#you’re micro dose of

[searenbound]

“I need to talk with you after class”

“No”

“But I—”

“Don’t care! It’s still a no!”

He can’t even count the number of times he’s had conversation like this with them. It’s the burden of being the best friend, every little problem is yours to solve. It’s bullshit.

“Please Tsuki? I really need—”

“I’m not your stupid boyfriend, I don’t— what’s with the face?”

“I-its nothing! Just, just forget I said anything, it was stupid anyways”

It’s almost funny, that damn burden of his, it’s the exact reason he knows they’re lying to him. Before he can ask again their running off, trying not to let him see them cry.

They were always so sensitive, but he guessed he understood. He wished he didn’t, but the cute little envelope with his name printed neatly on it poking out their bag, had to be only one thing and he’s just indirectly rejected them without even realizing it.

[bouncybrain]

Okay so drawing on the drive was out. Roads in America do be rollercoasters tho. FNaF will come! I have downtime

[froody]

please help my scruggly cat

Tommy, Tumblr micro-celebrity famous for featuring/being the muse for hit posts such as ‘father is…evil?’ and ‘my cat can tell when I’m sad and instinctively bites my toes’ and ‘frustrating each other is our love language’ needs a little financial support. Please consider donating to my ko-fi or buying something from my teespring store.

Tommy was diagnosed with diabetes earlier this year under dramatic circumstances that involved a week long intensive care vet stay. She has stomatitis (an inflammation of the gums and mucus membranes) that she was on steroids for and the steroids may have damaged her pancreas. Since her diagnosis we’ve had a hard time controlling her blood sugar. Her insulin dose goes up and up. The vet thinks she has a good chance of stabilizing, that diabetic cats can and do live long, healthy and happy lives. She’s only 5. Her 6th birthday is later this month. She’s fighting. She wants to live.

Each insulin vial costs $160. Her prescription cat food is $35 for a 4 pound bag. She’s also on gabapentin for her pain and neuropathy and she’ll probably need another course of antibiotics. She currently goes to the vet every two weeks and the cost of that varies immensely. Basically, she’s a much more expensive cat than she was before and the cost of living for me has risen as well. It’s not an immediate emergency but we need funds. I’m disabled, I have an autoimmune disease that attacks my colon, I have a hard time working outside of the home or even at all because my health fluctuates and my energy levels are low. I’m trying so desperately to get better but for now I’m living in my mom’s house and sponging off my loved ones and tapping into my meager savings.

I know what you’re thinking, the thing people always comment on donation posts about pets, “if you can’t afford to care for your cat, why do you still have your cat?” and as biting as that question is, I know it’s a valid one and I’ve thought about it myself. I still have her because I need her and she needs me. She’s like my soulmate animal. We met when I was 16 and she was about 4 weeks old. There was no way I could have known we’d both be struggling sick moneypits in 5 years. I’m trying to give her the best life I can and she’s trying to give me her best self. I’m her person. I’m home 24/7 so we’re so used to having each other. She brings me immense joy and I know she’s brought a lot of other people joy. If you’re one of those people, please consider giving a couple of dollars. If you can’t afford to, that’s fine. Thank you for reading anyway.

TL;DR: cat sick. I’m sick. please help.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SEVEN: LAMB

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the seventh chapter in the series

---

The kitchen is a quiet chaos— Hannibal standing over the hob, his beautiful hands precise at their work, Will slouched, sulking prettily against a countertop, looking into the bottom of a wine glass.

His temper billows about the room. It's a wonder anyone can breathe through such smoke.

You hover at an anxious distance, afflicted by delectable smells and the scar of what you’ve done. Shame beats, eviscerated, under the boards of you; you chose to taunt and then to touch Will Graham, a conscious participant in this play of a poisonous home.

If your hosts were to give you but a minute apart from them you’d chastise yourself for your abasement: three stiff, sweat-inducing planks, a lap of your room, a prison yard exhaustion.

But they keep you under their eye, knowing, like a child, you’d surely run to burn your hand on the stove.

“How do you want me to be around him?” you ask, as Hannibal tastes a truffle sauce with a look of indecision. “Your Agent Crawford. He doesn’t know about us, does he?”

“As I have assured you, it is between you, Will, and I,” Dr Lecter answers. “Therefore, as far as any visitor is concerned, you remain my patient. That is all.”

How easily you are expected to step from one evanescent role to the other. Should your tongue slip, you may damn him and Will both, yet you know Hannibal is without fear as surely as though you had your fingers to his wrist, timing the pulse of his slow calm.

“And what am I to Will today?” you ask.

“A ward, of sorts, for now.”

The word conjures images of chill cells, bed pans, wilful neglect. Something Victorian in its sensibilities.

“A ward,” you repeat. “Right.”

In the peripheries of vision Will sets down his glass with an icy clink.

“Are you intending to be civilised at dinner," he asks, "or do we have to prepare for another devolution into infantile behaviour?”

You’d expected Will to be smug, glutted from his fill, but your mouth upon him has only calcified his antagonism into some crueller compound, still. He does not like that he has taken pleasure from you, is in denial of it, a steadfast separation.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” you say. “I never know what’s going to happen. Usually I’m... not myself.”

Will folds his arms in an impassable cross.

“You’re not being medicated tonight. Your actions will be your responsibility.”

The prospect of sobriety has little power to cheer. You’d rather the drooling oblivion of a dose over the chess match of having to divine the correct answer and micro-expression to every aside.

Intuiting your distress, Hannibal says, “You'll be eating from a slightly different menu to the rest of the table. Light portions, with attention to your safe foods.”

In disbelief, you take stock of the simmering pans, their contents once the meat of your routine.

“My... my safe foods,” you repeat. “But I didn’t even tell you what they were.”

What should comfort holds the sinister weight of interred dead, so familiar as to be uncanny.

“I have observed your preferences,” says Dr Lecter. “Thus, I am able to accommodate.”

He offers you a spoon to taste, which you decline.

“You’re making it easier for me to stick to my old ways,” you point out. “That doesn’t seem right. What’s going on?”

“I’m allowing you space to devote your energy to an unexpected social situation. I know they are not your strong suit, and I wish you to be relaxed. It will benefit us all.”

There is no pretence here of pure intentions; you acknowledge the respect that has been awarded to you in the absence of a lie.

“Thank you,” you say. “Could you do this... more, please?”

“If you continue to fulfil your role satisfactorily, yes.”

Hannibal glances at Will, whose breath of harsh laughter pars the conversation like a shank, short and sharp.

“You remain against her, then.”

“I don’t see that she has any genuine interest in evolving,” says Will, as though you are not there. “Just a cuckoo in an empty nest.”

The phrasing catches like a coat on brambled hedgerow. Alert, you examine your younger captor, interpreting the set of his harsh look.

“What are you to each other, really?” you ask.

“Friends,” says Will, bluntly.

The speed with which he speaks betrays a not-quite lie, a sentence with a postluding clause.

“We are aesthetes of an uncommon kind,” Dr Lecter interjects, over a pearl string of steam. “It adds dimension to our relationship few will ever perceive. In time, I expect you will.”

The kitchen, though of minimal colour—greys, black, pure, clinical white—develops a peculiar warmth. There is invitation, here, open-armed acceptance into domesticity, and whatever midnight cabal weds these two men in their brotherhood.

