full bowl of his watery food without vomiting, although it still took longer than a normal meal. However, this is a sign that Whumpee's condition is improving.

The caretaker then introduced Whumpee to more solid foods. Porridge that is already denser, soup with a thick texture, or broth with thin and small pieces of chicken and carrots The taste of the food is better, even though it is still relatively bland, but Whumpee likes it. Whumpee has also started learning to eat on his own, although Whumpee is still messy because the hands are not strong enough to hold a spoon. You can imagine Whumpee's hands shaking or maybe it's because Whumpee's body is still weak. The Caretaker will end up feeding Whumpee slowly until the food runs out.

Several times in the middle of the night, when Whumpee wakes up from nightmares due to the trauma caused by Whumper, the Caretaker will give a glass of warm milk for Whumpee to calm down.

Whumpee is finally starting to be able to eat normal food, although the texture is still adapted to Whumpee's chewing ability. Whumpee started eating slightly soft rice with meat and vegetables in small pieces. Oh, of course, this time the food tastes much better than the previous meals. Whumpee can feed himself well, although sometimes Caretaker still feeds him on the pretext that they don't want Whumpee to push himself too much (and Whumpee feels that Caretaker is too much).

Then Whumpee recovered and was able to eat normally. Food like humans, with portions that suit their bodies. Maybe several times he will ask for extra food, which makes the caretaker happy because Whumpee has an appetite again.

Oh, you guys can't forget the fruit. Fruit is great for Whumpee to eat, especially during the recovery. At first, it was just fruit juice, then soft-textured fruit such as bananas that were scraped like pulp or fruit that was cut into small pieces, until finally, Whumpee could eat normal pieces like dice.

Caretakers also like to give snacks after Whumpee starts to eat solid food. Like homemade biscuits that crumble in Whumpee's mouth and even give some ice cream.

Caretaker often asks what Whumpee's favorite food is so Caretaker can cook it for him, and Whumpee's answer is always the same, namely that what Caretaker makes is his favorite.

After recovered, Whumpee will eat everything Caretaker puts on the plate without any leftovers. Because Whumpee knows how unpleasant it is when they can't eat anything. Whumpee really appreciates the food they eats.

You can also imagine that when Whumpee's body can support itself, the caretaker takes Whumpee to eat in the living room on a lazy sofa with a pile of pillows near the fireplace or in the garden so they can change the atmosphere. The goal is to give Whumpee an appetite and speed up recovery.

Ah, one thing too. The time when Caretaker slipped a small piece of chocolate into Whumpee's mouth when they felt their tongue was bitter (by the way, this is what my mommy often did when my brother and I were sick and we complained that our tongue was bitter :)). When Whumpee is finally healthy, they try to eat the same chocolate, but it doesn't taste as good as when they were sick.

[mamabearwonders]

i wish i just didn't have to work. the dream would be to just volunteer around harm reduction centers, soup kitchens, a local groovy thrift store all while floating on my Depop shop cash. then at the end of the week take the senior pawed friend i hope on adopting to the nursing home or children's hospital for some therapy for all. even the puppers just vibing out.

maybe work as a part time nanny and take the doggo with me if the family is chill with it so he wouldn't have to be alone for a while. then come home and make homemade doggo or kitty treats for him. go to the movies a few times a month, get my chipotle at the end of the week and just live life. take a nice break from a lifetime of trauma, survival and grief. work is the last thing that's good for my mental health.

i just wanna spread some good vibes while i'm here you know? be around people i wanna help. that's it. i don't care about a career, money, a fancy home. doesn't matter to me at all, matters to me who i'm with.

[nin-jay-go]

LIVEBLOG!!!!!!!

COME ON GUS DONT TALK SHIT ABOUT THE DEAD

aw shit the dragons

awawawawawaw arin's little horns :D

"i love you arin" cuuuute

oh i love how homemade and worn arin's armor looks :)

lloyd is so fucking tired give this man a break

"watering the plants can wait." he says epicly

AMONG US

there is no war in ba sing se :)

PERCIVAL TARTIGRADE!!!!!!!!!

