#my body just physically cannot cope with that

[daincrediblegg]

I think what really gets me goin about that frankenboy is that he is the perfect cross between thackery binx and billy butcherson that the world has always needed but my body was literally not designed to be able to handle that considering how strong my lust for those characters individually over the years has been

[ebodebo]

Salt to the Wound

➛ next read⁀➷ The Conditioning: A Salt to the Wound Prequel

PAIR⁀➷ simon riley x fem!reader

WC⁀➷ 8.7k

CONTAINS⁀➷ 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, sex being used as a coping mechanism, heavy angst, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, established relationship, complicated grief, mentions of death, displaced aggression, marital issues, panic attacks, religious speak, mention of calories, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of dead relative, simon being pretty aggravating, purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & did i mention this is all angst?

AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ oh my god, this has been such a bitch to complete! i’ve been working on this for months in between my nasty smut fics bc this truthfully made me so sad to write, so i had to take breaks in between. there is only angst; i cannot hold your hand…you must walk alone…i’m sorry. read at your own discretion.

Simon can't move on from Johnny's death…

"Johnny's dead."

You remember the line clear as day.

In fact, you remember almost every single detail about that day. 

The weather had been docile, a change from the feverish heat the day before.

The air was slightly damp.

The weatherman chimed that a promising stormcloud was brewing in the distance, which could bring a couple of inches of rain, typical of January.

Your neighbor's son came to your front door, meekly asking to retrieve his ball from your backyard. 

The postman had hand-delivered your new dress, complimenting the new planters Simon built in the front yard.

Your favorite body wash that smelt of fruit ran out. 

You had made pie, apple instead of your usual cherry.

You had accidentally poured too much cinnamon in the apple mixture, shooing Simon away when you finally pulled it out of the oven because it was a "bad pie."

Simon had never heard such ridiculous words.

No pie is a bad pie.

He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth as you went to answer the house phone, quietly laughing as he hissed at the hotness. 

Then it happened. 

"Johnny's dead," the voice on the other end of the line announced, shattering the tranquility of the moment.

They were the only words that flowed through the phone line.

The very words you had selfishly cursed for the past year.

The words that had single-handedly eroded everything you and Simon had built together.

Because that day, on every level except physical, the Simon you knew had died with Johnny.

His mind merged with the very soil Johnny lay in, leaving his physical body on the surface while his soul wandered beyond your grasp. 

So out of touch, so disconnected from reality. 

Simon had become a shell of a human. 

He wasn't living, merely surviving—going through the motions. 

It was devasting to watch the man for whom you gave your heart slowly disengage right before your eyes. 

Bit by bit, piece by piece.

Until there was no more man left to see.

Just mere flesh and bones.

It was such unfamiliar territory since Simon relied on you as he relied on oxygen to breathe.

You were his sustenance, his reservoir. 

An eternal flame that burned with an unyielding passion. 

Now it seems he couldn't get far enough away from you.

However, it wasn't always that way. 

The evolution of his disconnect hadn't been linear; it was ever-changing. 

Some days, he would act just like your sweet Simon before; other days, you felt like he resented you.

Resented you for what? 

You're not entirely sure. 

You didn't kill Johnny.

But with how Simon reacted to your mere presence, it felt as though you might as well have.

You can still recall Simon's noticeable change, apart from his defining silence, which occurred exactly two weeks after Johnny's death.

The bitter taste of anise, accompanied by the sharp taste of mint, coated your tongue; experimenting with new cocktail recipes had become something of a hobby for you.

Kept you occupied while Simon worked in his office.

You had insisted he take some time off, some real time off.

Price wouldn't let him return to work, so he supplemented by hiding in his office all day and doing paperwork and other such tasks.

It wasn't entirely what you had in mind, but it was the best he could give you.

He would have gone truly mad without his work to drown out his thoughts.

So, you bit your tongue every morning as he trudged out of the sanctity of the warm bed you shared, leaving you alone in the silence, and headed straight to the room across from yours that had him so consumed.

It was funny, really. 

You always thought that perhaps a pretty woman would eventually come around and attempt to steal your Simon from your hands, not a spare room with cream walls. 

Digression aside, you selfishly enjoyed the time alone. 

Simon would only speak a couple words to you daily, the silence between you growing thicker with each passing day.

You fault him none, though it was exhausting trying to help someone who despises being helped to any degree, even if they so clearly needed it.

That was why you enjoyed the alone time. 

Though it could be occasionally dull.

So, finding a hobby to fill your time was not just a choice but a necessity for your sense of fulfillment.

Even if it consisted of the occasion day drinking.

You'll repent later.

Now, you just needed the burning taste of rum down your throat.

Your face sourced at the combination before you scribbled, 'absolute shit,' on a small notebook you kept to keep track of all of your combinations and rated them in excruciating detail. 

Hearing his office door creak open, you shoved the notebook into your pocket. 

Not because you cared if he saw, but because his office door opening earlier than ten-forty-five startled you, abruptly shifting your emotions. 

You heard his heavy boots thunk against the vinyl flooring, inching ever so close to the kitchen where you stood. 

Your heart quickened from anticipation, and you tried to steady your breathing, not wanting to give away your guilt.

"You eaten?" His voice is deep and strained as he stands still across the island.

You stay completely still, refusing to budge even a little. Instead, you choose to shake your head from side to side slowly.

"Can pick up pizza?" He suggests.

His presence now stirred a strange mix of emotions within you.

He would never lay a finger on you.

It was the news that had thrown everything off balance, leaving you both in a state of discomfort and awkwardness.

Johnny was dead.

And you could feel his haunt everywhere.

"Pizza's good," you say softly, pretending to adjust a tilted bottle of tequila.

An uneasy silence lingers between you for a moment, and then you finally turn to meet his gaze.

He looks…like shit.

You let out a soft sigh as you take him in fully.

He has dark circles under his eyes, tinged with shades of purple and blue.

His once bright blue eyes have lost their luster, and his lids now hang heavy and fatigued.

His hair is unkempt, and his beard is starting to grow, giving it a scraggly appearance.

"You don't look so good," you find yourself saying without much thought.

"Just tired," he mutters, swiping his car keys off the counter.

You move to stand. "You've been working like crazy," you say, gently pressing your hand into his shoulder.

He tightens at your touch.

Whole body going taut.

You try not to take it personally.

You fail.

"Yeah…I, I'll get the pizza," he murmurs, moving towards the front door.

Then he leaves without a goodbye. 

You thought it was just bullshit.

What the articles said about coping with a loss.

Dealing with grief.

They all seemed like distant concepts.

But, he was so evidently disconnecting from you.

You felt your head swarm at the admission.

Simon was isolated, lost in a vast ocean of grief and despair. 

And you didn't know if you were enough to reel him back in.

Three weeks later, you're cozied on your sofa, a blanket draped over your legs, the soft cushions embracing you in their cozy warmth. 

The clouds, heavy with water, have transformed from soft white to an ominous smoky gray, a stark contrast to your cozy sofa and warm blanket. 

You have your favorite tea in your favorite mug, a book wide open though long forgotten on the cushion next to you.

Your eyes are now captivated by a trashy British reality television show, a guilty pleasure that adds to the coziness of your setting. 

Usually, Simon and you snuggle up and watch the show.

Always on the edge of your seats, eagerly anticipating the outcome.

Will the man stay on the island, sacrificing his share of the prize fund, to be with the woman he's grown close to?

Or will he choose the money over her?

It's always more enthralling with Simon.

Though, you're not sure where he is.

He didn't say where he was going when he left about half an hour ago.

And you didn't bother asking.

Maybe that makes you a lousy wife.

Or perhaps, you're just exhausted.

It feels like you're tearing your own flesh, trying to get him to answer anything. 

You guessed the latter.

The television crackles to life, the sound of synthesizers and strings filling the room, creating a sense of suspense.

"Henry's decision will be…" The host's voice begins.

You find yourself sitting up, the hot cup of tea between your hands, and your eyes glued to the television.

"…revealed right after the break," the host chimes as the camera cuts to a condom commercial.

You sink into the couch with a deep sigh as you hear the front door open.

The thud of heavy boots moves into the kitchen, near earshot.

You turn to see Simon grabbing a glass and slipping it under the tap for some water.

Your teeth dig at the flesh of your cheek, your foot steadily tapping on the vinyl flooring.

He takes a deep sip of the water, sucking it between his teeth and swishing it around his mouth before he spits it back in the sink, running the water to clean out the saliva now lining the metal sink.

You'd rather be shot than deal with the taciturn.

It was egregious.

You felt awkward in your own home.

With your own husband. 

"Simon," you say with nerves on your tongue.

He turns towards you, taking a proper sip of the water.

"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.

He shakes his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."

"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."

"I'm—I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.

You decide to push your luck. "Come on. Would be nice to see you." 

"Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"

"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood." 

Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.

He didn't yell, but you wish he did.

So, you could get some type of God-damn emotion from him.

Instead, his voice was low, commanding.

A voice a lieutenant would use on his inferiors. 

Not on his wife.

His eyes widen as your lips purse.

"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."

He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly.

Your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.

But instead of being a man and apologizing, he leaves for his office like a fucking coward.

You're left there, eyes still on the spot where he stood, cheek now bleeding onto your tongue as the television announces, "...leaving the villa."

And you can't even find it in yourself to care.

It feels awkward when you finally gather enough courage to slither into the bedroom.

You had been paralyzed to the couch even a couple hours after the whole ordeal.

Not a word was breached between either of you. 

He had shut himself in his office while you had become one with the couch.

What a match made in fucking heaven.

You slip into some soft pajamas, then into the bed, the heavy comforter offering you comfort.

You rest your weary head on the pillow, eyes already heavy with emotional exhaustion. 

Before you fall into sleep, you hear the same thud of his boots streaking along to the bedroom, where you catch a glimpse of him slipping something into his sock drawer. 

The warm brown of the book cover in his hand catches your eye.

There was no mistaking what it read on the front: large, gold Cardo font with a cross hovering above the text.

"Holy Bible."

He shoves some loose papers overtop of the Bible and shuts the drawer, moving the flick of the light switch off.

His boots came off in a thud as he slipped off his shirt and jeans, slipping into the bed far from you.

Not a word was shared.

You should sleep, but instead, your mind is tormented by what you saw.

Had Simon prayed?

Prayed to a God he didn't even believe in.

If he hit his knees, splayed open the Holy doctrine, and prayed within the hopes that, by some miracle, he should get to see his brother again.

"Simon," you murmur lightly, regretting breaking the silence as his name leaves your tongue.

"Yeah?" He asks, back to you.

"Were you...praying?" Your question comes out fatigued.

"Ye—Yeah," he mutters skittishly.

You say nothing more.

Your weary eyes drift closed as you pull your blanket taut against your face, peacefully drifting off.

That night, you're plagued by a disturbing dream. Your teeth fall out one by one, leaving only protruding gums. A looming figure stands behind you, tightening your throat with fear.

You spring awake at 3:37 am.

You are drenched in your own perspiration, eyes lingering over to where Simon should be.

He's gone.

You should feel slightly relieved, but you only feel overwhelming dread.

Your skin crawls with a sense of unease, as if something is lurking just out of sight, watching you.

You blink, and it's March.

Two months since Johnny's passing.

You thought the time would pass achingly slow, but time has unfortunately moved forward at an exceptional pace.

It always felt like time should stop.

People should stop.

Because why do they get to carry on and lead an everyday life as if you aren't getting swallowed, eaten alive by the confines of your own home?

It's not fucking fair.

You are not only having to mourn the loss of a good friend but the loss of your own husband, who's still breathing.

It felt like some cruel joke was being played on you that you found no humor in.

But, regardless of the loss, you had to keep moving.

For yourself.

Or you'd probably drive yourself into madness, and nothing good ever came from a mad woman, or so they say anyway.

It was a Friday night, and you had decided to try a new recipe from your grandmother's cookbook. 

You couldn't remember the last time you had a homecooked meal that wasn't full of M.S.G and far too many calories.

But tonight, you were about to change that.

With a simple button swipe, your groceries appeared at your front door, and you got straight into it.

The large russet potatoes were peeled and cut into chunks. They were then plopped in heavily salted boiling water and smashed along with many tablespoons of butter and cream.

Chicken thighs were seasoned and marinated for half an hour, not a minute less, before being seared on cast iron. 

The asparagus and parsnips were lightly oiled before being pan-seared, and then they were sprinkled with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese.

And before you knew it, you had transformed a handful of ingredients into a feast that was elegantly presented on some fine china you snagged from the cabinet for you and Simon.

You took a seat, admiring your hard work and savoring the delightful aroma of the chicken as it filled the room.

Hearing the same thud of the boots you had come to ignore coming from down the hall, your head shot up to see Simon with his keys in hand. 

"Where are you going?" You ask, curiosity and a bit of disappointment evident in your tone.

"Out," his voice was snipped as he marched towards the front door, not sparing the dinner a glance.

You sit up with a frown. "I made dinner, Simon."

"Not hungry," he says mechanically, like he was planning on shooing away any plans you offered. "Don't wait up for me," he murmurs, shoving on his coat, moving out of the front door, and pulling it closed.

And suddenly, the optimism you had clung to like a lifeline died, wholly and truly, leaving you in a void of despair.

You sit at that comedically large dining table for what feels like ages, pushing your vegetables around with your fork until they're practically mush on your plate.

There's nowhere else to go.

You feel utterly stuck as if the weight of the disappointment has rooted you to the spot.

Your head flings to the front door, as keys get shoved into the keyhole, before the door is pushed open to reveal a flushed Simon.