“I don’t think you want me,” you say, as Hannibal rinses cutlery at the sink. “I’m not interesting. I don’t talk like you. I don’t really understand art, or books, or poetry. I’m not even smart.”

Will’s head turns, the sly incline an eel from a cave mouth.

“Hannibal tells me you were academic, once. What happened?”

Seldom do you care to recollect your school days, which were lived painfully, as a mute ghost at the back of the class.

Attempts to decipher screens and pages through tears that had fallen without sound, and were, thus, philosophically inexistent. Whispers passed down through seated rows. Meetings with teachers and welfare staff on seats of poster blue plastic, your foot shaken against scuffed tiles in soothing motion.

The books and television series you’d once absorbed with eager voracity were parched of their appeal, by then. Your only reading was the secretive message boards into which you’d recessed like a forest to band with others of your starving ilk.

Such memories, and others arise to you. Your grades you can less easily recall.

“I’m only good at one thing anymore,” you say, aloud. “And I’m not allowed to do it here.”

Hannibal begins stacking washed dishes back into the cupboard, undeterred by your ceaseless denial.

“We will not chastise you for your simplicity. The palate can be developed, after all.”

“And not just for the food,” says Will. “Though that would be a start.”

“What if I embarrass you in front of Jack?” you ask; you’re losing this argument, and continue it only to prolong your defeat.

“Jack isn’t easily embarrassed,” says Dr Lecter. “Besides, he has been adequately prepared. You may rest in your room before dinner, little one. Sleep can do wonders for the appetite.”

He walks you to the kitchen door with a subtle insistence— like Will, he yearns to be alone.

Mumbling thanks that border on sincere, you make your egress via the stairs, glad to leave the kitchen and its tiers of expectation in your wake.

Passing Hannibal’s room, you find the door stood ajar. Curiosity draws you in, then, not to the bed—a symbol of tragedy—but to the conjoined bathroom, it, too, unlocked.

It is larger than your own, though similarly tiled in ivory and obsidian; there is a bathtub elevated on ornate feet, a shower walled in opaque glass, a sink with toothbrush and paste arranged like trophies, each surface of a bleached, crystalline sheen.

On the floor lies a set of scales, an oblong of clearest glass.

You had known that he would have one in the house, a man so fastidious in hygiene and health. Standing flat against one wall, you tilt your head, listening for an approach on the stairs, a change in the direction of the voices beneath.

When you are convinced of your privacy you strip of every garment and stand upon the scales, your hands braced at your sides in anticipation.

Even before the numbers flash on the mite screen you know that you’ve gained weight, have felt the itching progress of it across your hips and stomach.

The figure, as you glance down, is far higher than anticipated. Were it not imperative to be silent, you would scream.

You settle to hit yourself, instead, closed-fisted blows into your temple, left to right; only your reflection in the bathroom mirror stays your hand, a corpulent rendering of flesh.

This image has always shifted, for you, between your mental interpretation and its reality. Now they are one and the same, and you will never forgive your kidnappers for having altered your sight, as well.

Whose eyes have they given you, to make out this monster? One each of their own— you close the lids, and see the red of meat in the darkness behind them.

Later, when you return, dressed and sleep-dulled, to wait for dinner, you practice such restraint over your emotion that the effect is a noiseless hysteria. Catching sight of your face in any polished surface reveals a sickly visage, eyes bright and excitable, the skin dull, as of the grave.

Will regards you with a default scepticism, venturing no word. Hannibal, instantly perceptive, takes hold of your face in his cool hands and looks into your eyes.

“Is there something the matter?” he asks, and there is glass under the suede of his soft voice, a cutting menace.

There is a rap upon the door, and Dr Lecter steps free of you to answer. He returns shortly, followed by a man you recognise from the news, broad shouldered in a casual suit. His hair is closely cut, a trimmed goatee on a face that would have been handsome, in youth, and is presently so, though worn between the brows from the stress of his work.

“Good to see you, Will,” says Jack, shaking the younger man’s hand and pulling him into a half embrace. “You look well. Been taking care of yourself, I hope.”

Will smiles. His face is briefly pleasant, the dour mouth creasing at the corners.

“As well as I can,” he says. “The dogs keep me active.”

“Nice to hear you’re still running with the pack,” Jack replies. “How are the little rascals?”

You wait for the smalltalk to end, filing away what information sifts through that may be of note.

At last Jack turns to you, taking your hand lightly in his.

“So I finally get to meet you. Hannibal’s told me all about you, you know.”

A falsified minimum, you think.

Aloud, you ask, “He has?”

“Just enough,” says Dr Lecter. “Now, I must be temporarily rude and make myself scarce; I have unfinished work awaiting me in the kitchen.”

Jack releases your hand.

“Point taken,” he says. “Let's move this conversation to the dinner table, shall we?”

To your relief, once all are seated Jack manoeuvres the subject tactfully away to other things. The men speak of the weather—"I don’t care what anybody says; we don’t need that much rain this side of the Great Flood"—Jack’s wife—who is mortally ill, and immeasurably loved—and of mutual friends, whose names and various details you struggle to map in your ignorance of their world.

You eat with little attention to what crosses your lips; the day, in that aspect, is spoiled, and you cast it from you like a fruit’s rotten core.

Though Jack and Hannibal both attempt to include you in the chatter at points, you do not care to. There is the feeling of being presented to Jack like a shrewdly bargained for article of rare furniture; any comment from you is performance for these men to digest and enjoy, as they do all at this table.

It is Dr Lecter, however, that successfully extracts your opinion on a topic of his choosing. With an ingenuity that renders the shift in topic almost organic, he addresses his colleagues on the matter of their latest case.

“Surely our man will be on the move again,” he says, lifting a shred of lamb to his lips. “He may already be grooming his next subject.”

“He is,” says Will, flatly. “I’ve spent enough time thinking like him to know his heartbreak over losing the last one won’t last long.”

Jack raises his eyebrows, turning from one man to the other with a look that suggests he is almost as nonplussed by their union as you are.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to discuss this in front of your patient, Dr Lecter? The details of this case are particularly disturbing, as you already know. Will showed you photographs from the crime scene.”

“Indeed he did,” says Hannibal. “I will not easily forget it. However, as long as my guest resides under my roof I believe it’s only fair that she is involved in general discussion. Confidential matters of the case will, of course, be between us. But anything that is public knowledge I believe she has the right to know.”

“Fodder for Tattle Crime, you mean,” Will interjects, stabbing at his meal with spiteful vigour. “Freddie Lounds has covered these particular murders with a lurid relish. You’re aware that she’s already named the killer?"

Jack chuckles.

“'The Silicone Lover,'” he says. “It certainly lacks poetry in comparison to some of the others that are being thrown around, but it’s got that Lounds touch. It’s catchy, I’ll give her that.”

You drop your fork upon your plate with a jarring clash of steel and porcelain. Hannibal’s face stills in subtle displeasure, and you make a cringing gesture of apology, your mouth puckered at one corner.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say, “but... I remember reading about that case. I’ve always been kind of interested in true crime. I don’t know why. Books, documentaries, all that stuff; I’ve seen them all. But this killer— he’s in my city. Everybody’s been talking about it.”

It’s the most conversation you’ve volunteered all evening, and you sense the interest of your fellow guests open to you like a late bloom.

“I hope you’ve been taking precautions, young lady,” says Jack, bringing his knife to a pat of oozing meat until his plate is a bloody eclipse. “You’re aware you fit the profile of his victims.”

