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lxvvie · 6 months

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On today's episode of Simps-R-Us: A Guy and his... pet(s), or You, Your Faves, and your fur/feathered/fin-babies:

Capt. John Price - Standing ten toes down on this: Price would have two small, cute dogs, one named Sir Peabody and the other named Lady Marie. You two spoil them something fierce and they have a pile of little doggy hats that match their beloved papa's... much to his chagrin.

Gaz - Gaz said he'd surprise you and surprise you he did. He came home with a cockatoo. A damn cockatoo. Jokes on him, though, because your bird baby absolutely loves to prank the shit out of Gaz, too, by mimicking your voice when you're away and making him jump. Jokes on both of you now, because Soap has taught him how to curse and that's all he does now, Scottish accent and all. You have a picture saved of the bird (named Buttercup) on top of Gaz's head.

Alex Keller - Has the most gremlin Donskoy (named Brunswick) to ever gremlin, complete with the wide stormy eyes, which is funny because Keller can sometimes make a face that's very much gremlin-esque and the two greatly resemble each other. Can usually be found making biscuits on Alex's head.

Soap - Has a Labrador named Whiskey that he absolutely adores. Whiskey has also put you two in the most adorable of love triangles where you don't know whose affection you're playfully fighting for on any given day. Also has a tendency to take Soap's socks and he has to chase him throughout the house. Well, he and Whiskey are chasing each other throughout the house just about constantly.

Ghost - You guys talked about it but he surprised you one day by bringing home a Belgian Mal puppers who didn't make the unit. His name? Pup. Pup Riley. And Pup Riley is a ball of energy. Bloody hell. He always assumes he's going for a walk whenever you two make ready to leave. He also won't let Simon leave without him and so Simon usually has to create a diversion just to walk out the front door. It's also not uncommon for Pup to jump on his Papa whenever he gets home, too. Oh, did we also talk about the fact that Simon has to fight with Pup for his side of the bed whenever he's home or that Pup wakes him up early in the damn morning to take him out for his first walk of the day?

Roach - Found a stray kitten and brought her home. Her name's Oatmeal. Oatmeal is now the chonkiest, cutest loaf (you send Roach various pictures of her Loafiness). You two also bought her a set of those pet buttons just for shits and giggles and Oatmeal's really caught on to them. She uses "Dad", "Mad", and "Food" a lot even though she stays fed lmao.

Keegan - To everyone's surprise (and his own), has a husky named Balto who ignores the concept of personal space, loves to put his paw right in the middle of Keegan's face, and has pissed on Keegan's boots more than once because Balto felt slighted (you had to go to the groomer's, buddy, you rolled in mud). You and Keegan have also lost count of the number of times you've had to carry Balto into the house because he refuses to come inside, especially when it’s cold.

Alejandro - You two adopted a senior dog named Mojo who is the most peaceful little angel. Can usually be found lying near yours or Alejo's feet as you're working or something of that nature.

Rudy - You two have this huge ass tank full of fish that run the gamut of the rainbow and you remember all their names. The brooding one is named Alejandro and his namesake was not amused lmao.

König - You two have a small but floofy cat. She's black with a grey undercoat that he calls his "little Prinzessin" and she always looks like she's in a constant state of surprise. Whenever she blinks or closes her eyes, she becomes a floofy void. Her Highness prefers to be carried like a baby, thank you very much.

Phillip Graves - You two are the proud parents of a Bulldog named Bubba who thinks he has his humans trained (spoiler alert: he kinda does). Bubba Graves makes your day with the way he silently judges his parents, throws a tantrum when he doesn't get more food or pets, and usually has Philip sigh facetiously and go, "Now, son, why can't you behave for your old man, huh?"