"Where have you been?" Your voice is warm yet firm.

He doesn't respond, only throwing his keys into the bowl and moving to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.

"Simon," his name comes off your tongue almost in warning.

"What?" He turns to you, face red from the cold.

"Where the fuck have you been?" You snap, the sound of your chair scraping against the floor as you stand up, adding to the tension in the room.

His eyes widen at your tone.

Your mind was ablaze with conflicting emotions.

Tongue hot with accusations.

"Were you with another woman?" You tack on, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Christ, no," he says immediately with a scoff. "Why would you even ask me that?"

You knew it was ridiculous.

He may be a fool, but he wasn't a cheater.

"I never have a God-damned clue where you go!" You step from around the table, voice rising. "You're my husband!"

"You're my wife!" He tosses the bottle of water into the sink. The plastic crinkles against the metal, as his voice rises with yours. 

"Then act like it!" You yell, throwing your hands in the air. 

You're both practically heaving with anger.

Seathing with so much untouched and unsaid verbiage.

The silence hangs between your two before you hurdling yourself into his arms, slamming your lips onto his with so much devotion and heat.

His hands grip your cheeks tight as his tongue slides over your teeth and any piece of flesh he can.

You pant into his mouth as his hands move to grip the backs of your thighs, quickly pulling you up to lock your legs around his waist.

He moves to place you on the dinner table, standing between your legs, and you reach out behind you, sweeping your plate full of mushy food and wine glass onto the floor to make space.

The glass shattered, and the china burst into a thousand tiny pieces with a loud crash.

Neither of you cares in the slightest.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your loose top as your lips practically turn blue from losing circulation.

It had been months since you and Simon had been intimate.

Well, since...

You didn't think you needed it during this time in mourning.

Hardly ever thought about it.

Because you two rarely exchanged words, the silence between you became a barrier.

How could you be expected to share such an intimate moment when your words seemed to fail you?

Somehow, you found yourself yearning for it, a deep-seated longing that you couldn't explain or ignore.

It felt like an insatiable desire you couldn't shake.

And when his teeth sunk into your lips, you felt the soft, erotic sting of your skin break; all bets were off.

"Simon," you mewl into his mouth. "Please."

He doesn't answer in words.

Just moves to remove his belt, tossing it to the side where the leather slaps over the broken china and mushed vegetables.

Strips himself of his jeans, boxers following suit.

His fingers move back to grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, throwing it on the table, lips moving to skim between the dip of your breast as he moves to grip on the fat of your waist.

Your hands move to thread through the back of his air, earning a deep groan from him that rumbles against your skin.

"Shouldn't be touchin' you like this," he mutters into your skin, rough hand skimming down your stomach to slide under your pajama shorts.

"Why?" Your breathing is labored as his fingers push down into your cunt, underwear sticking to the skin due to your dripping arousal.

His finger presses into you further making you release a shallow moan.

He opens his mouth to speak before promptly shutting it, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking.

"Just fuckin' yelled at ya, bug," he grits out the first part, like he's angry at himself for ever raising his voice, no matter if you did the same thing, then says your nickname warmly.

"I yelled first," your voice is sweet like honeydew as your hand moves under his chin, gently forcing his chin up so he can look you in the eyes, and he wants to kill himself even more.

You're an angel.

A fucking divine entity, a wellspring of goodwill.

He doesn't deserve you now.

He's not sure he ever has.

"Needed to hear it," he mumbles, slipping your shorts and panties off in one pull, eyes taking in your arousal-soaked cunt. "Don't deserve ya," he murmurs, with a hint of despair.

"You do," you assure, sitting up more to kiss the corners of his mouth.

He turns his head to the side, almost in guilt; you don't have time to question why before he's lining himself up with your entrance, hand coming to rest on the back of your neck for support as he slips inside you gently.

There's no rush, no urgency to get off.

His movements are slow, unrushed.

This wasn't just a quick fuck.

It felt like he was trying to get a tangible connection to you.

Just bodies melting into each other with ease and familiarity. 

Your moans echo off the walls.

Fingernails digging into Simon's back through his shirt.

The barrier does nothing to meddle with your touch.

Nothing could ever diminish your touch.

He lets out a curse, baring his teeth as his fingers dig into the tender flesh on your hips.

His name comes off your sweet tongue in a plea.

You're about to fucking erupt.

Stomach on fire, skin slick.

He shoves his finger in your mouth, collecting some saliva before using that as a lubricant to stimulate your clit.

You let out a string of incoherent words as the stimulation hits you everywhere, all at once.

His head dips back as he comes inside you, eyes shutting closed.

Your breathing is ragged as you both come down from your highs.

However, when you breathe, you feel tightness in your chest.

A squeezing pain that only elongates.

"You okay?" Simon presses his hand into your shoulder.

You nod weakly. "Must have overexerted myself," you jest.

You suck in a deep breath, desperate for more air or something to suppress the pressure you feel. 

Simon quips a brow, opting to move away from you to grab you some cool water. "Drink," he commands, nudging the glass to you.

The water feels like a relief flowing down your throat and is so refreshing you can feel it move through every vein in your body. 

"Better?" He asks warmly.

"Better," you agree, nodding as water drips down your lip and onto your chin.

But you can't shake the feeling something is off.

It almost feels like an impending doom looming over you.

"Feel like a shower?" He taps your thigh in question.

You nod with a smile, forgetting what you were even concerned with.

You shake off the feeling of doom as you wander behind Simon to the shower.

But doom is inevitable, a fate that cannot be escaped.

The following month, April, brought fickle weather with chilly rain and bright blue skies.

Along with the fruition of tulips and daffodils came your plan.

To finally speak to Simon about Johnny.

Even just thinking his name made you feel like you were indulging in some dark code.

It felt wrong.

Even though it was far from.

You had planned to talk to him a week ago, but you chickened out at the last minute, your fear of confrontation winning over your resolve, instead opting for an awkward conversation about cats.

Safe to say he had no idea you had other objectives at play.

Just thought you were a little kooky.

He had been more receptive to conversations since your sex-capade.

Felt connected to you again.

What a perfect time to ruin it all.

He's sitting at the dining table eating a sandwich.

With no pickles because he despises them.

You smile softly.

You know him so well.

Approaching him slowly, you pull out a chair adjacent to his.

"Nice weather," he says, looking out the window at the blue skies.

"It is," you hum in agreement, shifting in your seat.

"Might go for a run later." He takes a bite of a sandwich, and you chew on your cheek. "You want to come?"

"We should talk," you blurt, deciding you need to cut the cord as soon as possible before you chicken out again.

He quips a brow, sets down the sandwich, and wipes the crumbs off on a rag. "About?"

You chew on your lip nervously. "Johnny."

His eyes lock to yours in an instant, and his chewing halts.

And you can feel anxiety claw up your throat.

"You just—you seem," you try, stumbling over your words.

You knew you should have practiced more.

"We aren't having this conversation." His tone is low and carries a finality.

"It might help if you talked to me." There's desperation in your words.

"Stop," he holds up his hand like he's giving you a fucking command.

"I'm not a fucking dog," you grit. "You can't just give me a command to shut up."

"I know you're not a damn dog," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper.

"Good. Glad you could clear that up," you sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest. "Since you can't clear up anything else."

You knew you shouldn't have said that the second it slipped off your tongue.

It's defensive.

You were supposed to sympathize, not defend. 

He stands up abruptly. "Not taking this shit."

"What shit, Simon?" You throw your hands up in a shrug. "Your wife asking you to speak to her?" You let out a dry laugh. "That shit?" 

He moves around to swipe his keys from the bowl, not uttering a word.

"Where the hell are you going?" You stand, moving over to him.

His eyes bore into your jaw clenched. "Anywhere but here."

And he was gone again.

Just leaves when times get too trying, apparently. 

You stand there, your eyes brimming with tears.

What was to become of you two?

You let out an anguished yell before going to your room, hands planted firmly into the soft mattress, before letting your emotions overcome you.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands, as you prop yourself on your elbows.

Knees becoming bare from the shitty carpet while your shirt moistens from your tears.

This—this can't be it.

What was life to be without your husband?

You'd be subject to destitution.

A life of isolation, a terrifying prospect, filled with unbearable loneliness. 

Bile crawls up your throat, threatening to escape as the thoughts flood your mind. 

Your heart pounded violently, threatening to crack your ribs. 

You can't breathe.

Throat too tight to get any air through.

A stabbing pain erupted in your chest like it had before, but this was worse.

You clench your chest, tears spilling faster due to the physical pain.

You don't even process Simon hovering over you, hand clenching your shoulder.

Your head turns, and you see his mouth moving, eyes wide in concern, but you can't process what he's saying.

You can only focus on the crushing sensation in your chest. 

His eyes are scrambling, watching you push your mouth into the mattress to release a deep, tormented groan.

You were in unbearable pain.

He wastes no time grabbing and holding you in his arms, bridal style. 

You don't have it in you to scream at him.

You just sob into his chest.

This was surely going to kill you.

He grabs a stray blanket and tosses it on you quickly before swiping his keys off the counter. He then moves outside and places you in the car.

He drives in a rush, reckless.

His eyes darting over to you, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, sobbing, hand resting over your chest.

He doesn't know what to do.

He can't crawl in your body and demand your body to be kind to you.

So, instead he brushes his hand over your wrist, attmepting to give you some comfort and he pushes the pedal further to get you to the hospital.

Desperate to heal you.

He pulls into the ER parking lot, not bothering to straighten his wheels, sprints around to your side and gently places you in his arms, all but sprinting to the ER door.

The receptionist greets you before she hears your cries and pleas.

"She, she needs help," Simon frantically says. "Please."

Nurses flood out from the large door that seperates you and Simon from the rooms.

"Sir, you'll need to wait out here," one of them says, helping you into a wheelchair and wheeling you back through the door.

"She's my fucking wife!" He shouts, though to no avail.

The door shuts in his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.

He doesn't sit, he can't.

The thought of him being comfortable while you're in agony disturbs him.

He instead stalks around the room, hands wiping across his face.

Surely, this wasn't...

Could it have worked so soon?

He grabs a trashcan, promptly puking in it at the thought.

It, it has to be a grim coincidence. 

Yeah, yeah.

Has to be.

He waits in the waiting room for what feels like ages before a doctor comes in asking for a Simon Riley.

"Is she okay?" Simon searches the doctor's face.

"She's stable," the doctor says, his voice steady and reassuring. "For now."

"For now?" Simon echos the question.

"We ran some blood tests and did an ECG on her heart," the doctor reads over his papers. 

"And?" Simon says impatiently. 

"Does she have any familial history of heart disease in her family?" the doctor asks, scribbling on the paper.

"No, no," Simon stutters. "Why?"

"The ECG results showed that your wife has coronary heart disease," the doctor says.

Simon's eyes widen, his fear palpable. "Heart disease? What—what does this mean?"

"The arteries in her heart have become too narrow, which reduces blood flow to the heart. There are treatments available to manage the condition and improve her quality of life," the doctor reassures Simon as he sees him start to get frantic.

"Are you talking about fucking surgery?" Simon's hands move through his hair anxiously, his body tense with worry.

"Not necessarily. We can start with medication," the doctor says confidently. "A standard dose of Atorvastatin daily can help manage her cholesterol and fat levels." The doctor messily scribbles the prescription on a paper and tears it off.

"Along with some lifestyle changes to help manage her condition. If needed, we can discuss other options, like angioplasty or surgery. But first, let's see how she does with the medication." He hands over the prescription to Simon.

Simon grabs the paper, nodding his head. "Alright. Can I, can I see her?" His voice is desperate.

"Of course," the doctor nods his head reassuringly. "Follow me."

The doctor leads Simon through the hallway until he reaches your room, carefully opening the door to let Simon step through.

His stomach drops, a wave of concern washing over him, when he sees you.

Eyes swollen and red from your cries.

They hang low from your apparent exhaustion.

"Simon," you greet him with a weak smile, the familiarity in your voice comforting him.

Your voice is weak and raspy.

You look sick.

And he can't handle it.

"Hey, I'm okay," you assure, as you see him examine you, worry written on his face. 

"I know you are, bug," tears brimming his eyes; he moves over to you, gripping your hand tightly. "I know you are."

To you, it felt like a source of comfort amidst the chaos. 

And that's why Simon said it.

But deep down, he knew.

Nothing could undo what he had done.

No amount of praying, begging, or bargaining could change that.

He had selfishly sealed your fate.

And now, all he could do was wait.

It had been two months since your diagnosis, July.

Things had been decent in that regard.

No better, no worse.

The medication proved helpful.

It reduced the pain you get in your chest, so that was nice.

Over the two months, you persistently urged Simon to join you in counseling.

For your sake.

For the sake of your marriage.

At the beginning of July, he finally agreed, a hopeful sign after a turbulent period that had you ready to leave him.

"What are you doing?" Simon roughly asks as he follows you to your bedroom, hands anxiously running through his graying hair. 

"I'm fucking leaving, Simon," your voice quakes, tears spilling down your face as you struggle to pack a duffle bag.

"Don't, don't do that," he stumbled over his words, moving over to you. "Just, just calm down," he placed his hand on your shoulder in comfort.

You shook his hand off before eyeing him. "Calm down?" You repeat his words. "You want me to calm down?"

"Yes. Please," he pleads, hand hovering on the drawer handle.

"You want me to calm down?" You repeat again, your voice dripping with anger. "Fuck you." 

His eyes widen; clearly, he's taken aback. 

You finish packing, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you lean against the nightstand. "Simon, you need help," you say, grabbing your wallet. "You need to see someone. Anyone."

