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poppadom0912 · 7 months ago

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Dr Dean Reybold

Warnings: Cancer, chemotherapy, hospitals, evil doctors

Summary: Unfortunately for you, some cancers are genetic. Also unfortunately for you, some doctors don't have good intentions.

A/N: Based on Season 1, episode 5 of Chicago Med (Malignant) and Season 3, episode 10 of Chicago pd (Now I'm God).

So I had this idea towards the beginning of when I first started watching pd and I am not kidding when I say this has been sitting in my drafts for over two years now. I thought I'd finally get to finishing it after a really good day today since the fic I posted like 2 days ago wasn't that nice. Hope you enjoy!!

When your mother died from cancer, it took a toll on your entire family. Everyone was struggling to grieve and the emptiness she left behind was unsettling. Even now, the empty chair at the dining table looked so wrong.

So when you were diagnosed with ovarian cancer seven months ago, you felt extreme deja vu. Life was repeating itself again and nothing good was going to come out of it.

While at work, your patient got a little violent and when you woke up, your dad and Erin were at your bedside. They were in the middle of a case when Hank was suddenly called, being told by Sharon that you were hurt.

Luckily, several tests and scans later, you were perfectly fine, coming out with nothing but a concussion.

Alas, your body seemed to hate you because fast forward two months later and you found yourself in a private doctors office, the man confirming you had ovarian cancer.

Looking your dad in the eyes that night, mustering up everything in you to tell him you had the exact same thing that killed your mother; you could see the world fall apart in his eyes all over again.

From that day on, you did your chemotherapy while going to work. Being a psychiatrist, it didn't entail much physical work and your hours were decreased due to manage your treatment.

But the cancer got worse, that's what your doctor said at least. You probably would've gotten your treatment done at Med since they were renowned for their chemo regimens and it would've been more convenient.

But your doctor was the man that treated your mother. Seven months into your treatment and you found it a little difficult to leave.

*****

So, it was just another day at work.

You near threatened Doctor Charles to allow you to take his place as the psychiatrist for the ED and after lots and lots of convincing, he caved but with the conditions: you took regular breaks, everyone kept an eye on you, don't take such a big load, update him often and not to turn Sharon away when she to check on you.

There was a sudden influx of patients due to a fire and you were finally able to help after Maggie stopped being so annoying very, constantly hovering over you when she wasn't with a patient.

This wasn't anything abnormal - the injured people - but what was weird was the lingering members of firehouse 51 and the arrival of Jay.

In one of the spinning chairs, you pushed yourself over to the group of people huddled at the front desk, curious to what was up and needing to do something after sitting duck for half an hour now.

"Oooh, what's this?" You looked at the zip lock bag in wonder, only opening it when Jay gave you the okay, nodding his head with a smile at your presentable face.

The last time he saw you, you were a struggling mess at your dad's having come back from getting treatment.

After explaining briefly, you gladly opened the bag and scanned the items. While flicking through receipts, you could hear Erin stop in front of you, letting the three of you know it was looking like a suicide. Giving you and Erin some time, Jay and Kelly gave their goodbyes and went back to their respective jobs.

"You look much better." Erin looked you up and down, noticing that your skin was still quite pale, the bags under your eyes were still there even with the makeup and you were wearing your usual bandana, a staple since the hair loss started kicking in.

"Well thank you very much." You said truthfully despite some part of you believing that she was lying and you looked worse than you did the last time she visited you. "How are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Erin asked, smiling as she watched you skim over the few items she had no interest in. "I'm fine, everyone's fine. This seems pretty simple which is good, less work for us."

You hummed nonchalantly, her words going through one ear and out the other. "Do you mind if I give these to Dr Charles? I want to get his opinion real quick."

"Sure." Your sister in everything but blood shrugged her shoulders, seeing no harm in getting another opinion. "Just don't lose anything, yeah?"

"Ha ha, very funny." You said smiled sarcastically, rolling your eyes at her undertone as you rolled your chair away to find the head of psychiatry.

*****

It had been a few hours later. The fire incident from earlier was no longer at the forefront of your mind as you busied yourself with your actual patients. Doctor Charles was back in the ED and you had several meetings scheduled.

Signing off a treatment sheet for some new medications, the silence of the psychiatric ward was interrupted by heavy feet rushing towards you.

Looking up, your were caught off guard. You were not expecting to see your dad and Erin again till later in the evening for dinner.

And by the looks on their faces, this wasn't going to be a happy little visit.

In fact, your dad looked conflicted. A myriad of emotions painting his face, so many that you started to get scared. You hadn't seen him look like this since-

"Dr Dean Reybold. He's your doctor right?" Your dad asked, skipping past any pleasantries.

You felt time slowing, almost struggling to hear what he was asking.

You could only nod.

You felt like a child again being scolded watching how he reacted. It was like you had hurt him. Watching him try to compose himself made you want to be sick.

When your dad looked back at you, his eyes bright in unshed tears, you felt your heart stop.

*****

It was a lie.

All of it, everything. It had all been a lie.

It felt like going through the five stages of grief, grappling with the news and the reality of this situation.

You along with way too many women had been lied to and deceived. In your most vulnerable positions, you had all been manipulated just for his selfish, disgusting needs.

At your most emotional, he lied. He used your personal connections, your past with your mother. What a sick sick bastard.

Sitting on a bed at Med, Natalie showing you your test results, you didn't even have it in you anymore to cry. You were just so tired.

Going back home to your dad, you felt like a little girl again. You felt like that five-year-old who would lie about her nightmares just so she could sneak into her parents bed and sleep with them.

His arms opened up instantly and you didn't need anymore prompting. Dragging your feet towards the couch, you sat and folded yourself up, tucking your feet under yourself as you tried to hide and make yourself invisible in your fathers embrace.

Closing your eyes, you told him the news, the inevitable that you both had been dreading. Deep down, some sick part of you wished to have cancer just so that you could feel better, just to not feel like a victim who was a ploy for some psychopath.

His arm squeezed you as your voice became breathy, words shaking as all the emotions all came crashing down once again.

You had been crying way too much recently.

The plans for the future were still a little blurry and you weren't too sure how you were going to cope. Your body needed to heal and go back to being its usual healthy, as if you and so many other women hadn't had chemo and unnecessary radiation pumped into your body for no reason at all.

You had met all the women at the court hearing, seeing just how many women and families he had hurt just like yours.

And for once, being a psychiatrist didn't feel like the most important thing.

You were struggling to grapple with your emotions but the easiest part of it was being a helping hand to them. Perhaps it made you feel better to help the other women, trying to help them mentally when you can't physically.

And your dad and Erin were your biggest supporters like always.

This had brought back so many memories from the past that it was almost too painful to recollect, especially considering you were now at the forefront of the exact same event.

You weren't too sure what the healing and recovery process was going to look like - that's what scared you the most.

But the most reassuring part was that the sick 'doctor' wasn't going to do anymore harm and you had the best family supporting you every single step of the way.

#chicago med #one chicago fic #one chicago imagine #one chicago x reader #chicago pd #chicago pd x reader #chicago med x reader #hank voight #daughter reader #hank voight daughter #erin lindsay

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aroaceleovaldez · 7 months ago

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hello! so I'm doing a revamp of a character and I'm switching over their god parent to Apollo. One of the prominent traits of said character is that they are cursed - do you have any thoughts on how I could use maybe the plague aspects of Apollo or if there are any nasty curses I could pull from mythology?

i actually have a perfect hc for this! One of my ongoing hcs for CHB (brainstormed with the help of my group chat) is that each of the main 12 cabins has a "bad omen" power that crops up once in a blue moon and is considered a curse or bad luck - basically every other cabin's equivalent of the Hephaestus cabin fire powers. Big 3 kids are just kind of omens in themselves and for Hermes cabin i usually go it's just the chthonic kids and they're less "bad" omens and more just omens in general + being more common than the "cursed" powers other cabins have. For the other cabins, I usually have their "bad omen" powers be: Demeter = Geokinesis, Ares = iron skin, Athena = vision/inflicting blindness (literal or metaphorical), Apollo = plague, Hephaestus = pyrokinesis (canon), Aphrodite = "Whispers" (similar to charmspeak but functioning slightly different and more malignant), Dionysus = insanity.

I imagine all of these powers would be extremely rare (same level as what's described with Hephaestus fire powers - like once every hundred years or so) (except for maybe chthonic Hermes kids or Big 3 kids - again they're kind of a technical inclusion to the Bad Omen Powers Club). They're generally the black sheep of their respective cabins. In my personal hcs I like to have Will be a plague child of Apollo (he considers his "bad luck" effect to be why most of his cabin died soon after he arrived at CHB and blames himself for it) and also have healer children of Apollo be often born at the same time as plague children of Apollo to keep them in check (Will is both!) - though healer children are less rare and can crop up all on their own, no associated omens required.

With Apollo and plague powers, you could also tie in his associations with insects (specifically midges and locusts, though he also has some association with bees if you wanna throw that in there too) and rodents (rats/mice). He's also the god of mold and mildew! Lots of fun room to play around with plague-leaning powers for Apollo kids. In canon, Apollo kids with prophecy powers are also implied to be somewhat cursed (such as Halcyon Green) so you could potentially play with that as well. Particularly that + Apollo's association with snakes as one of his animals, since snakes in greek mythos are heavily associated with prophecy.

One "curse" I'm always amused by associating with Apollo kids and their potential snake and prophecy stuff is Tiresias, who was "cursed" (in some versions by Apollo) for killing a snake or two to be turned into a woman (or man, or mouse, again depending on version - it varies which they started as) (curse in quotations cause if it's the sex-change options Tiresias sure did not care one single bit so "curse" not effective i guess), sometimes repeatedly. Depending on version Tiresias is either born blind or gets blinded by either witnessing a virgin goddess bathing (yknow, the standard) or for siding with Zeus in an argument against Hera. Depending on version as compensation for being blinded in either situation they are gifted prophetic abilities (sometimes by snakes - cause "snakes licked their ears and gave them the gift of prophecy" is a surprisingly specific recurring thing in Greek mythos) or they're just born with it. In some versions of Tiresias' myths they're also killed by Apollo. So just in general with all the snake and prophecy and mouse and Apollo associations there, plus the genderfuckery, I just think that's ripe for an Apollo kid getting up to shenanigans.

Another famous Apollo-associated curses include of course Midas' ass ears or. gestures to Trojan war. inflicting plague. Or just straight up killing a designated hubristic individual's children (usually Apollo killing the sons while Artemis kills the daughters).

Hope this gives you some ideas!

#pjo #riordanverse #chb #camp half-blood #headcanon #headcanons #twinklefwinkle #ask #godly parents #< dusting off that tag again finally #long post //#< long-ish #also i forgive if this is a little nonsensical i am ill (ironically) so i cant proofread this as much

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atreyucannamos · 3 months ago

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Chapter I: Tears from a Stone

Soundtrack: Andrew Prahlow - The River

What was the point?

What was the fucking point?

Sobbing is never graceful or dignified, but there are levels to everything and Atreyu-Cannamos was, at this very moment, sobbing harder than they had ever sobbed in their life. Other students, having each caught different snatches of the argument, were giving the entire courtyard around the fountain a wide berth.

This was the one thing Atreyu had promised they would never do - cry in public. No matter how much their family and their House humiliated them, no matter what indignities were heaped upon them, this was the promise they had made with themself: bear it. Bite their tongue, hide their tears, choke down the anger. Shame Stone by being Stone - face of Stone, heart of Stone, soul of Stone. In the face of their contempt, be stoic.