You stutter out an uncomfortable laugh.

“I... I don’t go out much. So I’ve been okay.”

Even before your captivity you’d been a recluse, dissuaded from venturing outdoors by an aversion to being perceived. Short, rushed jaunts to the store had been the sum of your travels, and it occurs to you now that you should have savoured the world beyond the house: the grumbling traffic, the turned dirt scent of rain, all of it, everything. The beautiful mundane.

“Staying indoors won’t keep the Silicone Lover from making you his paramour,” says Will, shortly, one arm flung in a mode of disdain across the back of his chair. “His targets always let him into their homes willingly, and there are no defensive wounds, suggesting he makes himself known to his victims some time before he abducts them. He always gets close enough to either drug or hit them over the head without suspicion.”

“I know,” you say. “I’ve read Tattle Crime, too.”

Will sneers.

“Of course you have. She’s a provocateur. Just your type.”

“Tell us what you know of this case, then,” Hannibal says to you, smoothly diffusing the tension. “Perhaps we will benefit from a fresh perspective, especially from an individual so closely fitting the profile of those unfortunate victims.”

He looks at Agent Crawford, seeking an unspoken permission.

“Go ahead,” says Jack. “As long as you feel up to it, that is.”

His voice softens as he speaks to you, and you think of his wife, folding slowly into the ravening void of cancer. This is a man who understands illness, and has a sensitivity for it; it comforts you, to have him here, obscured though his view of his friends.

Offering Jack a shy smile, you say, “I’ll be alright. It’s just that I don’t want to put anyone off their food.”

There is laughter around the table; even Will smirks, though the expression falls as he catches you looking. You wonder again at his distaste for you, surmising with a coolly adult rationality that he is jealous of you having come between him and his mentor.

“Well?” says Will, with the rudeness of a spoiled prince. “What’s the Lover’s modus operandi?”

You catch Jack’s dark eyes squinting a fraction, and though he says nothing you rally at the knowledge that he has not entirely succumbed to Will and Hannibal’s spell.

“The dead girls are always found in rivers around the city,” you say, “sealed inside hollowed out rubber dolls. You know the kind I mean. The killer cuts open the dolls and mutilates the women to fit them inside, then seals them back up again. Keeps them in there till they suffocate, or starve to death.

Some of the women die within hours, others a few days. They must be so scared, in so much pain. But obviously that’s what he wants. Every three months or so he does it all over again.”

“Meaning we don’t have long before he takes a seventh lover,” says Will. “Fortunately for you, staying here will protect you, to an extent. You’re too far out of the killer’s hunting range for him to take an interest.”

“Can’t keep the princess locked up in her tower forever,” says Jack, cleaning his hands on a napkin. “We'd better hurry up and catch him. Now, if you’ll all excuse me—”

He rises from his seat; a bathroom visit, you realise, and an opening to speak to him alone.

Thinking quickly, you reach for your water glass and dash it across your lap. Your hand is shaking enough for the accident to seem convincing.

Both remaining men glance up from the table, startled. Will all but rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” you say, in a grovelling squeak. “I’ll go and change, if that’s alright.”

Dr Lecter, as always, is crisply polite.

“You may go. But hurry. Our guest will expect you to return.”

For once, Will makes no comment, only returns to his food with the reverence of accepting the wafer at communion.

You pad along the corridor towards the downstairs bathroom, waiting for Jack to emerge. From what you know of Hannibal’s close relationship with the police you cannot rest your hopes of escape entirely on Agent Crawford, but you have seen the occasional teeter of trust, the unspoken perplexity with which he regards the dynamics of the household.

You may yet sway his sympathies, if you are careful. Still, you are so certain of failure that you tremble with mirth, like a drunk.

Jack steps out of the bathroom, stopping short as he notices you wincing in the shadows.

“Hey, there. Are you alright? You look a little green around the gills.”

“Agent Crawford,” you say, in a half-whisper. “I was wondering if you could help me. You know Will and Hannibal pretty well, right?”

“It’s Jack when I’m not working. And, uh, reasonably so, I’d say. Is something wrong?”

You pause, labouring over your response. To imply your wardens are the enemy will surely strike Jack as too outlandish, the mumblings of the mad.

“This treatment isn’t right for me,” you say, rather weakly. “It’s too much, and I don’t think they’re really listening to me. I miss my parents, my own room. I’m suffocating here. I was wondering if you could talk to Will and Dr Lecter. Encourage them to let me go home.”

Jack’s dark eyes soften, and he stoops slightly over you, as he might in order to speak to a small child.

“Dr Lecter told me you might ask me that. The road you’re on is a tough one, young lady, but you’ve got to stick it out. Not just for yourself, but for everybody who cares about you. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure Will and Hannibal would be disappointed to see you go home so soon.”

You turn your head into your shoulder, your neck caught in a miserable spasm.

“Will doesn’t like me at all.”

“That’s just the way he is. Prickly with just about everyone he encounters. Imagine the strain on me, having to keep him in line.”

You do laugh, then, and Jack flashes you a gap-toothed grin.

“He’ll warm up to you. Though to be honest, I don’t know why Hannibal’s getting Will involved in all this when he already has enough on his plate. Between work and those episodes of his, I don’t know if he ought to take on too many other responsibilities. But I guess Dr Lecter knows what he’s doing.”

Episodes?

You’d noticed Will’s fits of illness, a certain fragility; to hear it confirmed is a gold coin in your hand to spend in the future to come.

“I’m going to head back to the table,” says Jack. “Let’s give all this a little more time. If it doesn’t work over the next couple of months I might put a word in for you, suggest therapy sessions over inpatient treatment. But I can’t push it, kid. You’re not my patient. I can’t overstep the line, here. But I’m on your side. You keep up what you’re doing, alright?”

He leaves you there, knuckling tears from your eyes. Regretting that you hadn’t spoken the truth, in all its risk.

*

You go to your room, meaning only to dress. In the end you cannot resist returning to Hannibal’s scales on the way back, called by a manic self-flagellating urge to know much further weight you’ve gained from the meal.

You are not free, will never be free, are worth nothing but numbers. They've become all you are.

It’s as you’re stepping, naked, stupid with despair onto the scale that you hear a voice behind you.

“You must learn to restrain these impulses, little one.”

You turn so sharply that something strains in your neck again. Your hands strive to cover your nakedness. A futility, considering what he has seen, that he has fucked you.

“I assume that you have also spoken to Jack Crawford,” says Hannibal. “Pleading your case to be released. How naughty you have been.”

How handsome he looks, almost young, in the tasteful bathroom light. There is something like death in his sudden beauty, a void coldness.

Terror, a stake of ice from throat to cunt.

He means to kill you, if not now, then soon.

You know of only one way he might forgive so many missteps. Another course: you eat your pride.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy,” you say. “Please don’t tell Will.”

You lower your arms, forging a sword of your vulnerability. Hannibal glances down only once, and with more amusement, then, than thirst.

“He will never know,” he says. “If you come to my room tonight. There is a lesson you must learn. It cannot wait.”

*

There is a tension about the residence of waiting, after Will and Jack have gone, the dry-mouthed breath before the silver lipped drop of the guillotine.

There is motion about the house, yet you feel rather than hear it; Hannibal has a way of carrying his physicality that seems to possess no weight at all. Ghoulish, his haunting of the rooms below as you sit on his bed, to await him.

