#i have so much anxiety on top of all of this health shit i have barely been able to think straight this week | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angelbarelywrites · 26 days

Text

♡ slashers scenarios | kisses! (part two)

♡ fandoms; Friday the 13th, House of Wax, Scream (kinda), Hannibal (TV), Dead by Daylight, slashers (general)

♡ characters; Jason Vorhees, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Danny Johnson, Hannibal Lecter

♡ reader; gender neutral

♡ cw; suggestive content

♡ notes; i swear i have consistent groups of characters picked out i swearrrr

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Jason Vorhees

> at first, he’s hesitant to even kiss

> one, it’s a gateway to more- part of his brain is still nagging at him for being involved with someone at all

> two, he doesn’t want you to see his face any more than you have to

> but god does he love it when you finally do kiss him, promising not to look and gently pushing his mask away with your eyes closed

> he suddenly gets what the big deal is and he’s hungry for more

> even if you’re super clingy, he’s ten times worse

> he wants to carry you everywhere- no one can bug you that way

> and it’s super easy to kiss you when he doesn’t have to stoop down (in comic canon he’s 7 ft we’re keeping that whew)

> sometimes when he doesn’t want to take off the mask- usually when he’s taking a break from working- he’ll just affectionately bump foreheads with you

> kinda like a giant cat, but he considers it a kiss

> he’d be worried for your health if you actually kiss the mask, he knows it ain’t clean lol

> you’d have to beg really nicely for hickies- and no way he’s biting you, he’s so nice

> he gets very flustered if you give him marks- but he’ll stare and admire at them in the mirror all the time until they fade

> his favorite kisses are first thing in the morning, when you yawn awake and gently press one to his cheek or forehead

> he loves that the first thing you do each day is love on him

Bo Sinclair

> king of PDA

> he’d call himself that unironically too

> to be fair usually there’s not many people around

> but on rare outings out of Ambrose, he makes good on the title

> he’s always got a hand in your back pocket , or on the small of your back, or around you completely.

> and his face pressed into your temple every opportunity, mumbling quietly to you whatever dumb joke he can think of and giving you little kisses

> he’s a biter, definitely loves marking you up and then bragging about it.

> on your neck, but in less visible places as well. thighs are a favorite

> he’ll go as far as to show you off to planned victims if it’s safe enough

> as soon as you’re alone together, even for the briefest amount of time, he pounces

> he kisses you rough and deep and creeps a hand up your shirt

> usually he stops just at your tummy, but that’s more frustrating

> and if he feels like being a little shit- which he always does, he takes more than a second to pull away when someone walks back in

> he’d never admit it, but the kisses most precious to him are the ones that no one else will ever see. ever

> he has night terrors often. he went through so much abuse and trauma as a child that it’s inevitable

> and each time he wakes up screaming, you hold him tight

> his head on your chest as you kiss the top of his head and rock gently

Vincent Sinclair

> he’s shy. eventually for you he comes out of his shell, but when it comes to PDA his anxiety always present.

> he doesn’t like his brothers seeing you kiss. or the dog

> he will hold your hand in front of them at least, and he doesn’t complain when you ghost your lips over his knuckles

> alone it’s a completely different story

> he loves holding and being held, your face hidden his hair and giving him gentle neck and jaw kisses

> the quickest way to get the mask off is to ask for a kiss

> he’s a sucker for that cute pout you do

> and he’s eager to oblige anyways, almost methodical with his gentle kisses

> he always has a hand on your cheek, and kisses slowly, savoring it

> and then he usually moves down, worshipping every sensitive spot

> he likes receiving marks more than giving- but if he does give you a hickey it’s getting photographed and drawn

> you’re his muse after all

> and he’ll go through periods fixated with drawing your mouth and neck when you’ve got these little love marks

> (and i have just. the clearest image in my mind of him putting on black lipstick and covering you kisses for a portrait he wants to paint. i don’t know if that’s anything but it’s definitely cute.)

