#my brain likes to overexaggerate things

[gifti3]

asmo always makes me wanna draw lol

[puzzledmemories]

((rested so well i fell asleep with my computer open... i already wasn't going to work tomorrow, since i was taking it off for an appointment, which i tried to reschedule today! aaand it turns out i had the date wrong and it's on a monday, which i always have off. instead of that appointment, my dad has volunteered to drive me to urgent care. i refuse to go to the nearest one so i am going to the second closest one, and i am not well enough to drive that far. so, moral of the story is, this shouldn't mess with my work schedule.))

((i have actually only felt worse the more i rested, but i'm assuming that's just me always feeling worse when i'm sick during the evening/night.))

((gonna try to get through an inbox reply or two before i go back to sleep))

[c0tards--s0luti0n]

thinking about the times when i was like 8 and 11 i got unhealthily fixated on christianity and climate change respectively because i thought i was gonna go to hell/we were all gonna die painfully and violently and i cried multiple times and had mental breakdowns about both of those so yeah i was pretty normal growing up id say

[prouddogboi]

Stray dog (Part 2)

To find the most recent chapters, please go to @doggoboigaugau 's masterlist

Sorry it took me quite long lmao TToTT School and work deadlines are killin' me.

Pairings: Ghost x Soap x Male Reader

Summary: Male Reader is traumatized and refuses to open up to 141. Soap found out something horrible going on with him and told Ghost about it.

Word count: 1910

Warnings: Smoking. Mention of attempts to self-h@rm.

The next morning you woke up with a throbbing headache. It was so bad that you felt like hundreds of needles were jabbed into your eye sockets and every time you blinked, those needles plunged into your brain, sending a sharp and chilling pain to the crown of your head. This was by no means a strange occurrence for you though, given the fact that every night the base celebrated a party you always indulged in this self-sabotaging habit. 

Still, no matter how bad the situation was, you still had training to attend to, tasks to get done, reports to compile, and a miserable life to live. You turned your head to look at the clock, silently praying that it wasn’t too late. 

It was 13:00 in the afternoon already. 

“Shit!” You threw an arm over your forehead. Nice, you missed the morning training session. It was your responsibility today to train the new recruits and now you messed up the whole Task Force’s schedule once again just because you could not handle your pathetic emotions properly. The thoughts of giving up flooded your mind yet again since it was no use in waking up anyway, it was too late to do anything useful. The other team members were already aware of how irresponsible you were as you continuously failed to be on time for training the newbies. And what about the newbies’ impression of you? Probably an unreliable man who was no longer fit to be a member of a special Task Force that was particularly famous for its efficiency. Or maybe you were never fit to be one to begin with. 

Why didn’t the others wake you up? You had worked here long enough to know how scary and irritated Ghost could get when people missed his training session. There were even times when he immediately had the unpunctual soldiers pack their things and get sent to another department because he couldn’t fuckin’ stand people disrespecting his schedule. 

“Maybe they forget about my existence. Maybe I wasn’t that big of a part of this Task Force.” You mumbled to yourself, trying to pull your tired body out of the heavy blanket. As much as you wanted to give up, the desire to be important to someone, something, or some organization, …just anything, urged you to wake up and keep trying. You wanted yourself to be seen.

Upon opening the door of your stuffy room, you instinctively covered your eyes as they were attacked by rays of blinding sunlight. Your room was too dark and gloomy, doors and windows tightly shut all day and night, no wonder you would react so unfavorably to the bright sunlight that is often associated with positive moods by most people. 

The base was unusually quiet. You didn’t meet a single soul on your way to the kitchen to fill your hungry stomach. No Soap cracking stupid jokes with his heavy Scottish accent and laughing loudly to them himself, no Gaz cursing at his jokes, no Roach laughing at the two dumb manchildren, no Price sighing and telling them to at least be less raucous. You tried to shrug the nasty nagging feelings off, but it soon became unbearable when you walked into the kitchen and saw all the dirty dishes in the sink. 

“They have finished their lunch.” And they had it without you. The people you considered to be your own family, much closer than the biological family that you had cut all contact with, didn’t wake you up from your drunken sleep, totally forgot your existence, and enjoyed a meal together like there wasn’t anything missing. You knew damn well that you were overexaggerating the seriousness of the situation, but you just couldn’t help it. 

‘What am I to them?’ That question kept spiraling inside your brain, worsening the headache that you were already having. In a brief second, all the nagging feelings were anthropomorphized into a disgusting creature with multiple heads and mouths by your ailed mind, shrilly screaming out your deepest thoughts that were fraught with insecurities. Your legs were rendered weak and you collapsed on the floor. Supporting your weakened body with all four limbs, you took heavy breaths, trying to calm yourself down.

A few minutes later, you managed to put yourself together enough to stand up and get out of the base, on the way you didn’t forget to grab a pack of cigarettes. You felt stupid to resort to nicotine as a way to fight against all those feelings, but you didn’t know a better way. There were times when things were so bad that you had no energy left to hide your conditions from your teammates, and Price was concerned. He used to have you talk to some therapists, and not surprisingly to you at all, they could not handle you for long. No one ever could. 

You were now standing in the parking lot with a cigarette in your mouth. You sighed, clearly satisfied with how strongly its bitter taste stimulated your taste buds. When you first arrived here as the newest member of Task Force 141, Soap and Gaz always joked that you’d become Price’s smoking buddy, but that did not happen. The image of you standing with Price awkwardly because you two couldn’t find a mutual topic for a conversation made you feel too uncomfortable to even try, so you kept avoiding the older man or pretending to not hear his offer until he just stopped inviting you. It was so obvious that the men wanted to get closer to you, they wanted to earn your trust, to make you feel at home and be yourself among them, yet you kept pushing them away. And now perhaps they had stopped trying all together. It was not their fault. It was yours. 

But why it was so painful? You were supposed to feel relieved that they had given up so that you didn’t have to blame yourself every time you turned their kind offer down and saw the sadness drawn on their faces. ‘Why do I keep feeling like shit no matter what I do?’

Feeling that the intense emotions that were barely suppressed by the nicotine started to get out of hand again, you cupped your head with both hands, the half-burning cigarette fell to the ground. Suddenly, your eyes caught the red burning tip of it, together with how the paper wrapping around the nicotine was slowly burnt to black. At that very moment, a dark but familiar thought popped up in your mind. You bowed down to pick up the cigarette, blankly staring at it resting between the two fingers of your right hand. Then, your eyes turned to your left hand, examining your spotty lower arm. It was full of the small round scars that were caused by burning your arms with the burning tip of a cigarette. You had noticed Ghost looked at these scars of yours many times; luckily he never asked about them. The army was a place filled with people who had different background stories and bore numerous scars, so it wouldn’t be abnormal for you to have some that were a bit funny-shaped.

‘Should I do this again?’ 

Maybe you should. It helped with the emotions. Well, temporarily, but that was good enough.

Just as you were about to press the burning tip into your lower left arm, someone threw their whole weight into you. You were hugged by two strong arms and the cigarette was again dropped to the ground.

“There you are! I’ve been finding you everywhere!” It was the Scot man. “Are you smoking? Gosh, I hate this smell! Price’s cigars are much better!”

‘The ones that smell good are never bitter enough.’ You thought to yourself.

“Have you had lunch, pretty boy?” Soap pinched your dumbfounded face.

“Not yet.”

“What? Unbelievable! Get to the kitchen with me right now, Sergeant.” The man literally manhandled you straight from the parking lot into the base, leaving you no time to object.

As you two arrived at your destination, Ghost was already sitting there, sipping some coffee. Soap forced you to sit down right next to him while he proceeded to walk to the fridge and pulled out a dish, putting it inside the microwave oven. 

“Here you are, babyboy~” He put the hot meal in front of you. You chose to ignore the pet name and his flirtatious voice simply because he had started doing it to you ever since you start working here. It was just one of his signature thing, you should not fall for it and mistake it as a sign of interest that could develop into romantic feelings. 

“Thanks, Soap.”

“Aw, don’t be so all worked up and formal, babyboy. Ya’ welcome~”

Silence fell over the three of you, until you just felt so awkward that you had to speak up, “So… how was this morning?”

“It was fine. Ghost stepped in your place and took care of the training.” Soap replied.

You carefully glanced at Ghost, just to find that the man already looked at you, which made you tremble slightly. The skull mask on his face made him too difficult to read, you couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or he just gave up on expecting something greater from you. 

Soap laughed at your reactions, “It’s okay. You were drunk so Price agreed to let you sleep. Also, Ghost volunteered to help you with the training so he probably doesn’t hold a grudge. Am I right, Ghostie?”

The masked man didn’t answer; instead, he turned back to his cup of coffee.

You quickly finished your meal and left, saying that you should do training by yourself. The truth was you couldn’t stay there any longer, you didn’t want to disturb Ghost and Soap’s rare peaceful time together. You had already made too terrible an impression on Ghost, it’s best that you did not mess up again. As a result, you also missed their conversation. It was not intended for you to listen to anyway.

“You’re right. He did it.” Soap’s voice was solemn, with no sign of flirt or unseriousness like a few minutes before.

“You mean the scars?” Ghost looked up at him from the cup.

“Yeah, the round scar marks that you’ve told me many times.”

“It was just my guess. How do you know he really did it?”

“I found him in the parking lot. He was holding a burning cigarette and about to press it into his left arm.” 

A few minutes of silence passed until Ghost spoke up, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“I asked Price about his past, I know it’s a nosy thing to do, but I wanted to help. Unfortunately, Price knows nothing either. Y/n… the boy never opens up to us.”

The two men sat quietly, exchanging worried looks with each other. If only you could know how much they cared for you, maybe you would find it easier to accept their love and help. Yet, even if they told you, even if they desperately showed you so many times that they cared and loved you so much, would your brain allow your heart to welcome them just like how it used to welcome other people you had met earlier in your life, the ones who left you wounded and made you the way you were today? 