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draven · 2 months

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I saw your mindflayer edward oc, what are they like?

woah oops idk when you asked this but i hope youll accept your answer now!

hes generally good-humored, though can seem stoic at first (if he's not actively attempting to scare you off). generally delivers punchlines to jokes incorrectly and without any real delivery prowess, so it can be hard to tell when hes joking. he understands that other species are more social and follow codes of conduct, but cant really wrap his head around why. nor does he care to figure it out. he likes to toy with people because it helps him know which buttons to press and when.

hes egotistical; as an ulitharid, he knows he is special and likes to flaunt it. (extra tentacles, baby.) that said, he has no desire to become an elder brain and abandoned his hive because of this. he enjoys a nice luxurious day of self-care just as much as he enjoys a day spent subjugating and enthralling others on various planes of existence. he lives a relatively solitary life, due to both choice and circumstance. (Choice because he would truly identify with the “introvert” label after a particularly compelling buzzfeed quiz and circumstance because, well, he is who he is.)

he will always do and say what benefits him or gives him leverage. this makes him sound mean but on the surface he really isnt. he can be a good and powerful friend, but you'll have to find him first and he is very good at hiding.

sometimes he is exceedingly wise. others, he sounds like a cheesy motivational poster you'd see in a classroom or office space.

some fun facts: he loves and revels in self-care, he plays stringed instruments, he has a cockatoo, he has a mansion powered by some salvaged nautiloid parts that lets him teleport his mystery mansion as he pleases. his favorite song is love shack by the b-52's.

thanks for reading my wall of text. enjoy this picture of him in his supremely evil outfit with his supremely evil bird.

#illithid #mind flayer #my ocs #dungeons and dragons #thank you for asking. i adore talking about him!

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surrealist-freakish-gremlin · 6 months

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Welcome to my circus!

𝔸𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕄𝕖

🪀 You can call me Gremz! I'm 20 y/o :)

🤹 My pronouns: 〄 he/him/his/himself 〄 they/them/theirs/themselves 〄 it/it/its/itself 〄 pup/pups/pups/pupself 〄 mush/mush/mushes/mushself 〄 bone/bone/bones/boneself 〄 void/void/voids/voidself 〄 star/star/stars/starself 〄 crit/critter/critters/critterself 〄 bub/bubs/bubbles/bubbleself

🍭 I am a transmasc genderfluid person who has xenogenders. I am pan and demi (both romatic and sexual) as well as polyamorous.

🍹My kins: 〄 crow 〄 cockatoo 〄 dog 〄 wolf 〄 axolotl 〄 fruit bat 〄 satyr/faun 〄 cryptid 〄 gremlin

🪗 I am a puppy regressor ▼・ᴥ・▼

🎭 I am miscecanis and identify as an omega. My scent is sweet orange with notes of cedar wood and coffee grounds.

🪇 I am cringepunk af ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

🌌 I'm autistic with a side of ADHD

🪔 I am a kinkster (seperate post for my kinks and stuff) -> If that makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me! Everything on this blog innapropriate for minors or littles is tagged appropriately so you do not have to see it; if that still makes you uncomfy, no need to come send hate, the block button is right there /gen /nbr

#🎪🐦‍⬛🪻┃gremz freaky house -> my stuff, posts spawned from my fucked up lil brain

#✍️📖💭┃gremz' online journal -> a messy tag, online journaling

#🌌🐾🪹┃gremz alterhuman -> alterhuman, kin, voidpunk,... posts

#🐦‍⬛🐾🪹┃gremz miscecanis -> miscecanis posts

#🐶🐾🪹┃pupz gremz -> petre posts

#🫧💫🍄┃gremz cringe -> me being cringe/cringepunk stuff

#💭🌻✨┃gremz autism rizz -> neurodiversity stuff

#🌌⛺️💭┃gremz daydreamz -> recovering from MaDD, immersive daydreaming

#🗯🍂🖤┃gremz punking -> hopepunk, cripplepunk, general punk posts

#🔮🪄🎱┃witchy gremz -> spirituality posts

#🎨🎭🪗┃gremz artz -> art (writing, theatre, sewing,...)

#📖🧠📚┃gremz learnz -> learning posts

#☕️🌿⛺️┃gremz livez -> lifestyle posts

#❤️‍🔥🌹🔥┃philic gremz -> k!nky and paraphilia posts (mdni)

▶ I reblog on @gremz-collection

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beebfreeb · 1 year

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You draw a lot of characters in really funky clothing. Do you yourself own much funky clothing? ✨️

I own a truly wonderful amount of patterned button up shirts. My favorite is the one with the pineapples, the 80s graphics one with the cockatoos with sunglasses, and a red floral one. Last month several people between the ages of 60-70 gawked at me in a circle and said I look just like my grandfather. I remembered the fact that my younger sibling once found my grandfather's own jean jacket he wore in the 70s, as I was wearing a jean jacket at the time.