> his favorite kisses are the most simple, when you’re checking in on him at work

> you don’t say anything, just hand him a mug and peck the mask

> and if he’s lucky you’ll linger, arms around him and chin on his shoulder as you peek at the canvas or little sculpture

Danny Johnson

> second runner up for king of PDA

> he’s slightly more relaxed, though he’s one to keep at least slight contact when he’s around you

> he’s just so possessive

> he trusts you wholeheartedly, but he doesn’t think other people deserve to even check you out

> so if someone looks too long he’ll give you a lingering kiss that makes you giggle

> because you kind of love his jealous streak- it’s playful even if he acts so serious

> he wouldn’t hurt anyone for just looking. probably

> he’s another freak that loves the mask kissed

> and also, another freak with a documentation kink- every single bruise and bite gets photographed

> and sometimes he’ll take a shot of you kiss drunk, lips swollen and eyes hazy and panting right after he pulls away

> those are his favorite pictures

> he loves coming home, still bloodied and suited up

> pushing his mask up and pulling you close to make out in the kitchen

> even if you’re whining that he’s staining your pajamas again

> he’ll tell you to shut up and put you on the counter, kissing you while standing between your legs

> and then he’ll kiss your neck, then chest, then stomach then…well you get the picture

Hannibal Lecter

> he’s an expert in everything he does- kissing is no exception

> he is surprisingly chaste most of the time

> he loves giving kisses on the cheek, the forehead, the top of the head especially

> and he’ll certainly briefly hug you and hold your hand in public, but nothing more

> it can be frustrating at times, especially if you’re an attention hungry person or particularly insecure

> and when you tell that this his eyes soften and he holds you close, murmuring reassurance

> from then on he tries to be more mindful of reading your cues and giving you plenty of love when you need it

> he loves when you ask for kisses

> whether it’s “pretty please kiss me?” or “can i kiss you?” , he loves when you look up at him all shy and mumble out the question

> he’s got a… dominant personality, he loves when you ask or ask permission for lots of things

> especially bites and hickies

> you’ve got to beg to get him to mark you- not that he’s hesitant to-he just likes it.

> and when he starts it’s all night, everywhere

> he’ll coo over you and tell you how nicely you bruise

> if you ever mark him, you’re in trouble

> the fun kind, but still trouble

> he loves breathless kisses- the kind you give him after doing something incredibly lewd

> just so full of affection and desperation and sloppy

#slashers #slashers x reader #slashers x you #jason vorhees x reader #danny johnson x reader #danny johnson #jason voorhees #friday the 13th #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal #dead by daylight #scream #ghostface x reader #ghostface #vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair

285 notes · View notes

celtic-crossbow · 20 days

Text

Blood Ties Chapter 22

Series Masterlist

Warnings: A bit of angst; Poorly written smut; oral (m rec) A/N: We all knew he'd be pissed and he has never been on good terms with emotions. This poor man, I swear. Regardless, he's getting better! We'll be moving forward soon!

The sun was warm against your skin when you finally felt awareness creeping into your subconscious. You must have slept all night. There was only the slightest hint of worry before you realized a warm chest was rising and falling evenly below your head, with only the slightest hint of a wheeze, the calming cadence of a heartbeat against your ear. You were safe and warm in bed with a recovering Daryl. He still felt feverish but it wasn’t so drastic anymore. Had Carol given him the tylenol since you had apparently fallen into a coma?

Stretching your legs, you smiled and snuggled closer, the baby obviously wide awake as well, rolling against the sore patch of skin you actually laid on. You had almost forgotten about it. Truly had almost forgotten about the entire ordeal. The hunt, the injury, your father, and—oh, god—the fact that Daryl had known you were gone and had to be sedated. Hadn’t you talked to him? Had he answered? It was then that you decided to look up at him—

And he was staring right back at you.

He didn’t say a single word, not yet, but his face said it all. Stoic, eyes calm but with a blue inferno burning just behind the surface. His hand was on top of yours, his fingers beginning to drum against your skin.

“Good morning?” You smiled behind a wince, knowing you were about to be reprimanded beyond anything Hershel could have said the night before. He only hummed, an upward jerk of his chin returning your greeting. “You’re mad.” You knew he was, and he had every right to be, but you stood by your decision to hunt, to find some form of independence whilst protecting him and caring for the group.

“Mhm.” He replied simply. If the impending backlash wasn’t looming, you would have thought it was amusing. The fact that he had yet to say anything at all was more daunting than any words he could have spoken.

“Are you gonna yell at me now?” You moved back just the slightest bit and propped yourself on your elbow.

“Mm-mm.” Daryl shook his head. His fingers continued to drum on top of your hand. You distantly wondered if that hurt the IV lingering in those veins.