He exhales a sharp breath. "Fine."

Your head shoots up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What?"

He wipes his face with his hand frantically. "If that's what it takes," he shrugs, nodding. "I'll get the help. Just, just don't leave me, bug."

"Nice to see you again." You snap out of your daze as the therapist greets you.

"Likewise," you murmur, glancing over at Simon sitting beside you.

His leg is tapping a mile a minute.

He's nervous.

You're surprised he actually managed to get in the car and come here.

"Hello, Simon," she sticks her hand out for Simon to take. "I'm Doctor Shaw," she greets with a warm and inviting smile.

Simon takes her hand, giving her a firm shake, and nods in acknowledgment. 

"Please," Dr. Shaw brings her hands up. "Follow me."

You and Simon both stand, a sense of anticipation in the air, as you follow Dr. Shaw to her office.

The office looks the same as it has since the last two times you came by yourself.

Warm and inviting.

Only some outside light spilled into the room, opting instead for a warm orange hue from a small lamp illuminating the space.

It exudes a sense of calm, wrapping you in its soothing embrace.

"Please," Dr. Shaw gestured to the couch as she sat in her chair. "Sit."

You and Simon both take a seat and you grab a pillow to hold. Simon leans timidly, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting.

"So," Dr. Shaw begins, eyes moving to Simon. "Simon." His eyes flick to hers. "Talk to me about some of your hobbies."

Simon sits back on the couch, shifting uncomfortably. "Like to run, I guess," he mutters. 

She nods with a smile. "Good, good. Exercise is good. It can help clear the mind," she scribbles some notes on a notepad. "Now, I would like to know more about you two and your marriage," she hums.

Simon takes a deep gulp, and now you're shifting into the cushions.

"How are we doing in that regard?" Doctor Shaw purses her lips as she fixes her pen to start taking notes.

You shift in your seat, glancing at Simon next to you. "It's been...hard," you breathe out nervously. 

"Interesting," she scribbles in her notebook. "Can you tell me when you think it became difficult?"

You gulp. "Um...a couple, a couple months ago."

"Can you think of any factors that may have caused difficulties?" She tips her head back, offering you a comforting smile.

You tap your foot against the soft blue carpet, finger tapping anxiously against your thigh.

"Simon's friend, um, passed away in January." You choke on your words halfway through before completely finishing the sentence.

Her eyes flick to Simon. "I'm so sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, Simon."

Her voice grinds Simon's gears.

Simon is pessimistic, a cynic.

Has an excruciating time finding sincerity in anything anyone says. 

This is no exception.

"Simon," she begins. "If you're willing, I would like to know more about your friend."

"Thought we were here to talk about my wife and I?" Simon's tone is dry without hesitation.

She nods lightly. "We are. It could be helpful for your wife to hear you talk about some of your feelings," she sits up in her chair.

"Did my wife tell you that?" He sits back in the chair, shoulders taut.

She quips a brow. "Tell me what, Simon?"

"That I don't share? Is that why I'm here?" He glances at you, already sinking further into the cushioning of the couch. 

You don't say anything, opting to stay silent. 

This was a setup.

A ploy to psychoanalyze Simon's psyche.

"You brought me so she could pick my brain," he voices plainly, pointing his finger lazily towards Dr. Shaw.

"No. I wanted you to come so we could fix our marriage," your voice is full of irritation.

"Because it's all my fault it's bad. Right?" His voice raises louder than he intended. 

His eyes soften as you widen in surprise, your waterline brimming with tears. 

"Shit," he exhales. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says to you with care, closing his eyes slightly as he wipes his face. 

"I understand this is difficult for you," Dr. Shaw begins, voice solace. "And I want to acknowledge your discomfort. It takes courage to confront painful emotions," she shifts in her chair, leaning forward.

Simon's eyes narrow. "Spare me the shrink bullshit, doc," his voice is critical. 

"It's important to express your feelings, Simon," The doctor urges, to Simon's dismay.

"Why?" He retorts coldly. "Because you won't get paid if I don't?"

Dr. Shaw sits up straighter as Simon lets out an irritated sigh.

"Look," he turns to you. "I know you think this is helpful, but it's not," he says with as much delicacy as he can muster.

"You aren't even trying," you murmur.

"Sweetheart, this is just...not for me. Never has been," he holds your hand softly. "If this helps you, keep coming. I'll pay whatever she charges, okay?" He moves to stand, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "I just...I can't."

Your head flicks up to meet his as his voice cracks slightly, eyes glossed over, revealing his vulnerability.

"See you at home," he bid you goodbye, not sparing the doctor another look before stepping out of the room.

"There is no right way to grieve, and I can understand your frustration," Dr. Shaw says to you, offering a small smile. "Just be there for him when he needs you. He'll come back around," she affirms, turning to grab your receipt for the session.

"Thanks," you say meekly, hand reaching for the receipt.

"This isn't your fault," she confidently says before you step out the door.

You give only a small smile in response. 

It was strange.

You and Simon had fiery love. 

Two timid souls burning with such passion, desire.

A flame to a flame. 

It was a love that felt like sparks igniting each other, creating a blistering and rapid heat that was impossible to ignore. 

But in the end, the flames of love can burn each other out, consuming everything in their path, including the ones who ignited them.

Despite your prayers, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was your inevitable reality.

The rest of the summer and the beginning of fall blur through to September. 

You were seething with anger.

The kind of anger that has you near in tears. 

Simon had missed your sister's funeral, the one event that you had hoped would bring you both closer in your shared grief.

You had told him multiple times throughout the last week where and when to meet you.

He assured you he would be there for you.

He was a fucking liar. 

You practically spring out of your car, parked next to his idle truck, taking heavy steps up to the house door.

The door pulls open, slamming against the house's side, making Simon awake on the couch.

The sight makes your eye twitch.

He lay dormant, several beer bottles strung across the coffee table.

And to think things were going pretty well between you two, but this was beyond belief, unforgivable.

While you were crying over your sister's casket, he was here.

Sleeping his drunkenness away. 

"Don't tell me you're drunk," you ballistically say, tossing your purse onto the kitchen table with force. 

"I'm not tellin' you a thing," he monotonously says like this is some joke. 

"I needed you, and you were proper drunk?" Your voice rises. "I—I needed you, Simon," your voice shakes. "You gave up on me."

He says nothing, just lies there.

Your jaw ticks.

You rush over to him, forcing him to stand. "It's been—get up! It's been months, Simon!" You shout out, your voice filled with desperation. "Johnny is dead—gone," you snap out, eyes locking onto his. "He's been gone, and so have you. Except Johnny has an excuse. You don't," your chest is heaving. 

Simon's eyes widen, noticeably aggravated. "I—" 

"People die every day—and don't get me wrong, I am so fucking sorry, so fucking sorry, that it was Johnny—" You begin, sincerity in your voice as tears prickle down your cheeks. 

"Don't—" He starts in a warning tone. 

"Truly, I am. And I get it; you didn't need things from each other. But I need you. And I need to know you won't just abandon me when times get tough for you," your hands move through your hair, attempting to soothe yourself before more words flow out. "You need to grow the fuck up and talk to me like a grown-ass man and not a fucking pubescent boy!"

"Fuck, fine! Simon snaps. "It fuckin' killed me when Johnny died. I—he was my best friend, my brother. My only family. Gone." Tears spill down his cheeks as his arms flail around. 

You stand silently before your tongue comes out, wiping away the salty tears coating your lips. 

"Simon, I know you don't believe this, but we are family—me and you," you breathe out, trying to control your breathing.

"It broke me," he whispers solemnly. "Split me in half."

"I get that," you begin nodding your head, emotion clogging your throat. "But I need you to be whole."

"I, I can't," he stares at the floor, his hand closing into a tight fist. 

"Simon. You, you can't let it fester. It's consuming your life. Our marriage." Your desperate eyes drift to him, filled with fear. "Let me help you," you beg. "I can help put you back together again." 

"No. You don't understand," he lifts his head back to look at you, his eyes pleading for comprehension. "I think I'm broken beyond repair."

That was before.

It was December now.

You find yourself in the chilling hospital room, tears streaming down your face as you ponder the disintegration of your marriage with Simon.

You suffered a massive heart attack some days ago. 

A complication from the heart disease. 

It had weakened your heart muscle and lead to some brain damage. 

The doctor said treatment options were no longer available. 

So, instead of that, he switched his focus to comfort care.

Essentially, he's making it easier for you to die. 

It's strange. 

You know you're dying.

And you thought that death brings people together.

But you and Simon might as well be light-years apart.

You glance at Simon sitting in the chair across from you, anxiously tapping his foot. 

He's nervous.

But not about you dying.

About something else entirely.

You can tell.

You can always tell.

Your eyes flick to the hospital room door, opening wide before your doctor beckons Simon to come outside with him. 

Their conversation is muffled, but you catch the tail-end of it. 

"It would be best to take her home. Keep her comfortable."

Now you have the confirmation. 

You're going to die.

Just not sure when it will come.

You just have to sit and wait while slowly withering into oblivion.

"Hospice care can be provided to support and comfort her during this time," the doctor adds, his voice a distant echo.

A hot tear slips down your cheek, pooling onto your hospital gown.

You see Simon nodding his head along, finger resting on his chin in thought.

You want to scream.

And cry.

And punch someone.

And pray.

And move back home.

But you can't.

You feel utterly and hopelessly helpless in your own body. 

Life works in a mysterious, fucked up kind of way.

It's not fair. 

It's not linear.

And it's certainly not always kind.

All that's left to do is do what Simon did when Johnny died, go through the motions, the daily routine that feels like a never-ending cycle, and eventually, your physical body will leave you.

Your mind will wander far beyond anyone's grasp, yearning for a connection bond that cannot be.

MONTH ONE: January

You took up journaling.

Your hospice nurse suggested you take up the hobby.

So you did.

It wasn't as therapeutic as you thought.

It was just recounting what you ate that morning and what you planned to do the next day, the mundane details of life that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Boring, menial thoughts.

You didn't have much to say.

The only thing you thought of these days was what would happen in death.

Simon was kinder now.

Said he wanted to leave with you. 

You feel guilty for having to leave him alone.

Even though you have no choice in the matter.

You hope you don't see him in the afterlife. 

His life belongs here.

On the surface.

You've had some trouble walking.

Even fell in the hallway while trying to reach for a side rail Simon had installed.

You cried and pleaded for him not to help you up.

He managed to gather your heaving body in his arms and held you tight as you sobbed into his shirt about how you didn't want to die.

He didn't sleep that night.

Mind was too riddled with guilt; instead, he prayed.

With a cross to his heart, he hit his knees and closed his eyes, murmuring into the darkness to any entity who would listen. 

You thought it was nice when you turned to your side to hear his hushed whispers. 

He was praying for you to get better, you thought.

You didn't even realize he was praying for forgiveness for his own sins. 

MONTH TWO: February

Your journal hobby has quickly dissipated as quickly as it began. 

It's become harder to move.

You have to rely on Simon to do measly tasks. 

It's humiliating, to say the least.

"You okay, bug?" Simon asks as the warm, sudsy sponge moves across your back, shining you clean.

"Yeah," your voice is hushed as your lips flatline. "I can do it," you assure, reaching for the sponge.

"You sure?" His eyebrow lifts. "I'm happy to—"

"Just give me the fucking sponge," you grit, ripping the sponge away from him to scrub your arm.

You find you're weaker than you thought. 

You can barely hold up the light sponge to clean yourself. 

Your hand sinks down into the warm bath water before you attempt to pull it up higher, over and over, until you toss the sponge over the lip of the tub.

It hits the tile, releasing water and bubbles on the floor.

Your head drops into your hands, tears mixing with the bath water.

"It's, it's really happening," you heave into your hands. "I can't even lift a fucking sponge, Simon," you say, disgust coating your words. 

Simon leans forward, hand grazing your back. "I'm so sorry, bug," his voice trembles.

You turn to look at him, with red, puffy eyes and slick tears slipping down and into his beard. 

"Don't apologize," you affirm with a sniffle. "You didn't do this to me."

He almost throws up but chokes down the bile to speak. 

"Can I, can I finish?" He almost pleads.

You give him a soft nod and a gentle smile. 

He grabs a fresh sponge and repeats the same process, this time being more gentle.

Like he's purposely trying to remember the feeling of your body under his hands. 

It makes you feel loved again.

MONTH THREE: March

You were slowly withering away right before your own eyes. 

You didn't even recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your skin has gone pale and blotchy and started mottling.

It's cold to the touch, void of any warmth.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Simon cooly says, pressing a kiss on your head.

"Where are you going?" You ask curiously. 

"I told you I had to pick up Price's kid from school," he says warmly. "You don't remember?"

"Yeah. I, I remember," you nod your head, plastering a reassuring smile.

You really didn't remember.

Memory is a slippery thing these days, evading your grasp like a wisp of smoke. 

The moment something touches your brain, it usually escapes within an hour. 

It's a constant source of frustration, a relentless storm that rages within you.

Makes you want to throw a chair across the room.

He leaves, not even realizing the question has you spiraling.

Proding and pinching at your skull's skin to regain control of your brain. 

You must look insane.

But to you, this is the only thing that makes you feel sane and in control of your body.

The feeling of inability is one of the most haunting prospects.

The hunger for control gnaws at you, a ruthless creature that refuses to be sated.

But it's slipping through your very fingers like sand.

Fast and all at once. 

MONTH FOUR: April

By mid-April, your body feels hollow.

You can't do much of anything.

Though you did find some peace with your morality. 

Finally, you came to terms with your reality. 

And then, a spark of courage ignited, urging you to step out of the house for the first time in a while. 