Currently I am wearing khaki pants. My most worn item of clothing is a pair of grey dickies shorts my father gave to me because he ordered them online in the wrong size.

Also I own these socks as well:

#funny talking tag #i must say i am not nostalgic for the 70s or 80s at all but i grw up with people who were #and also i love tacky bullshit patterns #the only thing i really are about is how bulky 70s and 80s tech looks it is so.

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honeysucklethornsandalligtrhorns · 1 year

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TSP Character Headcanons!!

these are just personal headcanons of mine- you are not obliged to agree :]]

btw this will be a long long post so im putting the cut here lmao

𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕠𝕣:

-demisexual af. like he sees absolutely no appeal in ANYONE unless he's hardcore bonded with em (cough cough Stanley)

-ik this one is common but he absolutely talks with his hands, like, to the point where you have to stand further back because they're gesturing so much

-cannot STAND anything scented. scented candles, soap, even certain foods (hm? projecting onto characters who?)

-He could change his voice to sound like anything (like with the mannequin wife) they just went with a british accent since it thought it made them sound 'smart and sophisticated'.

-germophobe to the max- always washing his hands, wiping stuff down, etc.. it wears gloves often in order to keep itself clean (and sane)

-only ever eats dark chocolate (FOR THE RECORD I FUCKIN HATE DARK CHOCOLATE)

-he loaded in his human avatar once and hit their funny bone/ulnar nerve HARD against a desk, and proceeded to sob for an hour while Stanley calmed him down

-he/they/it pronouns babyyy

-will often show Stanley the dumbest most grandma/white mom-eqsue facebook memes (he thinks its comedy gold and Stanley never has the heart to tell it that they're oh so painfully unfunny)

-when it realised he had feelings for Stanley he immediately reset out of surprise and fear (stanley was three hours into the baby game and wanted to strangle them afterwards)

𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕝𝕖𝕪:

-before the Parable he'd use almost an entire bottle of hair gel every day to keep his hair flat (he honestly prefers it natural)

-this guy is the biggest fucking fan of fidget toys. buttons especially.

-pansexual but demiromantic babyyyy

-has in fact eaten several bugs, the current running list including a cockroach, a mealworm, and a surprising number of ants and flies (a lot of them by accident)

-has also eaten dirt, mud, and candy wrappers- he was the type of kid who just put everything in his mouth lmao

-uses 5 million emojis/tone indicators when he texts, it started out as a joke but now he genuinely feels like he can't get his point across without them

-instead of scented things, he can't stand bad textures- the feeling of stucco walls, rubbing your fingernail wrong etc.. it's one of the reasons he's not the biggest fan of slime- he hates the feeling of it sticking to your fingers.

-he fuckin loves citrus. the fruits, the scent, etc..

-when he realised he had feelings for the Narrator he just. locked himself in the broom closet with the bucket for a couple hours.

𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕒:

-demigirl AND a lesbian babyyy

-she loves berries. blueberries especially.

-yes, she can backflip. she learned how back in high school, trying out for cheer (their crush was on the team and they wanted to impress her).

-has a hard time letting go of things- gets attached very easily lmao. She has a ton of burnt-out candles and broken mugs still sitting around their apartment.

-has punched multiple people in the face and... other places, in defense of her friends- loyal af

-likes to sing but is mediocre at best; they're really into showtunes and 70s 'hippie music'. she got to see stevie nicks in concert, and considers it one of her highest achievements. also partial to heavier stuff like rock and roll

-has a really close relationship with their dad- he helped her a lot growing up and he was so supportive of them when she came out (projecting again?? ME???)

-she has a 14-year-old pet cockatoo named Alfred (idk why im including this it's just something i believe in)

this post is getting so long but i just had to include my favorites, part 2 later!!

#tsp #the stanley parable #tsp narrator #tsp stanley #tsp mariella #tsp headcanon #im having too much fun #hrrgh gay ppl...

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builder051 · 2 years

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Whumpmas in July 2022: Day 18: "Make me" (AKA Farmhouse Nights, completed 07 August 2022)

Barton Fam (canon ships) leaning heavily into Creedless Assassins

WARNINGS: drug use/abuse (with little/no context), vomit, blood, swearing...