“Can you say something?” You sat up completely and pulled your hand away, rubbing at your sore belly with the other before you thought better of it but it was too late. His eyes had already moved to that spot and squinted. The hand closest to you, reached out to grasp your sweater and pulled it up. You let him. There was no sense in trying to hide it. The bruising was a bit worse but not so much that you were compelled to call for Hershel. “It’s fine. I promise.” He didn’t just let the fabric fall back into place. He jerked it down before retracting his hand. “Daryl.”

“What?” His voice was raspy, downright gravelly and he coughed from the use of it.

“I know you’re upset with me, and I—”

“Upset. Right.” He nodded, suddenly invested in the IV, turning his hand over as if he was contemplating tearing out the tubing. Keeping his head still, his eyes moved back to your stomach. “Hershel checked it?”

“Yeah, first thing I asked him to do.” Anxiety was bubbling up inside your chest. Somehow, his impassiveness was much worse than the anger you had expected. “The baby’s fine, doing pirouettes and shit in there.” His jaw was moving back and forth, a sure sign that he was chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. “I knew you’d be furious with me, but it was something I had to do.”

“Don’t gimme that shit, Y/N.” There was finally a hint of vexation that, oddly enough, soothed some of your worry. “Didn’t hafta do nothin’.”

“You needed—still need—to be in this bed. No matter what I say, you’re always busting your ass and running your health into the ground to provide for us—for me. I couldn’t let you—”

“I know what m’doin’ an’ I don’t regret it. You’re the one pregnant an’ s’my job to make sure you’re both eatin’ an’ safe.” The archer snapped, pushing himself up a little higher on the pillows, his arms trembling from the effort. “Ya had no business out there. Could’a got a lot worse than a fuckin’ bruise.” He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing while he looked down at your belly again. It occurred to you then that he had improved enough to say full sentences without gasping, making your endeavor even more worth it.

“I won’t apologize. I got a bruise. You got fucking pneumonia!” You squared your shoulders and could have sworn you saw a flutter of admiration before his eyes returned to that stoney glare.

“Then don’t.” He hissed lowly. “Only reason I ain’t throwin’ ya outta here is cause I need to keep a eye on ya so ya don’t do something even more stupid.”

“I’m a fucking adult! I don’t need your permission! Maybe I’ll go back out today!” You wouldn’t, and you knew damn well that he had grounds to act how he was but it just wasn’t who you were to back down. It just wasn’t.

“Over my dead body.”

“Well, I won’t be waiting long if you keep this shit up!” You gestured vaguely toward him, to the whole of him. He’d been on death’s doorstep, the very reason you had gone out in the first place. Was there no way for him to understand where your head was when you made that decision?

“Ain’t fuckin’ drugged today.”

Well, that was very true, and now he knew to watch for Hershel. There wasn’t a single doubt in your mind that he would plow right through anyone who stood in his way. You were oddly thankful for that. He was getting better but he still wasn’t there. Not by a long shot, especially if the worsening of his voice was anything to go by; the way he started to wheeze and visibly hold back coughs that he needed to allow to happen.

“It’s done, Daryl, and I’m here. I’m alive. The baby is fine. Can’t you just let it go and focus on getting better?”

“Can’t you just stop bein’ a horse’s ass an’ take care’a our baby instead’a worryin’ ‘bout me all the goddamn time?”

Your hands flew up toward the sides of your head, ready to grasp handfuls of your own hair and rip it out. “We’d both like for you to be here when they’re born, you absolute stubborn, clueless jackass! We both fucking love you and want you to fucking be here!” You realized your mistake the moment the words fell from your tongue but you refused to take it back.

Me too, crazy girl.

You gasped, watching the change wash over him from irate to docile to confused. Goddamn it, you had been so tired, you had missed it and it was likely he’d not admit it again without the influence of a drug loosening his tongue.

He loved you. And you were fighting with him when all he wanted to do was protect you and the little life you had created together. You wanted to cry, wanted him to say it again. You had to find middle ground, had to find a way to make him comfortable enough to show you that part of him.

With a quick curl of his lip, obvious disdain, whether toward his own weakness or your actions, he leaned toward the bedside table for the cup of water. The sound he made when you reached to help could only have been described as a growl. “Don’t need ya to mother me.”