But what had it all been for?

The day had started badly. Their first-class cabin on the shuttle had mysteriously "become unavailable" at the last minute, so they'd been reseated in economy, squashed between two nattering armsmen in a seat with no legroom. Their travelsickness medication had likewise been misplaced, so it took every ounce of self-control they had to keep the wretched freeze-dried crap that passed for a meal down. All this they'd had to endure for twelve hours of orbital tuning, and then the juddering hell of deorbit itself. Through it all, Atreyu bit their tongue.

Finally, when they got to the Throne Karrakis spaceport, for the first time in the trip somebody recognised that Atreyu was, in fact, actual nobility, and they were directed into the correct immigration queue. This tiny victory lasted all of five minutes before a fully-armed squad of BUC accompanying a Baronic Intelligence agent arrived to haul out of the line in handcuffs. Through it all, Atreyu hid their tears.

So, after a further six hours being interrogated, having their papers checked, rechecked and then rechecked again in a seemingly endless cycle, the agent finally admitted that yes, the youth sitting in front of her was indeed Lord Atreyu-Cannamos of the House of Stone, and they were indeed enrolled at the Karrakin Cavalry College. This was, of course, an entirely random check. Their mech, however, had already been impounded and they would need to submit paperwork to reclaim it. Through it all, Atreyu choked down the anger.

Nevermind that other nobles' cabins did not just "become unavailable." Nevermind that other nobles' possessions were not waylaid. Nevermind that other nobles were never subjected to "random enhanced screening." To claim that they were being singled out in this fashion would be conspiratorial. Through it all, Atreyu bore it all.

They were late - dreadfully late. The commencement speeches would already be beginning. Of course, the groundcar that house Cannamos had arranged had departed hours ago, and another one couldn't be dispatched at short notice. Of course, it was raining, so an aerocopter was out of the question. "Just take a taxi," their uncle had instructed, his voice positively dripping with malign glee, "like a commoner. After all, shouldn't we all be equal with them?"

So upon a painfully delayed arrival at the College, Atreyu had pulled the family credit stick out of their wallet, only to have the taxi driver glare at them as it was declined. Losing just the slightest bit of their cool, Atreyu had taken it back and snapped it in half in their fingers, then pulled their personal credit stick out instead. They half expected that to be declined as well, but eventually the transaction went through - that was 134 solaris that, like as not, they would never get back.

There had been the smallest comfort: they weren't the only one to turn up unfashionably late. There was a motley assortment of latecomers outside the College: two (reasonably) regular humans, and two quite exotic augments. There was a dark-skinned man in House of Sand colours, who seemed to be having an argument with his subaltern. There was a dark-haired woman with a severe expression and prominent purple eyes, the Inverted Tower of the House of Smoke sitting proudly on her lapel. The two augments were a white-furred wolf, who Atreyu noted with great displeasure bore the insignia of the House of Stone. Finally, the other augment, a many-tailed tomato-red fox, bore no house insignia whatsoever.

The Archchancellor had demanded excuses for their tardiness, and while Atreyu desperately wanted to ask why the College had not protected them from the myriad humiliations they'd had to suffer on the way here, they held their tongue and confined themselves to saying "I'm sure some documents got misplaced." There was no point in making even more enemies.

The evening had a couple of bright spots after that. They had met with Lord Castor-Eyros, head of the Noble Arts Syllabus, and Atreyu got the impression that they'd genuinely impressed the man by showing familiarity with his books. This led to a long and productive conversation in which Atreyu got the sense that behind the jovial, unconcerned facade lay a craving for power and ambitions that reached far beyond a prestigious teaching post.

The odd red-furred fox girl - Persephone - turned out to be an ignoble, and was possibly the sweetest person Atreyu had ever met. She'd assembled her own tarot deck and decided to give a reading - the outcome was "a new chapter in life, where your goals shall be achieved through perseverance and the help of many friends." Atreyu didn't have the heart to tell her that they had no goals, and no friends, so they simply thanked her for the reading in the spirit that it was given, and warned her that this place was a nest of vipers.

They had been putting it off long enough. Praya was here, somewhere. Cousin Praya, childhood friend, who had so often played heroic "Lady Ironhand" to Atreyu's cunning "El-Ahrairah." It had been ten years - ten long years where the most they'd seen of each other was glances from across a banquet hall. After Atreyu's political sympathies became more obvious, Uncle Hyderad, Stonelord Hyderad, had decided that no heir and daughter of his would cavort with such a wastrel embarrassment to the family.

It had taken so long to get here, but they'd been delaying it as long as they could, finding any excuse not to go into the gardens where they'd been told all the other students were now congregating. What would it be like? To see her again after all these years? Finally meeting her again, free of the grasp of Hyderad?

Hell.

When he stepped out, there was yelling, jeering, screaming. Atreyu rounded a corner to see some unfortunate student on the floor, and two sneering figures laying into her with brutal kicks. One was a sneering pale-faced weasel of a man, shorter than Atreyu by a head.

The other was Praya.

The other latecomers were there with them, but that didn't really register. They were upon Praya in a moment, pulling her off of the brutalized student, desperately asking what the hell she thought she was doing.

Her eyes had flashed with surprise. "El-Ahrairah?"

There was a moment, in that spark of recognition, where the horror lifted, where Atreyu dared to let themselves hope for a split second that things might be alright.

Drunken, her words slurring, she replied: "what, do you have a problem with this?"

Atreyu didn't really have a clear recollection of the next few minutes. They barely recalled screaming themselves hoarse, recounting the impossible humiliations they had endured throughout the day, their words barely coherent. There were other things happening around them: the injured victim being hauled to her feet by the others, some argument between Praya's companion and the stranger from the House of Sand - apparently, they knew each other, and the acquaintance was not positive. Atreyu didn't care.

All of this, they cried, all of this embarrassment and indignity and humiliation they had endured, endured happily, just for the hope of seeing Praya again. For this? For this?

There was a long silence after that, a heaving, echoing, violent silence. And then Praya spoke.

"I'm sorry. I must've mistaken you for someone I used to know."

Then, grabbing her companion by the arm, she turned and left.

#house of stone #lancer ktb #karrakin trade baronies #lancer rp #atreyu cannamos #shadow of the wolf #Theta's SotW Campaign #story chapter

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vamp0rivm · 1 year ago

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PICKING UP THE ———- PIECES -———

ch.3 - 18+

cw: smut below the cut, mdni, cunnilingus LOOOOOOL, fingering, tribbing… but, like, some dirty talk 😥 idk ppl… idk… still got like three chapters left 🐺 proofread but not very well cuz i’m gonna fall asleep

ch. 1

ch. 2

ch. 4

ch. 5

ch. 6

If you squint hard enough--

“Yep, it’s fixing up pretty nice, kid.”

-- you can just about make out the flecks of dust flickering in the influx of honeyed light through your windows.

“Not swollen anymore.”

And you can watch them flutter gently in mid-air, never quite meeting the ground.

You could watch them forever. Just sitting here, just like this, just like them, basking in the gentle warmth of the sunlight, the hazy sound of the nurse woman’s voice, suspended in the incessant grip of your pathetic melancholy.

“You should be fine to be back up on your feet now. Should try getting some fresh air soon.”

Her voice comes back into focus immediately.

There are stages to grief – so they say. But, to you, it feels more like a whirlpool of every emotion you’ve ever felt that you’ve been stuck in for what seems like forever, only growing in ferocity as time passes.

Been stuck in the same stage for a while. Been feeling like some external force has just been dragging your body to places day to day, not fully aware of what’s going on around you. And, as you said, soon as you can walk again, you’re out of here.

Are you even allowed to grieve a person you slaughtered?

“Yeah. Will do.”

That’s the signal. A week or so and you’ll be gone.

Do you have a plan? Do you need one? It’s not like you’re running away. You’re leaving – just, without telling anyone. You’ll just pack your shit and… go… where?

Roam?

It’s morning, the light that follows the storm-ridden, long, harsh hours of night, and the eery stillness of the snow blankets the earth now, though it was once pummelling towards the ground in malignant winds.

Ellie had woken up before you, and quickly ensured that wasn’t an issue by seemingly putting all her power into each step she took and object she lifted and aggressive sniffle or violent coughing.

What a pleasant way to wake up.

She quickly rushed off to the stables, thanking you for letting her stay the night, and once she was gone, you realised that there was an odd air of domesticity in your interactions now. You weren’t sure how to feel, so you sat in silence for a moment, until a knock interrupted your thoughts.

Without a lock to keep the pests out, the nurse woman quickly ended up inside your house, nagging you about your refusal to open the door as she looked at your ankle.

Everything happens for a reason, you suppose, since you came to the realisation that there was nothing binding you to this place any longer.

A few minutes pass, moments obscured by the depth at which you sank into your thoughts, and the nurse is helping you lull your trembling left leg into taking a step forward, when a harsh gust of icy wind envelops your skin. The door slams shut.

Ellie seems to be fond of making annoying entrances when it comes to you.

You inspect her movements curiously as she shakes the snow off her boots from over your shoulder, wondering why she’s back but not feeling even a sliver of disdain.

Eventually, she looks up to meet the pair of you’s eyes and clears her throat bringing her gloved hand to the nape of her neck to scratch.

“Hey,” she breathes out, to which you nod before carrying on with your miserable attempt at walking again, though you’re tentative to Ellie’s every movement from behind you.

The sound of that familiar creak tells you she’s sat down on your shitty mattress, and a small sniffle tells you… well, nothing.

You try to turn your focus back to the nurse woman whose eyes are trained on your leg, a smile gracing her lips when you make it back to the bed smoothly.

“There. You’re all set, kid, just keep it moving and you’ll be back to normal in no time. I’ll come check up on you in a day or two, alright? I’ll, uh… leave you two be, then.”

You hum half-heartedly, still slightly cotton-minded, watching her leave and the door close before you turn to look at Ellie looking back up at you.

“You’re back?”

With a mischievous smirk, she reveals a small jar from the side pocket of her threadbare backpack, stuffed with pure weed,

“Yeah. Thought you might want some of this.”

You take a seat beside Ellie, her eyes lingering on your every movement before you look up and meet her gaze.

“Where’d you even get that?”

“Hmm, I’ll show you next time we’re together on patrol. Here, take this.”

She hands you a blunt and you look over it cautiously, trying to mask your lack of experience and simultaneously ignore the blush of your cheeks induced by Ellie’s somehow sustained smirk.

She takes a lighter from her pocket and brings it to the tip as you hold it between your pursed lips, silently beckoning you to go ahead.

The warmth fills your chest; a pleasant wave of tingles overcomes you, like your insides turning to fuzz, and you let go, watching the smoke dance upwards and dissipate in the air separating you from Ellie.

You pass it to her, taking note of the way her lips wrap around the same place yours did moments before while your high already settles in.

Lightweight.

Maybe that’s why her eyes seem to pierce with excruciating intensity now. You look down instead and toy with the frayed end of your tattered jeans.

“You know what I realised?” she murmurs, taking another puff before continuing,

“You’ve been here for, what, half a year now?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s… actually kind of a long time. But you still act the same as you did when you first arrived.”

“Do I?”

Ellie breathes out and passes you the blunt, nodding. Your eyes don’t leave her lips.

“Yeah. Still… you know.”

“Yeah, well… I just don’t really get along with those people.”

“Those people?”

You look up and Ellie’s got a shit-eating grin plastered across her face as you jump to your own defence.

“Woooooooooo-”

“Wha- I- I didn’t mean it like that!”

“-ooooooooooo-”

Her voice is muffled by the contact of her face with the pillow you bombard her with.