__________________

Nat shows up in the middle of the night, her black leather glove applying the perfect amount of friction against the humidity haze on the sliding glass door out to the porch. Her movements are silent, and she would've made it in, and possibly even out as well, if Clint hadn't been up for diaper duty and decided on a random detour through the kitchen.

What is the use of a programmable coffee maker when you don't pre-set it to welcome you downstairs with the irresistible sputter sound and scent of... way better than Holiday Inn...?

All Clint plans to do is tap a few buttons, lay out his and Laura's favorite mugs--World's Best Dad is his, of course. He still hasn't figured out why his wife is so enamoured with the grainy, blown-up map and its references to the most common tropical birds found in each region. He glares at the cockatoo with the neon mohawk, daring it to tell him why it and all its' bird friends are trying to entrap his wife.

Clint doesn't get an answer, though. What he gets is a slight change in the shade of darkness behind him. Clint can tell it's not in the house. Anxiety makes prickles up the back of his neck. He supposes he's armed, if two ceramic mugs and Nate's walkie-talkie style monitor count for anything. Maybe if he pulls the antenna off and grabs the sink sprayer, it'll make an electrical charge--

But, no. Clint would recognize her silhouette anywhere. New hairstyle, swollen with hits to the face, stooped and bony like a drowned rat who's been undercover far too long...

Clint punches the cancel button on the coffee pot, and directs it to boil water instead. He has a feeling they're going to need something. Nothing he's observed can possibly be good.

He meets Nat at the threshold to the back door. She doesn't lift her foot quickly enough to clear the sliding glass tracks that separate deck from carpet. She seems to hang in midair, gloved fingers stuck to the glass like some kind of rain forest animal at a zoo.

At least she's not a bird, squawking and flapping wings in face. Probably making him sneeze and disrupting all forms of communication.

No, he'll do that verbally. "Hey," Clint says softly, trying to be neutrally welcoming as he gets a good look at her. Nat has blown pupils and a shiny track of something whitish-clear running from her nose toward her upper lip. She seems to be tipping on her feet.

Clint isn't sure if she's collapsing because he's there to catch her, or if she's just collapsing. Either way, Nat's movement trips the motion sensor, and the UV-bright industrial fixture on the side of the house. Light, brighter than daylight hitting snow, blasts the deck and pours halfway across the living room.

"Ohmygod." Nat goes tense as her body attempts to wad itself up against Clint's shoulder. She cringes and doesn't let go of the tight contraction, tremors running up and down her spine and through the muscles in her arms.

"Whoa, hey," Clint soothes. He quickly closes the door, then wraps both arms around Nat.

He might be lying, though. All Clint's done is made sure the house doesn't get dank with the moist summer heat or ravaged by mosquitos --and even raccoons-- who would probably be happy to eat out his fridge. Or his children.

Clint's protective instincts swell, and the memories of missions gone sour, injuries for both of them, and random illnesses--or whatever they used to cover for events best left unexplained. The house is a beacon. He's probably blown Nat's cover, as well as whatever Home Depot bills as shatterproof glass for home installation. Clint's not eager to actually test the truth of the advertizing.

He hates smart outlets and AIs in the home, he really does, but Laura wanted the technology. For security. Clint can't blame her for that. Maybe, just this once, it'll prove itself useful.

"Alexa," Clint says, just loud enough to be heard clearly. "Blackout."

All the lights cut out immediately. Not only the flares on the deck, but the nightlights as well. The spotlight over the kitchen sink. Even the weird humming curly bulb hanging from the laundry room ceiling.

Nat lifts her head a fraction of an inch to look blearily up at Clint.

"What'd you do?" she asks. Her shadowed face shows confusion. Perhaps she was startled. Not firing on all cylinders. Unwell, certainly. It's the how and the why that aren't so obvious.

"Turned off the lights," Clint explains, trying to keep his voice devoid of sarcasm. Drugged, concussed, whatever--he wouldn't appreciate being spoken to in that way if the roles were reversed.

"Mm." Nat's brows angle down to form a more serious expression. She presses her lips tightly together and drops her forehead back to Clint's shoulder.