HELLO DR LAROW CAN WE KISS

fucking YIKES beatrix your dictator is showing

"i made it do a thing! i deserve a break ^v^" KAI BUDDY

THESE FUCKING HOTHEADS LMAOOOO

i am! a sneaky man!

wyldfyre i love you so much

yall they're ghosts just splash them with water

YALL. WATER. WHAT ARE YOU DOING.

fuck OFFFFF with that "he created the other realms" bullshit i am cancelling that

oh they just invite frohicky up to the monastery huh

THE ANNUAL SOUP-LAUNCHING FESTIVAL???????

frohicky being the assistant keeper of the monastery could either be the worst decision ever or the best decision ever

oh god the hotheads are together

get cleaned idiot friend: gently sponges you

omg wait there's little swirls in arin's curls!!!! he IS the master of spin :D friend: he does his hair with spinjitzu

they're just playing frisbee

OH DEAR GOD HE BROKE THE SHIP

my friend and i in unison: YOU HAVE SAILS WHY ARE YOU PADDLING lloyd: we have sails us: THANK YOU

IRON LUNG?????????

oh the coral guy from the trailers!

OH THE CRAB. THE GIANT FUCKING CRAB.

CACKLING

I AM GOING TO START CRYING!!!!!!!

dey pay me in woims

ok so we were right the crab is controlling the guy

🆑🅰️🅱️

lloyd you are not beating the cat allegations

skulkin look interesting in their new update

i love this guy's voice he sounds funny

SIR WHY DID YOU EAT THE CUP

BRING BACK SNAKE JAGUAR

or. that. that could work. why did he put on the noir coat again

wyldfyre. girl. YOUR ACTIONS HAVE CONSEQUENCES

i love these lavatides so much oh my god

whoever wrote kai this season nailed it

omg zane's birthday :D

LOBBO LOBBO :D

GULCH!!!! i missed you buddy

ZANE EXPERIENCES A MICROAGGRESSION

INSTALLING WINDOWS

lobbo my love

they gave kai the role of comic relief in lieu of jay being missing

frohicky you are so silly

EYEBALL???

oh boy the jay spirits

....wait. if the spirit of the temple was split in two by the merge... could jay have been split in two?

ZANTH... LIKE XANTHE MY YELLOW NINJA...

oh no nya girl how are you not having a panic attack

this djinn has depression dear god

oh god they're CURSED????

oh the ghosts are djinn banshees that are gonna kill them. great.

nya's gonna have some Thoughts after this

dorama- the elemental master of parlor tricks

"they call it doom" yea its a video game from the 90s

oh the lightning dragon's name is jiro! cool!

effervescent.....

DOOM MUCUS?????

VERTICALITY

COLE'S KIDS!!!! THERE THEY ARE!!!!!

arin voice rapton lives don't matter

alas. i have been. ✨disrespected✨

watch the path be lined with salt crystals

CALLED IT

OH SHIT ITS THE OFFICE WORKERS

BIG ROCK COLE!!!!! HES BACKKKKKKK

ANOTHER FRITZ????? LIKE FRITZ DONNEGAN??????

THE HOARDER??????

cole's boyfriend???? real????? love wins??????

LIKE THE LAND ITSELF IS SCREAMING???? ARE YOU OK?

elemental power of SUPERGLUE

FUSION??????????

dude geo's design is so cool. is he a geckle/munce hybrid or is he a keeper?

bonzle....

oh wyldfyre can just break rocks with her hands huh

SILENT HILL???????????? WHY ARE THE LOST ONES IN FUCKING SILENT HILL

oh geo is a hybrid!

this is a transgender allegory. trust me bro.

oh my god geothermicshipping real

STOP DEADNAMING HER

ALKWGJLKASDKHSKJFDAJH A LITTLE GUY

SWEEPER????????? I WANT 50

there is no heterosexual explanation for them

welcome to the backrooms!

this is an eldritch dimension

this is genuinely horrifying what the fuck

i like how the hotheads were the first to find the core

kai voice hi i have trauma. but i'm normal.

why does the purple serpentine sound like one of the starkid actors

is it jay sending them the messages???? i want him to be a villain so bad pleaseeee

WHY WAS ZANE KIDNAPPED??????? HELLO?????

jay's the manager, calling it now

oh my god we're in the realm of madness??? WE'RE IN THE FUCKING SPIRAL REALM

ADMINISTRATOR IS JAY

why are these computers SO bad

my friend: lloyd garbageadon

OH MY GOD WE'RE IN ACROSS THE SPIDERVERSE

CALLED IT

I FUCKING CALLED IT

LKETS FUCKING GO

IM SO SMART

dorama's gotta be an important character later on bc that's a lot of power he has

zane you are so cool

dude don't just leave the core at home thats so stupid

oh ras is from wyldness? not chima?