If someone asked you that question, you’d just offer them a weak smile and simply say: “No”. You're now too tired to hold on to any crumbles of hope left in your broken soul. You'd like to give up.

to be continued i guess :")

Taglist: @aphroditeslovr @prestigeghoul @edgyboi10000 @c0nny3917 @peter-the-pan @lovecats123451

[justmystyles]

Now You're In My Life - Part 11

catch up here

pairing: Harry Styles x plus size reader

*i say it's a plus size reader, but it is not something that i focus on explicitly in my fics, because your size should not define you. it will only come up if it comes into the story organically.*

word count: 3.3k

summary: just as your settling into your long distance relationship, Harry returns for his New Year's visit.

warnings: smut, NSFW, 18+

a/n: nothing of note, just a good old fashioned smutty reunion.m enjoy!

tags: @allthelovehes @ameerakane20 @ash-craze @bethanysnow @blue-ballad @blueraspberryreader @brightlightsinlife @creativelyeva @cute-as-ducks420 @deannaard @fanficismydrug @gem1712 @golden-hoax @gothmingguk @groovychaosavenue @hillzrry @iceebabies @indierockgirrl @jerseygirlinca @jng4kook @jooniesbabie @kaverichauhan @laurxn-robinson @lexiecamposv @mrs-anna-styles211994 @n0vaj3an @potterheadandsherlocked @rach2699 @ravenclawdirectioner @stylesfeverr @superchrystaldrug @tenaciousperfectionunknown @tiaamberxx @thechaoticjoy @theekyliepage @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @youknowwhaaat

Saying goodbye to Harry was significantly more bittersweet than it had been. You had the peace of mind knowing when you would see him again, and where you stood. However, the two of you had just spent ten days together, getting closer and falling further in love. You found it hard to fall asleep without him beside you. You had brought in the pillow he gave you, but it wasn’t even a fraction of the comfort that Harry brought you. 

He called you the second his plane landed, to let you know he arrived safely, and the two of you would talk constantly throughout the day. He would send you pictures of places and things that he wanted to show you when you were finally able to go home with him. The excitement he had to show his world off to you made your heart swell. 

The time apart didn’t go entirely without issue though. Since your birthday, and seeing how thoughtful and elaborate his gifts were, you’d been racking your brain trying to figure out the perfect Christmas gift. You knew he had the means to get himself anything he could possibly want, and that he was likely going to get you something incredibly thoughtful. It was stressful to try to match that. You came up with an idea, but a nagging doubt ran on a loop in the back of your mind.

Christmas was your first holiday as a couple, and you were spending it on opposite sides of the world. The relationship was still new, so it made sense that you would both spend it with your families. The distance was something you’d have to work out at some point, but not yet. 

Before you headed out to your family dinner, you received a FaceTime call from Harry, who was already with his, and slightly inebriated. You laughed at his overexaggerated expressions, and borderline slurred words as he passed the phone around to his family, introducing you to everyone.

“Say hi to my girlfriend.” 

“This is my girlfriend, isn’t she pretty? She’s even prettier in person.” 

The pride in his voice as he told his loved ones about you caused butterflies in your stomach.

Once he had passed the phone around to everyone, he stepped into a quiet corner so that he could have a moment with you. He makes you promise to call him when you get to your uncle’s house so that he can say hi to your family too. You’ve never been with someone who was so excited to be a part of your life, let alone for you to be a part of theirs. Especially not after such a short amount of time. It was scary, part of you was worried you were moving too fast, but at the same time, it all felt so right.  

The night before Harry was scheduled to arrive, you were lounging on your couch in your sweats. The room was illuminated by the combination of your Christmas tree and the television, which was playing a corny Lifetime Christmas movie. Just as the big city career woman kissed her small town childhood love, and the credits began to roll, you were startled by a knock at your door. 

You sat in silence for a moment as the guest knocked again. It was nine at night and you weren’t expecting anyone. You had seen enough cautionary tales on the internet to know that a woman living alone shouldn’t answer the door in this situation, so you continued to ignore it. 

Then, your phone pinged with a new text message from Harry. 

You should probably answer the door. ;) 

You read the message a couple of times, realizing this could have one of two outcomes. Either you were living in a romcom, and your super romantic boyfriend flew in early to surprise you, or you were living in a horror movie, and the killer has spoofed your boyfriend's number… or murdered him and stole his phone, to gain access to your home and kill you. 

“I know you’re in there, princess.” 

A romcom, you were living in a romcom. 

You rushed to the door, opening it with a wide smile. “Harry?” 

“Why didn’t you answer?” He pouted. 

“I thought you might be Ghostface.” You shrugged. He chuckled at your response. “What are you doing here? You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.” 

“I missed you too much, so I pushed up my flight.” 

“Aww… puppy!” You cooed as you rushed into his arms. 

He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he breathed in your scent. Your body shivered as the crisp New England winter air blew around you.

“Maybe we should move this inside?” Harry asked, rubbing his hands up and down on your arms to soothe the goosebumps. You nodded and led him inside, shutting and locking the door. “Much better,” he sighed, holding your face in his hands and pulling it to his. While his hands remained on your cheeks, you snaked your arms around his torso, pulling yourself as close as you could get. 

When you finally pulled apart, you smirked at him. “Perfect timing, I was just about to go to bed.” The suggestion in your voice was clear, causing Harry to groan and press his forehead against yours. 

“But don’t you want your present?” He asked. 

“You’re my present,” you replied as your hands trailed to the waistband of his pants. “Wanna unwrap it now.” 

Harry threw his head back in laughter. “That is an incredibly tempting offer, my love, but I’ve been dying to give you your Christmas gift. We have all night for all that other stuff.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Trust me, it will be worth the wait.” 

You put on an exaggerated pout and back away. “Oh fine,” you pull away and move over to the Christmas tree as Harry gets your gift out of his luggage. “That’s a lot of stuff. How long are you staying?”

“Trying to get rid of me already?” He asked with an arched brow as he came to sit beside you in front of the tree, a small wrapped box in his hand. 

“No, I mean we talked about you coming for New Years, but didn’t really discuss how long. Then you show up with a bunch of bags.” You shrug. “I was just curious.”

He smiled, and leaned in placing a chaste kiss on your lips. “I have to be in New York to do some work in the studio in a couple of weeks. I figured I’d stay here until you got sick of me, and then go straight to New York and stay there for a bit.” 

“Until I get sick of you?” You reiterate his words, he nods. “Then I guess you’re never leaving.” 

“So we get to play house for a while?” He asked hopefully. You nodded, excited by the idea of getting a few uninterrupted, domestic weeks with him. He pulled you in for one more kiss. “Okay, presents now?” 

“Sure,” you chuckle, handing his gift to him. 

He holds a hand up to stop you. “Ladies first.”

He hands you your gift, which you immediately start unwrapping. Beneath the paper is a small jewelry box, you look up at him with wide eyes. Things had been moving fast, but you didn’t know they were moving ‘jewelry for Christmas’ fast. 

You opened the box to reveal a white gold bracelet with a black pendant in the center. “Harry, it’s so beautiful.” 

“It’s not just any bracelet you know.” Harry pulls up his sleeve, showing you his wrist. 

“Aww… we’re twinsies.” You coo. He taps the black pendant on his bracelet, and you look down, noticing a heart light up on yours. “It just lit up?”

“I told you it’s not just any bracelet.” He grinned. “When I tap on mine, yours lights up and vibrates, and vice versa.” He reaches over, tapping your bracelet to show the same reaction on his. “See, now when we’re apart, even if we don’t have our phones on us, we will always be able to connect. Like when I’m onstage, or doing interviews or something.” he taps his bracelet, and yours goes off.  

“Harry,” you sigh. “That’s so sweet. I love this, I love you.” You wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a kiss. 

“I love you too, princess.” He watches fondly as you put the bracelet on your wrist. “Okay, my turn. Gimme.” He reaches his hands out making a grabbing motion. 

You chuckle at his display, hoping to conceal the nerves you have about your gift. “It’s not much, it’s okay if you hate it.” You say dismissively as you hand him his gift.

“Baby, it’s something that you thought of with that pretty brain of yours. I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful.” He assured you as he began to unwrap it. Once the wrapping had been discarded, he examined the notebook before him, the cover of the book adorned with various flowers. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“It’s uh…” you chime in, realizing how cheap and generic the gift seemed without an explanation. “It’s not just any notebook.” He looks at you curiously. “The flowers on there, okay, so every time you’ve gotten me flowers since we met, I saved a couple and dried them out. You know, as a keepsake. Each one of those flowers is from a bouquet you’ve given me over the last couple of months.” You lean over, pointing to each flower and explaining which arrangement they came from. 

You look up at Harry to gauge his reaction, and he’s staring at you with wide, glossy eyes. “You saved the flowers?” You nodded. “Even when you thought this was just a one time, east coast hookup thing?” 

“Even if it was just going to be a couple of days, it was worth remembering. You were worth remembering.” You shrug.

“Y/N,” Harry said softly, his hand coming up to cup your face. “This is incredible.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, still feeling insecure about your gift. 

“It might be the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” He smiles at you, pulling you in for a quick kiss. “It’s going to come with me everywhere,” he smirked. “And I’m going to write so many love songs about you in it.” 

You giggle at his words and lean in, kissing him deeply. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his other hand traveling to your hip to pull you closer. You pull out of the kiss, but keep your forehead pressed against his. “So, can I unwrap my other present now?” 

“I’ve created a monster,” he chuckled. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” you tease as you stand from your spot on the floor and saunter away toward the bedroom. 

He hurries to follow you. “Hey hey hey, I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and trailing kisses down your neck. 

“No, it’s okay,” you sigh. “You’re probably tired from traveling.” 

His lips moved to the sensitive skin just behind your ear, and you were unable to keep up the charade, moaning and arching into him. “I promise you princess, I will never be too tired to take care of you.” 

Harry turned your body so that you were facing him, your breath hitched at the intensity of his gaze. 

“You’ve gotten even more beautiful since the last time I was here.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper as he lifted your shirt over your head. A low growl of approval escaped him when he discovered that you hadn’t been wearing a bra. 

His lips crashed against yours as he cupped your breasts, squeezing firmly. He walked you backwards toward the bed until the backs of your legs hit the mattress, Then his hands traveled down your body, tucking his fingers into the waistbands of your sweatpants and underwear, sliding them down your legs. He followed their descent, dropping to his knees in front of you. 

“Sit,” he commanded, and you immediately complied. “Good girl.” He lifts your leg, kissing the inside of your ankle and slowly working his way up, placing your leg over his shoulder as he goes. 

When he got to your inner thigh, the kisses became rougher, leaving small marks in their wake. You gasp at the sting of his teeth against your skin. He lets out a small grunt when his eyes meet your center.

“So wet, and I’ve barely even touched you.” He blew against your wet folds, causing you to shutter. “Did my girl miss me?” 

“Missed you so much,” you whined, shifting your hips, trying to get closer to him. 

He chuckled at your impatience and gripped your hips, holding you in place. “Patience, my love.” He purred. 

“Please Harry, I need you.” You pleaded, running your fingers through his hair. You massaged his scalp lightly, knowing it drives him wild. 

“Mmm… well since you asked so nicely.” You caught a quick glimpse of his smirk before his mouth descended onto your core. 

He licked a long, slow stripe through your folds. Your head fell back, a loud moan ripping from your lips. He hummed in satisfaction from both your reaction and how you tasted. Your hands tightened their grip on his hair as he wrapped his lips around your clit. 