Clint assumes understanding, for the moment, at least. It'll come out eventually. Probably, well, after it comes up.

Nat will talk, eventually. At least a little. Clint's known her most of his life now. Longer than Laura. The kids. He has the patience it takes to let Nat unravel when she's in such sorry shape.

"You not feeling so good?" Clint asks.

He knows not to leave the question hanging without providing options. "Want some water? Coffee? I have breakroom quality instant."

Nat makes the cringe again, though she hasn't entirely straightened up from the first one. The top of her head barely comes to Clint's chin now. A damp spot is appearing on his shirt between his shoulder and collarbone. She's perspiring. Maybe clammy. Clint sweeps Nat's hair behind her ear and gently touches the back of her neck, just to check. Clammy it is. Her skin is hot and sticky, and Clint knows it's not just from being out in the summer air.

"Want some water?" Clint pushes.

Nat looks up, blinks. When her eyes meet Clint's again, they're full of guilt. A drip is collecting at the edge of her nostril, too. Dark. Viscous.

"I think--actually--" Nat gulps, then leans back a little, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. "I might--"

Clint has her balanced by the touch of two fingers, countering the weight of her smaller body with just a couple of pressure points on her spine. Nat's dirty sneakers seem to prefer positioning on top of Clint's feet instead of the floor.

Though Nat's words were tentative, Clint's been in this situation about a hundred times too many. If he wasn't already immune to gross as an assassin, he would've had to buck up bigtime as a dad.

The beginning of the pseudo retching makes Nat's throat strain both visually and audibly. That's what sparks their assisted stumble-sprint toward the hallway bathroom.

Laura meets them there, a flashlight already set up on the edge of the tub. She raises the toilet seat and ring and gives them a quick wipe down.

"The hell?" Clint asks, but Laura doesn't look up. She pulls the towels from the bar and layers them over the tile floor.

"I don't know. Intuition?"

Laura tries for a quick grin, but Nat dry heaves, and her body crumples into a position that's something between fetal and animalistic. Her knees and elbows bend, but she hasn't made it past the vanity. Clint has to practically pitch her to the toilet. Not too roughly, he hopes.

Laura immediately coddles her, wrangling Nat's hair out of the way and stroking her back while she vomits up mostly nothing.

Clint isn't sure what to do with himself. He stands with hip and shoulder against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his forehead creased with worry.

"This isn't--" Clint finally tries to say, but Nat gags again, and he pauses as if she's taking her speaking turn. "You gotta give her some water or something."

"N-nnn..." Nat shakes her head as she spits. Lines of mucous seem to refuse to detach from her lip. Strands of tinted yuck run from the toilet back into her, probably from a clog deep in her throat.

"I'm hesitant to give her anything she doesn't want..." Laura tears off a few sheets of toilet paper and hands them to Nat with a meaningful look.

Nat sighs and shakily holds the toilet paper beneath her nose as she squeezes it with the other hand. Blood bubbles out, mixed with something that looks yellowish and highly infected.

"That," Clint says, unable to contain himself, "Wants an antibiotic."

"Well." Laura stretches to stand on her kneecaps so she can slide the door of the medicine cabinet with her fingertips. She scans the bottles and boxes for a moment, then tips one down and catches it perfectly in her palm. "Tonight, it's getting this."

"Oh, and you're doing a full work up, too, right?" Clint knows immediately he shouldn't have shared his thoughts. It's just that he loves his wife. He loves Nat. Fuck it, there's no excuse.

Laura sticks her tongue out in an impressive display of exactly what face their children are not allowed to make at each other. "Make me."

"I--" Clint runs his hand over his head. "Fuck."

Nat strains to retch, and this time a smattering of bile comes up, seeming to shock her as much as anyone else.

"We're not OD'ing tonight," Laura says simply, her tone plain and calm. "A drop of baby ibuprofen for the fever. After your stomach is under control. But how about we lay off the meds for a while?"

The words seem directed at Nat, but Clint knows they're meant for him.

"Ugh." Nat sputters into the toilet. Every sound she makes echoes to decibels louder than it really is. "S hard."