?????? why is zeatrix 1) named that and 2) what is that power?????

imperium is not immune to propaganda

jiro's a wildclaw :D i know what my next project is

oh my god drew's cole is so good,,,,

my friend: guy who has only been in theater productions: this is giving me a lot of theater vibes

rapton is dead.

oh they're twins. that makes sense

last time there were twins with powers the power split itself in two. what happened here?

beatrix and harumi would get along like a house on fire

GET THEIR ASSES PERCIVAL TARTIGRADE

surprise! the mad scientist has morals! or at least self-preservation

she is still kissable

what if jay is next season's villain? (still has hope)

oh hotheads my beloved

SORA TRANSGENDER

LMAO NYA JUST CALLED BEATRIX MID JKDSFGBKJSKDJFJ

hey nya you wanna tell the others that cole is alive??????

HOTHEADS MY LOVES

rapton domestication arc

ok rapton is really funny actually

oh dear.

THEYRE GLITCHING THEYRE GLITCHING HTEHSAUHAOWHOUHFHAWHODAUWH

NO WYLDFYRE

ARINNNNNN HE LOVES SORAAAAAAAAAA

OH MY GOD THEY ARE STILL ON BEATRIX'S SIDE

every queer kid cries out in agony for sora

theeeere it is! elemental powers :D all her own :D

LOBBO SAFE AND OK ALL IS GOOD

oh!! the conduit!!!!

DRAGON HUGSSSS CUUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE

7 source dragons huh......

oh god ras has a new student

YOUR MASTER?????

[caramialunaestelle]

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴜꜱᴇ(ꜱ) ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ?

Multiple reasons. Mainly because I enjoy the media they come from and I can connect to them in some way or another. Some I just think are cool and love the idea of playing as them. I decided to convert this blog into a multimuse so I would have one space to have all my muses and not have to log in and out of several different blogs. So far, I'm loving how much easier it is to keep track of things!

ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ?

Pregnancy. I am... not comfortable at all with it irl, it really freaks me out. But I am okay with vaguely alluding to pregnancy in my writing or even mentioning symptoms that occur during pregnancy, but I will never go into detail about it. It's just not for me. But other than that and the more obvious stuff (illegal age gaps, non-consensual, incest, etc.) I'm okay with writing trauma.

ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ?

I'd be lying if I didn't say I like writing romance/shipping. But I also really like writing friendships, wholesome fluff, angst, fighting, pretty much anything!

ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ?

Usually, I relate my headcanons to my own experiences or try to rationalize what canon has stated about my muses. A good example would be the fact that I headcanon most (not all, but most) of my muses to be diabetic because I am diabetic myself. It helps me to relate more to the character and sets my version of the character apart from others. Another example would be some of the characters' backstories (like Mikan, or Ellie) where canon doesn't give us very much or none at all so I create their backstory myself to fit in with what canon gives us but also allow more creativity.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ?

I usually can't write without some sort of background noise. Whether it be a video essay, music, or a show playing in the background, just depends on my mood and what I am writing.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴇꜱ ᴏʀ ᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ?

A little bit of both! Usually, I read over the reply/starter as soon as I can after it's been posted. From there, I begin thinking up the scenario, what my muse might say or do in reaction, and where I think the plot might go based on what's been already written. Then, later, when I do sit down to write the reply, I think back on that little brainstorming session and wing it - while trying to keep to what I had thought of earlier in mind.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ?

I do! But I really need to write with someone quite a lot before I dive into shipping with them. There are a few exceptions - if the muses blend well together and either me or my partner suggests they'd make a good couple then I'd be willing to give it a shot.

ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱ/ɴᴀᴍᴇ?

Kate. My username elsewhere is caramiabambina so I get Cara and CaraMia a lot. But y'all can just call me Kate.

ᴀɢᴇ?

31. I've been rping since I was 15. oof.

ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ?

January 8

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ(ꜱ)?

I like all colours! But I tend to gravitate toward pastels, peaches, mints, greens, pinks, and purples!

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴏɴɢ(ꜱ)?

Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears.

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ?

Videodrome

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ?

Smiling Friends

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴏɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ?

You Look So Good by Moe Shop

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ?

my mom's homemade soup.

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ?

autumn causse i'm a spooky bitch

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ?

@s1lver-bullet & @webbedphantom team psychic damage les fuckin' gooooooooooo

tagged: Stolen from @unrealization

Tagging: anyone who wants it

[hargrove-mayfields]

Billy and his brothers Jason Lee and Vance au!

@flashwaves @every-dayiwakeup

I talked about this on discord but I’m obsessed so I’m sharing here-

Billy is the youngest of three brothers. Jason Lee (from power rangers 2017) is his older by twenty minutes twin and Vance (yes Hopper) is the oldest brother by five years. All together in a trailer right across from the Munsons, they’re dealing with traumas from their individual canons on top of raising an orphaned Max. Also they annoy Wayne Munson because even though Vance is in his twenties he’s hardly responsible enough to take care of three teenagers and needs a hand (and lots and lots of homemade soup from across the way)

They’re all autistic because I said so. Vanny and Billy join Corroded Coffin just to be loud and have fun. Jason Lee isn’t into metal at all but he does play video games with Eddie (his bf also because I said so) while Vance sticks to pinball tho bc he misses simpler times and non-digital screens. Max and him walk or board to the arcade and spend all the pocket change she earned from helping kids (and Eddie. especially Eddie) with math homework because it's her special interest.