There was an unusual, almost compelling, need to visit Johnny's grave.

You had only done so once, but it would be nice to leave some flowers.

Your hospice nurse drives you and waits in the car as you find his grave slightly disheveled like someone had messed with it.

Maybe even crawled out of it.

You're too tired to investigate.

You sit in the soft dirt, legs crossed as the sun beats on your head.

The lull of sleep licks your brain and makes your eyes close and unclose lightly. 

You yawn, stretching your arms out before the feeling of sleep becomes too strong. 

You find yourself lying next to Johnny, separated only by a few feet of dirt. 

You feel calm, peaceful even. 

Though when your eyes shut for the last time, you don't see the bright, ethereal light you imagined.

You see nothing but darkness. 

And smell brimstone.

It couldn't be. 

This wasn't the heaven you were promised, a place of eternal peace and joy. 

It was a cruel joke, a betrayal of the highest order.

You were supposed to be in a place of eternal love.

An incomparable beauty. 

This looked more like—

"Bastard sold you out, m'afraid," a voice croaked in the darkness.

The figure was indistinct, a mere shadow in the darkness, but its presence was suffocating, a palpable sense of doom that felt all too familiar, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. 

"Who—who are you?" You speak into the darkness, not paying much heed to what he said. 

"I shall not speak my name, my dear," the voice remarks. "You shall find out soon enough," he assures, pure humor coating his tongue.

Your voice trembled with fear, barely audible in the oppressive darkness. "How—how am I here?" You managed to stammer, your terror evident. 

A heinous laugh comes from the dark and shoots into your eardrum. "Your husband called upon me some time ago," he says. "He wanted his friend back, so he offered me your soul in return for him back." His voice is simple and casual as if it were ordinary. 

Your heart thumps in your chest, and your lungs deflate quicker than they inflate. 

"N—no. Simon...he loves me," you try to contradict. "He—he wouldn't do that," you speak into the darkness, voice tight. 

"Loves his friend more," he casually says.

Your eyes widen as tears begin to pour down in a consistent stream down your face; you try to move your arms but find your arms are magically constricted to your side. 

"Don't worry. We'll have fun—you and I," his tone is insidious.

Simon had bartered your life for his own selfish volition and damned you to an eternity in hell.

That—that serpent. 

What kind of diabolical monster would do something so heinous.

He promised you a lifetime of love.

A baby that you would share.

A tangible tell of your love.

He was a false prophet. 

When did he find time to do this deal?

Oh. Oh.

He did act skittish that night. 

That—that night that you asked about him praying.

You just assumed he was praying to God to help him cope by perhaps showing some signs of Johnny.

Help him deal with the trauma in any way he could. 

He was instead striking up a deal.

And it wasn't with God.

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ do share your tearful thoughts in the comments! divider by @plum98

[sungbeams]

WIP DUMP

okay so this is lowkey inspired by @jayparked posting about her wips a bit ago (check them out here she's crazy talented and i can't wait to read them all) and since i've been struggling with writing recently i thought maybe sharing some of my wips could help. also biggest thanks to snail for helping me with the synopses for some of these and listening to me stress over the banners and everything

if you want to talk to me about any of them or wanna get tagged pls don't hesitate to send asks or comment on this post, i'd love to talk about them some more🥺❤️

MIDNIGHT IN MILAN — lhs !! POSTED !!

⟡ ┆ featuring. heeseung x fem!reader

⟡ ┆ genre and tropes. MDNI 18+ ONLY, smut, established relationship, idol AU (both heeseung and yn)

⟡ ┆ warnings. semi-public sex, unprotected sex, mirror sex, mild choking, creampie, fingering, tiniest hint of degradation (he calls her a slut like once), one singular spank, some hair pulling, not really any aftercare

⟡ ┆ estimated word count. 6k

they say love makes you do stupid things...surely fucking your boyfriend in the bathroom at the prada after party when your relationship isn't even public and neither of you can afford a dating scandal isn't that stupid, right?

(i'm well aware the hype around tipsy heeseung has already died down but i started writing this immediately after the pics dropped and then got hit by writers block so i'm dedicated to finish this)

!! more under the cut !!

HE HATES ME, HE HATES ME NOT — psh

⟡ ┆ featuring. sunghoon x fem!reader

⟡ ┆ genre and tropes. MDNI 18+ ONLY, smut, enemies to lovers, coworker AU, miscommunication (ikik), lowkey past fuckboi sunghoon

⟡ ┆ warnings. hate sex, semi-public sex (in an archive room?), protected and unprotected sex (there's several smut scenes), choking, spanking, degradation, praise kink, oral (m. and f. receiving), handjob, fingering, manhandling, overstimulation, dacryphilia, spit kink

⟡ ┆ estimated word count. 20k

park sunghoon hates you, and you hate him. it hadn't always been like that, when you first joined the company he works at he was friendly, a real gentleman, but over time of working together he turns cold, sometimes even downright mean, and you cannot for the life of you figure out what caused the sudden change in his behavior. however, things between you change yet again when you 'accidentally' get locked in your offices archive room.

HOME IS WHEREVER YOU ARE — lhs

⟡ ┆ featuring. heeseung x fem!reader

⟡ ┆ genre and tropes. MDNI 18+ ONLY, smut, college!au, friends to lovers

⟡ ┆ warnings. there's some talks of depression as well as unhealthy coping mechanism so be aware of that pls, protected sex (be proud of me okay), oral (f. and m. receiving), vanilla af, neither of them are virgins or inexperienced but they just having sex for the first time together after realizing they've been in love with each other for years :')

⟡ ┆ estimated word count. 14k

"distance makes the heart grow fonder." is no longer just a cliche saying. heeseung decided to follow his dreams, but doing so lead him to a different city, leaving you behind. no other friends, no hobbies to keep yourself busy, and no motivation to keep going, the only thing keeping you on some sort of routine is attending your college classes that your parents force you to go to. just when you're about to officially quit and give up, heeseung shows up out of nowhere and manages to pull you out of your slump, upturning your whole friendship in the process.

NATURAL REMEDY — pjs

⟡ ┆ featuring. jay x fem!reader

⟡ ┆ genre and tropes. MDNI 18+ ONLY, smut, physical therapist!reader, patient!jay, probably hipaa violations idk just don't do this irl basically

⟡ ┆ warnings. unprotected sex, oral (m. receiving), body worship (jay receiving bc he deserves someone to tell him or handsome he is), handjob, lots of oil, lowkey massage kink idek what to call this??

⟡ ┆ estimated word count. 5k

when jay hurts his knee while goofing around with his friends, his doctor recommends rest and physical therapy. lucky for him, your office is just around the corner, just that neither of you can make good on the ordered rest by doctor.

HEALTHY COMPETITION — lhs + sjy

⟡ ┆ featuring. heeseung x fem!reader x jake

⟡ ┆ genre and tropes. MDNI 18+ ONLY, smut, college au, non-idol au, and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates), no romance just fucking

⟡ ┆ warnings. basically no plot, threesome (duh), protected and unprotected sex, anal, double penetration, spanking, oral (m. and f. receiving), multiple rounds, manhandling, they make it a competition to see who can make her moan the loudest...

⟡ ┆ estimated word count. 9k

your roommates bickering should be nothing but white noise to you at this point, but when they both rope you into their little argument of who fucks better things take an interesting turn and a welcomed distraction from studying is provided.

SNEAKY LINK — sjy

⟡ ┆ featuring. jake x fem!reader

⟡ ┆ genre and tropes. MDNI 18+ ONLY, smut, uni AU, frat boy jake (i'm sorry), friends with benefits but no one knows, alcohol consumption (they're not drunk and both consenting !!)

⟡ ┆ warnings. unprotected sex (it's a theme for me atp, don't do this irl pls), dry humping, fingering (it's jake come on now), kinda rushed sex ig, does it count as exhibitionism when they fuck in a spare bedroom idk, oral (f. receiving), breast play

⟡ ┆ estimated word count. 4k

frat parties usually weren't your thing, but when your best friend invites you (with the intention to be her wingwoman) you're not one to let her down. that is until you run into jake, whom you've been fooling around with without anyone knowing ...

© sungbeams — all rights reserved. i do not give permission to copy, repost, modify or translate my works.

[lanaclarke]

g.clarke nsfw headcanons

if you sit on his face, he’s not coming back from it.

his favourite place. he lives for it. hands on your thighs like he’s praying. letting you grind down, take from him - moaning into you, grabbing at you like he needs it to breathe. if you try to pull away, he’ll literally whine. “no no, c’mon, i’m not done. not letting you go yet.”

he has a very specific tone of voice when he's about to lose it.

it’s low. raspy. almost stunned. you’ll say something soft - like “you feel so good inside me” - and he’ll let out this helpless, broken: “...you’re gonna fuckin’ end me.” and then proceed to absolutely rail you because he cannot physically cope.

his aftercare is disguised as sarcasm but it’s so clearly love.

he’ll be wiping sweat off your chest with his t-shirt like, “look what you’ve done to me. i’m knackered. tou’ve actually killed me.” but then he’s pulling you into his arms, whispering “you alright, baby?” and stroking your hair for ten minutes straight.

sometimes he just stares at your body like it’s ruined him.

like mid-sex, he’ll pause. hands on your hips. breathing hard. and go: “look at you. you’re unreal. i’m losing my fuckin’ mind here.” rvery time he sees you fall apart underneath him, it’s like the first time - wonderstruck, wrecked, obsessed.

big praise kink.

xalls you “gorgeous,” “so good for me,” “my perfect girl” while he’s inside you. whispers it like it’s sacred. even when he’s wrecking you, he’s still soft underneath — still in awe of you. and if you praise him? game over. whimpering into your skin, absolutely ruined by a “you feel so good, baby.”

talks during sex. constantly.

he narrates everything. what he’s doing to you. what you’re doing to him. how good you feel. low, breathy praise in your ear like, “so tight around me, fuck. you love it, don’t you?” but also ridiculous shit like “say you missed me. nah, say it properly or I’m stopping.”

(he can't bring himself to stop.)

he’ll fully break character when you moan his name.

like yeah, he talks a big game. sarcastic. cocky. but the moment you whimper “george…” in that ruined, breathless tone? he’s gone. can’t breathe. whispers a stunned “fuckin’ love when you say that” and starts fucking you deeper, harder - like he’s trying to bury himself in the sound of it.

will help you out when you’re needy just to hear you beg.

he catches you squirming against him and grins slow like, “what’s that? something you need?” won’t give it to you at first. teases with his fingers - ghosting over your underwear, kissing your neck. “yse your words, sweetheart. wanna hear you ask for it.” and the moment you say “please”? he’s already between your legs, murmuring, “that’s my girl.”

[l4mplight]

Miquella and Trina; A Tragedy

Hey Tumblr. I have a lot of thoughts about Shadow of the Erdtree, and these ones... let's just say I don't think they'd do well on Reddit. It's not often that I feel particularly impacted by a particular fictional character. Usually I connect more with narrative arcs and themes, which is why I think I'm so drawn to the ephemeral, vibes based storytelling of Fromsoft's games. Playing through SOTE, though, I found Miquella (and St Trina) to be extremely emotionally compelling and relatable, and I wasn't sure exactly why. I think I've put my finger on it now though. First of all, know that I am writing from the perspective that Miquella is a sympathetic character. I know that it's not uncommon to read him as a manipulative Machiavellian villain, but I think that's both a misreading of the text as well as just plain boring. Like, he's not a Griffith clone you guys, give From some credit. Anyway, here we go.

"You have no understanding. Of Miquella the Kind. Of St. Trina's Love.

Content Warning: I'll be discussing themes of depression, and the implication of suicidal ideation.

So, a classic Fromsoftware theme is despair, and the ways we cope with a world full of it. It shows up twice in Shadow of the Erdtree; with Midra and the Frenzied Flame, where despair leads to a selfish nihilism that asks us to burn everything down, and with Thiollier and St Trina, who offer sleep as a comfort to the weary. Running a small errand for Thiollier has him say the following.

"If you find yourself… weary of the weight of this life, then just give me the word. Sleep is a balm, and eternal sleep… is an elixir."

Drinking the elixir he offers will, of course, result in an instant death. This is our first encounter with the idea of "Eternal Sleep," a more potent form of the sleep status effect that only appears here in the Shadowlands, after St Trina has been abandoned. The Velvet Sword of St. Trina tells us as much: "Silver sword of St. Trina, now stained the color of velvet. Inflicts eternal sleep. When St. Trina was abandoned, the faint, light-purple mists coalesced into an intoxicating deep-purple cloud." In order to ascend to godhood, Miquella abandons first his physical body, and then the more abstract aspects of himself. As we begin to descend down the fissure where we'll find Trina, a cross marks the spot as the place where Miquella abandoned his love. This connects Trina, "the discarded half" as Thiollier puts it, with Miquella's love. Leda confirms this in her own dialogue:

"St. Trina's love for Kind Miquella is boundless. She is, after all, his other half. Or perhaps her feelings go beyond even that. Even if she was left behind, I doubt her heart would waver."

Keep that in mind, it'll be relevant later.

Near the cross, a spirit offers up some of the most heartbreaking dialogue I've come across so far. The spirit gives us a bigger picture of Miquella's goals:

"Kindly Miquella... I see you've thrown away... something you should not have. Under any circumstances. How will you salvation offer... to those who cannot be saved? When you could not even save your other self?"

I teared up at this. The emotional impacted was aided by the fact that I ran into the spirit right after telling Moore to put his past behind him, leading him to rededicate himself to Miquella. He says:

"Hm. Maybe that’s Kindly Miquella’s love. Love for all the unloved. Love, to banish the pain."