“Fuck Harry… so good.” Your hands guided him to exactly where you needed him, he complied immediately. 

He continued to work his mouth against you, sucking and licking as if his life depended on it. In that moment, he felt it did. He could feel you nearing the edge, and pulled away briefly. 

“come for me, princess. Give me everything.” He returned to his ministrations, swirling his tongue around your clit before bringing it into his mouth. 

Before long, you fell back on the bed, your back arching as the sounds of your release filled the room. Harry worked you through your release, removing his hands from your hips to allow you to ride out your high. 

When he didn’t slow down or pull away, you began to whimper slightly. “H… Harry, I’m good… please.” 

“I need you to give me another one princess, can you do that?” He looked up at you, taking in your flushed cheeks and rapidly rising and falling chest. You nod your head, and he arches his brow, encouraging you to use your words. 

“Yes, I can.” Your voice trembled. 

“That’s my girl,” he smiled, kissing each of your inner thighs before returning to your center. This time, he inserted two fingers before working his tongue against your clit. 

Your legs involuntarily began to close around his head. He removed his fingers and spread your legs apart. “You’ve gotta keep them open for me, baby.” 

You moan in response, his fingers quickly resuming their work, crooking to hit that spot deep inside you. You gasp at the sensation, already close to your second release. Harry can sense this and picks up the pace, pumping his fingers in time with the movements of his tongue.

Your hips rolled against Harry’s face, tugging on his chocolate locks as you reached your second peak. “Harry… Harry… Fuck!” 

Once he lapped up everything you had to offer, he kissed up your stomach, stopping to lavish each one of your breasts with attention. When he met you face to face, he smiled sweetly and pulled you into a passionate kiss. 

“I really missed you,” he spoke against your lips. 

“Me too,” you giggled. You ran your hands down his chest, stopping to palm his hard length through his pants. He groaned and instinctively thrust against your hand. “Your turn.”

He smirked and sat back on his knees, pulling off his shirt and tossing it on the floor. You sat up, running your hands along his bare chest, tracing his tattoos with your fingers. Your hands continued their descent, gripping onto the waistband of his pants and starting to tug them down.

Harry grabs your hand, bringing them to his lips and kissing the backs of them before getting off the bed and removing them, along with his underwear. You watched as his hard length sprung free, and moved to the end of the bed. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking gently and smirking as you lowered your head, running your tongue along the underside of his cock. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, gathering your hair in his hands so that he could watch you take his length between your lips. 

You take as much of him as you can, working the rest with your hand, your head bobbing up and down at a torturous pace. He groans, watching you intently as you work his cock. 

“Baby… fuck.” He tugs your hair, pulling you off of him, and you look up with a curious expression. “I’m close, wanna come inside you.” He leans down, pressing his lips against yours as he guides you onto your back, positioning himself to hover over you. 

He ran his cock through your folds, still sensitive from your last two releases. You shuttered at the sensation. “Harry, wait.” 

“Is everything okay? Do you want to stop?” He furrowed his brow in worry. 

You smiled, placing your hands on his cheeks and kissed the wrinkle that had formed before moving to his ear. “I want to be on top.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest at your words, his hips grinding against yours. He crashed his lips against yours, rolling onto his back and guiding your hips so that you were straddling his lap. 

“Fuck,” he grunted. “You look so sexy on top of me like that.” 

“Mmm,” you moaned as you positioned yourself over his cock, slowly lowering down onto him, both of you moaning as he filled you. Your hands falling to his chest to steady yourself as his settled on your hips, guiding you. 

“You feel so good, Y/N” Harry ran his hands up your body, stopping to cup a breast in one hand as the other continued its ascent, pulling you down into a deep kiss when he reached the back of your neck.

As your tongues twisted together, he thrust up into you, filling you completely. You moaned into his mouth, and he felt your walls begin to flutter around him. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. 

“That’s it princess, come for me again. I want it all over my cock.” He commanded through a heated whisper. 

“Harry… oh god, Harry!” You screamed, burying your face in the crook of his neck, muffling the sounds of your release. 

You began to slow your pace, as Harry continued to thrust up into you chasing his own release. After a few powerful thrusts, Harry’s grip tightened on your hips as he spilled himself inside of you.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, coming down from your high. Harry tapped your thigh softly.

You took the cue, rolling off of him and resting beside him on the bed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he said, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close. “That was incredible.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Now get some rest, we’re doing that again first thing in the morning.”

You giggle at his words. “Good night, puppy.”

“Good night, princess. I love you.”

“Love you too.” And with that, you drifted off for your first peaceful night’s sleep since the last time you were in his arms. 

[reds-skull]

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

Okay I realized a scene I love comes up in the fic on this chapter, so I was like "well, I'm not doing anything right now, why not write it?"

So I wrote it. Enjoy.

(This one has description of some gore and aftermath of torture, very short segments, not worse than was already in the fic)

Ghost woke up slowly, the slick residue of his nightmares fading away as he lifted his head and groaned. Soap had already woken up, and by the chipper way he moved around the room, a while ago.

The Sergeant is getting better at telling when he’s being stared at, and he turns around to raise an eyebrow at Ghost.

“Sleepin’ beauty is finally awake!” he says with a smile.

Ghost drags a hand under his mask, sighing, “time’s it?”

“500 sharp, sir” Soap provides happily.

The fuck’s kinda person is this cheerful at this hour? Ghost exhales loudly and finally gets out of bed. The Sergeant opens his mouth, to probably comment on his old man habits, but Ghost shoots him a stare that would’ve killed a lesser man.

Soap just gives him a shit eating grin in return, “not a morning person?”

Ghost walks towards the bathroom, “I’m a normal person, you’re the fuckin’ anomaly.”

The Scot barks a loud laugh that makes him feel a little less groggy.

At mess, the taskforce finds a table of their own, and the Sergeants busy themselves with an argument about one daft thing or another. 

Price caught his attention and started speaking to him in his mind, “your nightmares are bloody loud sometimes, y’know that?”

Ghost bites on his toast, “don’t fuckin’ listen then.”

The Captain laughs a little before his features turn serious, “you wanna tell me how much of what the Reaper said in your dream actually happened?”

That’s what he dreamt about that last night? Fucking hell. Can’t keep secrets from Price.

“Won’t have to if you just told me, Simon.”

Ghost puts down his meal to stare intently at the Captain, “what did you see? In my dream.”

Price’s moustache twitched in thought, and he replied, “it said something about Soap bringing your demise?”

“It said ‘bringer of demise’, didn’t fuckin’ specify whose.” Ghost spat back.

“What else?”

Before he could stop him, he felt Price pull the memory to the forefront of his mind to watch for himself what unfolded on the plane that day.

“It told you to stay away from Soap if you wanna live?!”

Ghost banged his fist on the table, startling the Sergeants out of their idiotic bickering. He paid no mind to them, focus fully on Price, “I’m not going to stop working with the Sergeant just because my Reaper decided to be a little shit.” he snarls in the Captain’s head.

Price huffs, “I’m not going to let you die Ghost.”

“Did it say I’m going to die?!”

“Simon…”

Gaz cuts their exchange, “what’s going on? Are you two talking in your brains?”

Soap crosses his arms, “well, yer welcome to use your outside voice.”

Ghost gets up, “no need, we’re done.”

Before he can get out of range, Price tells him “keep yourself safe on this mission, Simon. We’ll figure it out later.”

He supposes that’s manageable. 

Ghost and Soap bid their farewells to Gaz and Price, as they go on their own part of the mission, and walk back to the armory to get ready for theirs.

The two of them get dressed up, Ghost armed to the teeth with various throwing knives. He’s not going to use Limbo, not with Soap being right next to him.

And he won’t need to - Ghost is perfectly capable as a fighter with no abilities. There’s a reason the rumors about him as so varied.

Near inhuman in every aspect.

Soap is done before him (less knives, amateur), and now sits to watch Ghost finish up.

A low whistle makes him twist around, “haven’t seen this get-up since the last time we worked together, lookin’ good LT”.

…huh?

“Keep it tactical, Sergeant.” Ghost voices almost mechanically.

“Aye sir, yessir.” Soap gives him an overexaggerated salute.

He rolls his eyes and ignores the warm feeling spreading through his body for the billionth time.

The cartel member’s house appears in the distance after a few minutes of making their way through the wilder parts of Las Almas. Ghost and Soap take out the guards at the front gate and make their way in.

The house is a two storey, drab building, with no real defining features. It’s surrounded by a tall fence, and a smaller shed is stuck by the far left corner of the large yard. 

The suspected location of the kidnapped people is by the far end of the house. They’re tasked with making it inside without alerting any alarms, lest they start killing the people trapped inside.

With the front door clear, the two soldiers open the door and instantly check corners, covering each other’s blind spots.

“Clear.”, Ghost announces.

“Clear.” Soap lowers his silenced pistol a bit, “seems awfully empty, LT. Sure we got the right house?”

“Affirm, stay sharp Sergeant.” Ghost starts forwards, Soap not far behind him.

He feels unnerved. The Sergeant is right, the house is quiet, as though it’s been deserted weeks ago. But a quick look at the amount of dust settled on the floors tells him it couldn’t be more than a few days.

They continue forward, clearing rooms methodically. Ghost has a sense of satisfaction from the act, an enjoyment in working together with Soap besides him for the first time.

They complete each other’s blind spots like puzzle pieces.

Soap declares the first floor clear, barring one last room at the very end of the hallway. Up until then they found several evidences that there were narcos residing here in the past, including a hefty amount of white powder, but they’re not here on a drug bust.

“On me Sergeant”, Ghost orders Soap before pushing the door open.

The scene inside is gruesome. Ghost is intimately familiar with narco torturing techniques, so the bloodied items strewn across the room were an unfriendly sight.

4 bodies lay in the room, and Ghost walks over to check for cartel tattoos on them. One of the bodies has dog tags, and he frowns while pulling it out of the dead man’s shirt.

They read “Thomas Anderson”. Why is that name familiar-

“Sergeant Thomas Anderson, 28. Revenant powers… ‘Breathing underwater?’”

Soap examines the torturing devices with wary eyes, muttering “steamin’ Jesus…” under his breath.

Ghost spots a large tub, filled with reddish water.

Anderson’s body is dry, besides the blood oozing out of his cold body.

The three other men in the room however… Their body is coated with an even amount of thinned blood, from their head down to their chests. They died from drowning.

What is the meaning of this…?

Ghost takes Anderson’s dog tags and stands up, “4 confirmed deaths, no survivors”, he radios in. 

“Copy, exfil inbound in 30, get yourself there.”

They both exit the room, “copy, out here.”

Ghost turns to stand in front of the Sergeant, “one of them was a revenant”, he dangles the tags in front of Soap’s eyes. The date of Reaping is listed right under date of birth, like in their own tags.