You arrange yourself on the dark sheets in sacrificial mode, so ill with fear that it seems all your organs are in torsion, a helix of flesh from chest to womb.

It strikes you that you’d lain so, once, a night your father's friend, Leland Frost, had stumbled the many stairs to your room, beer the umber of his breath as he’d kissed you goodnight.

You had let him touch you, then, as you will let the devil touch you, now. As a child, as an adult, you are absolved: animals must eat, and their prey bear no fault when the hand of God steers them in the direction of hunger.

Hannibal ascends the stairs, each footfall making you jump. Stiff-backed, you turn to a sleek alarm clock on the bedside table, vowing to fix your eyes to its sympathetic face until the hour is done.

A name—yours—blackens your ear, a knell of things more wicked than death.

“Little one,” says Hannibal. “I will not hurt you. This lesson involves no corporal punishment.”

You sit up slightly, slippery in grey silk pyjamas, of whose cost you dare not think.

“Not the lights,” you say, hastily. “Or that metronome thing. I hated it.”

Dr Lecter removes his jacket, socks, and shoes, the quiet process of putting them away a careful rite, his prayer unspoken.

“To begin with,” he says, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your personal habits.”

He speaks delicately, but with an undertone of velvet sensuality that delivers you into fear you cannot resist.

“How often do you pleasure yourself, little one?”

“I don't,” you say.

The words form with such stumbling velocity that you cringe at your own lie.

Hannibal looks down at you with a sort of sorrow.

“If that is your response, then I must teach you.”

“No! I mean, don’t. I’m sorry. I do... do that. But it’s embarrassing to talk about it. I don’t want to.”

“I’m afraid you must. To be a fully-fledged adult it is important to embrace all facets of yourself, including sexuality. So, please address my question.”

Hannibal steps towards the bed, not with threat, but to pursue the lost treasure of your secret.

“Twice a week, maybe,” you admit. “At night.”

“How do you masturbate?”

You’d never expected the world from Dr Lecter. He speaks it factually, without humour, priestly severe.

“With my hands,” you say. “My fingers.”

You’d been too embarrassed to order toys to the house, which still you share with your family, the humiliation of an accidentally opened box an unimaginable discomfort.

“What do you think about as you climax, little one?” asks Hannibal, a question worse still than those before it in the nature of your answer.

You’d watch videos, often violent, peruse literature online which you hastily erased from your history, afterwards. It almost seems you beckoned in this abuse, through your interests, aroused only by cruelty, and the dark.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Different things. Nothing specific.”

Hannibal takes another step towards the bed.

“Answer again.”

Tears char your vision into soot.

“I hate you,” you say, fiercely. “More than I hate Will.”

“Because I cannot be moved in my resolve, as he can,” says Hannibal. “Will is suggestible, to an extent, whereas I am sure in my standing. It sears your ego to obey a man so entirely.”

He pads, barefoot, in a half circle around the bed, a panther uncaged.

“So,” says Dr Lecter. “Speak. What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

You open your mouth, and find yourself mute, truly incapable of speech.

Hannibal seems to understand this, however, for he does not insist again.

“Undress for me. I would like to see you demonstrate.”

Your head swings in a rattling ‘no’.

“Very well. I will attempt it.”

Again you shake your head, and in cumbersome, unlovely motions you struggle out of the pyjamas, ashamed of how clumsy you appear before him.

Naked, you sit up on your knees, covering yourself with your arms as best you can.

“Legs apart, please,” says Hannibal. “Then do as you normally would. I will merely watch.”

He reclines in one of the chairs in the room, his eyes like foreign seas, reflecting the night.

Scalded with humiliation, you bring your fingertips between your thighs and stroke in looping circles. The skin there is parched, unresponsive, unyielding; to be watched in such intimacy takes the pleasure from the act, which has always been in realms of secret sin.

“I can’t do it, Hannibal,” you say. “Nothing’s happening. I don’t feel good.”

It is the only time you’ve used his first name to his face, a trespass into familiarity you do not share.

“Is it because you don’t have access to the usual stimulating material?” he asks, ignoring your blunder.

You snap your knees shut upon your hands.

“I don’t use any.”

Hannibal takes your calves in his hands, a grip which might break.

“I know that you do. When I accepted you as my patient I made a point to visit your house, when no one was home. Your room was as I expected it to be. Juvenile, and stale aired from many days spent there alone. Your laptop was open. It wasn’t difficult to breach. Your password was the title of a book on your shelf.”

Wintergirls. Laurie Halse Anderson had been a staple of your literary youth, and it had never occurred to you that anyone might guess it.

“You didn’t clear your history as thoroughly as you believed,” says Hannibal. “I was intrigued by what I found there.”

You do not resist as he opens your legs, so limp are you in your horror.

“I— what you saw— it doesn’t mean I want this. It’s not the same.”

Hannibal blinks slowly.

“No. I would be uninterested if it was.”

He sits upright again, folding his hands in his lap. How pure they look, a harpsichordist’s tools, an illustrator’s. Evil, beautiful things.

“Begin again,” says Hannibal. “Think of Will and I. What we have done to you. Our touch. Our words. The imposition of power. The ineludible fact of your belonging to us.”

Femoral heat. Your core rings crimson bronze, and your fingers follow its kulning. You want to stop, but Hannibal’s voice alone is a hypnosis, effective even without the ticking and the lights.

“Imagine Will’s hand across your cheek. Around your throat. Envision my own.”

You make some noise, not quite a moan.

Dr Lecter lowers himself down until his breath mists your cunt, and the sensation has you writhing beneath it, maddened by the ephemeral touch of air, and needing it to finish.

He looks up, and his eyes are a reveller’s, a satyr of ancient land.

“How sweet you must taste. I have prepared your meals specifically to assure that you do.”

Your hand cycles in motion, compelled by his mystical art.

Hannibal remains over you, too close, at too great a distance.

“Stop,” he says. “That is enough.”

You are so close that the command is more craven in its dealings than Will’s palm across your face.

Your breaths are the sunken heat of a pagan sun. You burn and burn.

“Why should I give you what is so unwanted?” asks Hannibal, and pauses, as though you might beg.

Speech is inconceivable to your mind, as it is now, a concept like the colour of dying. You only sit with the head of a God between your legs, forced to such a brink that your weakness rides through you like a drug.

Eyes of night pleasure, of deathly ritual—

He laps your cunt for scarcely half a minute before you career over your edge, stacked orgasms that render you sightless with their power. You arc from the bed like an antler, a horn cry blown through your soul.

The pleasure is a stellar whiteness. You writhe up towards his tongue like a wave.

“Poor girl,” says Hannibal, as you lie piteously beneath him. “You can do nothing without me. Even this.”

[certifiablyinsanez]

The reason I’m mentally ill is because of Good Omens again. Crowley is such a tragic character. Imagine spending the greater majority of your life being a fundamentally good and kind person, despite being lumped in with evil people. You’re good, and you do good, and you love being good. Your favorite person loves you for all your flaws because you’re heart is pure (maybe more pure than theirs). They’re the only one that sees and trusts and loves your kindness. And you can’t accept that love. You can’t return it. You can’t even risk someone hearing them compliment you. You have to deny that affection. You can only feel good in micro doses. Like a human having to make themselves only breathe once every 5 minutes. You have to commit to your greatest lie that you’re actually the antithesis of something you like about yourself (and there isn’t much else you like about yourself either). You have to grab them and be rough with the one you love because they’ll get you killed. You were already tortured for presumably decades. So much so that that’s why the next time you’re seen, it’s the only time you’ve ever used a cane. ‘If I’m dead I can’t be with you. And if I die I think you like me enough to be sad and I would rather suffer this fate than make you sad.’