Note here that Moore suggest Miquella's love will "banish the pain." This is also essentially what Trina's sleep does. It's a comfort to those in need. Anyway, between these two instances, we end up with a pretty good picture of the sort of god Miquella wants to become. He was already sympathetic to the outcasts of The Lands Between in the basegame, where he built Elphael and the Haligtree as a haven for those rejected by the Golden Order, such as the Albinaurics and Misbegotten we find there. In the Shadowlands, he has gone a step further. Hornsent tells us that he has committed himself, in essence, to righting Marika's wrongs.

"Miquella has said as much himself – he wishes now to throw it all away. He says the act – though undoubtedly painful – will sear clean the Erdtree’s wanton sin. The truth of his claim can be found at each cross. 'Tis evidence enough to earn my belief."

Of all of Marika's children, Miquella is the only one to see the serious flaws in her empire. Ymir points this out to us as well.

"No matter our efforts, if the roots are rotten, then we have little recourse. Ever-Young Miquella saw things for what they were. He knew his bloodline was tainted, his roots mired in madness. A tragedy if there ever was one. That he would feel compelled to renounce everything when the blame lay squarely with the mother."

My thinking here is aligned with Mother Ymir. You really have to feel for Miquella; he has essentially taken on, alone, the responsibility of making up for centuries of Golden Order imperialism. That's a massive burden to bear, especially for Miquella, cursed with eternal childhood.

(It's easy to miss, but Miquella actually ages up significantly when we see him in god-form. Until he steps back through the Divine Gate, he would have looked and sounded like he does in the introductory art and in ending memory scene. Compare those with how he appears in the boss fight, and it's clear godhood at least helped him reach puberty lol) So we've established that Miquella is the child of Imperial Rome on Steroids, is cursed with eternal childhood, and is an empathetic prodigy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Surely his mental state is perfectly healthy, right? Right??

Final warning, this is where things get quite sad. Here is where I will try to tie Miquella's arc together with Thiollier and St Trina, and the comforting oblivion and relief from despair that sleep represents for them.

As we search for St Trina, we descend down into the Stone Coffin Fissure. This is a place of death, with massive coffins built into the fissure walls, and Gravebirds, Bloodfiends and Putrescent enemies everywhere. St Trina is found at the deepest possible pit of this fissure, in a swamp of putrescence that has since blossomed into a garden of deep velvet lilies because of her influence. Trina offers us nectar of "eternal sleep," as Thiollier did previously, and as established then, "eternal sleep" is essentially nothing more than a peaceful death. Trina seems to fit in quite well in this place of ancient dead things, with some of the ancient remains even being compelled to fight for her in exchange for eternal rest, becoming the Putrescent Knight.

(Side note for levity because we're about to get sad again; I love this guy. It's a knight made out of the skeleton of a horse, riding on that same horse's decaying flesh goop body. Like, ugh. Beautiful. Plus, it may even have taken that shape because of Trina sharing Miquella's memories of Radahn, who was never far from his horse Leonard...)

We meet St Trina in her garden, and when we imbibe her nectar, we eventually begin to hear her voice in our death-dreams. She seems to pity him. Mourn for him, almost.

"Make Miquella stop... Don't turn the poor thing into a god..."

Trina appears to be in a bad state after her fall. She can only manage to get a few words across to us at once. Just as Leda predicted, her heart hasn't wavered. She is only concerned with Miquella's well-being.

"Godhood would be Miquella's prison. A caged divinity... is beyond saving."

Trina's most pressing concern is that godhood will be a prison for Miquella. Now, this could in theory be because gods are subject to manipulation from the Fingers and the Greater Will or a similar reason, but given that she calls him a "poor thing," I think there is likely a more emotional reason behind Trina's plea. I think that Trina is speaking as the embodiment of Miquella's love, but especially his ability to love and care for himself...

"You must kill Miquella... Grant him forgiveness."

...and she asks us to kill him.

In excising Trina from his being, I think Miquella also expelled the part of himself that was able to recognize how miserable divinity would be for him, and how miserable he was. The part of him that was tired of carrying the responsibilities that his compassion demanded of him. The part of him that was exhausted, despairing and desperate from having failed to cure Malenia, failed to save Godwyn, failed to perfect the Haligtree. St Trina is the part of Miquella that wanted to be stopped, to rest, to sleep, to die. In abandoning her as he does, Miquella is essentially repressing those thoughts and feelings, replacing them with more "selfless" ones; self-sacrifice, suffering on behalf of others, his martyrdom and apotheosis. I don't want to forget about "grant him forgiveness" either. She might mean forgiveness for failing to become a god, for not being good enough to succeed Marika and right her wrings. Maybe forgiveness for failing Malenia and Godwyn, or for leaving the Haligtree behind. Maybe even for abandoning her. But on the road to godhood, Miquella can't afford to indulge in this sort of self-pity. A child craves forgiveness and approval, a god must cast these things out.

"I'm feeling rather lost. Haunted by memories. Of St. Trina. Her visage. Her scent. The lure of velvety sleep. Would Kindly Miquella chasten me? For falling for St. Trina, while knowing that she was the discarded half? The problem is… I simply cannot help it. I would sacrifice everything, just to gaze upon her, one last time."

I want to mention Thiollier one more time here too. His primary visual motif is the long white braids that he wears on his clothes, reminiscent of Miquella and Trina's own signature braids (remember, she looked like an older feminine Miquella before her fall and injury). Thiollier is obsessed with Trina, pursuing her to hear her voice and fade into the comfort of her velvet sleep, though this doesn't kill him like it does us. I don't think Thiollier is connected to Miquella in any textual way, but I think he does serve as a reflection of the sorts of thoughts Miquella may have been surpressing. The self-pity, the need for approval and love, the feelings of weakness and uselessness. These are the things that lead Thiollier to pursue endless slumber.

Thiollier doesn't give in to that despair, however. Though he initially takes St. Trina's words... poorly, he eventually realizes what must be done, and dedicates himself to his new purpose: carrying out her final wish.

"I am here to serve St. Trina evermore. I am deeply sorry. For doubting you. I am here only to grant St. Trina's singular wish. I will stop Miquella the kind. He will never become a god."

This post is already quite long, but I also want to mention the obvious gender stuff going on here. There are a number of moments that make it seem as though St. Trina might actually be more than just "half" of Miquella. Firstly, as she is shown falling in the story trailer, Leda is describing how Miquella abandoned his fate, as if Trina had a vital role to play in Miquella's future. It also seems as though Trina isn't cursed in the same way that Miquella is; her voice and size indicate that she is at least more substantial than his "infant form," and she is depicted in "adult form, somewhat unnervingly" on the Torch of St. Trina. Furthermore, her "adult form" has a third eye in the middle of her forehead. The third eye is a symbol of enlightenment in both Hinduism and Buddhism; it seems that Trina has achieved some level of wholeness in this depiction. Meanwhile, when Miquella achieves godhood, his eyes remain permanently shut. He also appears to have only one physical arm. He holds Radahn with two incorporeal arms while casting with his real right arm, but his left arm appears to fade away to nothing before the elbow, as if unfinished. Miquella's blindness and asymmetry here, I think, reflect how unbalanced and incomplete his divinity is without Trina.

One more hint towards St Trina being a part of Miquella's future lies way back at the Haligtree. In Malenia's bossroom, just above where Miquella's cocoon was once embedded into the tree, the branches and roots appear to form a silhouette. This could be Miquella, Trina, or both, but I do see a certain resemblance to Trina's depiction on the torch in the way the "hair" covers the eyes. Given that Miquella's body appears to have grown a decent amount inside of the cocoon when we see in at Mohg's palace, it's possible that the cocoon situation was his original attempt to cure himself of his own curse, or perhaps become a part of the Haligtree itself. In the Shaman Village, Marika's home, there is a similar scene. A woman's body that resembles Marika seemingly mummified within the hollow of a tree. I honestly have no idea what to make of that just yet, but I thought it worth a mention.

So, with all that in mind, abandoning Trina seems to be even more significant. Not only has Miquella divested himself of his love and his fate, but maybe even his future, too. Being eternally nascent, he is always in a state of potential, after all. Am I suggesting that Miquella is a transfeminine character? That he was meant to grow up to become a goddess in the aspect of St. Trina, or maybe even more like Marika than he already is? Well, maybe. If you find it compelling, then absolutely. Fromsoftware's storytelling is always ambiguous, and is always design to leave us some room to read and interpret, to really play in the space we are given. Personally, I do find it compelling in a horribly tragic sort of way, fitting for the setting. It's also entirely possible that I have rather self-indulgently projected some of my own angst onto these character. I likely have, to be perfectly honest. It's rare that I really connect with a set of characters or a story like I have with this lot, and I hope that maybe some of you reading this will feel similarly. If you have read this far, thanks <3

[emeraldincandescent]

Post on my dash about medical debt reminded me of the time tumblr saved me two grand. I don't think I told y'all about it because I am out of the habit of posting everything I do on tumblr lol

So. Last December, I had a bad cavity filled, and about a week later, I woke up with half of my face paralyzed. Which, as I'm sure you can imagine, freaked me the fuck out. Fortunately I had some level-headed Discord friends who a) told me what Bell's palsy was so I could look it up and b) reminded me to call my dentist for an emergency appointment. Dentist was also pretty sure it was Bell's palsy, but urged me to go to the emergency room to get checked out, because one-sided facial paralysis is also a possible indicator of a stroke. And you don't fuck around with strokes.

Bell's palsy, if you, like me of 6 months ago, don't know, is a harmless paralysis/muscle weakness on one side of the face that can be caused by a variety of things. It usually goes away on its own after a few weeks but also you can speed up the process with steroids.

I was pretty sure I was not having a stroke, because I'm Red Cross first aid certified and I know the symptoms of a stroke, and while one-sided facial paralysis is one of them, I didn't have any of the others. Also, I had quit my shitty job in October, which meant I had a shiny new marketplace health insurance plan and hadn't even touched my deductible. But I called my parents from the car and they urged me to get checked out and promised to help me pay off the emergency room bill if I needed it, because they're good people and they love me even if they drive me crazy sometimes. So off I went to the nearest emergency room.

Emergency room staff also didn't think I was having a stroke, because I waited ALL AFTERNOON, periodically having a new person come up to me and ask me to smile, hold both arms out to the side, press down on their hands, and tell them what month and year it was. (They don't ask who the president is anymore. Hmm, I wonder why.) One guy had me drink a cup of water while he watched. I cannot stress enough that I did not have any medical tests other than a physical examination: no CT scans or MRIs, no IV drugs or blood draws, nothing.

I get diagnosed with Bell's palsy and given a prescription for Prednisone. And then they give me a phone number and tell me to talk to this person about administrative stuff. So I call, and the dude on the phone verifies my name and date of birth and insurance information, and then he says, "It looks like your copay today is going to be $2400. How would you like to pay?"

I am, to this day, kind of impressed that he didn't even stutter over that number, but I assume working in a medical call center drains your entire soul. At this point, it's about 7pm, and I've been in the hospital since 2pm, and I'm stressed because half my face doesn't work, and I know that I can't afford $2400 because I quit my shitty job with nothing lined up back in October. But, I still remember every tumblr post I've ever read about health insurance and the medical system and how you can negotiate down a bill. I am not looking forward to this process, it sounds like a pain in the ass, but the alternative is paying $2400, so I say the magic words: "Send me an itemized bill."

I kinda expected the guy to try and get me to pay up front, but he just says "Ok" and finishes up the process. I get discharged, go to the only open pharmacy at that time of night to get my Prednisone, have the pharmacist tell me the prescription isn't written right and he can't fill it, go home, and have a screaming sobbing meltdown because I have used up every single milligram of cope in my entire body. (I got my steroids eventually, and the Bell's palsy cleared up in a couple weeks.)

A few weeks later, I get the bill in the mail. I brace myself and open it...

$300.

Turns out, after going through insurance and processing and everything, they couldn't actually find $2400 worth of stuff to charge me for. Shocking! Who could have predicted!

I might have been able to argue it down even more, but I was fed up with entire thing, so I paid the $300 just to be fucking done with it. Sometimes the cheapest way to pay is with money.

What if I had paid that $2400 up front? Do I think they would have been like, "Oh, oops!" and refunded me $2k? Well, possibly, but I am not optimistic.

So, thank you to everyone who has ever posted about navigating the US healthcare system on tumblr. Because of you, I knew how to handle this situation even when I was tired and stressed.

Don't forget to ask for an itemized bill, folks.

[booksofstars]

normal abt my bristlefrost lives au…she gets pretty fucked up by the dark water since it becomes corrosive if you stay in too long. she loses a leg and is pretty heavily scarred, along with having some breathing issues. snowtuft was presumed dead, but df cats cannot kill each other (bonefall rewrite rules). and since ashfur was technically not a starclanner, well…snowtuft came back. he drags her out of the water. everyone else is gone now, believing she died. he drags her to juniperclaw who is extremely startled and relieved to see the two, and they immediately get ushered through to starclan. they manage to get bristlefrost back to her body just in time, and snowtuft finally ends up in starclan. her injuries were severe, and her leg had to be amputated. the burns caused by the dark water were extensive. she wasnt moved from the moonpool for a while, with medics instead taking shifts staying to treat her. rootspring, shadowsight, ivypool, and spotfur refused to leave her side for long.

jayfeather and mothwing most likely were the ones to amputate her leg since theyre the most experienced. she suffers from chronic pain and struggles to get around easily, so she takes up the role of a camp guard as well as being jayfeathers new assistant in working on physical therapy techniques. after a while, she is able to hunt a bit again and go on short border patrols. she carves out a nice niche for herself.

she spends a lot of time w great gma brightheart, her parents and siblings, shadowsight and rootspring when they visit, and spotfur. and now jayfeather and alderheart too!

shes a little more physically stable in asc, so she takes well to the clan changes! rootspring moves in with her. she gets along great w sunbeam and trades kithood stories abt nightheart and shadowsight w her. nightheart relies on her wisdom lmao. she loves frostdawn and would die for her, thinking of her as family and basically a second shadowsight. she makes good on her promise to help spotfur raise her kits, doting on them and telling them stories about her life and the cats around them.

she struggles to work through the trauma of tbcs events and receiving her injuries. she most likely has some form of ptsd, and is highly averse to bodies of water like the lake for the rest of her life. she has flashbacks frequently in the beginning, which lessen as she heals emotionally and physically. its still difficult to cope, but she has a strong support system there for her.