“Ow! Fucking… Asshole.”

You chuckle, taking a long drag before muttering, your voice barely above a rasp,

“Bet you don’t like that, huh?”

The mattress shifts beside you as Ellie moves closer. You don’t look, but you can hear the playfulness in her words.

“Yeah, actually, I don’t.”

Silence overwhelms the room, the slow infiltration of hot smoke which now lays thick in the air rendering you too fuzzy to speak. Your fingers brush Ellie’s calloused ones as you pass her the blunt, dragging your dilated eyes to look into hers, still appearing somewhat sober.

“You dont mean that about me though, right?”

“Hm?”

“You know… The thing you said before. That you just don’t really get along with most of the people here. Cuz we get along pretty fucking well.”

Before you can hide it, you face breaks out into a grin,

“Why, would it really upset you if I meant you too?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

There’s a gentle buzzing in your chest that develops into wholehearted laughter before you realise it, contagious to Ellie, whose own lips give up trying to repress the smile playing on them now.

“I just mean… I know there’s not many people… as awesome and cool as me here, one could say, but-” she continues before you cut her off,

“-Butt-”

“-But, I don’t know, we’re kind of friends, right?”

“… One could say.”

“Right.”

Now, your heart’s racing and there’s a growing ache nestled between your legs, because the sight of Ellie’s own legs spread as she falls back to lean against the wall is not for the weak.

And you… You are weak.

“Unless you keep looking at me like that.” Her words rip through the warmth of the silence so you realise you had gone silent as you shamelessly stared.

“What?”

“You’re staring. Think you got a little something there too,” she leans in to wipe the imaginary drool at the corner of your lip but you sluggishly swat her hand away.

“Fuck off, I do not. And I am not.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Suddenly, the way her eyelids lay heavy over her forest green eyes, scleras tinged pink, becomes almost hypnotic, addictive.

“Yeah.”

So much so that you almost choke on your words.

“I think you are.”

Like you’re going to suffocate, unable to inhale steadily as she leans closer for the billionth time, clearly searching for the same relief you are, and her breath gently fans your lips.

“Think you’ve been staring for a while…

Think you want something real bad, huh?”

That pounding heartbeat, the shaking of your hands, this feeling is akin to fear. It’s almost terrifying how bad you want it, so you turn away and bring the blunt to your mouth again, forcing her to watch you breathe the hot air into her anticipating, flushed face. She closes her eyes, and then opens them, to see you looking right back with parted lips.

Finally, she places a gentle touch to your cheek, gracefully wrapping her other hand’s fingers around the weed in yours and flicking it into the nonexistent world surrounding you carelessly, closing the distance between the two of you once and for all.

There is a gentle sickness in the wetness with which your tongues dance against each other, and it is exhilarating in a way that makes you forget everything; in a way that makes the only thing echoing in your mind the intoxicating sound of lips smacking and Ellie’s deep groans into you, warm saliva coating the skin around your mouth.

For once, there is no reluctance in the intimacy you provide, and it has proven to be the most effective antidote to your problems yet.

Amid the rapacity, Ellie’s lips wonder further, engulfing the skin beyond, that which is your jaw, up to your flushed earlobes, and it’s so near, so tender, that it overwhelms your brain, heightening your high to unchartered altitudes. You can hear her every movement and every moan - feel it stronger than anything you’ve ever felt before, as her hands roam across the expanse of your body and settle on your tits before gently circling your nipples so that your hips buck into her shamelessly.

Ellie takes note of your sensitivity, half-lidded eyes looking into yours drunkenly as she makes her way to your chest, gliding her tongue around your raised nipple and gently pulling on the other. Your body is like a furnace, aching for her with ferocity. She knows; she burns just as bright.

Ellie’s hungry, desperate to taste you, to indulge in every drop of your flavour and savour it. So she’s sucking on your tit with such fervour, leaving a trail of spit as she wraps her lips around the other, that you find yourself pushed back against the pillows, yearning to just rip the fabric of the shirt that still rests at your collarbone right off of you.

Instead you lay still, letting the overcoming take you, and watch her with fascination, raking shaky fingers into her bound, auburn locks.

She moans into your skin at the touch and you can feel it in your pussy, the way it drips for her. Lucky for it, she makes her way down, one hand still groping desirously at your tit, the other ghosting over the waistband of your pants subconsciously. God, you need it, a thousand times over and then a million over again.

Ellie’s at your hipbone, infuriatingly close to where you need her, and you’re trembling with anticipation, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Fuck… take ‘em off…”

She smirks up at you dazedly, and you resist the urge to shove her head back into you,

“You want me?”

“Yes, fuck… Ellie, please.”

She hooks her fingers into your belt loops and pulls them down without further question, dragging your underwear down too, almost fast enough to not notice the wet spot in them.

Almost.

Her relishing the sight of the fat jiggling as her hand slaps your tit and you jerking forward juxtaposes the lazy kiss she presses to your swollen clit, hands moving to your thighs as she pulls you closer.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

Gently sucking the bud into her plump lips pushes a breathy moan out of you in grateful relief and, as you grind against her tongue, she runs the tip of it teasingly up your weeping slit so that you’re reduced to a picturesque masterpiece of nothingness above her, with your head thrown back and your mouth hanging open, sweet whimpers trailing out, and your glistening chest displayed beautifully.

And the way you rut your cunt up against her, aching to feel her tongue deeper, aching to have her inside, makes her thrust against the pillow like a dog in heat for some semblance of relief, friction. You want to be the one to give it to her. Each husky groan pushes you further, the vibrations against your cunt sending you to heaven and back.

Ellie’s mouth is the fucking greatest, the swirl and suck a godsend to your clouded mind, with its focus streamlined to your pussy, so you moan deafeningly when two rough fingers slip into you and pump in and out of your viscous walls rapidly.

The sound of her slurping fills the room, and it is filthy, pornographic, but you’re moaning and twitching against her regardless, your pussy clenching tight for her, squeezing and pulling in her digits ravenously.

Soon, embarrassingly soon, your hips jerk, overwhelmed with delicious, warm ripples of pleasure throughout your body, and your eyes roll back as you tense and cum in her mouth for what seems like forever, but she holds you down, her lips and fingers never letting up.

Your sweaty figure is hunching over, stomach tensed and caving in, resisting the stimulation to your sensitive clit, with the hand laced through her hair now pushing her away despite the fact that you love it. Her eyes are closed and she’s wholly immersed in your essence and your whimpers, lapping at the slick pouring out of your pussy greedily with a gentle shake of her head between your quivering thighs.

A moan of your name and she’s up, humming in devious satisfaction, and giving your fucked out face a pussydrunk grin, your milky cum painting the lower half of her face so it glistens stunningly.

She shoves her fingers into your open mouth, muttering a quiet, “Fuck,” through laboured breaths as you suck on them, tasting yourself. Before she can go back in, pulling them away, you reach out to her desperately and smash her lips against yours again, pussy throbbing simply because she exists, as she lets out a small noise in shock but quickly moves in tune with you.

Between breaths, you help her take her clothes off, hugging her to your exposed chest, your heart pounding readily. There’s nothing you want more than to feel every inch of her on you completely, and the feeling of her hugging you back with just as much hunger makes you hot.

Slowly, you watch the string of slick connecting her pussy to her underwear dwindle as you pull them further down her legs, listening to the sound of her panting loud into your ear, and feeling her hair gently grazing your flushed cheeks.

Ellie pushes your left leg up and slots her cunt against yours so you can feel her hot skin moulding with yours, throwing her head back at the obscenity of the squelching noise it creates.

“Fuck, baby, it’s so wet, you’re so wet, all mine,”

“Ellie, oh my god.”

Slow movements turn into feverish humping, the sound of your wet cunts slapping each other reverberating and she leans over and places her forehead, wisps of hair stuck to it via droplets of sex sweat, against yours, breath fanning your lips. You strain to push yourself up for a second and peck her lips which she leans into quickly, like she’s been waiting for it.

You can feel your climax building up, intensified by the sight and all consuming sensation of her ramming into you, and the quiet whispers of,

“Fuck, love your pussy so much, gonna fuck you so good, mmmh, ‘s all mine, gonna fuck you senseless”

She keeps going, and you can feel everything so much clearer than you ever have before, each squelch and pull, panting into each other like you’re tempting each other to kiss each other again and she gives in, with the grip she has on your thigh concentrating.

It’s so graphic, so dirty and desperate, and you can’t help but give into the the feeling of the coil tightening in your stomach before snapping completely, your cum splattering over Ellie’s viscid thighs because she’s close and avid, eager to cum on you.

She can feel it building up as she grinds against you tenaciously, watching you writhe beneath her. Ellie moans gutturally , fingertips digging into your hips and the plush fat of your ass to hold you in place as she gets herself off,

“Fuckin’ take it, baby, know you can, gonna c-cum-”

“Yes, Ellie, oh my fucking-”

“-Fuck, gonna cum all over you, an’ you’re gonna fucking take it, yeah, mm-”

One last time and her hips are stuttering against yours before she collapses on you, chests rising and falling with heavy breaths into each other harmoniously.

The contact of your clammy skin against hers is comforting, and you lay there until the heat of sex settles and the potent scent of weed dissipates, and is replaced by the cold bite of the winter air that weasels its way into your room once more.

Until it starts to feel cold.

And then the fog clears and your mind spirals down from the passing high, opening the guilt’s floodgates. There is nothing you can do to calm the storm gathering in the confines of your rib cage; you clutch the sheets for stability.

Not even the gentle graze of her fingers up and down your arm can relax you, or the warmth of her sigh into the crook of your neck. Though you cannot understand it, there is panic and it is omnipotent.

Then Ellie’s movements halt abruptly and she jerks up from the bed,

“Fuck, oh my god, I completely forgot,” she jumps up, and you watch her get dressed in a flurry of fabrics, just as loud as the last time she got ready here.

You can’t focus; your chest feels tight and you’ve done something very, very bad but you don’t quite know what. Somehow, you manage to make out from what she tells you before rushing off and abandoning you in your resounding culpability, that there is a small get together at The Tipsy Bison tonight that she promised to help out with and that you are invited.

Lucky you!

She makes her way back to you on her way out, and you can tell she’s unsure how to approach you when you recall it, though in the moment your mind is swarming with wasps and you cannot form a coherent thought.

She pulls your shirt down over your tits and places a somewhat insecure kiss to your cheek, mumbling, “See you,” with a small smile, and then she’s on her way.

…

You sit up and stare at the floor in the silence, trying to swallow; the guilt, and the confusion. It’s painful to not understand, rummaging through the contents of your brain to make sense of that sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, but for some reason you can’t find anything logical and, yet, you stop thinking you fucked up.

It hits you, and you throw your clenched fists over your eyes, rubbing furiously and desperately, the thought of you getting fucked like a dumbass while Soren lies dead miles away up north. You have no right.

It’s raw and visceral: your gasping for air and dry sobs, no tears coming up because you’ve been all cried out for a while. You just feel choked up, empty, and nauseous.

Still hyperventilating, you practically hurl yourself across the room to your bag, pathetically grabbing shit with shaky fingertips and shoving it in.