Justice for these two. 😭

[kisstheoak]

“try this :)” he says as he hands me a lil blue pill. just like clock work you give me my nightly medication. i don’t ask questions, i don’t know the pills your feeding me are e. it’s been a long day, we’ve done our nightly routines and smoked, now it’s time for bed.

only i can’t sleep. i can’t stay still. wiggling and squirming under the covers, i don’t know what this feeling is but it’s so overwhelming, i need relief. i don’t have to worry about waking you, you’ve been waiting for this moment. for me to be restless and needy, warm and wet.

“awh, is my little bunny in heat again?” you’ll taunt. i’ll whine. i’ll rub and grind against you, needy beyond belief. i don’t know what’s gotten into me, i’ve never felt such intense urges before. i’ll beg you to “fix my problem” and it won’t be long before your hand is down my panties and gently rubbing my clit.

you’re such a sweet and gentle master. slowly conditioning and micro dosing me over time until it was ultimately perfect. now you know how easily you can use me to your advantage, with one little pill your dumb rabbit will be feral for you <3

[solselah]

Pick a song ?

(Channeled messages)

💜

PILE 1 - The less I know the better

Your spirit guides are holding messages from you because they feel it’s the best you don’t know at this time !!! There are other things that should be taken care of right now by you !! They don’t want you to be obsessively thinking about what happened or why it happened!This separation or Disconnection between you and these people/person just know It’s not up to you to beat yourself up , you don’t deserve that !! It’s time to Put away the excuses & pick yourself up , don’t treat yourself like you aren’t worth a relaxing bath & a face mask or even a beautiful candle lit dinner. There is someone out there for you & this could even be solely friend based for some of you ! Like the people coming in your circle will be so supportive of your new life & new business ventures! They are here to support. Let them in ! Try not to pussh away!

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

PILE 2 - HELL N BACK

You’re now starting to notice the mental state you were in when your started a relationship, was not healthy it wasn’t even close to okay! You are actually baffled this person is still willing to stick it out and rock with you. They see the you , you haven’t been able to get in touch with ! I’m hearing they are acting as your mirror at this time !You may really be shying away from this person for that reason! It’s crazy how fast you Snap on this person sometimes ! They forgive and love you either way but they deem you a bit as snappy , but they really do chalk it up as like a “you” thing. They really would rather be with you than alone any day! You have a good one on your hands but I feel for you , you may need a mental break to find yourself ! Something is off here for you & it’s okay to admit it ! I would recommend being open about it by any means ! It helps to bring understanding into the dynamic.

*Especially if the transparency is private*🤫

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

PILE 3-ADORE

Now that you have discovered who you are outside of others perspective!! You are learning how to fall in love with your soul! You could have had your self esteem broken down BAD as far as 8/10 years ago , you’ve come this far on your journey understanding the things you’ve practiced have come in to action, landing you success in finding the reflective part of your soul! people tend to us others as mirrors … you chose to look within your own body to see who you are to YOU. You could be someone who does Acid or even takes your occasional shrooms , there is an emphasis on micro dosing!

So that could totally be your thing ,it helps you to be one with self! Especially after all of your broken moments regarding the relationship you built for / With self!!

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

PILE 4 - ICE SLIPPIN

Right now you’re so closed off !! I would go as far as saying you’re done with what life is offering right now (over it ) You could be feeling very protective over your heart at this point ! You’ve even relocated to grasp a bit of peace !! Someone could’ve really Took your heart out your chest and stepped on it ! Like they are so truly sorry and they just don’t know how to show that to you ever! It’s such a sad thing for this dynamic because it could’ve been something. you feel that you being closed off & cold is your answer! In reality it’s really numbing your true feelings… so bad. Your angels really need you to be honest with yourself about the track record of this relationship ! Was it bound to happen ? Were you numb to them ? Are you still ? There are so many question that need answers & that being hidden from you sometimes really devastates you because you desire to know more. You’re hurt and don’t know why ! That’s how it feels. You are not alone in this trust me. Your heavily heavily surrounded by Grand teachers & angels that are ready to go to war for you & are willing to teach you about how you can start to heal , it’s so time for you to begin to Build your strength back. It’s so necessary for the next steps for you and your opportunities ! I know this connection had you so emotionally attached. You were not the only one I promise !!!! They may hide it and throw it out the window but I guarantee you they are running in circles. It’s indeed time for you to

“criss cross apple sauce” ( very specific)

in the middle of the circle and elevate your energy right in their face at that!!!

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

Hope you enjoy 💜

IG: @Soleccentric

SONGS:

1: Tame impala - the less I know the better

2: BAKAR FT SUMMER WALKER - HELL N BACK

3: ADORE - WILLOW SMITH FT JAHNAVI HARRISON

4: ICE SLIPPIN - OMAR APOLLO

[ladykissingfish]

Deidara: You’ve been in here for days, Sasori. What are you doing?

Sasori: Updating my Poison List.

Deidara: Poison … list?

Sasori: Mm. It’s a constantly-changing list of all the poisons I keep on hand in my lab here, what plants and herbs are needed to make them, what their side effects are in different doses, their antidotes, that sort of thing. Been so busy with this Akatsuki nonsense lately that I realize I haven’t fully updated my inventory in quite a while.

Deidara: Jeez … remind me never to make you angry so that you don’t try and poison me to death, hm.

Sasori: Oh, I couldn’t do that.

Deidara: Aww … because you love me so much??

Sasori: No; because you’re immune to all but a select few of them.

Deidara: … how would you know I’m immune?

Sasori: Because I’ve been micro-dosing your food and drinks for two years with bits of everything. Very trace amounts at first but then more and more. You’ve now had very large quantities of toxins that could kill a man several times over, but you haven’t reacted at all to them. I’ve helped you build an immunity.

Sasori: *kisses Deidara’s cheek* You can thank me for my efforts later. Now run along and let me work, okay? I’ll come and make you dinner later.

Deidara:

[3-2-whump]

Whump Quote 2

Or, micro-dosing whump in anticipation of a busy next two weeks. 😵‍💫

TW/CW: nsfw, intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, implied noncon (like it’s not outright stated, but whumpee isn’t having a good time)

“You could at least pretend you’re enjoying this, too. Were it not for how warm you are, I’d swear I’m fucking a corpse!”

*staring judgmentally while continuing to not react*

[enby-jellyfish]

The Start of Summer

Part 1 of Managing the Mystery Shack

Grunkle Stan X GN!Reader (POC friendly)

Pronouns: You/Your, They/Them

Summary: Summer has begun and the twins have arrived.

Warnings: Slight angst, but that's it I think.

Word Count: 1984

A/N: Hey y'all, sorry it's been *checks notes* Over a month!? I hit a mental block due to school starting and had to micro dose my productivity for a bit :( I will try having a better updating schedule from now on!

Previous part

It has been around thirty years since the incident. A lot has changed in that time. The wound on your face has healed, leaving behind a visible scar in its place.