“I’m not mothering you, Daryl.” You snatched up the cup and held it out to him, the snarl he gave the gesture making you think he wouldn’t take it. In the end, thirst overpowered petulance. Still, he glared at you over the rim as he drank deeply. When the cup was empty, he tossed it across the room rather than handing it back. “Stop being such a child. There’s one baby in this room and that’s enough.” With a sound of utter frustration, you made to get off the bed, halted by a firm hand on your forearm. Middle ground, middle ground, middle ground.

“Where’re ya goin’?”

“To get more water. You need to keep drinking.” When you moved again, he tugged you back.

“You’re stayin’ right the fuck there.”

You tried to pull free but he held fast, just tight enough to stay you but not enough to hurt. There was a conscious effort to keep your tone level. “Let go, Daryl. It’s just downstairs. I’ll be right back.”

“Nah.” His eyes narrowed, challenging. The staredown was rather intense and it was you who relented. His intentions weren’t out of anger even though that’s what he was displaying. He was scared. You had sacred this seasoned hunter, a man molded out of pain and a past that he still hadn’t shared with you.

You acquiesced to his demand, sliding back toward him and up to the pillows to sink into them beside him. The shocked expression didn’t linger, reverting to stoicism before he released his hold and placed both hands on his lap. You didn’t stop him when he began to tinker with the IV tubing. As long as he wasn’t trying to remove it.

“I know I scared you and for that, I’m sorry.” You occupied yourself with rubbing your hands over the swell of your abdomen. You wouldn’t remind him that you didn’t feel a single hint of remorse for doing what you did, but the way he was handling this, you had terrified him. You were fully aware of that before you had left, but seeing the effect firsthand had you feeling horrible. As difficult as it was, you watched him and refused to turn away, bidding him to look at you. When he finally obliged, he looked so defeated, your heart crushed under the weight of his despondency.

You could picture him tearing out that IV, blood flying, Carol begging him to stay in bed. Hershel would have run to the door by then, hearing the commotion. The old man might have tried to block the exit but he wouldn’t have stayed when he saw the determination, the anger and the fear. No, he would have gone for the morphine then and alerted Rick and the others.

Hershel said he took on all three. Feverish, breathless, and weak, Daryl had fought three healthy men to try and get to you. Even when you were in no immediate danger, he had been so desperate.

When exactly had he become your person?

He once touched you so roughly, simply claiming you for pleasure. It wasn’t something you could ever hold against him. It had been the same for you. You had just wanted to keep feeling something when the world around you was dying.

Daryl was all you ever wanted to feel now. You wanted to be surrounded by him, drown in him. Breathe him in and let him flow through your veins.

Before you could say another word or think another thought, the archer was leaning toward you and curling a hand around the back of your neck to pull you in, simultaneously dragging the nasal cannula from its position, just in time for his mouth to cover yours. It was desperate, full of a need that he couldn’t articulate, and any objections you had were swallowed eagerly. Your hand came to rest on his cheek, lips moving against his, opening for him when his tongue probed the seam of them. His right hand found your belly, laying flat before twisting into the fabric of your sweater. You were the one to separate, nuzzling your cheek against his when you felt his grip on your neck tighten. It was too easy to reach and remove his hand, moving back only enough to bring his knuckles to your lips.

“Scared the shit outta me.”

“I know. I’m right here, Daryl. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

There was a sound from deep in his chest, amplified by the rattle of what little fluid remained, as he shook his hand from your grasp and wound his arm beneath yours to pull you closer. “Y/N, I—” When you angled your head to search out his gaze, he avoided you, his cheeks tinted but not from fever. With a soft smile of understanding, you worked his fingers loose from your sweater, one by one, avoiding the IV line.

“It’s okay.” You whispered against his ear, shifting back and kissing those knuckles just as you had the others. It was one of those moments you had played out in your head while hunting. Daryl needed reassurance. He needed to understand that when you promised, you meant it.

He needs you. He’s always needed you just as much as you’ve needed him.

He was watching you, brow drawn inward, as if he didn’t know what was happening, where to go next. This time, you would take the lead. He had been so open, so gentle with you after the incident in the forest. He had shown you his insecurities to soothe your own. Now, you’d show him that you were there and that you planned to stay.

Your lips slotted over his and this time, it was him to grant you access, your tongue licking eagerly into his mouth to savor that familiar taste of him. You couldn’t get enough, but you needed to keep things slow. He was still sick. You needed to take care of him. He chased you when you pulled away, halted only by your splayed fingers on his chest.