It’s time to go. Away from the people. Away from the noise. Away from the tumult. Away from any reminder of the joy you do not deserve.

an - this one’s long as fuck… i feel like i decay when i write smut, IVE BEEN AVOIDING STUDYING, DOING WORK, AND GETTING READY FOR A WEDDING BY WRITING THIS, creds to cafekitsune for dividers

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vivianbernadetteaurora · 1 year ago

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CAPRICORN VENUS STYLE 🥀🎩🦋🪐

The Capricorn Venus style ,can really go one of two ways, and the young years and you’ve got to remember Capricorn is young from a very young age I mean sorry I mean old so the older years could be there mid 20s for them. They’re old years might be their mid 30s, but depending on the Capricorn and their placements around that so you’re gonna have a Capricorn Venus, you can be a Capricorn and Aquarius and a Pisces, or you can be a Sagittarius a Scorpio, so like I said, blend all those signs together, and this is what you may come out with case example, Britney Spears, Britney Spears was done up to the nines when she was younger, and she always put her way into the photo shoot or style, even in her first video and first magazine cover baby one more time she had the idea of wearing the school skirt, the unbutton shirt and having the Teletubby, yes I know yes I know creative genius, but you’re also giving that Jupiter Arian vibe to it because she’s a Sagittarius she’s all about pushing boundaries and being a rebel and being out there the Capricorn Venus is saying no rain in a bit, so when you see Brittany on her days out and she used to have her extension scraggly a bit or should be eating junk food and have a skin breakouts, people need to remember that Saturn is very similar planet to Pluto in the fact that you’re gonna learn very hard lessons with that planet and it has that deep energy they may be two different types of learning energy like growing up and transformation with these two objective planets. They’re both planets malignant planets so we both see her style as a street style and her country style roots excuse the pan, but you’re also going to see her dolled up red carpet look which I’m sure should have input too, but when I take these and cheesy pictures I tried to do their street style because I know that’s more of the real them.

Then you have someone like ice spice, who I know as a Capricorn son I’m not sure if she’s a Capricorn Venus, but the style is still coming out. That’s why I say always check your landline annual rising sign with the Venus and she will this Betty Boop costume around Halloween her bottom, was literally hanging out you could see the crack everything, these of you that want to say Capricorn is all about class and elegance. I’m so afraid you’re not always correct there case. In point of my own experience my mother always dressed quite quickly. She still does a bit now but she’s in her 60s one night in the 90s maybe early 2000s but definitely between 99 or 2001 she went on a night out and my sisters were so embarrassed by what she was wearing, she has a lot of fifth house energy to say there’s a Leo thing of wanting to be noticed, and I loved her outfit being a Leo rising in the first house sun, and she had the sparkly shoes on that she sprayed. She was in like amateur dramatics, and she was going on a night out with my auntie and she was like all sparkly. I can’t remember exactly but she had like tights and everything was done up on the ninth, but they thought it was tacky and they made fun of her and I always stuck up for my mum is the youngest child of loved it. I love the weird things that she did but I’m telling you people and this is going in there because people need to hear this…. When somebody dresses out there and put an effort in their clothes and they may be bright, they may be sparkling. They may be weird they may be whatever they like that it’s like how you dress normally or how you dress traditionally how you dress structured how you dress in whatever way you dress if somebody dresses out there, do you not make fun of their clothes because that is how they’re expressing that so a lot of the time same as someone wears a lot of make up by guarantee you if you’re one of these people, you’ve had, it said to your whole life and you start of getting bored of it.

Then we have Meg Megan Thee Stallion. She loves the Mugla suit in her building Mugla suit on the carpet. This is a definition of somebody who really dressed as well where she wears a clothes and the clothes don’t wear her. She’s kind of like a young younger Rihanna to me and the way she does this, but she really does her own and whoever said Capricorn weren’t creative watching or reading my video about it, not my video, my blog because Saturn, although it may rule like finances and reputation, and things like that think Capricorn rules create it rules status it will symbol, so these people are going to have a really good idea of what looks good for the status and the symbol and they know that and they know how to market themselves and anyone who is a celebrity a lot of the time has these Capricorn, Saturn act aspects so although she can be like that and she can have her outbreaks and stuff she still knows how to do it like a beast and like a goat, she is the greatest of all time and she always will be so here. I’ve given you another example, Kasha casually went through a lot of trauma. Kia is a Pisces, so we see a bit more of like that sparkle vibe to it like I was saying with my mum, the glitter she calmed it down a bit she’s got older she’s not being marketed as much but she still gives off that vibe and she can turn her suit into a business suit, but they market people in a certain way. That’s why it’s hard to do these Venus videos, sometimes because you’re seeing how they stylist might dress them not how they dress them. I know they have some interest or some creative progress to it, but I rather see their street style and here you go sat in Capricorn and I really know you know how to switch it up when you need to and you can also pull off the bad go look and do that be you don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not creative because you definitely have that and you have the epic to be creative for a long period of time I’m really put your all into an outfit or whatever you do in your artistic ways because you have the determination of Saturn backing you in that Venus way, it could be your art of drawing it could be an art of photography. It could be an art of music, but you have that stamina and that’s great and I think it’s really beautiful all of these examples I’ve given for you.

#astro observations #astro community #astro placements #astrology #astrology observations #astro notes #astroblr #caprising #capricorn venus #capricorn vibes

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zzzallnite · 6 months ago

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The abused businessman (An AI generated story)

John McAllister, a man accustomed to the gleaming towers of Wall Street, found himself in a starkly different environment. The alley's mouth opened like a gaping wound in the side of the city, inviting him in with the stench of rotting garbage and the distant wail of a solitary siren. He checked his Rolex, its gleaming face a stark contrast to the grime that coated the bricks around him. It was 10:42 PM, later than he'd planned. His briefcase swung rhythmically by his side, a metronome to the beat of his hurried steps.

The shadows grew darker as John ventured deeper, the light from the street lamps swallowed by the narrowing corridor of buildings. He had a meeting with a source, a whistleblower who promised information that could topple the empire he'd worked so hard to build. His heart raced not from the exertion of his pace but from the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline that came with holding the future in his hands. He'd always loved the thrill, the rush of playing with fire. But this was different. This was personal.

Suddenly, the rhythm of his steps was shattered. Two figures emerged from the murky gloom, their faces obscured by hoods. They moved with a silent, predatory grace that sent a shiver down John's spine. He knew he was in trouble before the first blow landed. A flash of panic registered in his eyes, but he didn't have time to react. One of the attackers swung a metal pipe with brutal efficiency, catching him square on the back of his head. The world spun into a kaleidoscope of pain and confusion, the sounds of the city distorting into a cacophony of echoes.

John crumpled to the ground, his vision fading to black. He felt the cold, hard cobblestones beneath him, the sticky residue of something unknown seeping through his Armani suit. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of the sudden assault, but the fog of unconsciousness was quick to claim him. The last thing he heard was the ominous sound of his attackers rummaging through his briefcase, their footsteps fading into the distance like the final chords of a sinister symphony.

The first figure bent down, their eyes glinting in the dim light. They wore a black hoodie with the hood pulled tight, obscuring their features. Only the gleam of their teeth and the curve of a scar above their right eyebrow were visible. They flipped John onto his back with surprising ease, their movements swift and practiced. The second figure hovered over him, a silhouette in the shadows, a knife glinting in their hand. The blade was drawn with the deliberateness of a surgeon about to perform a grim operation.

John's breathing was shallow and ragged, his chest rising and falling erratically. The sound of the knife slicing through the fabric of his shirt was a soft, almost comforting sound amidst the chaos of the alley. The fabric fell away, exposing his skin to the chilly night air. The hooded figure with the scar paused for a moment, taking in the sight of their unconscious victim. They chuckled darkly, the sound echoing off the alley walls like a malignant laugh track.

The second attacker grew impatient, the tip of the knife trembling in their hand. "What are you waiting for?" they hissed, their voice a serrated whisper. The one with the scar leaned in closer, their eyes lingering on the patch of dark hair that grew thickly on John's chest. It was a stark contrast to the otherwise pristine white fabric of his shirt. They reached out a gloved hand, tracing the line of hair down to his sternum, their smile widening. "Just admiring the handiwork of nature," they quipped, their voice low and taunting.

With a sharp tug, the fabric gave way, revealing John's bare torso. The attacker with the scar began to slice through the rest of his suit methodically, as if dissecting a particularly difficult puzzle. The sound of the blade cutting through material filled the alley, punctuated by the occasional clink as the knife hit a button or piece of metal. They moved with an eerie calm, their movements precise and calculated. It was clear they'd done this before.

John's briefs followed the fate of his shirt, the fabric parting to expose his genitals to the cold night air. His penis lay flaccid against his thigh, a stark reminder of his vulnerability. The attacker holding the knife let out a low whistle, their eyes widening with a mix of amusement and hunger. "Looks like we've found the golden ticket," they murmured, their voice thick with malice. The second figure leaned closer, curiosity piqued.

The one with the scar reached out and wrapped their hand around John's member, giving it a firm but gentle tug. It began to swell in their grasp, responding to the intrusion despite his unconscious state. "He's a live one," they murmured, a wicked smile playing across their lips. They leaned down, their hot breath ghosting over his skin. The tip of their tongue flicked out, tracing the vein that pulsed along the underside of his shaft. John's body jerked in involuntary response, the sensation reaching him through the haze of oblivion.

The second attacker's eyes lit up with excitement, their own arousal growing as they watched their partner's actions. They set aside the knife, eager to join in. They straddled John's waist, their hips grinding against his, their own erection pressing against the fabric of their pants. Their hands found John's chest, pinching and tweaking his nipples until they stood erect, peaks of hardened flesh begging for more attention. The sounds of their leather gloves against his skin filled the alley, a perverse symphony of pain and pleasure.

With a swift yank, the scar-faced attacker tore away John's pants, revealing his bare legs and the black dress socks that clung to his feet. The sight was almost comical, a stark contrast to the severity of the situation. But the humor was lost on them. They were too busy enjoying their newfound toy. John's body lay bare, a canvas for their twisted desires.

Their partner couldn't resist any longer. They leaned down and inhaled deeply, their nose buried in the fabric of John's socks. "Ah," they breathed out, "his scent." It was a mix of sweat, leather, and something uniquely John, something that seemed to drive them wild. They worshiped the damp aromatic black dress socks as if they held the secrets of the universe. They kissed each toe through the fabric, their tongue tracing the contours of his foot with a tenderness that was utterly incongruous with their violent intent.

The second figure, the one who had been so eager to wield the knife, took this as their cue. They stood, unbuckled their belt with trembling hands, and dropped their own pants to the ground. The scar-faced attacker stepped back, giving them space as they positioned themselves between John's legs. They grabbed his ankles, spreading them apart, and John's body was laid bare to the cold alley air. The second attacker's cock, hard and hungry, sprang free, bobbing with anticipation. They stroked it once, twice, before lining it up with John's exposed hole.

John's unconscious body jolted as the second attacker thrust into him, the sound of their hips smacking against his flesh echoing through the alley. It was a violent penetration, a claiming of power, and it was clear that they didn't care if he was awake or not. They pumped into him with a ferocity that spoke of years of pent-up rage and desire, each thrust a silent declaration of dominance. The scar-faced attacker watched, their hand still wrapped around John's swollen cock, stroking it in time with their partner's rhythm.

John's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, the world around him a blur of shadows and pain. He tried to move, to fight, but the world was spinning too fast. His vision swam with stars, and his body felt like it was made of lead. The figure above him was a monstrous silhouette, their features indistinct but their intentions all too clear. He managed to get out a strangled gasp before the scar-faced attacker leaned down, their grip tightening around his neck.

With a swift, practiced motion, they slammed John's head back against the ground, sending a fresh wave of agony through his skull. The world went black once more, but not before he felt the cold, unyielding steel of the pipe connect with his temple. He was out before he even had time to feel the pain, his body going limp beneath the weight of his assailant. The alley was once again filled with the sound of their grunts and the slap of skin on skin, the rhythm of their depravity unimpeded by John's brief attempt at consciousness.