The shack has also changed. Over the years it has been properly transformed into a beloved tourist trap, complete with gift shop, now named the Mystery Shack. The left over rooms have been fully redecorated and anything science related has been moved into the basement.

Together you and Stan have made countless renovations to the formerly grim shack and transformed it into your shared home and a successful business.

In the time that passed the two of you grew very close, almost like a family. You work in the shack together, eat together, watch TV together, and work on the portal together. There is very little time you spend apart.

The two of you sit squeezed next to each other on the small worn couch in the living room, watching a rerun of an old Duck-tective episode, as you usually do after dinner, when the phone in the office starts ringing. “Who calls at this hour? Can you get that? I would but, it’s sooo. Faaar. Awayyy.” Stan asks you, extending his arm in a fake attempt to reach the ringing phone, not taking his eyes from the small TV for a second.

You sigh and roll your eyes at his lazy antics as you get up, joints cracking as you do so. You should probably get that checked out at some point. “Ugh, fine. But you’re getting it next time.”

You move to the office and pick up the phone, holding it up to your ear and putting on the best customer service voice you can muster. “Hello, this is the Mystery Shack. We put the ‘fun’ in ‘no refunds’! How can I help you?” You can hear someone yelling on the other side of the line before they address you, “Hey, can I talk to my uncle please- YES, I’M CALLING NOW! GET OFF MY BACK. Please.”

The remainder of Stan’s family is… certainly something. Dropping the customer service voice you respond. “Sure, one second. Stan, it’s for you! Your nephew!” You call for him and he groans in response. You hear him turn off the TV and start shuffling your way, muttering curses under his breath. He takes the phone from you, leaning on his arm against the wall, fidgeting with the phone cord in his fingers. “Hey kid, what’s up?”

You head back to the living room to give them some privacy, flipping through an old notebook while waiting for him to finish his conversation.

About a minute passes when Stan calls your name. “, is it alright if my grandniece and -nephew spend the summer here?”

You had met the twins a few times before. In fact, Stan had taken you with him to the hospital when they were born. He finds it difficult seeing his family alone. He mentioned once, in a moment of vulnerability, that you make it easier.

He was nervous to hold them at first, worried he would mess something up, but when his nephew placed the two infants in his arms he practically melted. You remember how he refused to let them go. Shermie basically had to wrestle the twins out of his arms.

You had seen the twins a handful of times more after that, they seem like good kids.

“Yeah, it’s fine by me!” Stan finishes up his conversation and rejoins you in the living room.

“They’ll be coming tomorrow, their parents really seemed eager to get them out of the house.” You feel bad for those kids, it’s no secret their parents’ marriage is on thin ice with the amount of fights they have. At least they’ll be out of the house and won’t have to witness when it all falls apart.

“Where are they gonna be staying?” There aren’t really any bedrooms available in the shack with Ford’s being boarded off and Stan taking Fiddleford’s.

“I was thinking the attic, we should still have a spare bedframe and a few old mattresses lying around here somewhere.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“Sounds like a plan.” You check the time. “We should get their room ready now if we still want to work on the portal tonight.” Stan hums in agreement and extends his hands for you to grab, hoisting you up from the couch with a groan.

The two of you clean up the attic and gather what you need for the room. Together you take apart the bedframe, putting the headboard with two mattresses on one side of the writing desk underneath the triangular window, and the base with one mattress on the other side. A few pillows, blankets, and some fairy lights later it looks pretty decent.

Exhausted, yet satisfied with yourselves you wipe the sweat you build up from your brow. “Do you think they’ll like it?” You shrug. “I don’t know for sure, but I think so, kids love attic rooms, right? Why?” Stan sheepishly shrugs, rubbing his neck and avoiding eye contact. “I want them to like it here, I guess.” You can’t tell if ‘here’ means the room or with him in general.

You step closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. “I’m sure they will.” Stan stares at you for a moment, seemingly deciding whether to believe you or not. He settles for the first and nods.

Suddenly realising you still have your hand on his shoulder you remove it, patting his shoulder awkwardly before turning for the door. “C’mon, we still have a portal waiting for us. It isn’t going to fix itself.”

After a few hours of working in the basement you bid each other good night and head for your respective bedrooms.

That next day Stan anxiously awaits the kids. In his mission to make a good impression he threw away all alcohol and cigars in the house and even swore off cursing in front of the kids.

When the bus with the twins finally arrive, he excitedly gives them a tour of the shack before taking them to Greasy’s Diner with the excuse that he ‘doesn’t feel like cooking’.

That night when you get ready to head to bed you stop in front of the twins’ room. Stan stands in front of the door listening to the voices pouring from the room. He notices you, puts a finger to his lips and continues listening in on them. You are about to tell him off for eavesdropping when you hear what the twins are discussing.

“Think about it Mabel, do you really want to spend the entire summer here? We could just run away, catch the next bus home, maybe call the FBI while we’re at it, because I’m pretty sure at least 90% of everything going on in this shack is illegal.”

You look at Stan, but he refuses to meet your eye. “I don’t know Dipper. I mean, Grunkle Stan seemed really happy to have us here. This all doesn’t seem that bad. Maybe we could- OH, I’ve got an idea!” You hear Mabel explain that they could use a magic eight-ball to decide their fate.

You hold your breath as you wait for its answer. It tells them to stay. That is good you suppose.

You pull away from the door when you hear the twins settle into bed, Stan suddenly rushing toward his room. He was never very good at dealing with emotions properly, a remnant of his rough childhood, but you’ve known him long enough to tell when he needs comfort, even if he won’t ask for it.

You gently open the door to Stan’s room and find him sitting on his bed, head in his hands. Without saying a word, you sit down next to him and softly put your arms around his tense frame. After a while of holding him, you feel him starting to relax a bit.

Without saying a word, he sits up and moves you so you’re both laying down. This isn’t the first time you’ve slept in the same bed, holding each other, though it has been a while. In the early days you quickly found out he had a lot of nightmares.

You had come rushing into his room at the sound of him screaming, finding him looking disoriented and covered in sweat. Eventually you had managed to calm him down.

Stan didn’t want you leaving after that.

You didn’t want to either.

Whenever the need arises, like now, you would just hold each other. Sometimes there would be talking, sometimes not.

Now it's the latter. Both of you content with just laying there, inhaling each other's scent, and tracing patterns over aged skin until sleep takes over.

The next day Stan is mostly back to his usual self and decides to put the kids to work, making Dipper hang up signs in the woods.

In the time Dipper is gone Mabel, who has decided that this getaway is the perfect opportunity to have an ‘epic summer romance’, after many failed attempts around the shop, which was pretty entertaining to watch, finally found a date.

“Hey boss, guess what?” You turn your gaze from the notepad you were comparing prices on to the widely grinning girl next to you. “I’m not your ‘boss’ Mabel, you don’t work for me. What is it?” You gently remind her, despite knowing that nickname is definitely going to stick.

She rolls her eyes playfully and waves away your comment. “Pshh, tell that to Grunkle Stan! Anyways, guess who has a date? It’s me! I have a date!” She squeals excitedly. “Aw, that’s nice. I’m happy for you Mabel.” She squeals some more before running off to get ready for her date, leaving you to continue doing your job.

He comes to pick her up later that day. The teenaged emo boy is quickly introduced as ‘Norman’ before Mabel rushes them outside. Dipper follows them shortly after, hurriedly exclaiming he has no time to explain before rushing out the door, leaving you slightly confused.