"I know, sweetheart." Laura lays her cheek on top of Nats head, then unscrews the tiny cap of the bottle in her hand. It's a dropper and bulb style, meant for calculating exact doses for different sizes of small humans. "Just a little. Couple tiny drops. Under your tongue. You probably won't taste it."

Clint tries not to wrinkle his nose, even though no one is looking at him anymore. Why do kids' meds only come in fucking orange and grape? There's a reason behind his general avoidance of Creamsicles.

"I don't know--" Nat pauses and shakes overlong bangs out of her eyes. They all wait out a hiccup, then she continues. "If I'm-- you know. Done?"

"You probably--" Laura starts, but Nat micro heaves, and Laura guards her shoulders to keep her from collapsing and getting a faceful of contaminated water. "Whoops."

Clint's brain spins on, imagining the scene continuing to play out. Nat, exhausted. Bleary on lack of sleep and raging fever and the remnants of a wicked high. Swaying and losing her depth perception. Her face breaking the surface tension of liquid in some public toilet. Maybe at a gas station. Or some creeper's penthouse suite in a downtown hotel.

Nat coughs a little. "I wanna be done," she croaks. She hocks and spits weakly, then breaks her white knuckled grip on the toilet rim to catch more blood and mucous escaping her nose. "I wanna be done. I'm so done."

A couple more drips plonk loudly into the toilet, but Clint can clearly see Nat's eyes squeezed shut. Tears quiver at the ends of her eyelashes. They let go and stream down her cheeks.

"Ok," Laura eases Nat back onto her heels. Ok, good."

Clint feels Laura's blistering look before it comes, a silent 'do something' from his wife. He knows he'll be ripe for a talkdown later. It's not that he's objectint. At the moment, he's just... not participating.

He's not just standing there watching, even though it probably looks like that. Clint's mind has been to panic and back twice now, and he's still been able to blast through his memorized safety checklists, both military and civilian. He has police and fire codes in there too, but they don't seem necessary.

If Nat had someone on her tail, she probably would've said so. Clint wants to ask her how she got here, but it still isn't the right time. No longer in danger of dying by disgorgement of internal organs. That's good. He can mark that off, though he needs a new protocol for Nat's care. Next he'll work on not dying by dehydration. And comforting.

The hand towel is hanging over the rack with one corner. Clint's secretly glad to skip the tidiness lecture for whichever kid left it that way. That's mostly Laura's deal. Clint turns on the tap and lets it run to cool-not-cold, then dampens the towel and wrings it out.

"Hey, Nat?" Clint asks hesitantly, though he doesn't wait for permission before getting on his knees and invading the towel-carpeted corner between toilet and bathtub.

"Mm?" Nat makes an attempt at shifting herself so she's perpendicular to Laura instead of leaning back against her. She rubs her eyes with the fits that isn't smeared with the remnants of nosebleed. Then she looks to Clint.

Nat's pupils are huge, and the whites of her eyes look pink, overtaken with tiny, irritated veins. In the just the last few minutes her body has gone through so much. The painful release of unbearable pressure. And Clint knows they've just managed to tap the surface. The pain, the hurt, the bad. He knows it's still in her.

"Cool down and clean up?" Clint lifts the damp hand towel a little, and, with the slightest nod of Nat's head, he lifts a few stubborn curls and lays it over the back of her neck.

Nat shivers. "Mm." She hums again, though Clint can now hear her teeth chattering.

"Ok?" Clint checks.

"Yeah." Nat's word is short, but Clint's inclined to believe her. Barely controlled nausea. Pain. Tripping. He's willing to take it.

"Ok, good." Clint smoothes the compress over Nat's shoulder.

Laura nods in the background and goes back to making sense of the indistinct measurements on the dropper for the baby ibuprofen.

Nat swallows with difficulty and distaste.

Clint moves the wet hand towel again, using the edge to wipe her chin and casually prepare to catch anything that needs emergency exit.

"M ok." Nat sniffs, then forces a smile Clint knows is fake.

"That was your lie," Clint says, starting in on the gummy mix of blood, mucous, and cocaine smeared under Nat's nose, nearly to her lip. He can't imagine how awful that would taste. Even compared to bitter, false-grape medication. "I get two truths now, right?"

Nat flinches at the rub of terry cloth against her skin. Her eyes show annoyance rather than pain, though.