The scar-faced attacker leaned down, their breath hot and rank against John's face, their hand still wrapped around his now-throbbing cock. They whispered something, the words lost to the thundering in John's ears, and then their partner withdrew from his violated body. The scar-faced one took their place, their cock standing at attention as they positioned themselves over John's mouth. With a sadistic grin, they guided their erection between his parted lips, the tip brushing against his teeth. John's tongue lay still, a helpless participant in their twisted game.

The second attacker watched, their own hand working their cock with a frenzied pace, their eyes never leaving John's face. The scar-faced figure began to fuck John's mouth with the same violent passion they'd shown earlier. John's body was a mere receptacle for their pleasure, a thing to be used and discarded. The sounds of their hips smacking into his face were obscene, a macabre counterpoint to the distant wail of the siren.

As the scar-faced attacker approached climax, their strokes grew faster, their grip on John's throat tightening. The other attacker, unable to hold back any longer, reached their peak, their body convulsing as they spilled their seed across John's chest. The warmth of their cum was a stark contrast to the chill of the night, painting a grotesque picture of power and dominance on the canvas of John's once pristine suit. The scar-faced attacker followed suit, pulling out of John's mouth with a wet pop and adding their own contribution to the gruesome tapestry, their semen mingling with their partner's in a display of carnality that seemed almost ritualistic.

They both stepped back, panting heavily, their eyes glinting with a feral hunger that hadn't been sated. The second attacker bent down and claimed one of John's nipples with their mouth, sucking hard and eliciting a whimper that barely registered above the sounds of the alley. The scar-faced one mirrored the action, their teeth grazing John's other nipple before they too took it into their mouth, biting down just enough to cause a flicker of pain to dance across his features.

John's eyes rolled back in his head as consciousness slipped away once more, his body no longer responding to the assault. The scar-faced attacker took this as their cue, standing up and zipping their pants with a satisfied smirk. They grabbed John's briefcase, flipping it open and pawing through the contents with a sense of ownership. The papers inside were of no use to them, but the cold, hard cash was a welcome bonus to their evening's entertainment.

The two figures exchanged a nod, their breaths coming in harsh pants that seemed to meld with the alley's nocturnal symphony. They stepped away from John's limp form, leaving him sprawled on the ground like a discarded ragdoll. The one who had enjoyed his mouth stepped aside, wiping their cock clean with a grimy handkerchief they pulled from their pocket. The other attacker, their own arousal still evident, bent down to collect the knife they'd so eagerly wielded earlier.

They worked in an unspoken rhythm, one grabbing John under the armpits while the other took his ankles. His body, once the epitome of Wall Street power, now a ragdoll in their grimy grasp, was hauled through the alleyways. The scar-faced one took the lead, their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of life. The second attacker followed closely, their gaze lingering on the cobblestones stained with John's blood and their cum, a twisted trail of lust and violence.

They reached a narrow staircase leading down to a basement door, the scar-faced attacker's nostrils flaring as they sniffed the air. They paused, their eyes glinting with excitement as they took a deep breath, the aroma of John's socks wafting up to them. The scent was intoxicating, a potent blend of fear and arousal that made their cock throb anew. They couldn't resist the urge and leaned down to take another deep inhale, their tongue flicking out to taste the fabric. The second attacker rolled their eyes but said nothing, their own desires still smoldering despite their partner's odd obsession.

With a grunt, they hoisted John onto their shoulders and descended the stairs. The basement was a dank, windowless space, the only illumination coming from a single flickering bulb that cast eerie shadows on the damp walls. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something else, something more primal and unwelcoming. They kicked aside a pile of debris to reveal an old, stained mattress. It was the kind of place where secrets went to die, where the desperate and the damned sought refuge from the harsh world above.

They tossed him onto the mattress, his body bouncing once before coming to a rest, his butt pushed up in a degrading display of vulnerability. The springs groaned in protest, the mattress sagging under his weight. The scar-faced attacker's eyes lit up as they took in the sight of John's exposed, bruised body. They couldn't help but admire their handiwork. The second attacker was already rummaging through a duffle bag, their hand emerging with a roll of duct tape and a coil of rope. They approached John with a sense of purpose, a sadistic artist preparing their next masterpiece.

John stirred, the fog of unconsciousness slowly lifting. A moan of pain escaped his bruised lips as the reality of his situation began to set in. The scar-faced attacker's grin grew wider as they watched him struggle to piece together what had happened. They knew the moment he remembered; his eyes widened with terror, his body jerking as if trying to flee from the horror that held him in place. But it was too late for escape.

The second attacker, who had been rummaging through their duffle bag, looked up at the sound of John's moan. They met the scar-faced one's gaze, and the silent communication between them was clear. The time for playing was over; it was time to get down to business. With a swift, practiced movement, the scar-faced one wrapped their arm around John's neck, applying just enough pressure to cut off his air supply. John's eyes bulged as he clawed at the unyielding forearm, his legs kicking out wildly. But his efforts were futile; the strength was already draining from his limbs, his vision swimming with darkness once more.

The second attacker tore the remnants of John's dress shirt from his body, tossing them aside like discarded wrapping paper. The fabric fluttered to the ground, landing on the cold concrete with a sad, final whisper. John lay before them, his body a canvas of bruises and fear, the starkness of his black socks the only remaining hint of his former life. The attacker's cock swelled again at the sight, the power they held over this man, this symbol of everything they hated, so tantalizingly potent. They straddled him, their weight pressing him further into the grimy mattress, their own breath coming in short, eager pants.

With the grace of a dancer and the precision of a butcher, they lined up their cock with John's exposed asshole, the earlier assault having left it gaping and raw. The scar-faced attacker watched with gleeful fascination as their partner pushed into him once more, the sound of wet flesh parting sending shivers down their spine. John's body jerked with each thrust, a marionette to the whims of their depraved puppeteer. His eyes remained closed, but his face contorted in silent agony, the muscles in his neck standing out in stark relief.

John's eyes snapped open with a gasp, the pain of his violation bringing him back to a world of horror. The scar-faced attacker leaned down, their breath hot and sour as they whispered, "Welcome back." John's eyes rolled wildly, searching for escape, but all he saw was the cold, unyielding gaze of his tormentor. He tried to scream, but the hand around his neck tightened, cutting off his air. Panic set in, his chest heaving as he desperately sought oxygen. His body arched off the mattress, the springs groaning in protest.

But the moment he thought he would pass out from the lack of air, the pressure was released, and he gulped in a greedy breath, choking on the stale, dank air of the basement. The scar-faced attacker laughed, a low, guttural sound that seemed to resonate through his very soul. They leaned in closer, their tongue tracing the line of his jaw, and John could feel the wetness of their smile against his skin. "Don't worry, sweet thing," they murmured, "We're not done with you yet."

With a grunt of effort, the second attacker lifted John's legs over their shoulders, their cock sliding out of him with a wet sound that made John's stomach turn. The scar-faced one took their place, their hands moving to John's ankles, their grip unyielding. They bent his body in a way that made his spine scream in protest, propping him up on his knees. The second attacker positioned themselves underneath him, their cock, still slick with John's blood and their cum, pointing upwards like a weapon.

John's vision swam with stars, his strength draining from him like sand through an hourglass. The pain was a living, breathing entity, consuming him whole. His arms and legs felt like they were made of rubber, his muscles no longer responding to his desperate commands. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went slack, his weight held up only by the scar-faced attacker's iron grip. He was no longer a man; he was a ragdoll, a toy for their twisted games.

As the second attacker's cock slammed back into him, John's consciousness slipped away like a silk scarf through his fingertips. He was dimly aware of the pain, the humiliation, the violation, but it was as if he was watching it happen to someone else. His mind was a kaleidoscope of panic and despair, his thoughts a jumbled mess of disjointed images and sounds. The world grew dark, the edges of his vision closing in like a noose. The scar-faced attacker's grin grew wider, their eyes gleaming with satisfaction as they watched the life drain from John's eyes.

But the second attacker wasn't quite ready to let him go. They paused mid-thrust, their eyes narrowing with concern as they felt John's pulse flutter erratically beneath their fingertips. The scar-faced one leaned in, checking John's pupils. They were wide and unseeing, but there was still a flicker of life within. "He's alive," they murmured, their voice a dark purr of pleasure. The second attacker let out a sigh of relief, their own orgasm momentarily forgotten. They didn't want this to end just yet.

They leaned down, their cock sliding out of John with a wet sound that seemed to echo through the damp basement. The scar-faced attacker released their grip on John's throat, allowing him to collapse back onto the mattress with a gasp. They both watched as he took in deep, ragged breaths, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. The second attacker climbed off him, their eyes never leaving John's face. They wanted to make sure he was alive, that he felt every ounce of pain they had in store.

They grabbed John's ankles once again, dragging him across the mattress with a jolting lack of care. His body slid over the fabric, leaving a trail of blood and semen in his wake. The scar-faced attacker opened a door, revealing a small, grimy bathroom with a stained tub. The faucet squealed in protest as they turned it on, the water running cold at first before gradually warming. It was a stark contrast to the icy grip of fear that held John's body in its vice-like embrace.

They hauled him to the edge of the tub, his body limp and lifeless. With a heave, they hoisted him over the side, his body splashing into the water with a wet thud. The shock of the cold water did nothing to rouse him from his unconscious state; it merely painted his skin a pale shade of blue. The second attacker grabbed a bottle of cheap, harsh soap, the kind that left a film on the skin and stung the eyes. They lathered up a washcloth, the sound of the fabric against their palm echoing through the small space.

They began to scrub John's body, their movements methodical and almost tender. The soap stung the raw flesh of his bruises, the water mixing with the blood to create a pinkish hue. The scar-faced attacker watched with a detached curiosity, their eyes lingering on John's flaccid cock. They reached out, giving it a gentle stroke, watching as it began to swell once more despite the cold. The second attacker laughed, a cruel, brittle sound that bounced off the tiles. "Looks like he's enjoying the bath," they quipped, their own erection bobbing in agreement.

John's eyes remained closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The water grew murky with his blood and their cum, a macabre reflection of the alley's cobblestones. The scar-faced attacker leaned over the tub, their mouth close to John's ear. "You're going to be our little pet now," they whispered, their voice a mix of promise and threat. "We're going to play with you whenever we want." The second attacker nodded, their eyes glinting with a malicious excitement.

They continued to clean him, the washcloth moving over his body in a rhythmic dance of pain and degradation. The soap stung the cuts and bruises, but John remained blissfully oblivious to it all. His mind was a void, a dark and empty space where no thought could take root. He was a mere shell, a body to be used and discarded at their whim. The water grew warmer, a twisted form of comfort in this hellish tableau.

The scar-faced attacker took a step back, admiring their handiwork. John's body was a canvas of red and blue, a tapestry of agony and despair. Yet, amidst the chaos, his black socks remained a bastion of dryness, a stark contrast to the wetness of his skin. They had an air of defiance about them, a silent protest to the horrors that had been visited upon him. The second attacker noticed the socks as well, a flicker of confusion crossing their features. They reached out to touch them, expecting them to be soggy and cold. But they were dry, almost pristine, as if protected by some unseen force.

With a shrug, they turned off the tap and grabbed a towel that had seen better days. Together, they lifted John's limp form from the tub, his body slipping and sliding against their own. The scar-faced one took the towel, wrapping it around him with surprising gentleness, patting him dry with careful strokes. Each touch sent waves of pain through John, but he remained unconscious, lost to the world above.