“Let me.” You stated softly, the corners of your mouth lifted when he settled back onto the pillows. Your sweater was the first thing to go, bra following shortly after, any shame you felt over your body quickly dissolving under the heat of his gaze. He said nothing but the hand limited by the IV came to rest at the hollow of your throat, his calloused palm flat as it explored each breast, round and fuller from the pregnancy. His touch was gentle, the memory of you explaining that part of you was sore and sensitive. Fingertips grazed your nipples and you gasped, quick to grab his wrist below the tubing. His hand was guided to his lap, where he left it.

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you slowly dragged the sheets away. Daryl was still only clad in boxer briefs, his desire for you already obvious. When you sat yourself on his thighs, your damp heat through the leggings lured his attention but only momentarily. His eyes lifted right back to yours. There was no objection when you slipped your fingers into the waistband of his last shred of clothing, creeping backwards toward his feet and pulling the fabric along with you.

He was fully hard before you pulled the underwear off his feet and tossed them aside, finding him once again chewing the inside of his lip. He watched you stand and slip off your own clothing, but he remained stock still, only his eyes shifting with your movements. Completely bare to him, you crawled forward, your belly heavy below you but unhindering. However, your thighs trembled ever so slightly to hold your embarrassingly slick core away from his groin, not yet ready to give in to that desire.

His hands moved up your sides, over your ribs and back down to your hips, settling there. Each kiss you initiated was accepted and returned, small and chaste, your own hands exploring the planes of his chest and abdomen. Muscles twitched beneath your fingertips, his pulse jumped against your lips while your mouth carved a path to his collarbone. That special spot that made him suck in a sharp breath and, surprisingly, tilt his head to grant you better access.There was no scoff or sarcasm, no resistance, no attempt at control. He just gave it up to you. Maybe he just needed it.

“Just let me take care of you, okay?” Your request was a whisper against his skin, each word spoken into a different area, your mouth ending just over his right nipple. Your tongue flicked against the nub, your lips puckering to blow cool air against it just to watch him shiver. You’d never tell anyone that the badass bowman had sensitive nipples. It’d be your own little intimate weapon. You paid attention to the raised skin of old injuries, a brief kiss to each one. He was so beautiful, scars and all. You wished he could see himself as you did.

His breath stuttered with each wet press of your exploring mouth, muscles shuddering while pre-seminal fluid smeared over your skin on your journey. His cock twitched against you, the tip pressing into your sternum, your own nipples pebbling with your arousal. Daryl’s stomach spasmed when your tongue dipped into his navel, circling once before you continued downward.

It was difficult to suppress a chuckle when he growled, your intentional avoidance of his aching length not going unnoticed. His hip bones were prominent and deliciously inviting. You licked and nibbled over the ridge and then moved to the other side to do the same, eyes locking onto his hands fisting into the sheets. It wasn’t your intent to torture him, though the prospect of exploring that option in the future was indeed enticing. Before he could protest, your hand was wrapping around him, his body quaking with a heaving sigh of relief.

Rubbing your thumb over the tip, you collected some of the wetness there, finding it just enough to help your hand slide down in a smooth glide. Once, twice, and on the third stroke, he lost the battle with self control and his back arched, right hand holding the bed sheets so tightly that you could see the IV catheter that lingered in a vein just beside his knuckles. For a moment, you thought the simple touches were bringing him to orgasm but with a noise of discontentment, his eyes sought out yours. His gaze was dark, clouded with lust. There was no way you could deny him.

You never looked away while wrapping your lips around the head, swirling your tongue around the girth before dipping it into the slit. You yearned to continue, literally ached to take him over the edge positioned just as you were but his breathing was too fast, too unsteady. With a pout, you pulled off of him and climbed upward to place a hand on the side of his neck.

“M’good.” He argued without hesitance, but fell into a coughing fit. Worry overriding desire, you shifted back slightly and let him sit up to get himself under control. His forehead rested just above the valley of your breasts, your fingers idly carding through his hair. When you tried to place the cannula back onto his face, he languidly swatted at your efforts.

“You’re not.” You pressed a kiss into his hair, hand releasing the device and gliding over the scars on his back. He didn’t react and that would always make your heart flutter, this time to a degree you were sure he could pick up in such close proximity. “Catch your breath. I’ve got you.” It took a few moments and you remained patient. Surprisingly, so did his erection. When he was breathing easier, he lifted his head, cheek and nose nuzzling your neck.