"I know it doesn't feel great, but, wherever you're going next, I'm not gonna let you go looking like a horror movie."

Pot shots are bad, and Laura will start clubbing him if he gets close to causing damage. But hitting Nat in the dignity, now, when she has hardly a shred of it left, Clint thinks of it as the tactical equivalent to a spoonful of sugar.

"Ok." Nat swallows again, then softens her face. The skin Clint's washing goes rubbery, and he wonders if the shift means more pain or less.

Once he's far enough out of Nat's personal space to let her talk without feeling smothered, Clint returns to their game.

"Can I ask--?" He starts, even though the improper grammatical convention will probably get him labeled 'dunce.' If not by Nat, then certainly by Laura.

"Just did, dumbass." Nat's voice is a monotone, but the dimple in her cheek twitches as she tears more toilet paper to assist in cleaning herself up.

Dumbass--it's fairly equivalent to his expectation, and Clint's happy to eat it. Tonight.

"Did you, uh," Clint slows down, then decides to blurt out his question. No reason to lag, now that they've gotten over offending each other. Or Clint thinks they have. "Finish the mission?" Adding 'the' is a good touch; it makes things sound...respectable? He's trying.

Nat tosses her wadded toilet paper into the bin, then experimentally taps the pad of her thumb against that of her index finger. She's still gooey. Clint sees the thousand of so tiny spiderwebs of...whatever non-Newtonian fluid she's gotten into. He wants to take her to wash her hands, but Clint waits silently.

Finally, Nat murmurs, "No. I'm on leave."

"Oh. Ok." Clint breaks all attempts at eye contact. He puts his gaze firmly on a loose thread hanging from the hand towel. Clint can't actually remember if he was staring into Nat's nightcrawler pupils when he asked the question. He can feel Laura lasaring the spot on his head where he hopes he isn't growing a bald patch.

Last thing. Then Clint will stop. He swears it. He will. Dumbass he may be, but Nat knows he keeps his word. "Are--?"

"Clint. Babe." Laura cuts him off in a clipped warning.

"One more and I'm done." Clint sits back on his heels and reaches for the vanity, proving an intent to retreat. "Just one more question."

Nat gives a short exhale. "Yeah," she says. "It's-- Just go ahead and do it."

Clint pauses. Long enough, he hopes, that he isn't being overly intrusive. Galumphing. Stepping on toes, like Nat did back in the living room. She's a pinweight, though, so it's not as if it counts for anything.

"Are you safe?" Clint looks at Nat, even though she isn't looking at him. He wants to seem interested--attentive?-- Fuck, it's all the wrong term. He wants it to be ok if she chooses to meet his gaze.

"I..." Nat says very quietly. "Yeah. Now that I'm. Uh." A trickle of mucous-thinned blood starts to escape Nat's nose again. "Fuck."

She clamps in under her wrist before making use of the hand towel, just as Clint did earlier. "Now that I'm--" Nat's voice breaks, ant there's no leadup. She's just bawling.

Laura cradles her when she starts coughing. None of them--probably including Nat-- seem to know what's going to happen next. Bodily fluids, they're prepared for. Everything else? Clint does wonder.

Perhaps a minute passes, and Nat struggles a little to find Clint again in what has to be hazy vision. "I--" She blinks at him, then reaches out with her hand.

"Yeah?" Clint gets close again, taking Nat's fingers in his and caring about nothing than what she's about to say.

"S-safe." Nat stutters. "Now that I'm h-here."

"Aw, Nat." Clint smiles. His eyes might be welling up, but he can't exactly tell. He definitely isn't feeling the need to blink as often as Nat seems to.

Nat flings herself on him, both arms wrapped around Clint's neck. He squeezes her back. Tightly. But not too tightly.

"Where--?" Clint starts at a whisper, placing his palm between Nat's shoulder blades.

"Hey." Laura punches him in the side of the head, just forcefully enough to get Clint's attention. "You're out of questions." Her mouth makes a hard line, but there's still a twinkle in her eye. "Dumbass."

Clint sighs.

Laura cracks a grin. "My turn?"

Nat makes a tiny movement against Clint. He fears it to be another retch, but a glance downward shows raised eyebrows. Then he hears the echo of her throaty laugh.

"Be my guest," Clint says, winking at Laura.