They dressed John in a cheap, ill-fitting suit they'd brought with them, the fabric rough against his bruised and abused skin. The shirt was stained and wrinkled, a mockery of the pristine garments he'd worn earlier that night. The tie was a garish, discount-store affair, knotted loosely around his neck. His shoes were placed back on his feet, the polished leather a stark contrast to the dirt and grime that caked his socks. They stepped back, admiring their creation, their chests puffed with pride.

The scar-faced attacker hoisted John over their shoulder with an ease that belied their excitement. He was nothing more than a sack of potatoes, his limp body a testament to their dominance. They climbed the stairs, the second attacker following close behind, their boots echoing in the empty basement. The night air was a slap in the face, a cold, unforgiving embrace that brought John back to the world of the living. He groaned, his eyes fluttering open, but the pain was too much. He couldn't focus, couldn't think.

The alley was a blur of shadows and neon as they carried him back to where it had all started. The stench of piss and vomit seemed almost comforting, a reminder of the world above that had abandoned him. They laid him down gently, almost lovingly, on the cold cobblestones. The second attacker bent down, whispering something in his ear that John couldn't make out, a promise or a threat, it didn't matter anymore.

With a final, almost affectionate pat on the cheek, they disappeared into the night, leaving John to the mercy of the encroaching dawn. He lay there, his body a canvas of pain, his mind a swirl of confusion and fear. The sirens had long since faded into the distance, replaced by the early morning symphony of the city that never sleeps. John's eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but with a tremendous effort, he managed to pry them open. The sun was just beginning to peek over the rooftops, casting a sickly light over the alley. He blinked, his eyes struggling to focus, his brain trying to piece together the events of the night. Was it all just a terrible, twisted nightmare? A figment of his overworked imagination?

But as his gaze fell upon the garish tie knotted around his throat and the stained shirt clinging to his chest, the reality set in like a cold, hard slap. This was no dream; the fabric was too real, the scents too pungent. The suit was a poor imitation of his own, the material rough against his skin, the fit all wrong. His own clothes were gone, replaced by this costume of degradation. His mind reeled, trying to comprehend the depths to which he'd been dragged. John's eyes travelled down to his shoes, the polished leather a stark contrast to the filth of the alley. And there, peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his pants, were the black socks that had become a twisted symbol of his power. They were still dry, as if untouched by the events of the night. The sight of them sent a shiver down his spine, a reminder of the sick game his attackers had played with him.

With a trembling hand, he reached for his phone, the screen cracked but still functional. His fingers hovered over the screen, his mind racing. Who could he call? The police? His family? His colleagues? No, they'd never understand, never believe the depth of his humiliation. His trembling thumbs dialled a number, the ringing echoing in his ears like a death knell. He prayed for a cab, for salvation in the form of a yellow car with a glowing sign.

The wait was interminable, each second stretching into an eternity. The alley was a prison, the shadows holding him captive with their silent, watchful eyes. Finally, the sound of tires on wet asphalt pierced the silence, and a beam of light cut through the gloom. The taxi pulled up, the driver peering out with a mix of curiosity and concern. John managed to croak out his address, his voice unrecognizable even to his own ears. The door opened, the warmth of the car's interior beckoning like a sanctuary.

He collapsed into the back seat, his body a symphony of pain. The driver, a middle-aged man with a thick accent, eyed him in the rearview mirror. "You okay, man?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. John nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and the cab pulled away from the curb. The motion of the car jostled him, each bump sending a fresh wave of agony through his body. He closed his eyes, willing the journey to be over, the fabric of the cheap suit feeling like barbed wire against his skin.

Through the grimy window, the streetlights streaked by, casting an eerie glow across his face. The city's skyline was a jagged silhouette against the early morning sky, a stark reminder of the world he'd left behind. The buildings looked unfamiliar, the streets a labyrinth of despair that had swallowed him whole. He watched the cityscape morph into a blur of lights and shadows, the only constant being the rhythmic thump of his own heart, a drumbeat of fear and pain.

John's mind reeled, desperately trying to piece together the events of the previous night. Each detail felt like a shard of glass, cutting into his psyche and leaving him raw. The alley, the hooded figures, the pain…it was all a blur of sensation and horror. He remembered the feel of the scar-faced attacker's tongue against his skin, the cold steel of the knife, the burning of his throat when they'd choked him. His body was a map of their twisted desires, each bruise and laceration a grim souvenir of their time together.

He tried to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the rhythmic thump of his heart, the only reassuring beat in the cacophony of his trauma. But the pain was too great, the humiliation too profound. His eyes stung with unshed tears, and with a tremble that started in his chest, he let them fall. The first was a single drop, hot and salty, tracing a path down his cheek like a teardrop in a river of despair. It grew into a torrent, a silent scream of agony that mirrored the chaos within.

The taxi driver's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, taking in John's state with a quiet understanding that was almost worse than outright horror. He knew the signs, had seen them too often in the faces of his late-night fares. But he said nothing, the unspoken rule of the city's night shift: you mind your business, and I'll mind mine. The only sounds in the car were the murmur of the radio and the occasional sniffle from the back seat. The man's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

John's apartment building loomed into view, a beacon of safety in the oppressive night. As the cab pulled up to the curb, the driver's voice cut through the silence. "You want me to help you inside?" The question was tentative, as if he were afraid to touch the fragile creature that had emerged from the alleyway. John managed a weak shake of his head, the fabric of the towel scratching against his cheek. "No," he croaked, his voice hoarse from the night's abuse. "I'll manage." He handed over a wad of cash, not bothering to count it. The driver took it without a word, his eyes never leaving John's face.

With a shaky hand, John opened the car door and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. The cold air hit him like a slap, stealing what little warmth the taxi had offered. He took a moment to steady himself, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. He glanced back at the driver, their eyes meeting in the rearview mirror. "Thank you," he murmured, the words feeling foreign on his bruised lips. The driver nodded once, his expression unreadable. "You take care of yourself," he said before driving off, leaving John alone in the harsh glow of the streetlight.

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icannot3 · 2 years ago

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"Drunken Mistakes"

Jimmy darling x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism, fighting, slight angst (happy ending tho yippee)

Word count: 1.8k

I saw this little sentence prompt that said, "I can't keep kissing strangers pretending that they're you." So that's what this is based on.

..........................

Some say that you will never heal by going back to what hurt you.

But seeing Jimmy with a woman pressed tightly against him, his lips ravishing her own in such a fervent way made your heart twist. Despite almost a year passing since you'd separated, you still remained devastated. And him? He seemed to have little to no problem simply moving on, as if you meant nothing. You'd heard the sounds that came from his trailer at night, on at least a biweekly basis. He was sloppy, always drunk, it repulsed you in a way to see what he'd become. But perhaps he'd always been this way, and it was your rose-colored glasses that had prevented you from seeing the truth.

His hands were tenderly holding her by the hips, squeezing the skin there. It was dark; you were walking back to your trailer when you'd seen the two entangled in the open valley. You'd seemingly frozen, unable to move and unable to turn away from the scene. You'd missed him, despite everything. You missed when he held you like that and how sweet he was before his mother's death. Sometimes, the moments of bliss from your relationship made you forget about the malignancy. Often, you would wonder about whether leaving him truly was a mistake. You felt that maybe you were just emotional and acted brashly at the time. Your brow furrowed, nose cringing with disgust after you looked back at the day the relationship had ended.

You had been worried sick, unable to find him for hours. Panicked, you'd searched everywhere. Jimmy had recently gotten in trouble with some men married to the women he'd previously catered at Tupperware Parties. He wasn't discovered for his devious system until he stopped servicing the women after getting with you, this act had led them into a storm of petty rage. Some of the women told their husband's that he'd forced himself on them, and as a "freak," he had no means of defending himself against these claims. His deformities made him unbelievable, and punishment if caught would be merciless.

He didn't show up to the diner, where plans between the two of you had been made. It was a celebratory occasion, your birthday. Jimmy had made promises to spoil you with his affections and all of the gifts he could afford. His enthusiasm about the day had you worried about what could have happened that made him unable to attend. Things between you had been turbulent as of late due to both the stress he was under with the law and the death of his mother. You were arguing often; he'd started drinking to cope instead of for enjoyment purposes, and it was making him become an ugly shell of what he once was. As you walked back home, in passing, you looked at his trailer. It was the one place you had not yet checked. Your feet were sore from the heels you'd worn to impress him, the ones he didn't care enough to show up and see on your birthday. You stepped up to the door, opening it abruptly. There he was, laying down and wasted out of his right mind. He looked filthy and hadn't even dressed up to see you. His white tank top was stained with liquor, you could tell by the smell.

Something in you had snapped in that moment. Your yelling and sharp slam of the door had woken him up. You'd stormed out of the premise, blinded by rage and disappointment. He was following you from behind, immediately on your tail. Jimmy scoffed, arms flying up in the air. "What's the matter with you?" Baffled by his blatant ignorance, you ran your hands through your hair and pulled the soft locs with frustration. You didn't even want to see him, let alone explain his act of unreliability. He continued to follow you, stumbling gracelessly as he did. He was yelling incoherently your way, sentences sounding more like slurred words.

You'd finally turned around, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself before speaking. "The plans, Jimmy. Remember? It seems that drinking like a slob is more important than my birthday." Your words were laced with venom, tears beginning to blind you. You closed your eyes, refusing to let any fall. He got up close to you, stopping in his tracks. "It's not that big of a deal. We can go out now." His breath was volatile.

"Just forget about it." You opted that the day would now be more enjoyable without him. Jimmy groaned with frustration. "Don't be like this. I made a one-time mistake, but it won't happen again. So let's just forget about it." You inhaled a shaky breath, weeks of pent-up frustration bubbling to the surface. "It's funny you say that because this isn't the first time you've done this." Your arm came up to wipe your tears that still threatened to escape. "I do so much for you- I supported you through everything. Yet you can't go one day without drinking so much you can't even function. Fucking look at yourself, Jimmy!" Your voice was breaking, the stress causing you to shake.

"OH! Well, if I'm such a piece of shit, why don't you just leave me, huh?" He yelled back, his arm reaching towards you and swaying 'matter of factly. You scowled, "Well, maybe if you don't even care enough to try and fix things, I should! I deserve someone who loves me enough to make an effort."

"Then maybe you should leave."

You were brought back to reality, and it hits you like a semi-truck. You'd spaced out, staring at Jimmy and whatever girl he'd decided to finesse tonight. In your daze, he'd taken notice of your lingering stare, making eye contact with you. Your breath hitches, and you quickly begin to walk past them, not wanting to deal with the conflict that could arise. Your chest felt as if it may cave in, ears and cheeks red hot. Finally, you'd made it inside of your space, feeling the sweet relief of solitude. A place where you could not be bothered, somewhere you could sleep off the stress of today and forget about it by tomorrow.

A knock sounded at your door, and your head snapped to the side with annoyance. You knew it was Jimmy, his insolence was aggravating. He knows that you have no interest in seeing him outside of any shows. You slanted the doorway enough to peek your head out. There he stood straight, alone. You looked around the area for anyone else. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk." His voice is soft. He smells pleasant. He also looks sober, to your suprise. You still felt bitter from his presence, feeling a strong urge to act petty. "You forgot to bring your leech. She's probably looking for you." You back away, about to cut him off. His hand comes up and grabs the edge of the door, keeping it open opposingly. "I'm serious. Can I please come in? I'll leave right after I say what I need to, promise." He stays calm, careful not to push further on the matter out of respect. His hand slides down the door to his side as if he's giving you the option to shut it if you want. Begrudgingly, you allow him to enter, curious about what he has to tell you so urgently. He steps inside, cautiously taking a seat on the couch and removing his hat. His curls are soft looking as they bounce at the now lack of restraint. You couldn't help but notice how clean he looked, freshly shaven, and washed.