“Y/N.” He rasped, his hands smoothing over your sides and around to your back. “Need ya.” There was so much more than a sexual desire within that statement. It wasn’t something he actively tried to conceal. He wanted you to know of your importance in his life. For that time, it was as close to a declaration of love as you would get without some sort of influential stimulant.

“Daryl.” With a hand on each side of his face, you guided him, your lips meeting his. “Lay back for me.” The command was soft against his mouth, but he did as he was told. Even as he moved, you were reaching between your bodies and guiding him to your entrance. He met no resistance, eased by your arousal, and slipped inside. Your walls stretched and molded around him, dragging a whimper from somewhere deep within you that melded with the groan vibrating over his tongue.

His hands scrabbled to your hips, jaw clenched and twitching, words grating out of him. “Are ya—”

“I’m fine. Just—” You exhaled and gave yourself a moment to adjust. “Just relax, okay.” You felt his grip loosen, only slightly but enough for you to pay closer attention to how his jaw was just shy of going slack. “Let me take care of you.” You placed your hands over his—mindful of the IV—with the first roll of your hips, his head pressing back into the pillow. Fighting the urge to chase the pleasure you knew awaited you was just simply so arduous but necessary. You needed him as desperately as he needed you. Maybe it was selfish to have him like this while he recovered, but you had come so close to losing him. He had been so scared that he was losing you. This was something so far beyond carnal.

The rhythm you settled on was slow, leaning forward slightly to press your palms into the pillow on either side of his head. It allowed you to dip forward, stealing kisses and nuzzling against his cheek while you rode him so agonizingly slowly. His breathing only picked up slightly, if not a little ragged, rough palms exploring your hips, your thighs, the round of your belly. Periodically, his hips would jerk, a silent plea for more that you couldn’t give him, not then. He let you soothe him, allowed you to keep him on his back when you both knew he could change that if he truly wanted, sick or not.

“Christ,” Daryl grunted, squeezing your waist. “Are ya tryin’ to kill me?”

You risked a chuckle, rising on your knees until he almost slipped out of you before sinking back down. “Quite the opposite.”

“Goddamnit, woman, I ain’t gonna break! Can ya just—”

You silenced him with your tongue shoving straight past his lips, swallowing the frustrated growl and drawn out moan that followed, your walls purposefully squeezing him. You’d get him there.

Eventually.

In fact, you were almost certain it was you suffering the most. You were in control but forced to refrain, the hormones raging through your blood demanding a satisfying release that was just not approaching fast enough. Your clit was stiff and throbbing and yet to be touched. You were barely catching yourself before taking on a pace that would send him into a frenzy.

As if reading your mind, his left hand wedged its way between your bodies for his thumb to press against your neglected bundle of nerves, igniting a fire deep in your belly. “Daryl.” You panted, rocking against him while his digits continued to work at you. “Oh, god, don’t stop.”

“Didn’t plan on it.” He rasped, urging you forward to kiss you hard, teeth and tongues clashing. It wasn’t long before you could hear it in the way he grunted against your mouth, suppressing whines as well as wheezing. You could feel it in how he twitched and swelled within you. Regardless, he didn’t leave you to guess. “M’gonna—”

“Just let go.” You would be right behind him. Hell, maybe right in front him. You had just taken the liberty of attempting to swallow down any sound he might make when he reminded you how he could play your body like a finely tuned instrument and added just enough pressure to his strokes to send you spiraling, forcing your own shout against his tongue.

The high you rode was seemingly endless, pulse after pulse and wave after wave. The contractions of your velvety walls had Daryl following you almost immediately, his release warm as your body welcomed it, pulled it deeper. His hips were driving upward in steady, shallow thrusts to meet your downward presses, keeping you suspended in bliss with him until you were too sensitive to move. Even in the aftermath, you had enough presence of mind to squeeze his bicep when the pressure became overwhelming.

Your forehead rested against his when reality began to flicker back into focus, his wheezing breaths the first thing you were able to hone in on and react to accordingly. With clumsy movements, you grabbed the nasal cannula and positioned it on his face, pulling him to sit up so you could rub at his back, encouraging him to cough.

“Shouldn’t have let you take that off to begin with.”