A few hours later the twins walk back into the gift shop looking dishevelled. “Hey kids. Mabel, how did your date go?” She gives you a big smile and a thumbs up. “Horrible!” Well, that’s not the answer you were expecting. “Oh! Are you okay? Do you need anything?” She waves away the idea. “Nah!” Well, alright then.

Stan, who was counting money before, stops and tries breaking the ice by making a joke, which he doesn’t get a reaction to. You decide to help him out. “Oh, would you look at that. It seems I have overstocked some inventory.” Stan is about to tell you off for wasting precious money but stops himself when he notices you giving him a look and nodding to the twins.

“OH, er. Hey kids, how about you pick something from the shop, on the house.”

Dipper picks out a nice hat with a pine tree symbol and Mabel chooses a… grappling hook?! Where did she even find that?

Stan is easily persuaded, but you are still hesitant. “Stan, giving a 12-year-old a weapon doesn’t seem like the best idea.”

Mabel gives you her best impression of a kicked puppy. “Oh, please, please, please, please, boss?”

Oh, you can’t say no to those eyes. “Do you promise you’ll be careful?”

“Scout’s honour!” She gives you a salute. “You have never been a scout.” Dipper corrects her.

“GRAPPELING HOOK!”

That evening Mabel accidentally destroys a window.

Next part (TBA)

Masterlist

Thank you for reading <3

[wellthebardsdead]

Wyll: Astarion, can I talk to you for a moment.

Astarion: yes darling? What is it?

Wyll: important. Halsin, you too.

Halsin: well now I’m concerned…

Wyll: it’s about Clow… *sighs* I adore him, I truely do. I’d give the world itself if it meant keeping him safe but-

Astarion: but what? Sick of his poisonous lips? How unbridled he is beneath the sheets?

Wyll: he’s barely 300 yet… and my candle will be snuffed out long before his, I don’t want him to be left alone once I’m gone… I understand you two also have feelings for him and I know he chose me, but-

“I’m done letting people make decisions for me.”

Wyll: *spins around to see the drow approaching* Clow, I-

Clow: *takes his hands* y-you told me I’m allowed to make my own decisions and choices. That I’m allowed to want things… and I want you. And y-you’re not allowed to tell me what I want!

Wyll: you’re right… I’m not… *sighs* I… I just want to be sure you’ll be taken care of after I’m gone. My lifetime is just seconds compared to your hours… a blink of your eyes and I’ll be an old man. And in another, I’ll be gone… are you sure you want to be with me? These two are elves they’ll live just as long as you-

Clow: *grabs him by his horns and plants a soft kiss on his lips*

Wyll: *bracing for a taste of poison that’s… no longer there* hmm??? *pulls back a little* did you forget to micro dose today?

Clow: *visibly fighting back tears* I stopped because I like kissing you and I hate hurting you. I want to take care of you when you grow old, I want us to start a family, I want to see everything on the overworld with you… I want to be with you.

Wyll: *smiles tearfully and holds his face giving him another kiss* then I’ll just have to make sure you’ll be well cared for and loved by our children when im gone…

Astarion: oh thank the gods, not that I don’t find you attractive Clow darling, we did have our fun after all, but I’m- attempting to bed with Karlach. It’s like sleeping in an oven when she holds me~

Halsin: and lae’zel and I have been enjoying each others company, she tells me I’m a ‘good workout’ hm.

*decades later*

Clow: *held it together for the public funeral of grand duke wyll ravenguard, being gracious and regal for the crowds until finally making it behind closed doors and collapsing into the arms of the children he and Wyll adopted along with his Uncle, Drizzt* it hurts! Why does it hurt so badly?! Why does my heart feel like it’s dying?!

Drizzt: *knows the pain of losing those you love all too well* because it is… *hugs him tight as he and his nephews and nieces all crowd around to comfort their grieving father and grieve with him* but it will live on with the love and memories he’s left with it for safe keeping…

[90s-2000s-barbie]

I can only micro dose your blog before I start taking psychic damage from all the memories I didn't know I had that you are unlocking.

Keep it up. You're doing a great job.

Xoxo

Aww I hope that’s a good thing and not too overwhelming. lol😆 In all seriousness, thanks so much though that’s means a lot. I love archiving long lost memories and posting stuff I’ve loved since my childhood and it makes me happy to know it brings back long lost memories for others too. This is my life and will be and I will forever post my passion so really means a lot to share it with others and to know people like it too. 🩷

Thanks so much for the ask. I really appreciate it. Hope you’re have a beautiful day. 🩷😊

[thetavolution]

OC SMASH OR PASS

Tagged by: I was tagged once and then ran amuck

Tagging: Any of you who want to do it!

Rules: Include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. The “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idk).

Viktor

QUICK FACTS

Height: 5’11"

Age: 38

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Pansexual

PROS

He's protective. He takes care of people, even if he's just met them. He protects the weak. He's an incredible ally on the battlefield.

He'd be open to polyamory, but he'd be much more into kitchen table polyamory.

He loves getting tied up and will tie up his partner if they enjoy it.

Biting is on the table.

Viktor is incredibly loving. So much of his pain is tied to how much he loves people, especially those closest to him. He puts his whole heart into every relationship, romantic or platonic.

He's good at relationship maintenance. Unless someone really fucked him over, he does everything to keep in touch and show people he cares.

He's generous with everything he owns and with his time. Even if he has things to do, he'll stop to help you. (I.E. Stopping to help every Tom, Dick, and Harry while trying to get this tadpole out.)

He's got cake.

CONS

He's a brooding cowboy of a paladin. If you're into that, great! If not, uh oh.

Vengeance is his thing. This can be alienating to people who are more about forgiveness. He goes on revenge missions as an oath of vengeance paladin.

He doesn't have a place to call home. He's never settled down in one spot.

While he isn't an addict, he does turn to drugs and alcohol to numb his feelings more than he should.

He wouldn't get along with people who are evil or hurt the innocent. He can navigate people who are more morally gray though.

He's lost a lot of people and he has a fear of losing anyone else. It can negatively impact how he moves forward in relationships. He's also overprotective because of it.

A lot of his actions are dictated by his survivor's guilt. He doesn't prioritize his own safety because he thinks he should have died years ago.

He really needs a therapist, but who on Toril doesn't? (Do I need to make a therapist character? Does anybody want that?)

DETAILS

The man runs on coffee and little else most days. The easiest way to get him to actually eat something is to make his favorite foods: Buffaloaf with Honeyed Corn, Roasted Cod with Mashed Potatoes, and Faerie Cake.

He loves falconry and wood carving.

Viktor has a favorite falcon that he cares for that he named Mike. He's never explained why he named her Mike.

His original party was murdered by trolls, including his former lover. It's where his survivor's guilt comes from.

He was inspired by westerns like Johnny Guitar, McCabe & Mrs. Miller, and The Wild Bunch.

When it comes to drinking, he prefers dark beers or red wines.

His drug usage isn't overly wild. He mostly sticks to micro-dosing on mushrooms if he's not drinking.

He doesn't talk a lot, but he listens.