[cloudyskydreams]

I love the way you write for the sanses. I'd love it so so much if you could do the same genre SFW and NSFW headcanons for swap and fell sans too, thank you!!!

Of course!! Took me a bit to get on these but I have prevailed against my lack of motivation woo✨ I really enjoyed writing these honestly they're so fun to me. As always hope y'all enjoy!

✨SFW✨:

Red:

•Reds a clingy guy at home and in public. He likes being close to you and he's a tad possessive because he didn't think he'd ever actually be able to get with someone and you're the perfect someone in his eyes, he can't lose you.

•He seeks you out for comfort often because he doesn't have a lot of coping mechanisms. Just a very disgruntled or upset red coming over to you and hiding his face in your shirt as he clings to you. Only at home of course, he'll cling to your hand in public or get some kisses for that sweet sweet physical reassurance.

•As I've mentioned before Red loves to read and when he gets over his embarrassment of you seeing him in his glasses he'd love to read to you if you'd let him. He used to with Edge when he was little and he's always enjoyed reading to other people and giving the characters their own unique voices.

•Hes a big guy so when he's cuddling and doesn't want you to get up he'll pin you underneath him. Uses his size against you definitely wether that be pinning you down or simply blocking your path if he doesn't want you to leave.

•Real easy to fluster this man he's all for flirting and being a hornball but cannot handle it being thrown back in huge amounts. He's not used to people actually wanting him.

•He does like to spoil you, he doesn't have hella money but he'll buy you nice things or things you want.

•He definitely steals small things of yours occasionally larger items like clothing. He hoardes small knickknacks he's gotten of yours over your time together and refuses to admit that's what he's doing even though he has just a small pile of your stuff in his underwear drawer of the dresser.

Blue:

•He likes to take care of the stuff around the house for you. Of course he likes a little help but he doesn't mind doing a few chores or being the main cook in the house if it makes life easier on you!

•Absolutely blogs about you, Blue is a big blogger and he has a whole blog dedicated specifically to ranting about you and how much he loves you, he doesn't mention you by name and has a silly codename for you.

•He loves matching couple things, he's definitely made you matching bracelets and has gotten matching keychains that represent you guys to have of each other. He thinks it's super cute and just loves matching with you.

•He makes a lot of gifts for you. He likes creating things with his hands so he'll make you stuff like little paper flowers bouquets and flower crowns when you're at the park.

•He loves going out for dates and trys to plan one atleast once a week, he's fine with just hanging around the house and doing stuff but he'd love to take you to the arcade or amusement park or a cute little cafe.

•Your interests are now his interests, or he'll try to get into them at least! If it's not his type he's more than willing to listen to you rant and keep up with specific people or characters just for you. Him seeing a little tidbit of info on something you're interested in and feeling so proud to tell you about it.

🍋NSFW🍋:

RED:

•Has the biggest praise kink, he's into degrading too just not as heavily, he loves being told how good he's doing and how hot he looks.

•Hes a switch with no real preference, loves fucking into you as well as being fucked.His favorite position is doggy style so he can play with your ass while he's fucking you.

•He's got a husky ectobody, his ecto-cock is 6.3 inches and a girth of about 5.6 inches. His femme body has double d cup tits which he's very proud of and a apple shape figure, he has a red outtie pussy that's gapes just slightly from past usage.

•Red loves toys using on him or you. He loves to have his ass or pussy stuffed full and teased with vibrators and all sorts of dildos and plugs. He has a collection that he'll bust out first chance he gets. He loves teasing you with them too, stuffing you full with a vibrator and watching you get off on it.

•On that last bit he's a vouyer so he absolutely LOVES watching you get off with his toys, he even does one of those make a dildo things with his own cock so he can watch you fuck yourself with it.

•Is into anal giving or receiving. He's pretty good at taking it and even has a few butt plugs he'll wear around occasionally. He'd love to get you your own if you'd be into it and he'd definitely tease you with it if you decided to wear it for him one day.

BLUE:

•Blue's a huge tease and he uses his innocent face to try and get away with it when he can. He'll "brush" past you feeling you up stealthily or whisper in your ear how hard he's going to fuck you and in what position and then just look at you with them big blue eyelights and adorable smile.

•He leans towards top and dom mostly but has no problem bottoming or letting you take the reigns. His favorite position is spread eagle he likes being able to look into your eyes and it gives him easy access to your neck and chest for bites.

•Blue's a biter, not just during cuddles but also during sex. His teeth aren't the sharpest but his canines have an edge to them and he loves sinking his teeth into your plush body and leaving marks. It drives him crazy if you show them off he's so proud of them.

•He's got a little chub to his ectobody but not as much as the other sans as he does have a regular workout routine he's pretty good at keeping up with. His ecto-cock is about 5.2 inches and about 5.9 inches in girth. His femme body is a triangle body shape and he has b cup tits. He has a light blue innie pussy.

•He really enjoys roleplay and his favorite so far is royalty and faithful knight/bodyguard. He likes seeing you dressed up in costumes for you and owns a bunch for both him and you to wear.

•Temperature play is a big thing receiving and giving. Imagine teasing his little clit with a icecube or running it up his cock length as he twitches underneath you gasping and moaning. Or him teasing you as he rubs them across your nipples and down your stomach watching the ice melt on your warm flesh.

[rumpelree]

💕Ennard Michael (before he rots) design for my FNAF AU!! As always I’m late to post these from YT. Copy and pasting the massive lore dump for these below!! X3

Michael would absolutely HATE his look here bro does NOT wanna look like his dad whatsoever, and here Liz is dressing him up like him- so, like many other things in my AU, I’m going very canon divergent here. Liz doesn’t think Michael was William, so that’s not why she scooped him. She loves her dad, had a great relationship with him! What happened with Circus Baby? She SHOULD be blaming him but, she blames herself. Like a “I didn’t listen to my dad and look what happened” situation, because he tried to keep her from Circus Baby while she was alone. (Had preventative measures built in too like recognition, so that CB specifically WOULDNT scoop his daughter but. Yk. That failed bc his animatronics are JANK)

Anyways, the Funtimes were coded to be more friendly with her, not kill-y like CB when she malfunctioned and did what she was supposed to do to other kids. Liz blames herself, even if she shouldn’t, her dad shouldn’t have been building child/teen/whatever human would fit murder bots. And even though William kinda like, eventually just straightup left her in there because he couldn’t stand to face what he’d done- she’s stuck, physically AND mentally. Blaming her father is a huge ask, for her. She can’t see her dad being that cruel, because she never knew that side of him. She feels upset about scooping Michael but it was a mix of desperation to get out…and also having never witnessed him growing as a person, only remembering him as her okay/often jerk older brother who got Evan killed. So, she and her band of misfits steal his body,

And when they get out there into the world, obviously, everything’s different. Her immediate family is gone. Initially, Scooped Michael ends up dressed like William as a weird coping mechanism thing. She misses her dad, a lot. And what’s really important for me to portray is that, she’s not evil, nor is any other who kid died and stuffed in an animatronic suit. Imagine going through that, as a kid. She’s not like, 5 years old or something but she’s young, twelve years old when she dies, and I know when I was that age, there was times I’d break down and want nothing other than the comfort of my parents(still do!!), and I wanted the little comic doodles to show some of that! There’s no excuse for the things she does, or the person she becomes(murder-y too), but there IS reasonings, which is very different. (Clarifying since sometimes ppl think I’m excusing what these characters do ack)

💕Additional notes: The gray hairs were a very new addition and a suggestion from my friend, so future drawings will also have it! I was very minimal with the shading on this guy cuz I just needed a design ref for an animatic I’m working on! Though the way I shaded his skin here makes him look a little plastic-y, which is fitting I think! Cuz he’s dead.

I did try to make him vaguely a little blue in the face with purplish/blue lips because Elizabeth at least gives him the mercy of strangulation to death, so he won’t have to. Yknow. Get gutted AS consciously, he was still a bit conscious tho. (Also the tooth gap is from pliers eek)

Also- I wanted to make sure it’s also clear she missed her mom, but her dad was her main source of comfort. So, just wanted to take a peek into that psyche; just a kid, who ended up doing some really horrible things, wants her parent back and cannot- rather, refuses to- fathom the type of person said parent really was.

[cultkinkcoven]

me: I’m sorry I’m so pathetic. It must annoy you that you have to remind me to do basic shit like eat food and drink water. You must think I’m such a child

Lucifer: no actually not at all. You underestimate how daunting of a task it is to keep a body functional. I could never do it. Far too tedious. I applaud you for living in this body for as long as you have.

me: … what

Lucifer: I don’t have a body. I don’t have to worry about hunger or thirst or being too cold or feverish. I don’t ever think about needing to pee, I have never had goosebumps. I don’t get stomach aches. I don’t sweat. In all honesty, being trapped inside a body you feel connected with, but cannot entirely control is a truly terrifying idea, and you’re mostly successful at it. You may think that things like eating seem basic, but I always find it interesting to see how you cope with having a physical condition. You have to eat every single day, multiple times, and it has to be different food every now and then or you’ll become malnourished. You need to maintain the right level of vitamins in your blood or you’ll get sick. If your blood sugar or pressure is too low, you could die. Even 3 days without water could kill you. Sure, I have to tell you to eat sometimes, but truly, it is impressive that you’re able to handle having a body so well in most other regards. I couldn’t do that. It sounds terrible.

me: Is having a body really that foreign of a concept to a God?

Lucifer: you don’t understand how uncanny the prospect of having a body is because you cannot remember a time before you were inside your body. It is an intensely complex machine that carries you through life. You believe you have control over it, but for the most part it’s actually controlling you through instincts affirmed over hundreds of thousands of years. If it wants to, it can entirely ignore your input and act for itself. It can force you to lose consciousness and still operate without your help. You have a billion automatic processes running in the background with belief that your permission is required, you think you control your arm but you never told it to block your face when your body realized it was going to get hit before you did. You think you control your eyes but forget about blinking within 5 minutes. It’s easier to forget about your body and focus more on your thoughts and actions, because to focus on the body is to become aware of the separation, and also the fact that the separation technically doesn’t exist. Yes, to exist within a vessel that has complete control over your understanding of reality and self is an incredibly foreign and even uncanny concept to a God or spirit.

me: the way you describe it makes it seem like having a body is a bad thing, like some kind of punishment.

Lucifer: as a spirit without a body the idea of being trapped within one is uncomfortable to me. However I wouldn’t say it’s a bad thing. It’s a very good thing that you are human.

me: well it sounds like a torturous experience from your perspective

Lucifer: I do not envy your responsibility to keep this body functional. But I do envy other things that come along with having a body.

me: like?

Lucifer: You have a favourite color. Periwinkle. I can never have a favourite color.

me: why not? are Gods not allowed to have a favourite color?

Lucifer: Color does not exist in reality, my love. It is entirely an illusion created by your eyes and brain. What you experience as colors are just different wave lengths of light. Of course I can detect this light, I understand what you mean when you describe the color red. But to me, I don’t necessarily “see” red. I have no eyes, no cones within them to create red. To me, it is more of a number or code. But to you, it’s something you can create associations with and even favour. It is your nose that creates the “smell”, particles in the air don’t inherently “smell” like anything. I love music, you know this well. But to me, a song is an equation, an operation of vibrations. But the right note can make you cry, it can make your heart rate increase. The right melody can cause a physical reaction in the body, the urge to dance. No, I have never experienced physical hunger, but I have also never experienced a delicious meal. I have never been itchy, nor have I ever had a lover scratch my back. I have never felt the discomfort of sweat, nor have I ever felt the relief of a cool breeze on my face. Air enters and exits your lungs. Food breaks down inside your guts and becomes a part of you. Your cells regenerate at every given moment. You are both something trapped inside this body, and this body, all at once. I like to watch you live, my boy, because every single second that this body lives, every moment you devote to me, I learn so much more about what this world is, what it means to live within it. It is only through your devotion that I understand the taste of a caramel chocolate apple. Only because you offered the taste and smell to me do I have a positive affinity towards them. Through the bodies of their people, Gods experience the world without having to become bound by it. I applaud you for taking on this burden, my love. I really do. It is one of the things I admire most about you.

me: huh… I guess I never thought of it that way.

Lucifer: also, having said all of this, you’re really not doing that bad of a job, love. You take pretty good care of your body for the most part. You still bathe nearly every day, you brush your teeth and moisturize your skin. 10000 years ago that would have been very impressive. You may not eat as much as you should but you still at least have one meal a day. People of the past would be lucky to eat food of this quality so often. You have all your booster shots and mask to keep yourself safe from illness. You wash your hair and clip your toenails. You even take multivitamins. You’re doing more than okay, baby, you’re doing really good. I don’t expect you to be perfect. I wouldn’t be if I were you.

me: yeah. I guess you’re right. My ancestors probably didn’t brush their teeth as much as I do

Lucifer: or drink nearly as much water

me: yeah :) hm. okay. thanks :) … so…. you think you wouldn’t take care of your body if you had one?