“Quit fussin’, it ain’t that bad.” He promptly coughed but shot you a look when you opened your mouth. “Feel like a old man in a nursin’ home.” He rasped, trying again to clear his lungs.

“But your dick still works just fine. May have gotten me pregnant, Dixon.” Your concern melted into laughter that had his eyes squinting.

“Think s’funny?” He snapped harmlessly, a hand pressed against his chest.

“Just imagine how Hershel would have reacted if I’d needed to go get him.”

“Nah. Don’t really wanna.”

He was still inside of you, softening but the sensation somehow a comfort that you weren’t ready to give up. Fingers smoothed back his hair, just long enough now to be tousled and spiked, the epitome of proper sex hair. Fingertips whispered over his jaw, once and then again, the love you felt for the man threatening to doom your heart into an explosion.

“Daryl, I—”

He caught your wrist, that uncertain, conflicted look in his eyes. Like he didn’t understand how you could be compelled to feel so strongly for him. Like he just knew you could find better in almost any man that wasn’t him. Maybe he didn’t remember what he had said, after all. Maybe you had read into his earlier words simply on a mission to find what you wanted to hear.

His thumb grazed over your knuckles, back and forth. “I know.”

You wanted him to hear it again. Over and over until he believed it. Leaning forward, you brought up your other hand to mimic the previous actions of the first, lips brushing his, preparing to remind him of exactly how you felt and would continue to feel.

As if on cue, there came a small knock on the door, your wide eyes meeting before you both turned to stare at the entryway.

“If you two are done,” came Carol’s small voice, quivering with laughter, “I have Tylenol.”

#murda writes #blood ties #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl x female reader #pregnant!reader

230 notes · View notes

channieandhisgoonsquad · 9 months

Note

As much as I love Han Jisung's whole "babygirl" persona, I feel like it's exagerated a lot on tv. He seems a soft boy, but the energy he shows in stage, his mannerisms, his expressions, and some stuff he does when the cameras aren't focusing on him, I feel like he's actually a lot more dominant that most people assume. Fans paint him as this cute, shy boy that blushes easily, but I have a strong feeling that he's actually a cocky little shit when he wants to and is the one to make you blush with his antics.

You expect to meet an awkward, soft boy the fans describe, but instead you face a flirting machine with a infuriating atractive cocky smile and a deep english voice he knows how to use.

He's the type to solve fights with angry sex because he doesn't know how to handle strong emotions, so he lets his body do the talk. He'll leave you breathless, unable to walk and seeing the gates of heaven by how far he pushed you. I feel he has a lot of pent up frustrations and is desesperate for a way to let them out, to break this "babygirl" image he has..

I have many MANY thoughts on this topic😍

Warnings:🩻 Sexual content further down

For starters, it also frustrates me that he is given this Sub label constantly. I’m not saying that he won’t, because I definitely think he could be a pillow princess if he’s just so needy for any sigh of affection. But man is he in love with having things his way.

He told us himself that when he was younger he used to think he was the hottest person around (which I agree with this as a current fact) but that he has mellowed out. But I think he’s just grown up and mental health has become more prominent in his adult life as it does for some. His anxiety makes him seem weak to outsiders, which doesn’t help him with the baby girl persona.

I think people will always be drawn to that idea. Baby girl Jisung. But it’s just because he is such a fun, lovable dork that isn’t afraid to be silly and weird! I can totally understand where people interpret him that way, but he’s not. He is 100% a man that loves to be a geek and show off how excited he is. And I commend him for it.

I don’t think it helps that he’s compared to the other guys and people just don’t realize that they ALL do that same silly shit. Like come on. They are Kpop Idols That Are suppose touphold this sweet and innocent image; so of course his cuteness is perceived as baby girl.

But listen up… because I got a secret.

Here comes the 18+ stuff

Han Jisung is aware of the effects he has on YOU. His one and only. His love. The lady (in this scenario I’m making up) of his dreams. And THAT is what really matters to him.

He doesn’t care how Stay view him. He knows he has their love and support and he loves them, but whether they call him Baby Girl or not doesn’t matter.

Because YOU call him everything. He’s you’re man, you’re hun, he’s your king, he’s you’re handsome quokka, and during some of his favorite moments he’s you SIR. ♥️

You both are equals. You are both huge dorks and act silly around each other. Making each other laugh to tears. You pay for everything equally, despite Jisung making quite a bit more. He shows up to everything when he can. But to top it off, neither of you care about gender roles. Especially in the bedroom.