"Where are you sleeping tonight, sweetheart?"

Clint tries not to feel had; Laura's pulled he words directly out of his mouth. He quickly switches to pass/fail thinking. Mission accomplished. Messy--in all the ways-- as it may have been.

"Um. In your room?" Nat asks quietly.

"Sheets are already on the trundle." Laura says. "If you think you can handle a few drops of ibuprofen, we can med you and tuck you in."

Nat's hesitation seems to have dried up with her tears. She nods into Clint's shoulder. "Yes," she says. "I'd like that."

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thedawningofthehour · 7 months

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I really don't want chapter 33 to come, thanks to a certain birthday present, I can more or less get an idea of what will happen and ARRGG!!! no fair!!!! Why the heck are you giving us hope if you're going to close the door on us at the last minute and break our noses in the process!!!!

I'm still firm in my opinion that Doth is more painful than lemonade leak, because you really don't know what's going on until the middle of the fic and when you finally realize it there are only like ten chapters left for the pain to end, here you know perfectly well what's going on and you have to wait until DOUBLE the angst to get to the comfort part, and I know for others it's not like that but I really can't enjoy the galois parts because of all that's behind the curtain.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that there is a happy ending and that donnie will be reunited with his siblings, but sometimes they are hard.

So much so that I've been tempted to ask you for a look at the outline just to ease my worries, but I haven't gotten to that point yet, and I emphasize yet.

Seriously, if the author wasn't so fucking charismatic I would have paused and waited for book three to be complete. But no~ my desire to hear this person talk about her bird is beyond me.

Fuck, now I want a birdie too!

I was actually thinking of posting today, but then I remembered that school is back in session. I want to try to post on the weekend so you high school fucks don't read in class. Also September 20th is kind of a bad day for me. I dunno, it just felt like bad luck to post a big deal chapter on that day.

I have redone a lot of what I sent you, so it doesn't really sound like that anymore? It's slightly more comical now, but that was never the angsty part lol.

My outline would be incomprehensible to anyone other than myself-hell, it's incomprehensible to me half the time. The siblings will be reunited, they'll heal, and the world doesn't end. I'm not pulling a Game of Thrones here. I believe in happy endings.

DO NOOOOOT GET A BIRD. Especially just because you see something cute online! They are extremely loud, messy, and require a ton of work and attention. Many of them are ridiculously smart too, and will get bored as such. They need to be out of their cages most of the day-Angel spends probably 8-10 hours out with me, and he actually spends more time in his sleeping cage now because he's old. They need to be constantly entertained and are always in your face, especially if you're doing anything with food. Like, half the time I have to imprison Angel in the bathroom while I eat, because despite giving him his own portion he will climb onto my plate and eat off it. Or sit on my shoulder and steal bites as I bring it to my mouth. It's like having a flighted toddler with a can opener on its face. They're incredibly destructive-I made a joke earlier about him eating my mom's plants but we seriously have tons of furniture with little beak marks in them.

And Angel is a cockatiel. They're fairly small, considered relatively low-maintenance birds. Sun conures are the loudest things you'll ever hear. A cockatoo is smart enough to open their own cage and speak using human words. A macaw once reached over a plucked a button from my mother's sweater, snapping in clean in half in a flat second. That was over forty years ago and that macaw is probably still alive, many big birds have lifespans that rival or even exceed a human's. If you get one of those birds you are putting that bird in your will.

I say all this because neglect and abuse is a huge issue with pet birds. People get them thinking they're a pretty decoration and many end up shoved in a room somewhere not getting what they need, and many of them start doing stuff like plucking their own feathers out of boredom. (had one feather-plucker myself, it's absolutely heart-breaking) If anyone here is thinking about getting a bird, do your research. Hang out at a bird rescue, talk to birb owners about what you can expect. There's tons and tons of birds who have been surrendered because they were more work than their owners thought they'd be. (and they can't be released back into the wild because they're all bred in captivity) I love birds and I think they can make great companions-for some people. They are not for everyone.

#for context for the first part i sent dd maybe a page of chapter 33 #because i wished her a happy birthday and then FORGOT it was her birthday and i felt very stupid #and my dude i did not think anyone would ever refer to me as charismatic but here we are

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