Lucifer: I would try, but I think I would be very susceptible to addiction. I might become addicted to heroin

me: WHAT

Lucifer: I’ve had a few devotees who did heroin and the sensations it provided were very interesting

me: wow okay.

[slicedseafoam]

Intro to Styrofoamers

TW/ Discussion of SH. These are purely my personal opinions on sh, and you are free to disagree.

Contents:

Very basics

Why do I think this?/My arguments

Common arguments against

What should be done.

okay!!! go!!

Very basics

Styrofoamers is the idea that although self injury can be risky and other coping strategies should be encouraged, it shouldn’t be seen as completely invalid and people who practice it safely should not be forced or shamed to stop doing it. I just called it Styrofoamers cuz I think its a cute name… and if you agree you can call yourself a styrofoamer and we’re all pals and stuff idk.

Why do I think this?/My arguments

My main reasons can be summarized as this:

I have had experience with self injury and felt that it helped me cope effectively. Coping strategies differ for everyone, and just because it would never work for you doesn’t mean it can’t help others.

Having a strict “no tolerance” policy about self injury is damaging to those who do it because it is incredibly difficult to reach out for help for mental or physical reasons, especially when someone finding out results in consequences. I have seen firsthand from many people how this causes serious injuries to have to stay unreported and improperly treated due to fear of people finding out and being punished and forced to stop.

Whether you agree with me or not, everyone has a right to bodily autonomy and taking that away just because you can’t understand why someone would do something is a violation of their rights. I think that a change in culture from “self injury must be completely stopped at all costs” to one of “you can self injure if you’d like, but be safe about if or you will be forced to stop” would be incredibly helpful to everyone involved. I hope that even if you disagree with me you can understand why I think this.

Counter arguments/Rebuttals

I cannot cover every single counter argument, but here’s some common ones. If you have one that was not covered that you think makes a valid point let me know and I can add it to the list.

“It’s disturbing.”

Thats your own opinion. Your opinion should not be a basis for deciding what people can or cannot do with their bodies.

“It’s dangerous.”

Yes, it is riskier than other actions. However even with a very simple knowledge of first aid self injury becomes something that poses little to no danger to those involved. If an accident were to occur, a shift in culture where self injury is accepted would make those doing it not be scared to seek medical treatment. This could and would save lives.

“I can’t understand why someone would do that. It must be mental illness, it should be stopped.”

If you didn’t enjoy knitting, would you say that all knitters should have their tools forcefully taken away and be punished if they were caught doing it? No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. The issue here is a combination of it not being for you and the natural human instinct of injury = danger = bad. If you can remove yourself from the ladder and think about it from a purely logical standpoint, it should be clear it’s just as simple as it’s an activity thats not for you. Your personal opinions are valid but should never be used as a justification to remove someone’s bodily autonomy. I would be lying if I said that self injury cant stem from mental illness, but self injury is just a symptom and not the problem. Plucking a flowers petals will not remove the root.

What should be done

People who self injure shouldn’t be shamed. They shouldn’t be told they are wrong for wanting to do something. My whole life, I was told it was wrong. I did it anyway. Want to know what I learned? When you really ask someone why they want to stop you from injuring yourself they can’t think of a logical reason. It’s all pure instinct, “injury = danger = bad”. What people need to do is look past what they first think and not judge a book by its cover.

EDIT: I have decided to put everything relating to this sort of stuff to a sideblog (@slicedstyrofoam) if you’re interested you can follow that.

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

BDSM: A Fanfiction Rec List

This week, we have BDSM! Check under the cut for 10 fics that explore and feature all things kinky and BDSM, and don't forget to comment and kudos if you like them!

Attraction is just a form of Gravity by ThreeGremlinsInATrenchcoat (201070, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb had caught Essek's attention immediately. And ever since, this strange little neglected attraction has been bothering him. He initiates a mutually beneficial arrangement upon realizing that Caleb's interests match his own surprisingly well. A purely physical, transactional deal.

Reccer says: This is one of my fav fics, one I’ve read more than once. The development of the relationship and feelings, the character portrayals, and the brilliant weaving of a kink negotiation conversation throughout the chapters is all just so good. The sex is also incredibly hot. I learned some things about myself. I feel like BDSM is well represented in this, including negotiations and the importance of after care and usage of safe words.

Research Method by AnaliseGrey (3819, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

There are many things that Essek loves about Caleb. He’s kind, and he’s gentle, but it’s his patience Essek is currently occupied with. Caleb’s terrible, obnoxious levels of patience.

Reccer says: Another scorching hot fic!

cuz you are bigger than the planet earth, and I am your satellite by allmadeofstardust (6085, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek & Caleb do some research into a type of magic that can unlock all new explorations (in the bedroom) in the library. (Spoilers: it's suspension bondage - dunamancy style)

Reccer says: I wrote this! And honestly it's one of the sexiest smut fics I've written. It has intense body worship, severe power dynamics, a beloved amount of trust, and some fun exploration of dunamancy usage in the bedroom. Plus, it features the wizards being nerds purely for sexual pleasure. What's sexier than wizards?

coping skills by eldritchmochi (251061, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Modern with magic bdsm au.

Reccer says: So much good in this fic! Wonderful and respectful exploration of disability, and many Super hot sex scenes

Artificer Devices from Late-Period Aeor: An Experimental Interpretation from Arcane Reconstruction to Functionality (E. Thelyss, C. Widogast) by renquise (5858, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Essek and Caleb find a fuck machine in Aeor. Caleb recreates it for Essek.

Reccer says: Essek strapped down to a fuck machine? Absolutely love.

i cannot throw "i love you" very far by SaltCore (3427, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb needs a break from his thoughts. Essek provides.

Reccer says: This one is more sentimental & sweet, and the description of what subspace looks like from an outside perspective is great!

i don’t need gravity, I just need growth by mojo_da_jojo (20686, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb stumbles upon a smut novel in Essek's possessions that reveals one of Essek's longtime fantasies. Essek, of course, is mortified. Caleb, however... Caleb has ideas. M

Reccer says: This fic is so incredibly hot! If overstimulation and embarrassed kinky role play sound like a good time, this will be your cup of tea!

the ties that bind you hold my heart by LivThael (4330, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek takes his time with taking a happily-bound Caleb apart at the seams. There's some talk of some fun things they could do together in the future, too.

Reccer says: It's both hot and sweet! Essek is a very capable Dom here AND Caleb gives HIM aftercare too. This is the first part of a series that only gets hotter from here!

Pop Quiz by CatgirlTheCrazy (1250, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

It turns out that words like "tentacle" and "tendril" are not interchangeable synonyms, and neither is an accurate term for what an octopus has. Caleb is not allowed to come until he can show that he thoroughly understands this.

Reccer says: Smoking hot tentacle action but it's also funny and just plain weird in the best, most fun way possible

forever is just the beginning by burningafterdark (burningdarkfire) (3580, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb receives a new book from Essek, with the agreement that Essek can use him however he likes when he’s reading it.

Reccer says: I think the device of the book is very fun, and both of the characters relish the roles they are playing within their game.

This is one of our weekly communally-generated Shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. 

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring fanfics featuring Ludinus Da'Leth, Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

[witerh]

need each other || boyfriend re4r!leon

warning: nsfw, fluff, mention of leon's ptsd, dom/soft leon! phone handjob, on distance, dirty talk, animal names, caresses, orgasm, consolation, comfort.

rating: mature

plot: your boyfriend's long absence from home makes you miss him not only mentally but also physically.

all rights reserved!| please don't copy my work without permission!| 18+ content!| minors DON'T interreact!|

Long-distance relationships, no matter what temporarily or forever, are always an unbearable longing and need. Thoughts are filled only with when he will return and worry about one rustle at home because he can will return at any moment. A couple of days, weeks and months have already been passing for too long, hours and minutes are like honey — they are slowly tormenting you with its slowness. Joy knows no bounds when you hear a notification on your phone, you hope that it’s your boyfriend, but it turns out it’s just a notification about the weather forecast. At night, hiding a pillow between your legs is simply unbearable because the desire to feel real touches is much stronger. Memories of his hands on your body, wanting to console you and calm you down from bitter tears that you don’t deserve make you sad while he consoled himself with a glass of whiskey at the bar. The atmosphere in the house just suffocates you like never before. You are used to coming home from work and smelling the cooked dinner, comforting yourself in the arms of the blond talking about your day. But now it’s deathly silence, broken by the jingle of your keys in the lock.

A stream of cool air blows into your bedroom through the slightly open window while you lie in bed and chat with Leon. The corners of your lips turn up as you can you hear his voice as if it were some kind of treasure. His words through the phone speaker feel like they are say from the heart. Admitting how much he misses you and will be back soon with a gift in the form of a new dress that you saw on Instagram makes your heart beat faster than before. You tell how things are going on with you at work and, in general, the upcoming news in your life. You haven’t seen him for a long time, you haven’t felt his comfort and the warmth for a long time which now replaces blanket. Fleeting conversations with him on the phone warm you more than any fireplace in a harsh winter that does not want to be consoled. This mission is too long for both of you and your cunt is already getting wet from his message: “How is my girl coping there alone at home, hmm?" It torments you, but at the same time it gives you pleasure like never before. Sweet torture that you are ready to endure on your own skin with defeat and hand in panties.

While talking about something new at your work, you didn’t even not right away notice how Leon was half naked and with rosy cheeks. He often worked out in the gym, because you always need to keep in shape, just as you always need to keep the bookshelves in order from dust in your house. He carefully tried and trained his muscles, so that veins almost burst under his slightly tanned skin. I can’t say that you didn’t admire his muscular body, his chest, his abs, but still it was too much. It was too beautiful a sight for your head to see his strong hands, that a pool had already formed in your mouth from your saliva. You didn’t even ask your boyfriend whether he was home from practice or not, because you still knew the answer: “Yes, I was, baby, otherwise it wouldn’t be me.”

— You think so, what if were you at home and touched me right now? Explain yourself for me. — you reproached into the speaker feeling a rather familiar knot inside your lower abdomen. The sound of your voice so alluring made him root for you even more. Leon could imagine the playful smirk on your lips as you teased him. His strong hand ran over his aching cock, which needed you more and more. Kennedy's imagination is simply clouded by excitement and he cannot think right now.

— I would lie between your thighs... and eat you for breakfast, lunch and dinner... I'll make you scream my name until you forget yours... — he sighed softly lost in my imagination. About how you squeeze his skull with your plush hips, how you will cry for release while his tongue carefully works over your body, how your hands grab onto his strands of hair as if it were a sheet that was stained with your juices and his saliva. It makes his skin crawl. Leon threw his heavy head back onto the pillow, which eventually flopped from the big fantasies of your entertainment after his mission.

He will definitely make your pussy happy.

His blond hair sticks to his forehead due to sweat because it's so hot in the hotel room! With every statement and request from Leon, you felt that there was already a lake of your fluids under your ass. There is no point in resisting the temptation, and your hand is already under the lace fabric and circling over your clitoris, caressing you while you imagine that these are his fingers.

— Oh, Leon, — you mutter for him and only him — I want you... — your words were a request and a plea with heavy breathing. Your words and the sounds of your cunt squelching against your finger made the fire inside him flare up. His hand lowered his sweatpants freeing his already hard cock from its confines. Leon's movements were desperate when he heard this symphony of your sighs and sounds.

— What a good girl, — he answered, frowning from the tension in this situation. With every stroke he imagined that you were doing this to him which brought him to an uncontrollable state. Your shared muffled chorus of arousal and moans was heard only by both of you and no one else. — What do you want, baby, now?.. I will do everything I can in my power, —

Your fingers began to tremble due to the way you were squeezing them with your walls. His voice and words were stuck in your head for a couple of seconds while you thought about them while your boyfriend continued to console himself and you heard it perfectly. — Fuck me, Leon... Рlease... I need you so much.. right now, — your thighs began to tremble involuntarily — a sign that your fingers were doing their job well.

— I'm close.. very.. Oh God.. — Kennedy's slight muttering that you couldn't quite understand. Leon was quiet that there were almost no moans for you, but for him your moans were very often. His hand increased the pace of movement, smearing precum from the red tip with his thumb. You both lost your breath and the approach only increased without stopping for mercy. The tension in the lower abdomen tormented him greatly, as did you, constantly reminding him of the long-awaited release. With each passing moment, the intensity of your pleasure grew until it became almost unbearable. It's too much.

— Cum for me, baby, be a good girl for me... — he coos and his voice was hoarse with his desire and need for you. You succumbed to temptation with a hoarse cry, feeling like a knot was untying in the lower abdomen and your pussy ached and ached while your hips stood up slightly in trembling. You are lost and your mouth is dry and there is not enough saliva while your body is all wet from sweat and your own fluids, not to mention the sheet under you and now dirty pajamas. You could only hear his moans and low growls of his release with your encouragement. Thick strings of sperm released into his palm also staining his clothes and his skin.

You both walked away and breathed heavily without saying anything. — You liked it baby, huh? — his murmur was heard with the slight rustling of a napkin as he removed dirt from himself. Kennedy wanted to hear your approval or to hear what he did wrong in this unusual meeting on the phone. — This is not just “good”, it is ideal and only ideal, — you quietly whispered back.