Soap frowns, a certain anger washing over him, “what do you think they’re playin’ at?”

“We can chew on that back at base, for now let get to exfil-”

Ghost barely finishes his sentence when he sees Soap’s eyes widen, locked on something behind his shoulder. Half a second later, he’s being spun around, and the piercing sound of bullets fills the air.

Ghost’s heart hammers, and he finally focuses on the view in front of him. Soap’s wide, blue eyes.

And several blotches of red peppered across his torso, spreading quicker than Ghost can process.

“...Soap?” his mind can’t, refuses to make sense of the sight in front of him. Soap isn’t… he can’t be…

The Sergeant’s breaths are erratic, chest rising and falling in big swells. The shock in his eyes transforms, burns away.

Until all that’s left, is rage.

“I’m so sick of this…” Soap murmurs. Shouts in Spanish echo behind them, but Ghost have eyes and ears only for his Sergeant.

Soap lets go of his shoulders, and Ghost scrambles to take him in his arms.

But Soap turns around and walks away, legs shaking and hands burning brighter and brighter by the second. 

One brave narco shoots at his shoulder, making the Scot stagger for a moment.

Ghost lifts an arm, to drag Soap back to him, to cover him from anyone who ever harmed him, to do something, anything.

But Soap unleashes a terrifying snarl and launches forward, grabbing at the narcos.

The explosions blind Ghost, screams and horrible sounds of metal creaking to the breaking point and bones snapping deafening him.

Soap whirls in the middle of this firestorm, exploding guns, heads, walls, anything in his path.

Ghost’s eyes water from the amount of dust and smoke that fills the air.

His Sergeant is radiant.

“Soap…” Ghost tries to stop the unstoppable. He just wants Soap to rest.

“Johnny…..” 

Soap finally stills, carnage creating a halo around him, and all Ghost sees is the red on his clothes, the wheezing of his breath.  

Ghost takes a step forward, and Soap collapses on his knees.

He rushes to grab him by the shoulders before he can fall further, “you’re fine Johnny, you’re going to be fine.” he sputters, pushing his Sergeant up to look at the wounds.

So many wounds.

He knows no one can survive this. Not even revenants. 

“LT…” Soap whispers, voice weak and wobbly.

“You’re going to be alright, you…” air leaves his lungs without a sound. He can’t breathe. How can he?

How can he breathe when Soap lifts a trembling hand, the gentle warmth of flames licking at Ghost’s nape, and looks at him like that?

“LT… I’m not gonna-”

They both jump at the sound of car tires getting closer. The narcos called for backup…

Ghost can’t breathe. He watches Soap shivers in front of him.

He doesn’t have a choice. 

Ghost takes Soap in his arms, hand on his nape mirroring his Sergeant, and presses his head to his own shoulder.

“Close your eyes, Johnny. It will all be over soon.”

He can hear Soap gasp, can feel his chest stuttering.

Ghost closes his eyes the moment footsteps enter the house.

Limbo courses out of him, darkness and emptiness and void filling the house, the residents of it screaming, snarling to take a bite at the intruders.

He holds Soap tight, pressing himself as close as he can. The protective wisps of light barely cover them both, but he will not let Soap be taken by Limbo.

Not Soap. Not Johnny.

In the next blink, Limbo is gone. The victims of the void quiet, as if they also mourn along Ghost.

Johnny pushes lightly at his chest, and Ghost separates them to look him in the eyes.

He seemed to try to form a sentence before a series of coughs wrecked his body, so Ghost laid him down on the blood-covered floor.

“G-Ghost”, he utters through clenched teeth, “d’ye… d’ye know how guns work?”

Ghost’s heart crushes at the sound of his Sergeants voice. He’s… not making sense anymore. Blood delirium isn’t unheard of… especially… especially with how much he-

“Yes”, Ghost softly whispers, more gentle than he ever learned to be.

“T-tell me”, Soap winces when more pain makes its way through his system.

Ghost wants to wither away with him. “The bullet goes into the chamber… and the primer is ignited to cause a small exp-”

His world stops completely.

“T-Teh cause a small ex-explosion.” Soap finishes slowly.

Johnny is…

“I’m not gonna d-die, LT”

Ghost’s eyes slide away from Soap’s, to the rest of his body. He slowly lifts his Sergeant’s shirt, to reveal multiple bullet holes where the tac vest didn’t cover him.

Bullet holes that are already closing.

Ghost wanted to scream out of joy, wail in premature unwarranted grief, shout at Soap for not telling him earlier.

But the radio informs them exfil is 10 minutes out, and they need to get a move on if they want to arrive in time.

Ghost slides his hands under Soap’s body, blood soaking his gloves in a way that takes him back 8 months ago. Back when it was different.

Soap grasps him like he’ll fall if he doesn’t.

Different, yet also the same.

The walk to exfil is quiet, save for Soap’s harsh breathing. Healing or not, he still feels pain.

The driver of their exfil car looks horrified at their shared state, but neither give an explanation and take a sit at the back of the car. It’s only after a few moments of nothing that Ghost mutters, “drive” to the Vaquero.

He feels numb, his arms and legs limp, gaze forward, but nothing truly passes through his brain.

Soap shifts beside him, letting out grunts of pain every once in a while. Making it obvious, despite what his heart tells him, that he’s very much alive.

The blood seeping under his fingernails feels freezing.

The Vaquero was at a loss of what to do with them once the car reaches the base. Ghost shuts the door loudly, and with it the connection to his heart.

Lieutenant first, human last.

“Where is medical?” He asks the man.

Ghost carries Soap all the way to the nurse’s hands, where he was stopped and told he had to clean up if he wanted to stay any longer. He wanted to scream infection doesn’t matter when the wounds will close in the matter of minutes, but the look on the nurse told him she wasn’t impressed.

He left medical to drag himself to the showers, energy left behind him with every step. 

Showers are usually a short ordeal for him, as efficient as they come. But Johnny’s blood going down the drain made him linger.

30 or so minutes later he comes out, and for the first time in what feels like hours there's  something in his brain, besides numbness.

It’s Price. Him and Gaz returned.

The voice in his mind sounds concerned, imploring him to explain why everything looks so dull there.

Ghost ignores it and goes to find his teammates.

“Ghost” Price greets, Gaz perks up from his previous position, head held in his hands. “Where’s the Sergeant?”

Ghost nods back at the hallway, “medical.” is all he provides.

Garrick startles, “Was he injured? What happened?”

“Flanked.” Ghost says, voice matching the emptiness in his head, “got shot.”

“Shot?! Fuck, where-”

“He’s immune.” Ghost cuts him off.

Gaz becomes confused, “immune?”

“To bullets. Primer ignition counts as explosion.” 

The Sergeant sits back down, body slackening, “thank fuck…”

Price catches ghost’s eye contact, “but you didn’t know that.”

Ghost just… shrugs.

“Fucking hell…” the Captain looks away, “it was one of the redacted details in his file…”

Gaz frowns, “why would they redact that?”

“Reapers know.”

The next couple of hours zoom past Ghost. His teammates try to coax him out of his unfeeling self, but Ghost isn’t truly in base.

His mind is stuck in a cartel house, in the Las Almas wilderness. On bloody and soot covered floor, with a dying man in his arms.

On eyes, shining with burning rage.

Pain! Pain! Pain! All I'm making Ghost feel is pain!

[velvetvexations]

Ppl act like gender essentialism (the man/beard brand) is necessary to keep women safe but even that scenario could actually make them less safe bc it downplays the danger of bears, which I think also illustrates the issue I have with true crime. When you're taught as a woman that there are certain dangers that are the worst (be it men or serial killers or rape as the very worst thing that could possibly happen to you), you might underestimate dangers that appear less obvious to you like wild animals, unpreparedness, inappropriate equipment, lack of spatial awareness, going alone when you're inexperienced, heat exhaustion bc, dangers from other animals or bugs bugs (where I'm from in Europe we need to get vaccinated against tick-borne encephalitis, my father didn't, got it & almost died).

I'm from a culture that's big on hiking & hiked a lot pre-transition, mostly with a cis male best friend, and I never had a bad experience with other ppl (except maybe when someone didn't say hello, very impolite) but we did get lost pretty badly once on a new trail with no phone signal & that was scary. I was always safer in the woods with men around bc if there are ppl, you know you're on the right path & won't get lost! Also it you get injured & can't walk or god forbid lose consciousness, you want other ppl there to help you. I also worked at a homeless shelter (pre-transition as well, they all knew me as a short, not at all threatening looking woman) and that taught me to shake off the fear I had of homeless people, men especially, because they too are just ppl & it was bigoted of me to have my gut instinct tell me I was in danger when I saw a homeeles man just existing or behaving erratically in public. It was classist, ableist & was not in fact justified just bc I was navigating the world as a woman.

Yes, keep yourself safe, but actually learn to recognize potential dangers & how to handle dangerous situations, don't just rely on your gut instinct.

I also think we can absolutely teach ppl how to keep themselves safe around other folks without resorting to gender essentialism & sex profiling simply by focusing on behaviors instead of gender presentation.

This would serve to protect trans & queer ppl with a masc appearance/presentation including non cispassing trans fems/women, trans mascs/men, non-binary & multigender ppl, intersex folks, even cis gay men, who are also at a higher risk of being assaulted than cis straight men and yes, even straight men, who are also capable of being victimized. Because nobody is truly safe from violence & abuse, we all need to know how about dangers & be able to get protection from others in our communities!

That reminds me of what I've been talking about recently where someone blamed a fixation on punitive justice on people being tricked into it by white supremacist background radiation in Western culture when it's actually just an apolitical fault of the way human brains are wired that goes back to the earliest human civilizations. And like, granted, this is the third time I'm bringing that post specifically up so maybe I'm overexaggerating the issue because I don't follow that kinna discourse closely, but especially in conjunction with transandrophobia discourse I feel like there's this trap of viewing the things you face as cosmic forces rather than mere sociology, you know?

[moodymelanist]

Professor cassian and student nesta smut?

hope you don't mind that it's just ~roleplay~

accepting kinktober prompts all october long! any acotar couples i've written for are fair game (not just nessian, although I certainly love wrting those freaks getting freaky)

Cassian had asked Nesta to give him a few minutes to set their office up for today’s game, which mostly involved putting one of their dining room chairs in front of his desk and making sure the curtains were firmly shut.

The neighbors certainly didn’t need to catch a glimpse of whatever was going to happen in here.

There wasn’t really much else for him to do other than twiddle his thumbs, so Cassian took a seat behind his desk. Just as he got comfortable, a knock sounded on the door, and he didn’t fight his smile at Nesta’s punctuality. He’d said ten minutes, and that was exactly what she’d given him.