You snap yourself out of staring at him for too long once again. "So what is it you wanted to say?" Your demeanor has changed, deciding that it's best to act civil now. Jimmy looks down at his hands, pursing his lips and rolling his head to the side. It takes him a minute to speak, but when he does, he looks you in the eyes. "I can't keep kissing strangers pretending that they're you."

You're flabbergasted and left at a loss of what to say or how to respond to his statement. It's you who's silent now, trying to process his words. Not giving you time to recuperate, he continues. "Losing you was the biggest mistake I ever made. You didn't deserve that. You're the only person in this world that really cared for me, and I blew it. I can't say sorry enough - I know I don't deserve forgiveness. It ain't right, the way I treated you. At the time, I could have come up with so many excuses about why I did what I did, but none a' that matters." He reaches into his pocket, grabbing a small box. "Sometimes I carry this with me because I think about finally manning up enough to give it to ya'. Even though it's been almost a year and I should've givin' it to you on your birthday, here." You take the small box in hand, the velvet fabric encasing it feeling luxurious against your fingertips. Upon opening, it was a small necklace with a heart and a little stone on the chain. The clear diamond-like crystal glistened beautifully.

You gazed up at him in disbelief, knowing this likely cost a pricey penny. He was smiling softly at you, a look of remorse on his face. Suddenly, you felt lighter, all of the pain you'd experienced beginning to vanish. To see him cleaned up and hear his apology resurfaced the love you always had for him. "Have you stopped drinking?" You felt the need to ask for a final precaution before deciding to forgive him. "Almost entirely, I can't keep acting like a fool anymore." You nod, taking in his statement. "I wanna be the man you deserve. I'll spend forever proving that to you if I have to." Jimmy offered you his hand, which you took. His touch was gentle, his thumb grazing against the back of your palm. "I miss you, Angel."

Instinctually, you'd hugged him; allowing yourself to melt in his familiar embrace. This was the Jimmy you fell in love with. His strong arms surround you, pulling you in even closer. His hand plays with your hair and strokes your neck affectionately. He dropped his face down and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. You pull away, reciprocating that by kissing his lips. It's a simple peck that you pull away from quickly. Jimmy brings up his hand, tracing your lips with his finger before kissing you himself. You melt into his touch, allowing him to do so until your brain felt fuzzy from contentment.

"I'm never letting you go again, sweetheart. That's a promise."

A promise he kept.

#ahs #evan peters #fluff #american horror story #jimmy darling #jimmy darling fluff #jimmy darling angst #angst

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disco-elysium-via-polls · 1 year ago

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"The female isn't yours to objectify, not in art nor anywhere else!"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "That's rich coming from you, Tequila. You had some pretty wild views about women last weekend..."

KIM KITSURAGI - "I don't know where he picked up these views, but wherever it was, he seems to be sincere about them."

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that mixing art and sex can make you fucking *rich*. Just don't go on a jog, unleashing a cascade of doom that washes it all away."

2. "What's up with the tracksuit?"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "What? You never seen 100% Lickra(TM) before? Go on, feel that primo material." The man extends his arm...

Touch it.

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "Pretty nice, huh? This might be one of the last of its kind. Should probably be in a museum, honestly." He takes another sip.

INTERFACING [Impossible: Failure] - Good god, it's nearly impossible to describe how dirty this texture is. It's like rubbing two jellyfish skins together. You feel about 15% less human for having touched it.

-1 Morale

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] - Randomized trials have also found Lickra(TM) to be associated with a number of exotic, highly malignant cancers. So you also have that to look forward to.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) [Easy: Success] - And then there's the smell, but you don't even want to think about that.

ROSEMARY - "Wow, you're lucky. He never lets me feel it."

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "That's because your paws are fucking filthy, Rosie! We're right next to the bay, you could wash them anytime."

3. "What about the other drunks?"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "My fellow members of the Union of Moribund Alcoholics? They're exactly what they look like."

ROSEMARY - "'Ey! Tequila! You wanna buy some speed?"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "Shut the fuck up, Rosemary! He's a cop, remember?"

ROSEMARY - "I thought he was a cool cop."

DON'T CALL ABIGAIL - "Don't call Abigail!"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "And this is Abs." He points to the man in the pipe. "So yeah, that's basically us. We drink together."

4. "What's this about a lost jacket?"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "Tequila, it's a verifiable tragedy. It was practically brand new. Sure, it didn't really go with my Lickra(TM) threads, but it did itch a lot less..."

"Say, you're a detective, right?" He looks at you, bleary-eyed. "Maybe you can help ol' Doom Spiral out… solve the case of the missing jacket! What do you say, Tequila?"

"Wait. You're asking a police officer to help find a jacket you stole and then lost?"

"Okay, sure. Where'd you lose it?"

"I don't have time for this."

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "Yeah, exactly. You're here to serve, right?"

2. "Okay, sure. Where'd you lose it?"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "If I knew where I lost it don't you think I'd have it? I mean -- maybe I was up by the boardwalk? Or walking along the beach? Or checking out the abandoned fish market?"

"That's a lot of places."

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "Somewhere north of here, that's for sure. You could ask around, see if anyone's seen it."

New task: Find Idiot Doom Spiral's jacket

5. "Let me ask you something else." (Conclude.)

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "I'm all ears, Tequila."

4. "Have you got any more stories?"

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "I do -- but as you can see my fuel tank is running quite low, if you catch my drift..." He spins the bottle in his hand. Not a single drop of liquid remains.

"I don't have any on me right now."

IDIOT DOOM SPIRAL - "Cotton mouth is keeping my tongue imprisoned." He shrugs his shoulders dramatically.

3. "Be seein' you." [Leave.]

ROSEMARY - "Good to see you, friend! Do I have *deals* set up for you, buddy-boy!" He spreads his arms as if wanting to embrace you.

"What are you talking about?"

"Good to see you too, friend."

"I'm a police officer, not your friend."

ROSEMARY - "So whadda'ya want?" He tilts his head. "I got smokes. They're cheap. Very cheap. I got pilsner. Great deal. You won't get a better deal on that piss... Spirits I can let go for 300 reál. I also have speed. And by *speed* I mean amphetamine."

HORRIFIC NECKTIE - See, there it is, bratushka! -- you feel your necktie *strangle* you with excitement -- the *spirit*! Let's buy the spirit! 300 reál is a lot, but this has to be done.

It's our END GAME.

This is just another stupid drunk idea I'm having, that I'm attributing to my necktie.

This is the mystery and the truth and I need to buy that spirit.

What if I don't want to listen to my necktie anymore?

HORRIFIC NECKTIE - Bratan, you don't understand. It's not just another drink. This is what our relationship has been building towards all these years. This is the climax. The mystery. The virginal sigh.

You *have* to buy it from him. Get it off him. Kill him, if you have to. Our ultimate fate depends on it. And the fate of *many worlds*.

New task: Spirit is eternal

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant looks at you looking at the bottle of spirits. Then at Rosemary, suspiciously.

So, we can buy cheap drugs from Rosemary, including more alcohol if we want to immediately pass it on to Doom Spiral. We very obviously cannot afford the 300 reál spirits.

"Amphetamine?"

"Quite the business venture you've set up here."

"Why does the bottle of spirits cost 300 reál?"

[300 reál] "Here's the money for the spirits."

[2 reál] "I want a pack of smokes."

[1.50 reál] "Here's the money for a pilsner."

[15 reál] "Sell me some speed."

"I'm off." [Leave.]

ROSEMARY - "Aye, by amphetamine I mean speed."

"I think you didn't hear me, when I said I'm a police officer."

"I thought by speed you meant amphetamine?"

"Right. Got it."

ROSEMARY - "Sure did, buddy-boy," he taps the side of his nose. "That's why I said amphetamine. I mean speed. I mean amphetamine. I got both."

"I thought by speed you meant amphetamine?"

ROSEMARY - "Aye, 's'what I said."

"Right. Got it."

ROSEMARY - "Good-good, my man." He takes a chug from his beer bottle. "Now what can I offer ya?"

2. "Quite the business venture you've set up here."

ROSEMARY - "Oh..." He gets a proud gleam in his eyes. "The system's been good to old Rosemary here and I'm milkin' 'er like a bitch goat in the backyard."

"What do you mean?"

ROSEMARY - "You see, friend," he raises his index finger, "man makes his own luck -- and I made mine real good. Got my hands on three bottles of *liqueur exquise*, sold two to the fellows around here and *immediately* invested the profit."

"Bought cigarettes, bought beer, even bought a bit of speed. And look at me now… I got everyone on my hook." He spreads his arms and smiles a crooked toothless smile.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] - The hook -- where is it? I can't see it.

#disco elysium #idiot doom spiral #rosemary #don't call abigail #kim kitsuragi #harrier du bois

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molecheck · 8 months ago

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Mole Check in Ferntree Gully and Why You Should Get One

Australia registers over 60% of skin cancer patients under the age of 70, one of the highest numbers worldwide. Statistics make it crucial for the residents to get a mole check in Ferntree Gully. In this blog, you will learn why getting a skin checkup for cancer is as important as anything for healthy well-being.

Why You Should Get a Skin Cancer Checkup in Ferntree Gully

A naked eye vision is not enough to detect moles that may be cancer. A professional skin malignancy check is an advanced alternative to a regular skin checkup. Let’s know why getting one is important.

Anyone Can Get Skin Cancer

According to the Skin Cancer Foundation, skin cancer incidents have risen by 77% from the year 1994 to 2014, which is a surprising elevation. Australia has a record of over five million skin cancer patients in a single year. It directly conveys how skin cancer, sometimes being practically an epidemic, can impact hundreds of lives around you.

It is Not Limited to Mole Only

Because skin cancer can develop anywhere, you must occasionally get a skin cancer screening. Among various reasons, the foremost is Ultraviolet (UV) rays that account for skin cancer diseases categorised in nonmelanoma and melanoma cases. However, it does not make the cancer limited to the parts exposed to the sunlight. More than half of the cancer tumours are found on the hands, feet, and nails. Hence, this unpredictability makes it obvious why skin malignancy checkup is important.

Choose Prevention Over Cure

To protect your skin from malignancy, first identify the root cause behind it. Follow all the precautions prescribed by the screening doctor and make sure you do not overlook any suspicious mole on your body. Look at the quick tips for inclusive skin cancer protection.

Go for skin cancer screening tests more than twice a year, they highlight our overall skin health and the physician might help you overcome other skin problems as well.

Avoid your skin from direct sun exposure. Use sunscreen with the most suited sun-protection factor. It will provide a shield to the skin layer from hazardous sun rays.

Schedule regular checkups and visit a good dermatologist for the required treatments.

Skin cancer is a serious concern, but it can be cured if detected timely. So, take the first step and schedule your professional skin cancer checkup in Ferntree Gully today.