[royhasissues]

Torbek Theory Time

I've been wanting to talk about this since I started OUAW in August(?) I didn't have a platform for it then, but I do now! :D

Full disclaimer: it's been awhile since I've watched Witchlight---some of this will be vague as I don't remember exact episodes or scenarios. Please bear with me.

Also, spoilers for OUAW in general. Especially the later episodes, but I don't remember which, so just be cautious if you're not caught up. :)

As I said in my last post, Torbek's name isn't Torbek. Now let me expand upon that.

The reason why I don't think his name is Torbek is because he is not the original inhabitant of his body. The Duke is. Think about it. Torbek doesn't remember anything before Carnival Lecroux (this is stated at least once in a later episode); now this fact is kind of contested by other things Torbek says, but I believe that he gained control of the body (or manifested) sometime prior to working at the carnival, but has no memories before manifesting. Details in OUAW can be pretty inconsistent at times.

ANYWAY. My second piece of evidence is the flashback we get with the mushroom siblings much later on. We see, as Nikkie describes, a more put together Torbek walking through---was is the Underdark? I don't remember where he was---for an appointment. That's where we learn that he's a duke. Basically, the Duke is described as looking exactly like Torbek, but not an absolute mess. This, to me, solidifies that Torbek is not the owner of the body.

Now, I can't say what happened to give him control, but I think it has something to do with the "appointment" the Duke was going to. I genuinely don't believe that the entity that is Torbek existed until after whatever happened to the Duke happened.

Next, Torbek mentions that he's always heard voices; the Duke has always been there. He is not a recent manifestation brought on by the experimentation Torbek underwent. Somehow, the Duke lost control of his body and is trapped in his own mind, now constantly trying to regain control. This is why he's always bugging Torbek about giving up and letting him take over. He wants his body back.

Something about the Witchlight allows the Duke to take control for short periods of time. I think his "appointment" has something to do with Witchlight and the experimentation of Torbek later on. Regardless, he can't keep control for very long, most likely because being hopped up on so much Witchlight is very taxing on the both of them. He is working to wrest control back from Torbek... little by little. There is more to be stated on why Witchlight is so important for the Duke's ability to take his body back. Why is he only in control when Torbek uses Witchlight? (and not even every time, at that) Can he force Torbek out without it? I don't think so. Not currently, at least.

Torbek is completely unaware. He thinks he was born Torbek. And, as a coping mechanism, has fake memories of being younger (this is my own hc as he does canonically state that he does not remember much) that are probably mixed with the Duke's own.

Now, about Torbek's name. I mentioned that I think Torbek made it up since he couldn't remember it. His real name would be whatever the Duke's name is, of course. I wish I understood psychology a little bit better so I could include it in my analysis, but him speaking in the third person is 100% some kind of trauma response. Now to what? I can't really say. But it has something to do with his fractured sense of self. He doesn't know who he is and something feels wrong. It's almost as though he has to remind himself that his name is Torbek. That he is his own person (he's not), because the alternative would ruin him. He also cannot physically refer to himself in the first person. This is so meaningfully important and I wish I could expound upon that but, like I said, I don't know psychology well enough. But, I can at least say that it has something to do with the fact that he is not him. Get it? Lol. In the sense that only the Duke uses "I" and "me" because he is the original owner of the body. Torbek physically cannot because he isn't. Torbek is Torbek. Torbek is some outside entity that was brought in later.

It kinda gets into some mind fuckery tbh.

If you've read my fics, specifically chapter 4 of "I Don't Have a Name For It," you'll see me try to convey that. I'd like to include this theory into my fics more, but it's difficult without saying something like "Torbek does not own this body" lol. (I'm working on one where he describes himself as a parasite. Now why would he do that...? Huh. >:) I'd love to talk more on this point, but I don't want to spoil the fic? Maybe I will bc I'm insane and I need to get these ideas out of my head or I'll explode.)

At the risk of sounding like an asshole, I thought this was obvious. But I've read several aus/headcanons/fics that state otherwise. It is 100% my belief that the Duke was the original inhabitant and Torbek came in later.

If you got this far, thank you for reading all this 🥺 Please let me know what you think! I'd love to read your thoughts. :)

[yandereunsolved]

Funny thing is tgat in the mgs universe, don't even matter if the two parties ain't capable of carrying kids, can just take their DNA and mush it together in a lab and then boom, child-ish thing

Yeppers !

Which is what Liquid loves so much. ;) His darling can be anyone. And he can make their shared children into anyone.

Which makes me think... would the yan Snakes want children with their darling? how many? and in what way?

― Naked Snake ―

he already ends up having clones which are his 'children'

it does depend on the era

just in general 1

he wants one little child that he can help mould into something greater

also knows that bringing a child into the mix is incredibly complicated

loves the thought of impregnating his darling (even if physically incapable)

is not against scientifically making a baby

does NOT like the idea of having a specific surrogate

the dna has to be both yours and his

test tube is okay - he just doesn't want his baby in another person's body that is not yours

― Venom Snake ―

has some need for at least three children. up to five.

it's a hidden desire of his.

he could never. it's a pipe dream. but it's still a fantasy of his.

into babytrapping his darling. is more than confident that he'll be able to keep them safe.

thinks he wouldn't be a great father. he's already insecure about his status as your lover―even if he doesn't show it.

Venom Snake may be ooc. I haven't played the mgsv games yet. So even with delving into his backstory I don't know him very well.

― Solid Snake ―

maybe one.

can't ever see himself having children.

he feels like he's too broken. and he doesn't need to break a child. his life is fucked up as it is.

smiles softly when he thinks of a child that looks like you.

is insanely protective over the thought.

would give in if you asked.

would rather not deal with any lab... anything. (trauma response) he will do his best to cope if you really want to conceive and need medical help.

really likes the thought of adopting. (thinking back to his childhood and the foster system he went through)

― Liquid Snake ―

quantity. is obsessed with having an entire line of children. he wants to spread his seed.

either through traditional pregnancy or the science experiment way.

we know this. we know this, right? pretty Liquid-esque.

needs more than eight children. he was one of eight. one of two that survived. it's another way to be superior to Big Boss in his mind.

would dress up his children in leather jackets. you cannot change my mind on this!

wants them to be child soldiers. to become greater.

needs, craves, yearns in the deepest parts of his soul to have his darling be parental to these children.

― Solidus Snake ―

he is a two kid kind of guy.

he was supposed to be a perfect balance. so two kids would be perfect.

would tell the public the children were conceived 'naturally' ― would most likely prefer scientific tampering just to make sure everything is in check

would kidnap orphans for darling if they wanted it (but to him the orphan would be more of a 'practice child' to him)

his children will be trained to protect themselves, but they will not be badly harmed: physically or mentally

wouldn't mind being a family man. it's a nice thought to him.

he likes rubbing your stomach just to think of the thought of a family. (whether you are able to bare children or not doesn't matter)

[immortaledd]

⚠️ Tobacco TW!!

Heh…guess what I found out how to do…MAKE TEXT SMALLER! oh..and..new brush styles I guess LMAO

Mr. Puzzles Art AND Analysis!

The reactions to Mr. Puzzles I see over different pieces of media genuinely make me so upset.

People either glaze him, simp for him, or hate him. It breaks my heart SO much.

He has so much content potential, and the fact the community here is so small despite the views being so large makes my last star shatter in my chest.

The hate that Mr. Puzzles gets from SOME fans reminds me of 2022 TSAMS Eclipse hate. People argue over how he’s obsessive, a murderer, insane, etc. They treat him like people are glorifying a non-fiction character and it makes me pull strands of hair out…

For those of you unfamiliar with “2022 TSAMS Eclipse hate”, imagine a fictional villain incapable of feeling real emotion being stabbed a bajillion times in his lore, becoming evil, and then getting HATE for RIGHTFULLY CRASHING OUT!!! [It’s not as black and white as that but it’s the main premise.]

ANALYSIS

TW: Topics such as fictional (child) ab*se, fictional death, fictional t*rture, mental illness, body gore descriptions (dec*apit*tipn) and other adjacent issues.

SPOILERS FOR ALL PUZZLEVISION RELATED EPISODES! I advise WATCHING IT ALL FIRST!!!

THIS RANT IS NOT AT ALL DIRECTED AT THE WRITERS OF SMG4, THIS IS A RANT AS IF WE ARE INSIDE IN THE SHOW.

SMG4, LOVE YOUR WORK!!

[ SHOW ANALYSIS ]

We all have to agree Mr. Puzzles had a long history of child abuse. He flinches at any given moment, has issues expressing emotions properly, and has terrible lash outs which he probably learned and inherited from his father. Even if it wasn’t PHYSICAL, we have CLEAR evidence there was emotional abuse. His father kicks down his dreams, neglected him…and clearly didn’t care when he decapitated himself.

Not to mention his coping mechanism is TELEVISION. Excuse me breaking the fourth wall, but if you’re into this show, chances are you have had a lot of childhood issues and have turned to media as an outlet. I know I did! Let that alone speak for his character.

Only having television in place for social learning, mental development, physical development, and other things you canNOT be using television as a substitute for is going to lead to a LOT of problems. Like…enslaving the entire world for entertainment. I mean just LOOK AT HIS BODY!!! Although what his body is made out of is up for debate, I believe his torso at LEAST is still human. THAT MAN IS LANKY AND MALNOURISHED, GOOD GOD!!

None of his dreams were even INHERENTLY bad. Even his behaviors after lashing out are childish and full of tears. He shuts down easily, clearly doesn’t know how to balance emotions, and doesn’t know how to carry out plans in a healthy manner. Especially after SMG4 whooped his behind and suddenly his mindset hard-switched to “get revenge at all costs”. Just like the movies!! Whoo hoo!!!

In Mr. Puzzles’ mind, his senses of protagonist and antagonist are warped. He may subconsciously know he’s an antagonist (at least during the first arc) and is slowly accepting it as Arcs go on (last WOTFI and the WOTFI to come..), but consciously he believes the SMG4 crew is the antagonist, he is just “making them pay”. Which YEAH I KINDA DO TO?? I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU GUYS, BUT I’D CRASH OUT TOO.

There were SEVERAL times SMG4 could’ve turned around and said “nono it’s okay we’ll be awesome together!!” But for SOME reason they only do that ONCE (which, if you’re a redeemed villain enjoyer..you and I know you have to try WAY MORE THAN ONCE!?!) while he’s MID CRASH OUT!! YOU CAN’T END A STORY ON A CLIMAX!! UGH!!!!!

He is so full of resentment and anger that there are barely any more openings to fix what could’ve been fixed so long ago. I low-key blame Meggy so hard…LIKE HOW DO YOU SEE A ~10 YEAR OLD SHARING HIS HOPES AND DREAMS AND SAY “SHUT UP, CRIMINAL!!” ?!???? 😭😭 [Not that black and white but I’m being blunt. <3]

[ FANDOM ANALYSIS ]

FOR THOSE OF YOU SAYING MR. PUZZLES IS OBSESSIVE…OHHHHHH DON’T GET ME STARTED. It’s attachment issues. When you haven’t had piece of food in a week, the meal you receive from someone on the street, no matter how small, the quality, or stale, you’re going to eat it and you’re going to thank GOD. The same thing happens with social needs. Living without friends is unnatural for humans. Of course he got “obsessive” when someone actually cared about him and supported him. Seeing Leggy get taken away over and over again and then being TRAPPED inside this woman who HATES YOU is like watching your mom take away your childhood toy-friend as the age of 7 and putting them in the wash. To him, Leggy is being held HOSTAGE by a HORRIBLE WOMAN!!!!!!!

“He’s a murderer!!” “I don’t want to excuse his actions…” “He’s a terrible person!!” OKAY?? WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT A FICTIONAL CHARACTER???? LOCK HIM AWAY?? Yeah let me call 911 gangsters, brb. You don’t have to treat FICTIONAL killer villains like real life serial killers. You’re allowed to enjoy a character. Especially one as well built as this one. This can vary for specific fictional characters…[valentino from hazbin hotel…you’re on the dni list.] but Mr. Puzzles is NOT one of them. You’re not going to get cancelled for kinning / liking a character you can relate to enduring child abuse and constant defeat.

When you like a “bad” character, it all depends on WHY you like the character. “I like valentino because of what he’s done to angel dust” is WAYYYYY different than “I like Mr. Puzzles because I relate to getting put down by others and being immaturely childish.” I needed this section written because it genuinely made me so uncomfortable to see people say “I don’t want to defend Mr. Puzzles…” and “You’re all blinded by his comedy to see he’s a horrible person!!!!” Y..yeah. That’s the point of a villain. I need to know you understand that. Villains aren’t supposed to be good people. Villains, at best, are supposed to be human.

[ SIMPABILITY (FANDOM) ANALYSIS ]

A word for the simps…I’m so sorry but I need my opinion out there.

You won’t be getting in that man’s bed. I see so many people romanticizing him and making him some big Top-Dominant-Alpha-Male…and it’s just…

“Can I play crossword puzzles on it?🥺🥺”

NO!!!!!!!!!!!

I believe he’s straight (as far as he knows…aka…bi-curious) and I do genuinely love all the oc x canon I see because there’s so much comfort that comes out of it - but the oversexualizing is too far in my view.

He would be an awkward mess, no clue what to do, and would probably get cold feet and back out. I’m so sorry. But that man doesn’t even have a BODY. HE’S PROBABLY A KEN DOLL HONESTLY!!!!!!!! LACK OF REPRODUCTION!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t genuinely care if you’re thirsting over this man as long as it isn’t self destructive. This is just my opinion and you have a right to your own! That includes you having a different opinion to everything else in this little rant of mine.