"Come in," Cassian called. He pretended to shuffle some papers around just for something to do with his hands as his girlfriend opened the door, and then he was gripping the pages so tightly he half-worried he was going to rip something.

Nesta had gone for the stereotypical schoolgirl outfit, complete with a white buttoned-up shirt, tiny plaid skirt, and even a little matching plaid tie. Her legs looked long and muscular and Cassian wanted them wrapped around him even more than usual, which was saying something.

"Professor," Nesta greeted him after a moment, leaning against the doorframe with an innocent look on her face. Her skirt was so short it was a miracle he couldn't see her underwear. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

Cassian took a deep breath so he wouldn't lose it right there. "Yes, I did. Have a seat, Miss Archeron."

"Okay." Nesta closed the door behind her and slid into the chair facing his desk. "Did I do something wrong, sir?"

"You failed your last test," he told her, running with the first thing that popped into his brain. She'd graduated summa cum laude from both undergrad and law school, so it was probably the first time she'd ever heard the words before. "At the rate you're going, you won't pass my class."

"Oh no," she replied with overexaggerated concern. To really sell it, she gave him a little frown and added, "Are you sure there isn't anything I can do?"

"At this point?” he answered, pretending to think about it for a few seconds before releasing a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure there’s anything to be done.”

"I need this class to graduate, sir,” Nesta said pleadingly. She leaned forward and shifted her weight onto her elbows, the motion stretching her already-tight shirt nearly to the point of no return. “Is there really nothing I can do?”

“Well…” he trailed off with another sigh. “I suppose there might be an opportunity for extra credit.”

“I’ll do anything,” she told him, her eyes going big and pleading. He loved her when she was all sharp edges, but he wouldn’t lie — this was really doing it for him, too. “Please?”

“This has to stay between us, Miss Archeron,” he responded. “I can’t have the other students finding out about any… preferential treatment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed quickly. “I’m good at keeping my mouth full — I mean, shut.”

“Is that so?” Cassian asked, smirking. He’d mostly been thinking about bending her over the desk and fucking her until she cried, but he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity she’d handed him. “Why don’t you come over here and prove it?”

Nesta got out of her chair and slowly walked around the corner of the desk, giving Cassian more than enough time to appreciate how beautiful she was. She’d left her hair down for once instead of her usual coronet, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was so he could dig his hands in while he fucked her face.

She was thoughtful like that. It was one of the many reasons why he loved her.

“How do you want me, sir?” Nesta asked, coming to a stop right next to him.

Cassian turned in his chair so he was facing her, pressing one of his hands to her bare thigh. Her skin was soft and a little cool as usual, and right on cue, she shivered at the heat pouring off him. “On your knees.”

He inhaled sharply as she sunk to her knees, somehow managing not to break eye contact as she reached for the zipper on his pants. He couldn’t help his groan as she took him out of his pants and gave him a quick stroke, and when she ran her thumb across the head he couldn’t help another, louder groan.

“How bad do you want to pass, sweetheart?” Cassian asked, his cock hard and hot in her hand.

“A lot, sir,” Nesta answered. She blinked up at him before letting go of his cock so she could unbutton her shirt, revealing a dark red bra that emphasized the perfect size of her breasts. “Can I show you?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, reaching out to gather her hair into a messy ponytail. “If you do a good enough job… maybe you’ll pass my class after all.”

“Anything for an A,” she replied. She pulled his pants down lower for better access and returned her hand to his cock with a smirk of her own. “Sir.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he retorted, pulling her head closer to his cock. “Why don’t you focus on getting a D, yeah? That’s a passing grade, isn’t it?”

Nesta rolled her eyes at his joke but opened her mouth to suck Cassian down anyway. She gave him a few tentative bobs of her head before she took more of him, and he groaned at the feeling of all that wet heat surrounding his cock. “Fuck, that’s it.”

“So fucking gorgeous,” Cassian murmured, enraptured. He couldn’t look away from the obscene stretch of Nesta’s lips around his cock, and he sank back into his chair as she worked him like the pro that she was. “Love watching you, sweetheart.”

Nesta could take most of him, but what she couldn’t reach with her mouth and throat, she was more than happy to make up for with her hands. She wrapped one around the base of her cock and timed her strokes to the bob of her head, and it didn’t take long before Cassian was practically putty in her hands.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Cassian panted, tightening his grip on Nesta’s hair. “So beautiful with my cock in your mouth.”

Nesta couldn’t speak, but that didn’t stop her from showing her approval. She moaned around his cock and the vibration made him buck into her mouth.

“Yeah? You like hearing how good you look sucking my cock?” he said, groaning when she whined as best she could with most of her mouth full. “Course you do. Pretty thing like you needs her mouth stuffed, doesn’t she?”

“Mhmm,” she moaned. Her eyes flicked up to meet his as she reached up to fondle his balls with her free hand, and the simmering heat in his gut went supernova.

Cassian abandoned any semblance of control as he widened his stance and started fucking into her mouth. Her eyes went a little wide and started watering, but she didn’t dare look away from him. If anything, she gave him the green light when he felt her other hand creep down to join the one already playing with his balls.

“God, Nesta, don’t stop,” Cassian grunted, a little crazed with the way his cock looked going in and out of her mouth. “Fuck, that’s a good girl, gonna fill up that perfect little throat—”

Cassian held Nesta’s head in place as he came down her throat, thrusting into her mouth with a few short, jerky pumps of his hips as pleasure rocked through him. He didn’t let up until she smacked his thigh three times in a row, their signal for when she needed to breathe, and then she was pulling herself off his cock with a slightly dazed look on her face.

“Jesus, that was hot,” Cassian said once he could think straight again. He released his tight grip on Nesta’s hair and gently ran his hands through it, trying to sort out some of the tangles he’d caused without hurting her. “You’re an A+ student in my book, sweetheart. Was that okay for you?”

Nesta nuzzled her cheek into his thigh and looked up at him with a sweet smile. She was floating a little bit, and it made him melt that she trusted him enough to let go like this. “Mhmm. Better than okay.”

“Okay,” he replied with a smile of his own. He reached down and hauled her into his lap, ignoring the way his cock twitched at having her so close. “Come on. Let’s get you all cleaned up.”

tag list: @perseusannabeth | @bookstantrash | @charming-butt-insane | @oversizedbats | @melphss | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @autumnbabylon | @live-the-fangirl-life | @julemmaes | @that-little-red-head | @jmoonjones | @sayosdreams | @thewayshedreamed | @hiimheresworld | @brieq | @pearlfortears | @swankii-art-teacher | @nerdperson524 | @snickerdoodlechittybangbang | @imsointobooks | @nesquik-arccheron | @sweet-pea1 | @champanheandluxxury | @dustjacketmusings | @mrs-shadowsinger04 | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @goddess-aelin | @arinbelle | @talkfantasytome | @simpingfornestaarcheron | @duskandstarlight | @letstakethedawn | @vidalinav | @c-e-d-dreamer | @dealfea | @katekatpattywack | @burningsnowleopard | @thatsowlmazing | @avidromancereader | @a-little-disguised

[syscultureis]

Dose anyone else ever get into that kinda floaty dissociation space when their alone in front were your memories of your system and evidence for it kinda just...calmy and slowly disappear into the background and fizzle away, not in a panicked or angry "IM FAKING ALL OF THIS" way but just...their gone, you cant recall any memory of your system really and you quietly ease into the idea, almost like a mother childing her kid, that youve just been overexaggerating and it must be something far more mundane. Yeah my amnesia is bad but I just have autism and autistics have a hard time with memory in the same way. And yeah I have witnesses to switches and mountains of other examples but...their just so hard to remember that you must be remembering them wrong. Bonus points if your NOT alone and you and the other person convince yourselves/each other that your both just each others own thoughts. Or is that just a me thing? Cause i hate it more then when im panicky and scared im faking, at least then i can remember things and rationalize. Dissociation and amnesia are just mean and if this DID community wasnt here I would for sure still be convincing myself to ignore my system to this day because of how like EASY it is. I feel like its not talked about how much work you need to put in to actively fight your brains natural want to hide itself from you even years after your system coming out to itself and living plurally.

I've had this a lot, it really sucks

But what I've found is a lot of times, the brain doesn't want you to know about the system. So even after it's passed the point of return with discovery, it sometimes tries to just take it back

It fails most the time, cuz once you're aware of it it's very hard to forget, but sometimes the brain still tries

[lpsgirl109]

Hot take I always find it a little hilarious when people get so up in arms over someone saying everyone in Mapleshade's Vengeance was kind of shitty and implying everybody except Mapleshade wasn't a victim

Like Ravenwing and Reedshine are the only ones who really didn't do anything wrong. Ravenwing was just doing his job, I doubt he Wanted Mapleshade and her kite to get thrown out, and Reedshine was literally just there. Granted if I found out my husband was cheating on me I'd have left his ass but that's just a me thing she can do whatever she wants

Frecklewish I think isn't as bad as the others but she still screamed at literal babies for something they had no control over. Granted it find it funny that she somehow got sent to hell while cats far worse than her get to chill in heaven but I digress. Oakstar punished babies for something that once again they had no control over and I'd argue he did this out of pure malice for the fact that they were Appledusk's kits. Like can we please all agree that the children did nothing wrong here and it's kind of horrible that pretty much all of ThunderClan decided they were scum of the Earth that needed to be disposed of just because of who their father was. Then you got Appledusk who, while I think people overexaggerate his actions and mischaracterize him as being intentionally malicious, he's still not a very good person here. Mainly the fact that he was cheating. One could argue over whether or not it was wrong of him to be so harsh toward Mapleshade after the kits died, I think he could've been more sympathetic about it but I haven't read the book in a long ass time so I couldn't try to defend that even if I wanted to. Not as bad as Oakstar, but not a saint either

Like. Obviously Mapleshade is awful. That's a given. But it amuses me how people get so angry when someone says she wasn't the only shitty person in that book. Like guys please none of this would've happened if most of the characters in this book used their brains instead of acting out of anger toward Actual Babies.