Shit goes wrong occasionally but nobody dies because Billy and Max have two badass brothers to fight for them and they aren’t dealing with shit all on their own this time. Jason Lee is their designated functional brother (but also he only drinks blue gatorade and tap water, so maybe not alfjslfk. he’s just the only one who can drive post ‘85) (Billy’s personal vice is being obsessed with chocolate milk while also being lactose intolerant. they’ve seen too much otherworldly bullshit to stop him from drinking it, though Vance and Jason Lee will occasionally lose their shit thinking their brother is going to die from milk poisoning [not possible])

They’re known to get themselves into trouble for each other (cough. the time Jason Lee knocked over an entire fridge at the grocery store climbing it to get the last choco milk for Billy. cough) so even though they tease Billy for being the baby brother or Vance for still not knowing how to style his curls neatly or Jason Lee for being a preppy loser they’re thick as thieves and would do anything for one another. Still they know better than to take Vance’s advice most of the time because while it was helpful to be taught how to fight for themselves, his new motto since nearly dying in ‘77 is “when in doubt, stab them first!” Stabbing is, however, usually not actually the answer. Again, there’s a reason Jason Lee is the functional brother.

Anyways the moral of the story is Billy has the big happy family he deserves :)

[skylineheights-if]

Which Ro is going to take care of us sicko's because I'm suffering!

Oooh, I'm so sorry that you're sick ): Hope you feel better soon!!

I would LOVE to say Harlowe would do a wonderful job taking care of MC, but then I would be lying to myself and to all of you. I DO genuinely think that if MC was sick, he'd try his best. Would do a lot of research and all of that. But he'd still be pretty crap at taking care of them. The best MC would get would be some hot soup and cuddles on the couch while watching TV. Which doesn't sound too bad, until MC starts feeling nauseous and Harlowe begins freaking out from lack of knowledge on what to do.

Florence would be my personal choice of caregiver, tbh. She's not the only RO with younger siblings, but she is the only RO who grew up with them and helped take care of them. She would know exactly what to do to make MC feel better. Would bring MC hot tea and cough drops, soup, blankets, anything to make them feel better. She'd also take the time to go around Moonveld collecting MC's missed assignments and trying her best to help them out.

Eden would be second best caregiver. He has a history of getting sick a lot as a kid, so his dad (or aunt, if his dad was too busy) took care of him a lot. He has fond memories of his aunt wrapping him in blankets and sitting him on her couch to watch cartoons, with a bunch of candy-flavored cough drops and bottles of water next to him. She'd also make him orange spice tea and homemade chicken noodle soup. I think Eden would try to replicate all of this for MC. He's a good cook, too, so that soup is gonna be fantastic.

Just like Harlowe, Aena wouldn't have much of a clue on how to help MC. Her dad was kinda an ass, and was one of those parents who tells you to just get over it. So she didn't learn a lot from him. I think she'd try, though. Would probably enlist the help of Florence and/or Eden, if anything. She knows how to take care of her dogs when they feel unwell, but isn't as confident on her skills when it comes to people.

Alistaire would be right in the middle. He's never really taken care of someone who is sick by himself, but he'd have the knowledge from watching others. I think he'd be nervous, but would do his best to make his home a nice, comfy space for MC. Yes, his home, because he's not gonna let MC out of his sight for a second while they're sick. Regardless of how sick they are. Yes, there is a past-trauma reason for this. He'd be a tad overbearing, but would bring MC tea mixed with honey and would have some soft music playing in the background, with him and MC napping on the couch all day.

[rhikasa]

7 and 16 for whichever character is on your mind atm!

Thanks for the ask, @awordchemist! ♥️ I'll answer these for Alais:

7. What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

Homemade soup tends to trigger his nostalgia, as his mother would often make soup when he was sick or otherwise feeling down. Working on puzzles has the same effect. His uncle would collect them and hand them off to Alais and his brother to help keep the two of them occupied and therefore out of trouble. Although it's a nice feeling at first, the comfort of these memories is fleeting because they're filled with people who are no longer around.

16. What makes their stomach turn?

Blood. He developed hemophobia from a past trauma, so the mere sight of blood will make him faint. Anything gory in general tends to make him a bit squeamish.

Uncommon Questions for OCs and Their Creators