[n0tmatilda]

there’s something that really fucks with you about the first person you ever fall in love with turning out to be an awful person. first of all, falling absolutely, irrevocably in love with somebody after nearly 15 years of never once feeling romantic attraction is intense. it throws you in head first, something the micro-dosing of parasocial love could never prepare you for. sure you fell a little bit in love with the people who saved your life, the people who’s music you blasted in your ears until they rang, until it blocked out the incessant noise of existence. sure you clutched onto your own body, shaking and whimpering like a wounded dog, imagining how it would feel to be held by them - by someone on the other side. they made it out, and maybe that’s proof that you can make it out too, right ? they wrote about the things that you feel so deeply, they made them poetry, they made them beautiful. they screamed about the things people don’t even dare to whisper about where you’re from, the things that always made you feel ashamed. they told you that the world could never take your heart, that you were stronger and bolder and brighter because of everything that you hated so deeply; everything about yourself that you wished away when looking in the mirror, standing until your legs began to shake, before retiring to bed and clutching at your torso once again in the hopes that those cut-up arms would feel like someone who cared. but of course, no matter how much you hoped, hope was really all you had. and that was the problem, really. because when you have nothing, you’ll take anything. you were starving, and she fed you. it didn’t matter what exactly she fed you, she cared enough to notice the spine protruding from your back, the hollowness of your cheeks, the ribs straining against your skin. she watched you shivering in a perfectly warm room, and she held you. you lived off of her warmth like she was the sun, and she loved it, for a while. it made her feel better, I suppose, doing something good for a fucked up little thing like you. she loved it when you were dying, when you were small, when she could fit you in the palm of her hand, right where she wanted you. she fed you love until you were far too alive and healthy for her liking; until you weren’t cold enough to make her feel warm, until your suffering no longer made her a saviour. you could have gone on without her, really you could, but you’d become so infatuated with her that the mere thought of doing so sent you right back to that cold, dark place where she found you. and you didn’t want to go back. my god, you didn’t want to go back. you kicked and screamed and clawed at a door that was never really locked. you kept yourself in there alone, starving and shaking and clutching at your own body once again, arguing with the common sense fighting it’s way to the surface of your brain that told you that you don’t even need to go back there. you’ll turn any room into that place if you’re left alone there long enough. because you want to be small enough for her to hold you again, don’t you ? there’s comfort in being so cold, so hungry, so desperate. because even if hope was all you had, it was a hell of a lot better than having nothing at all. and you didn’t even realise it until she took that away from you too.

[mainlysarcastic]

Being disabled in this society sucks so bad most of the time especially when cannabis is the only thing that helps

Like I can’t go anywhere and do things I enjoy because of pain and fatigue so I micro-dose (cannabis) to keep myself functional and ease the pain but micro-dosing means I can’t go anywhere unless someone else drives and there isn’t anywhere near enough public transport available

Also cannabis is so fucking expensive and when you’re disabled you can’t really work full time and insurance sure as hell won’t help help even though cannabis is the best option since over the counter pain meds don’t do shit and prescription pain meds are incredibly addictive (to me not worth the risk even if a Doctor would prescribe them)

And the state I live in still hasnt legalized it yet and the legal delta 9/8/10 thc-a/v etc edibles tend to not be gluten free (fucking celiac) so my options are to either cross state boarders and be upcharged by dispensaries near the boarder or to buy legal flower/ pre rolls ��but as we all know smoking is kinda bad for your lungs and I really hate it but like… wtf am I supposed to do?

(Luckily in Sep there’s gonna be a bill to legalize medical marijuana in Wisconsin but it’ll still be slow progress getting the industry to catch up)

Anyways being disabled in America just means being fucked over constantly at every turn and being so isolated most of the time

And I’m incredibly privileged in that my husband makes decent money so we aren’t living paycheck to paycheck and we both have strong family & friend support systems to fall back on if shit hits the wall

Disabled people who don’t have those things suffer even more and are super fucked by the system

Being disabled is so fucking expensive and it’s exhausting

I just wanna fucking live without dealing with all of this every moment of the day

[weirdcultstuff]

It’s like my skin has hardened around me now. If I focus on the bills, on my work, on lunch, on going for a walk, on watching a scary movie, on not thinking about it all, then I’m fine. I used to be hyper vigilant, couldn’t sit with my back to a door, couldn’t talk to men, had to wear this one specific hoodie and hat if I left the house. I felt strong joy often, and intense pain and shame and grief.

I’m not like that anymore. Now I’m a normal automaton. I feel good for a few hours at least, most days. Mornings are good usually, about ten am maybe? When I’m right in the thick of things at work. I’m having trouble sleeping again, I’ll wake up at midnight, then three am, then four thirty, then five. When my alarm goes off at six I’m not awake, it’s like I’m lazy and don’t want to get up but I also just don’t care that I want to stay in bed, so I don’t. I get up, get dressed, drink water, go to work.

I worry about normal things, and it is worry. I feel that anxious feeling in my chest when I think about bills, my career, fixing the car, going to the doctor. It’s like a micro dose of dread every few hours. I try not to think about it. And mostly I’m fine. I can think to myself, “my heart rate sped up, it’s probably the coffee. Just wait it out. Play a different podcast, take some breaths, it’ll pass.” And it does.

I get angry now, which is frickin weird. I have a short temper, not on the outside-I don’t act angry, I’m not mean to my coworkers or anything, but I feel anger in my head every few days when something happens that really slows me down or gets in my way, annoys me. My vision does that little skippy thing and I always want to roll my eyes at myself for being such a child about things.

And the rest of the time I’m fine. Normal. I’m not depressed. I eat my vegetables, I watch shows with my girlfriend, I go to work every single day except the weekends and on the weekends I rest and do chores around the house.

I worry about my parents now, they’re getting older. I can see it in their texts in the family chat. More health issues, more mishaps. My grandparents are getting too old, maybe I’ll never see them again? I teared up just typing that. Mostly I don’t think about them all, and that’s very intentional. I’ll sob cry if I do, and it won’t stop for a long time. It never resolves, I don’t feel better afterwards, I’ve done the therapy things and I’ve written it out and I’ve tried just crying until I wear out but those things don’t work. There’s no way to fix it, so I just don’t go there. I text them back about once a week, and that’s about it. Just send cropped photos of my life. Here’s some food I ate, here’s a picture of a tree, what’s the weather like there? (Please don’t die.)

Enough thinking about that.

Mostly I’m very normal now. It’s weird when I run into people who are Christian or one of my siblings says something super fundamentalist Christian online. It’s like, “oh yeah, people still believe that stuff. They actually believe it, it’s not just a story or a game. Weird.” And then I feel disconnected from them. I used to feel connected, like I understood where they were coming from and could relate to them even if I was somewhere else. Now I just feel somewhere else. I’m like, “that’s weird of you to praise god that you didn’t get more hurt than you just did. Also very weird to be talking seriously about having children before you’re even twenty. But okay. Couldn’t be me lol.” But like it was me once, I was like that. It just doesn’t feel like it anymore. If I go there in my mind, I probably won’t function anymore. And functioning is all there is, in the end. So I function.

I’m always functioning and it feels like each day is just a repeat. It’s fall though, time passes. Wild. Anyway, this whole post looks kind of bleak but I promise most of the time I don’t feel bleak. Most of the time I feel good, some of the time I feel anxious, every few days I get impatient over something which makes me feel angry, and occasionally I have a crying spell because I think too much about my family. That’s pretty much all that happens. And I’ve been doing a lot of listening to horror podcasts and not texting my friends back. So that’s fun.