[spooki-ghoztzz]

Hello first I really liked the other request thank you very much 🌹

If you can ask more than once, could you get doe's reaction when the reader tells him a little irritated to stop showering him with affection for once? It's not that I hate him, it's just a bit stressful for him that he wants to be glued to him all the time.

female reader or gn

Would it be stressful for you that a person wants to be on top of you almost all the time? I say it is not so bad that someone wants to give you affection but when it exceeds it is a little stressful? irritating?tired? I'm just not used to so much affection 🌹

( ofc dear! i'm glad you liked my last request plus it was fun to write,and you can request as many times as you'd like!! )

listen,doe is somewhat understanding but he'd get upset over you suddenly snapping(I overexaggerate that,tbh doe would say you snapped at him)at him over the 24/7 affection that he gives you even if you're trying to sleep. i bet for anyone it would be stressful for someone to be at your hip but to the point where they follow you to work,not letting you shower alone..it would be very stressful mainly if you aren't used to your partner showing so much affection to you.

but doe can't help it. it's his only way to show he cares for you,how he made himself and the first time he saw you something in his brain clicked that he HAD to show you so much love that it would smother you. even if he's upset he'd try his best to back off when it comes to smothering you with love and praise,his "I love love love love you!"s and plenty of other things he enjoys saying. this also means cutting off a lot of the 24/7 manipulation of the world around you just so you're comfortable. he'd try his hardest to please you and make you happy..as long as you don't leave him is all that goes through his head.

[my-castles-crumbling]

dancer anon here

reason for wanting to stay connected to being a girl: i feel good when i present feminine sometimes, I don't know why, while i dont feel like a girl or connected to that at all, i enjoy feeling pretty, and that kinda fuels the "cant not be partially a girl" because i like my feminine attributes (such as my breasts and eyelashes (i really like my eyelashes, they make me feel pretty)) but i tend to like my feminine attributes more when im alone and only /i/ can see myself and think "damn. im pretty today."

ballroom q: i tend to do more follower than leader now but i get to dance with my favorite dance teacher someitmes and shes really nice :D my favorite dance is paso doble (i do more latin ballroom than standard lol, but i do enjoy waltz the most out of standard dances lol (its the first dance i did with leader steps :DD)

correct pronouns: ik that its not really making a big deal to ask, but since im not out to many poeple outside of my friend group. i also dont want to correct my friends because im afraid it will reach someone outside of the group and theyre going to question it because in my school the majority of the students aren't really,,,, allies ig

neopronouns: have considered, didnt fit, so they/them is my go to because it is the one i feel the most comfortable with

confronting my friend: i do sometimes feel like confronting them about it, but its kinda scary because i hate confrontation because of the toxic friend i mentioned, so i dont think im gonna do anything about it (for now maybe?)

trauma: i am 97% sure i dont have any trauma relating to masculine people? however, my memory /is/ actually trash, so i could have just forgotten. the most likely thing that caused the fear would probably be the dance teacher with cold hands, because i hated his classes because they made me feel like dance is an obligation and i have to do everything /correctly/ even though i signed up because i enjoy dance. i also had to dance with him and his hands were cold and i dont like physical touch if im not initiating it (which is kinda why i dont dance with anyone anymore - a combination of physical touch, sweaty hands, and the close proximity. im even scared to dance with the little children i sometimes help dance with, because i dont know if they feel comfortable with physical touch which makes me feel icky)

also its not really something happened to me, its fear of something that /could/ happen (SA, etc)

also i still see that dance teacher around at the studio sometimes. he still scares me, but less? and when i talk to him sometimes, my brain tries to tell me im overexaggerating how much i dislike him, which i may be doing, but he /did/ ruin one of my favorite dances for me, so...

agender label: i do feel comfortable with the agender label, i believe, but ive never really met anyone else using it so i think i ust want to know ppl who also use it

you are also a wonderful human!!!

on another note, i am genuinely in tears thank you, you are so kind <3

Hello again!

So, there's four things I wanna address here:

With the pronouns/friends: Yes, it sounds like it might be a good idea to think more about the pros/cons of this. I still completely think that you deserve the respect of being gendered correctly, but if it's not safe for you to be pushing this,(secrets being shared, an unsupportive space, etc) then it might be a good idea to step back until it is safe to bring it up again. Remember though that you deserve to be supported and loved unconditionally and using your correct pronouns is something that should not be a burden to anyone.

Being agender: Have you considered finding people on here who identify similarly? It could be cool and validating to find a community of people who feel the same way. I know for me it was super exciting to find other nonbinary/genderfluid people.

Being touched: Okay, that makes sense. I definitely get not liking to be touched by people, especially people who give weird sensory input.

Ballroom: Oh, damn Paso Doble? I only know the very basics but it's SO different and cool! Respect <3

Lots of love!

[lifenconcepts]

Does anyone else just refuse to believe a certain series or movie in a franchise has lore or that it’s even canon. for me it’s Horrid Henry season 4 and beyond. Anything past that third one is simply NOT to be taken seriously. As an avid fan I can genuinely say that I feel like they sold out entirely, rebranded his image and turned his overall being more childish. It’s clear with seeing how they overexaggerated the things that make him charming and ruined practically all the characters - making them one sided. Truly able to be described with one word and aimed at children of a much more younger age.

I don’t care for the good art or animation quality of what they show is utterly bullshit. They just used his name and character to puppeteer some more money.

You could tell that in the earlier seasons they at least tried to make him loveable and create a truly intriguing plot. So what if kids sometimes didn’t comprehend the theme? It’s better than the brain rot that nowadays exists on them. Any changes were made in a believable way and other than that the show was coherent with its damn intentions and characters. The show felt truly alive. Now? FUCKING BULLSHIT.

And no it’s not nostalgia speaking because I don’t remember any episodes I watched as a kid and I binged the entire show in a single week so I could actively see all the changes they took. And season 3 to 4 was the most drastic. Well, the third also was a bit shitty but not as much noticeable and despite me not wanting to rewatch any episodes some were still fine. NOW IT JUST LOOKS LIKE AHIT YOUD FIND ON YOUTUBE KIDS

sorry, I had to get this off my chest. You understand, right?

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 11: Split

(Disclaimer: the characters here do not belong to me. Both Wilford Warfstache and William J. Barnum/The Colonel belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(Please note that the concept this story revolves around isn’t something I originally came up with. That honor goes to @ghiertor-the-gigapeen, who posted this amazing piece of art last October! Please check out their blog and show them some love!!!)

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of body horror, blood/gore, fear/panic, trauma/flashbacks, pain and suffering, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 12 Day 13

“Say, have you ever tried your hand at writing?” Wilford casually inquires, titling his head and pressing his index finger against his temple. 

You hum at the question, wracking your brain. “I’m. . .not sure, honestly. I mean, I probably have at some point, but all the conflicting timelines make it hard to tell.” There’s a generous amount of sarcasm in your voice. So much, in fact, that you have to concentrate on emphasizing the right words.

Of course, Wilford’s response is an overexaggerated quirk of his lips, his eyes as thoughtful as they are mischievous. “True, true, very true. Sometimes you wish those pesky timelines would just fit in your hands so you could organize them to your taste.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you reply, tone dry enough to make Death Valley look rather lush. 

“BUT,” Wilford, never to not have the last word, continues. “If you could do that, then you wouldn’t really be able to have any more adventures. You wouldn’t get to be surprised or horrified! Things would go from challenging and unforgettable to. . .thoughtless and predictable. Sooner or later, you wouldn’t be able to appreciate whatever comes to grip at your mind or heart!”

His hands are a blur as he throws out one dramatic gesture after another. His expressions follow suite, obviously. Even so, the conniving ember in his eyes never completely fades away. In fact, that ember seems to glow a bit brighter as he finally returns to sitting still and staring at you. “True beauty really lies in thrill, my friend. There’s just no two ways about it!”

You don’t bother trying to suppress an eye-roll. . .and yet a small, genuine smile still manages to fight its way onto your face. Wilford’s statement is partially undeniable. Sure, you’ve been through hell and back, but you saw so many things along the way. You’ve met all sorts of people. The scenarios you keep finding yourself in are literally anything and everything but boring. 

Yes, your existence and abilities have proven to be a curse. . .but that curse has still shaped itself into a gift more times than you can count. 

That’s why you rang that little call-bell: to be taken here to this studio in order to see this insane, frustrating, omnipotent journalist who you (somehow) still have a soft spot for.

“. . .Y’know, I can’t remember the last time you were so specific with your questions,” you point out, leaning back in your provided chair. “What made you bring up writing, of all things?” 

Wilford tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk-tsks at you, raising an eyebrow so high that it could potentially need a drug test. “Sounds like someone has forgotten who’s the interviewer and who’s the interviewee.” 

You spread your arms in a small lame gesture, making sure that your eyes help your incredulousness to be palpable. “Hey, listen. One of these days, the roles are gonna be reversed. MARK my words. I’ll be damned if that doesn’t happen at least once.”

“You make a good argument; there’s a chance something like that has already happened,” Wilford admits. He drags out a conspiratory hum for about ten seconds or so, slipping off his pink afro and fidgeting with it. “Well, writers can be a bit of a rare breed nowadays. They’re plentiful if you’re exploring the right circles, but even then, many are still so shy about their work.” 

“Can’t really blame them for that,” you reply. “Not with how unfair the industries have gotten.”

“Oh, don’t I know it!” Wilford huffs a mirthless laugh. “I used to write for the odd column and blog or two. The readers were lovely, but lemme tell you—”

“The higher-ups were not?” You guess with an empathetic smile, just barely noticing how he’s started to squirm in his seat. 

Wilford groans in exasperation. “Don’t even get me started. They turned their noses up at so many things, you’d think they were each three tapirs in a trenchcoat! I remember thinking, ‘If they’re so desperate for cookie-cut stories to have complete control over, then why don’t they just write these goddamn stories themselves?!’’’

You don’t blink: partially because your eyes aren’t dry, and partially because, if you had, you would’ve missed the mixture of sadness and frustration that just flickered on Wilford’s face. It was a tiny amount, and it’s already been beaten into submission by his trademark coyness. 

But it was genuine. 

“. . .I can tell you why,” you declare. “Because writing requires patience and effort and thought. Heart, too. And in my experience, it’d be a miracle for an employer to have at least one of those things.”

Wilford’s eyes ever-so-slightly widen as your words sink in. Something warm and appreciative etches its way into the smile he’s wearing. 

“Words to live by,” he announces with a proud nod. “I don’t think I ever saw anything like that in my old head-honchos. It was always, ‘ThErE’s No WaY wE cAn PuBlIsH tHiS wItHoUt CeNsOrInG hAlF oF iT.’ ‘jUsT bEcAuSe ThE rEaDeRs LeAvE fEeDbAcK DoEsN’t MeAn YoU cAn InTeRaCt WiTh ThEm.’ ‘OuR sHaReHoLdErS wIlL bE oFfEnDeD bY tHiS.’ ‘rEaDeRs DoN’t NeEd To KnOw AbOuT tHaT.’ ‘wHeRe DiD yOu GeT tHaT kNiFe?’ ‘WhAt ThE hElL aRe YoU dOiNg?’ ‘I’m CaLlInG tHe PoLiCe YoU mAnIaC!’”

The droning pitch he’d put on falls away as he collapses into a fit of chuckling.