Source

#mole check ferntree gully #skin malignancy check

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luckylockjaw · 10 months ago

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TIMING: Early July LOCATION: Darkling Lake PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw) & Teagan (@closingwaters) SUMMARY: Wyatt meets another sleepwalker named Teagan at the edge of the lake. CONTENT WARNINGS: Familial death (brief mention)

—

His bed was abandoned, his sliding glass door that faced the lake stood open. Wyatt had wandered out into the cold, finding it easier to stay awake when he was uncomfortable. Still, tiredness dragged his shoulders into a slouch and made his eyelids feel heavy as he wandered along the edge of the lake, walking barefoot and aimless through the cold mud and reeds. Sleepy as he was, he didn’t register the movement up ahead as quickly as he would have liked, not realizing he was no longer alone until he was face to face with a stranger. A strange stranger. Her skin was pink-tinted, and… what were those, gills? She looked to be some kind of aquatic creature-human hybrid, of what sort he couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t seem to notice him. In fact, he had to step out the way as she moved blindly forward, her eyes open but unblinking, her gait slow and steady.

“... hello?” he stage whispered, looking confused. She didn’t respond. “... hey, wait—” the lamia scurried to catch back up with her, falling in step with her. On she went, not acknowledging him. “... hey, lady. Lady! You in there?”

—

The images were muddy, muddier than they usually were when it came to nightmares. Still, the outlines of Teagan’s family on her childhood home’s floor were clear as day. The blood still coagulated and oozed and coated her feet as she struggled to shuffle backwards. Her breath hitched and the scene turned to black, quickly flashing to that malignant circus freak wielding an ax.

A malicious glimmer of light streaked from its sharp edge and instead of stumbling back like before, Teagan all but tackled the monster as it raised its weapon in preparation for its attack. By the time the two of them landed in a pool of blood, Teagan was jolted awake and on top of a man she couldn't recognize. “Um—I, uh…” She swallowed, breathing a little too quickly. “You…oh. Oh!” Realization yanked her backwards, her gills just barely peering into her periphery. Thank goodness she was at the lake, but by the waves, she couldn’t just scurry back to her cabin. Not with a stranger looking right at her.

“This—this isn’t what it looks like…!”

—

Speaking was doing nothing to rouse her. Curious (and a little worried she might wander somewhere more dangerous than the lamia’s property), he moved in front of her again, walking backwards. But as Wyatt was reaching out to stop her, she flew into action, drawing a surprised yelp from him. Her arms wrapped around him haphazardly as she threw herself at him, sending them both to the ground. Wyatt wasn’t quite sure how to react beyond making sure he didn’t crack his skull on a rock, catching himself enough to remain partially propped up in the mud as the stranger seemed to wake up on top of him.

“Hey, whoa, it’s okay,” he tried to reassure her as she reeled back. “What—what does it look like?” The question was asked with a genuinely bewildered laugh, the shifter remaining self-aware enough to not touch her, his hands held passively at his sides as he looked up at her. “We’re cool, we’re good.” She was probably worried at the thought of being seen as she was by a human-apparent, though hopefully not worried enough to attack him for it. Again, that is. While awake. “Are you okay?”

—

Eyes of kindness glinted at Teagan, causing a wave of guilt to crash in her stomach. There was little that could be done to settle such a violent current, but the question the man asked almost did the trick. Not many could look at Teagan in her true form and think to check on her after she attacked. From her experience, she was more likely to have the authorities called on her, or get a proper whack to her head, but he did no such thing. The only right thing to do was respond in kind.

“Um…” Blinking several times, the fae shifted uncomfortably, kneeling down to get a better look at the man. “I’m okay. What about you?” Her voice grew softer, seeing that he looked a little worse for wear, far more than he should after a simple tackle. Something felt off to Teagan, and she couldn’t help but pry. “You look as rough as me, to put it lightly.” She offered a wan smile, “Didn’t hurt you, did I? I was sleepwalking, so I’m not sure what I’ve done.”

—

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Wyatt responded to her question with a shake of his head and a breathy laugh. “Ahh, don't worry ‘bout it darlin’, I've had a lot worse done to me than that tackle. Good form, though!” His smile fell somewhat as he considered the back half of her inquiry, relating in a way that made him uncomfortable. “Sleepwalkin’, huh? That must have been a hell of a nightmare. But uh… yeah, I mean. You intuited right. Been havin’ my own fair share of night terrors.”

While he was curious as to what exactly made her look the way she did, if she was some kind of lamia species he’d not seen before and was only partially shifted or something, he knew better than to just flat out ask. Wasn't his business, anyway. She'd tell him if she felt like it. “You come wanderin’ from home, then? You live near here?” He gestured over his shoulder, glancing back at the A-frame cabin that was just visible through the conifers. “That's me over there.”

—

A bewildered chuckle escaped the nix, and she shook her head. “Well, I’m sure you’ve been in plenty of scraps considering you haven’t even gone into a tiff over what I look like. You must be either one of the kindest humans I’ve ever met, or you’re an other like me.” Teagan leaned in, trying to get a good scan of the man. With the darkness in high tide, there was nothing to really distinguish the man apart from a human, but she knew better than to judge a book by its flesh. What lay inside always lay dormant until necessary.

“So you’ve got the nightmare infection too? Trauma or are you another’s meal? Never can tell, but maybe the bugger has made themself known. Sometimes there’s a tell, but…” Teagan shrugged, trailing off and sighing as she slid to the ground. She looked where the man pointed and nodded, scrunching her face slightly. It was playful for the most part, but there was a hint of scrutiny she couldn’t really suppress. “‘Fraid I’m not gonna tell ya where I sleep. Not smart to tell a strange man that now is it?” She chuckled, “But you can know my name at least. Teagan.”

—

“An other, huh? Never heard it put like that. But yeah, that’d fit the bill. This is just a delicate disguise, when you get down to brass tacks.” Wyatt watched her sit back down, asking him about the nightmare situation. He breathed in and rubbed the back of his neck, realizing with a crinkle of his nose that he’d just smeared mud all over it. Whatever, he was gonna have to shower either way, this fishy woman had seen to that. “A… meal, I guess. Or I was, until I found out about it and took the proper precautions, once I learned what they were. Now it’s just leftover trauma, as you said.” He forced a weak smile, making jazz hands in the air with the one that wasn’t supporting him as he leaned slightly back onto it. “Yaaaay…”

Watching her face contort, the shifter gave a more genuine laugh. “Fuck, yeah, that’s fair. Sorry, I forget myself sometimes.” The smile that rested on his face afterward was much less forced compared to before, and he extended a hand to her. “Teagan. I’m Wyatt. My flavor of other would be lamia, if that means anythin’ to you.”

—

“Much obliged, then. I’m normally like…” Teagan sighed the last remnants of the sandman’s haze from her eyes and let her pink, rubbery flesh turn human. She gave Wyatt a smile, thankful that her sleepwear wasn’t totally ruined in her sleepy adventure. “Like this. Preferably the other way, but I suppose I don’t mind seeing a fellow other know what I look like in disguise.” Teagan let out another sigh, heavier that time, matching the same energy of Wyatt’s disheartened and tired flair of his hand.

He didn’t seem like a bad guy by any means. In fact, to the nix, it seemed more like he needed someone who understood what it meant to be haunted by the echoes of the past. The ones that reverberated so violently that they shook your lungs into sobs. Teagan obliged, a little more inclined to offer her company than before now that she knew Wyatt exactly was. “What specific flavor?” She tilted her head and arched a brow. “You get extra points if you occupy the waters. Actually got a bud that is a lovely snake. Just ran into her during one of,” Teagan gestured vaguely around her, “These nights. She was gracious enough to offer me tequila.”

With a chuckle, she scrunched her nose and pondered for a moment before thinking aloud. “Might be another one of those nights, ‘cept I’d be offering this time.”

—

“Well. Pretty both ways, wouldn’t you know it,” Wyatt chuckled. It wasn’t his typical flirtatious behavior, but instead simply a genuine compliment. “Oh, that sounds an awful lot like my very good friend, actually. She’s always offerin’ tequila to people, ain’t she? God love her. But, to answer your question and earn myself some extra credits, I am an aquatic sort of fella. Alligator flavor! This lake sure ain’t like the swamps back in Louisiana, but it gets the job done.” Even if it was fucking cold by comparison.

His expression softened, and he glanced down at himself. “I’d take you up on it… if you got an outdoor deck.” He gestured at the mud that’d caked him from their tumble and laughed. “Don’t wanna be trackin’ nothin’ into your mysterious abode. Or, if ya give me about five minutes, I can go hose off. Either or!”

—

Teagan snorted and shook her head, a little baffled by how easy it was to fall into a steady conversation with a man she’d only just met. He was lovely and inviting, genuinely seeking to ensure the safety of a stranger. It warmed her chest, and the sensation was a comfort. Because nobody liked being alone, and finding refuge with someone who understood, even a stranger, was a kind of safety that few managed to find amidst such darkness. A rare thing like that needed to be cherished, especially when nature beckoned those of the same dwelling together.

“Ah, an alligator? My, my, what a wonderful discovery!” The nix clapped her hands together and kicked her feet with excitement. Wyatt wasn’t fae or a nix, but he was at least adjacent to Teagan. He’d love the water enough to respect it because it was his home too, and she was already thinking of all the fun they could have on swims together. She smiled excitedly, glamour falling in kind.

“Oh, this is very good. I protect this lake and am very very fond of it, so you’re gonny have ta have a few swims with me.” Her eyes widened with joy, “And hunts! There have been so many trespassers just milling about, leaving their trash for the babes to get tangled in. It’s the worst!” Teagan raked a hand through her hair and stood up, ready to help Wyatt get cleaned up before heading back to her house so they could plan out little hangouts. “And don’t you worry about a mess,” With a flick of her wrist and a grin, the waves of the water built up until they were several feet high, “We’ll just have a wash right now.” The water fell as Teagan dropped her hand, leaving the two drenched. “Need another pass?”

—

Wyatt still didn't know what exactly this woman was, but honestly that wouldn't have made much of a difference in regards to his opinion of her. She seemed sweet, and as she started to excitedly talk about all the fun they could have together as her human disguise fell away, he felt terribly endeared to her. The lamia laughed and nodded in agreement, happy to have met another person that wouldn't berate him for his ‘hunts’, as Teagan put it. “Count me all the way in,” he chuckled, getting to his feet to mirror her and raising a curious brow. Before he could ask what she meant, the water from the lake beside them was rising up into the air. Wyatt’s eyes grew wide, blinking up at the spectacle in disbelief. He was pretty sure he'd never seen anything like that before!

Then it was dropping on their heads, and Wyatt let out a surprised yelp, followed quickly with an elated laugh. “What the heck!” he exclaimed, looking down at himself. There was still some mud left on him, and… well, he wanted to see that again. “Yeah, one more pass if ya don't mind, cher,” he answered Teagan with a wide grin.

—

Happy at his response, Teagan bounced up and down as she clapped happily, laughing with joy when he seemed elated at her little trick. “Mun, we’re gonny have a bloody good time, I just know it!” She pulled Wyatt up to his feet and wrapped him in a bear hug before just barely managed to lift him up an inch to turn him in a ninety degree circle. The nix may be strong, but the amount of muscle Wyatt appeared to have made it difficult for Teagan to lift him fully.

Regardless, she grinned and beckoned the lake to crash into the pair again, and she giggled with great delight. “Don’t mind at all, lovely.” Her smile grew and she gave Wyatt a onceover before making an attempt to guide them back to her home. “Looks like you’re all clean,” Teagan chirped, “Just a little wet, which is new for me! Don’t quite often find myself making men that way.” She scrunched her nose and tugged Wyatt along, excited to see what they would make of the rest of the night. There were countless questions she had, and she guessed he had some too. What better way to answer them than with a bit of liquid courage in their system?

“Come on! I hope you like cats!”

#. thread ;#. with ; teagan myrick #. 2 frogs on a lilypad

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