You, meanwhile, force out an awkward cough to try and hide the nervous grimace that has crawled into your features.

Even if Wilford is an old friend, even if his heart is sometimes in the right place, you can’t afford to forget that his brain is not. That it hasn’t been for a long time now. And it will probably never be anywhere near the right place again.

Not only that, but the longer you listen to Wilford’s giggling, the more you realize just how. . .off it sounds. As though Wilford’s voice is layered; like something else is trying to worm its way up through his bubbly tone.

“And those trials were just in the world of journalism,” Wilford continues once the hilarity finally dies down. “I can hardly imagine what writers in more creative circles have to go through.”

For seemingly no reason, that statement prompts a tidal wave of adrenaline to come rushing through you. 

“Simply taking notes of things in reality can be so difficult. Just think about how long it’s taken for us to make some actual progress with this interview,” Wilford muses, gesturing to all the twinkling lights that decorate his studio. “But how could that struggle even compare to someone creating an entire world of their own? Birth is already one of the most traumatic things a person is capable of, and that’s just when it happens on the outside. So it’s astounding that anyone can survive birthing so many things inside their little head!” 

Perhaps to drive the point home, he lightly raps his knuckles against his forehead as he returns his pink afro to its rightful place. 

“Could’ve gone my whole life without hearing that analogy,” you blurt. 

“No, I don’t think you could’ve,” Wilford whispers. 

You glare at him as an uncomfortable, oily energy slithers along your ribcage. The fact that Wilford is now visibly shaking doesn’t help. 

“Are. . .are you okay, Wil?” You wonder aloud, your irritation slowly but surely leaning toward paranoia. 

“Peachy!” Wilford answers, gesturing toward his face with a flourish. “Why, does this not look like the face of someone who’s peachy?”

You attempt not to cringe too hard as you offer one of those nod-shrugs, gingerly poking the skin beneath your eyes.

Wilford’s expression contorts with confusion. He rises to stand on the seat of his chair, reaching up toward the ceiling. After producing a hand mirror from somewhere you can’t see, he sits back down and peers at his reflection.

Of course, he doesn’t react to the sight of blood oozing down his cheeks from his tear ducts like most people would. Instead of screaming or fainting or trying to pluck his eyes out in order to keep whatever curse they may or may not be harboring from infecting the rest of his body, Wilford casually tosses the mirror over his shoulder, not acknowledging the sound of glass shattering as he fishes a handkerchief from one of his pockets. 

“Meh, it’s a wednesday. You know how wednesdays are,” Wilford mentions as he begins scrubbing at the small, dark red rivers. 

“I’m not so sure I do,” you murmur. 

You consider suggesting to pause the interview here with an oath to resume it some other day. . .but that consideration evaporates when you remember exactly what happened the last time this interview was interrupted. Gunshots echo between your ears, and your heart more or less threatens to start palpitating. 

Hell, you’re already expecting this interview to be cut short sooner or later; it’s had to be delayed at least sixty-nine thousand, four-hundred-twenty times by now, if memory serves (though, let’s be honest, it probably doesn’t). 

But despite everything you’ve gone through up until this point, you still trust your instincts.

Which are currently screaming at you to not be the thing that prompts the inevitable next raincheck.

Plus, while one part of you is worried for Wilford’s wellbeing, the other part of you knows that it doesn’t matter. This is Wilford Warfstache we’re talking about. Even if he got mauled by a hippopotamus fueled by copious amount of acid and maliciously-intended vibes, he’d still find a way to continue existing with a chipper, knowing smile. 

“Now, where were we?” Wilford inquires. You don’t know why, because he immediately snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes! Writing!”

Seeing that his face is clean once again, he throws the now bloodstained handkerchief into the air, where it quickly flutters down to join the broken mirror somewhere on the floor behind his chair. 

“Well, I’ve already rambled on about my adventures with that. Please, tell me more about your thoughts on writing. You know I’d love to hear them!”

“Is that why you booked me for this? And here I was, thinking you just wanted me to sit here and look handsome and/or beautiful!” You joke, hoping to distract yourself from the dread that’s just started festering in your stomach.

Wilford chortles at that. And although the sound almost unveils some happy memories, you can still tell that he’s acutely aware of aforementioned dread.

You chew your lip, thinking.

By the time you’re able to predict what that question could lead to, it’ll probably be too late.

Might as well be honest with your answer, then. 

“I think writing is pretty incredible,” you pronounce. “Some people try to say it isn’t a real type of art, and I’ll never be able to understand why. Like you just said: it’s always so much harder and scarier to do than it’s given credit for. It takes the same amount of energy and care to write as it does to sculpt or paint or sew.”

The words seem to make Wilford grow more excited. “Speaking of which: don’t you just love it when different types of artists work together? I’m always seeing writers basing plot elements off of drawings and drafters sketching out scenes from stories. That camaraderie is one of the best kinds, I think. Reminds me of how wolves and crows help each other hunt.”

“Exactly!” You reply. “Writers and other artists do wonderful stuff like that all the time! Just because they can! And—”

You abruptly trail off, the chemicals in your brain rerouting themselves before they even have a chance to signal more happiness. 

“And. . ?” Wilford prompts, watching you curiously.

“. . .And they barely get any appreciation,” you eventually resume, feeling your face drop. “It’s just so. . .depressing that creative people can’t rely on their craft. Don’t get me wrong, some of them get lucky, but most. . .no matter how hard they practice or research, no matter how much time they spend polishing their projects. . .they still end up having so little to show for it.”

“Such a damn shame,” Wilford agrees, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 

Your gaze wandered down to the floor during your little monologue, so you can’t help but flinch when Wilford pats you on the shoulder. 

The gesture isn’t forceful—it’s not like he’s digging his nails through your shirt—but nothing could’ve prepared you for how hot the skin of his palm feels. Wilford’s hand retracts quickly enough, but the heat lingers, racing down your arm as though some invisible person accidentally spilled a translucent cup of fresh-outta-the-pot, wraithlike coffee onto you.

(I’ve read/heard plenty of symbolism that involves boiling blood, but this is ridiculous.)

A gasp catches in your throat as you return your attention to Wilford. 

He almost resembles a celebrity who, thanks to the power of hubris and a little too much xanax, drowned in their backyard swimming pool. . .Well, really, that’s just because of his clothes; if he wasn’t dressed in a bowtie and button-down (which looks suspiciously like silk), he’d probably look like the average corpse that was just pulled out of a river. Minus the awful bloating that always comes with underwater decay, that is. 

You’d only looked away from him for a moment.

How the hell could someone’s skin turn so sickly pale in such short time?

“If there are any artists watching tonight, I’m sure you’ve made them get a little misty,” Wilford reMARKs, reaching up to wipe a single tear from the corner of his left eye. “But that doesn’t mean they have to worry. One way or another, the arts will get more respect in the future.”

“. . .You think so?” You’re not exactly sure where that question came from, but you know better than to stay silent. Besides, you can’t be blamed for having let a mite of pessimism creep into your attitude over the years.

“I know so!” Wilford promises. “So long as a virtuoso shows off what they can do, there’ll always, always be a number of admirers in their corner.” 

You nod without hesitation. It’s impossible to disagree with that sentiment. In fact, you almost start to wonder if whatever the hell has been happening to Wilford throughout this conversation is about to reverse itself. . .

“Though, I have to wonder,” Wilford maintains, glancing over at nothing in particular with a wry, thoughtful smirk. “Could what you just talked about be the reason for the current shift in creative circles?”

(Aaaaannnd that’s why you almost got hopeful.)

“‘Shift?’” You echo. “What do you mean by that?”

You already know, of course. But you also know that Wilford is nothing if not a theatrical bastard. You’ve already played along with whatever has been building up for the past few minutes, so why stop now?

“Well, it seems like the majority of artists celebrate Halloween all year ‘round,” Wilford explains. “Drawings and sculptures of monsters, stories full of insanity, the whole shebang. I’m certainly not complaining, and neither are all those admirers I mentioned. But. . .do you think an artist’s frustration is what causes them to serve muses on the darker side of the spectrum?”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the fact that someone out there is probably rolling their eyes and muttering, “i’M fOuRtEeN aNd ThIs Is DeEp.”

(Then again, everything you and Wilford just said is completely valid, so that judgemental prick can just fuck off.)

“I guess it can, in a lot of cases,” you answer. “It’s amazing how many unique ways artists can go about symbolizing those struggles. Even so, a lot of artists focus on twisted aspects just because they see things in ways that other people might not. Just because of their individual personalities.”

“Of course, of course,” Wilford subscribes. “And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that!”

A sharp, muffled pop called from somewhere in his chest. It’s followed by another. . .and another. . .and another, until a chorus of organic cracking and stretching and clicking threatens to drown out Wilford’s voice. 

Wilford doesn’t seem unbothered perse, but to his credit, he doesn’t let the cacophony stop him. 

“I suppose my instincts as a journalist drove that question,” Wilford muses. “I’ve found myself working with the whole ‘If it bleeds, it leads,’ shtick so many times. But only because. . .”

A violent twitch—the same type that so many people experience in their sleep, and the same type that would render those people unable to ever sleep again if they managed to see a recording of it—wracks his body.

“. . .it works. . .”

He barely had enough time to give you a wink before his eyes practically bulge from their sockets and roll into the back of his head, one after the other. 

“. . .so damn well!”

The skin of his cheeks neatly tears as his smile stretches wider than humanly possible, to the point where he’s quite literally grinning from ear-to-ear.

A strange outline appears in his shirt, trying to push out from underneath the fabric.

Except, it’s not underneath the fabric. 

You can do nothing but watch as the shape moves upward, causing Wilford’s neck to distend. His skin ripples in a way that reminds you of a sea krait swimming close to the surface without actually breaking it. As it gathers in Wilford’s head, the silhouette starts writhing. The movement is frantic. Desperate. Like an animal caught in some kind of trap.

All the while, Wilford’s new, eerie simper never falls away. 

Not even when his features are forced to swell and quiver, as though his skull is tearing itself apart.

Plltk-Sssquiiwrrrlrlct!

One half of Wilford’s face pulls away from the other, like a seam running down the center has burst. 

In a matter of seconds, the rift races down, splitting Wilford’s throat and torso open. 

Gravity attempts to drag the fleshy fractions even farther apart, but by some odd miracle, both Wilford’s afro and bowtie staunchly refuse to be divided like the rest of him. 

So, that means the two halves of Warfstache are hanging in place, only connected by thick, glistening strands of dark pink blood. 

You jerk away so aggressively that it’s a wonder your chair doesn’t tip over. Your stomach roils in a painful way, and a shuddering, terrified cry slithers up your throat and out between your teeth. You automatically fight to close your gaping mouth for fear that something much more solid than a scream might spill out next.

Surprisingly enough, nothing like that happens. 

But perhaps that’s because you haven’t seen the worst of this yet.

(Don’t hold your breath. You’re about to.)

As you stare and scream, you finally realize that. . .you can’t see through the gory chasm of Wilford. 

There’s something caught between the awful ratios of Wilford.

. . .No, not something.

Someone.

Someone who’s dressed in a tan military uniform, along with a pair of spectacles that boast dual loupes on that right lens. 

Someone whose screams make it clear that he speaks with an accent similar to Wilford’s.

Someone who you recognize. . .and, who seems to recognize you as well.

“H-Help me! PLEASE, HELP ME!” The Colonel wails, the fingers of his right hand curling around Wilford’s lower jaw, struggling for purpose. “I CAN’T GO BACK! DON’T MAKE ME GO BACK!”

You don’t respond. 

How the hell could you respond?

It’s one thing to watch a friend’s body spontaneously split itself apart like their skeleton is a bloodsoaked butterfly emerging from a horrific meat-chrysalis.

It’s another thing entirely to watch a friend’s former self shriek and thrash and beg via an unnecessarily brutal rebirthing process for no actual reason. 

“I-I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY!” The Colonel howls—if it wasn’t for his volume, the words would have leaked out in a choked sob. “I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT! I DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT! I SWEAR—!”

Wilford, meanwhile, is still grinning that sly, too-wide grin. He isn’t showing any signs of pain. You can’t tell whether or not he’d known that this was going to happen.

The Colonel manages to free his left arm from its organic confines. He frantically claws at the air, obviously trying to reach out to you, pleading for you to take his hand and pull him out.

The way your eyes are burning nearly rivals the searing ache in your chest.

You want to help him.

The voices in your head are demanding that you help him.

But you can’t. 

To put it simply, what’s done is done. Even Wilford’s bizarre powers are incapable of reversing what happened in that godforsaken manor all those years ago. 

The Colonel does not exist anymore.

You know that. . .

He knows that. . .

. . .And Wilford knows that.

Still grinning, Wilford raises his arms. With a loud criIiIiIck, they grow. In a manner of seconds, they boast a similar appearance to long, narrow tree branches. Each of his fingers follow suite—now it’s difficult to see them as anything other than talons. 

Wilford’s left hand is a blur as it snatches The Colonel’s wrist in a vice-like grip. His right hand reaches around to clamp down on The Colonel’s head.

Understandably, The Colonel isn’t having it. He writhes with twice as much panic as before. “DAMIEN! CELINE! WHERE ARE THEY?! I NEED TO FIND THEM!”

Wilford’s grin spasms. His knuckles turn white as he digs his nails into The Colonel’s scalp. When that doesn’t seem to work, he does what he does best: up the ante with no regard for anything. 

It’s hard to believe that you can hear the sound of glass splintering through The Colonel’s shouting, as Wilford’s index finger jabs through the left lens of his spectacles. 

In comparison, the squelching noise The Colonel’s eye makes as Wilford’s finger is driven into it is almost deafening. 

The Colonel buckles under the new, white-hot pain he must be feeling. His screams reach a truly heart-stopping octave as blood oozes down his cheek.

Instinct seems to take over, seeing as The Colonel’s arm finally retracts, as he attempts to apply pressure to his punctured eye.

There’s really no point, though. It’s not like he has time to stop the bleeding. 

To a chorus of snapping bones, Wilford shoves The Colonel down.

The Colonel’s torso as a whole seems to cave in.

All this time, Wilford’s hot-pink blood has been fountaining onto the floor—you’ve had to cross your legs on your chair to keep your shoes from getting drenched—but as you glance down, you notice that the puddle has stopped spreading. It stays still for a second or two. . .and then it starts rolling back in the direction it came. It glides up Wilford’s legs, and back into his chest, your eyes following it all the while. 

And now the blood seems to be more than just a liquid. It’s coiling around The Colonel like a nest of snakes, binding his arms, encircling his neck. It drags him deeper, obscuring his form until you can barely see his face.

“NO! NO!” The Colonel screams. He can’t struggle anymore, but you know better than anyone just how much of a bitch adrenaline can be. “I CAN’T—!”

It looks like the two halves of Warfstache have finally worked out their differences, because they meet one another with a sickening Ssshlift-pop. 

Wilford’s skin trembles. 

The line running down the center of his face, his throat, his chest. . .it just. . .seals itself shut. As though it’s a new type of magnetic clay. 

After a millisecond, that line itself disappears. It doesn’t even scar over. 

It’s just gone.

Just like that, a whole Wilford Warfstache is sitting before you once again. 

Like nothing even happened.

The next moment feels like several hours as you stare at Wilford, bracing yourself for something else to happen as hot, fat tears stream down your features. 

Wilford’s eyes roll back into place, milky white scleras finally being replaced by his warm, dark brown irises. 

That damn grin finally wavers as he blinks, shaking his head like he’s just woken up from a fever dream.

“Ah—I’m sorry,” Wilford announces, carefully kneading at his forehead. “I must’ve zoned out for a bit.” He glances at his wristwatch, raising an eyebrow. “Strange. . .the longer daydreams usually only happen on the thirteenth. Perhaps something else will be going on then? I know I had a lot of things lined up for the thirteenth in January, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I got around to them. . .unless I did, of course. In which case we might have a few problems.”

Wilford trails off as he finally notices that you’re still here. 

“. . .Are we going to have to reschedule again? No offense, but you’re looking a bit green around the gills.”

You collapse against the back of your chair, not even registering how the world spins. Not that registering is an option; darkness is quick to swallow up everything within eyesight.

(Really? You’re fainting now?)

Somehow, you still manage to hear Wilford’s voice, which seems to echo as he concludes, “I’ll take that as a yes,” with a melodramatic sigh.

@sammys-magical-au

[cookierye]

Adam's room wasn't made for two people. He'd honestly argue it was barely made for one.

Jonah had sat cross legged on his bed, slightly moving back and forth to keep himself busy. Adam had taken a seat on his office chair like a normal person, elbow on the desk as he leaned on his hand.

"Something's bothering youuu."

"Shut up, man."

Jonah ended up with that grin Adam had associated with him getting a bad idea. Or whatever he had taken before coming over to his house hitting. It was one of the two.

"C'mon, tell me your problems. We'll do like, a therapy session."

He let out a snort.

"You're the furthest person from a therapist I've ever known."

"Hey, I've been to a shrink before. I know the fancy terms."

Adam rolled his eyes, his free hand tapping on the back of his chair. Jonah's eyes didn't look away from him, so he let out a defeated sigh.

"How high are you right now?"

Jonah made a 'so and so' motion, shifting to sit on the bed more comfortably. Adam figured that if he was lucky, the other would simply not remember anything he said.

"Okay, sure, fuck it. Weed therapy session."

"Weed therapy session!" Jonah exclaimed, putting his hands up in excitement. He held back the urge to scoff at his behaviour.

"Be quieter, dipshit, the other people in the house will hear you."

"Sorry, sorry."

Jonah faked a professional look, putting his hands together. Adam almost gagged at the reminder the other originally had plans to become a lawyer before his parents' death.

"I've been- having nightmares. Or rather one."

"Same one repeatedly?"

Adam ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah. Same one repeatedly."

Then, quieter.

"I think it's from when I lost my parents."

Jonah's overexaggerated look softened up, and Adam hated how he could see a spark of pity in his eyes.

He didn't need anyone's fucking pity.

"Sounds bad already. No wonder. What happens? Do you see them..." Jonah lingered on his words, unsure what to say that wouldn't hurt.

"No. I don't see either of them." He admitted. "But I know- I know they're supposed to be there. And they're not."

He took Jonah's nod as a sign to continue.

"I remember images here and there from that nightmare every time. I'm alone. It's way too fucking dark. There's like, an empty cradle. I think it's mine."

"Maybe you had just come out of it?"

"I was four when they disappeared." He scoffed. "What kind of four year old still uses a cradle?"

"Fuck man, I don't know. Maybe your brain is trying to fill gaps."

"Same way every time?"

"I'm not a dream expert." Jonah shrugged helplessly.

"Whatever." Adam crossed his arms, part of him already regretting talking.

But a part of him felt better.

Did he want to keep talking about this?

"The therapist I had went to said it was probably a trauma thing. Trying to cope with losing them or whatever. But she was also saying some guardian angel shit about it, so I don't exactly trust her."

Jonah let out a confused snort.

"How does that tie into this?"

Adam took a moment to run his thumb over the lines on the arm of his chair. Unfortunately for him, Jonah waited patiently. Or maybe he was just zoning out.

"There's, uh. Another part of it I remember. But it makes no fucking sense."

"When do dreams ever make sense, man?"

Adam shrugged, hating the idea that the other had a point.

"It's uh. There's someone else in the house. Or multiple people? It doesn't feel like we're alone."

"Shit, like a home intruder?"

Adam took a sharp breath.

"No. Well- if there is one, it's not him. He's in uniform, I think. I can't explain what he looks like, it's like it slips out of my mind, but..."

He lingered on his words.

"I know it's not my dad. He doesn't look anything like him, I've seen pictures. But I also don't know who the fuck it is."

"You said uniform." Jonah added. "We're talking like a cop, or something?"

"Fuck, I don't know. Maybe."

They shared a moment of silence, Adam leaning back on his seat with his eyes closed.

"He's scared."

"Sorry?" Jonah was clearly caught off guard.

"The man. He seems scared every time."

"Scared of what?"

His throat felt dry.

"Of me."

Jonah grimaced. Adam found himself suddenly focused on rubbing his thumb against the lines of his chair once more, unwilling to continue.

Why had that hurt so much to say?

"Well, it is a nightmare."

He simply nodded.

"You uh. Ever looked into it? The whole incident."

"Obviously." He scoffed. "But Mandela's police department has been out of commission since before I turned like, ten. Couldn't really find much."

"That's fucked up."

Adam couldn't do anything but find himself agreeing.

"Yeah. It fucking is."

[watermeloncholycucumbersome]

Day 06 of Writing Something Everyday

(365 Day Challenge)

Pending dread....

Is it all in my head?

I feel it coming; this feeling familiar,

Happiness' ugly sister.

Crippling fear that comes from nowhere,

Anticipation of something too big to bear.

Did I do something wrong?

I overthink all day long.

Did I overshare? Did I not say enough?

My brain's a VCR that plays the tape and rewatches it over and over.

Exhaust myself until I'm about to drop,

Then can't sleep at night because my brain won't stop.

Overexaggerating, blowing things out of proportion,

Twisting and turning until thoughts are contorted.

Just want it to stop, God please make it stop,

I feel like I'm drowning, please pull me to the top.

~Jenni