He loves to be in charge. But that’s not a man thing. It’s a Dom thing. He spends all his time at work being an equal, so you give him this in bed. Reminding him how much power he holds and how strong he is. He fucking loves it, and so do you.

He’s so hot while he’s pounding into you. He had you on all fours, but he’s going so harshly that your face is smashed into the pillow and you are to fucked out to get a hold of yourself.

Han would still be slamming into you with so much force that you’ve already came twice. Tell you how good you are doing, but he’s got more in him.

He smacks your ass again to make sure you’re still conscious and you only moan at the contact. So he pulls out and flips you back over and hovers over you. You’re blissed out face holds eye contact with him. He’s so close, but you have to grab the back of his neck to confirm you really are okay. You just can’t seem to form the words to make him feel better right now.

He pulls back after a heavy few minutes of making out to look at you. You whisper “I love you”

He smiles fully, but the concern in his eyes is still there. “I’m glad, but do you need me to stop? You seem sleepy, babe.”

You shake your head furiously and your eyes open so wide at the notion. “No, sir, I’m fine! I was just so in the moment… And you really made me cum so hard that I was still coming back from that.” You finished your answer shyly and it made him see stars.

He had felt it, but he still needed to make sure you were still good to go. “Okay, baby, but you need to speak up if you need me to slow down! You know I love you no matter what.”

You nodded and he took the opportunity to fold your legs into yourself and lined himself with your messy cunt. You were back to being fully aware of how hot your man is as he slowly inched his thick cock back into you.

You whined, “God Hannie, you fill me up so much. How have you not split me in half yet?”

He grunted as he met your pelvis with his own. “Your pussy just wants me to keep ruining you. I’ve trained your cunt so well. Made just for me.”

He was back to slamming into you. And you immediately started moaning into his mouth. Your lips hovering and touching slightly as you both panted into each other. But this wasn’t enough so he angled himself to hit that sweet spot and get you going again.

You grabbed onto his back as you felt yourself getting closer. The claws and scratches you were making egged him on more. You tightened around him too and he let out a high pitch groan in surprise.

He gripped the sides of your throat and asked simply, “Who do you belong to?”

The addition of pressure to your neck sent you closer. You were nearly screaming at the crest “You! H-h-hannie i am yours fully!”

And you both flew over your peaks as he painted your insides. Your moans were a beautiful harmony and you felt so relieved to have felt that together.

NEEDLESS TO SAY.

Han Jisung is a soft Dom and will fuck you up. But also remind you how perfect you are the entire time.

Spooky Pookies: @lyramundana @2chopsticks2eyes @moonlightndaydreams @sweetracha @linlinaert

#hannie is my soulmate #stray kids #skz #han jisung #i love him #loml #hannie #stray kids smut #stray kids imagine #stray kids thoughts #han jisung x y/n #han jisung scenarios #han jisung imagines #han jisung x reader #han jisung gifs #han jisung cute #han jisung smut #han jisung x you

513 notes · View notes

msallurea · 9 months

Text

Things I'm manifesting

-Everything from my notes/Dream life (this just basically everything😭)

-Dream face

-Dream body

-Lighter prettier eyes

-Caramel brown skin (think goldenbih)

-Being 5'1 in a half + weighing 110lbs

-Smaller prettier feet, hands, toes, nails

-3b curls/perfect hair

-Lighter hair with caramel highlights

-Freckles + Beauty marks

-Natural makeup appearance

-Dream wardrobe/Fashion/Aesthetic

-Dream mansion + living in luxury city

-Being famous/celebrity/superstar/popstar

-Desired talents/talented at everything

-Being an it girl + sex symbol + muse + vixen (yall get it 😭)

-Being master manifestor + perfect pretty self concept (even tho technically I already am this its just like why not? Ya know😭)

-Dream parents/family + Being an only child (I'm sick of this sibling shit 😒) + radiate and embody hot older sister energy (just cuz I don't wanna be a older sister no more doesn't mean i dont still want the energy😭)

-Prettier handwriting +top notch writing skills/communication skills/over the top intelligence/stupidly high IQ(basically just the brainsy gyal)

-perfect 50/50 HD eye sight + looking hot asf in any pair of glasses (I wanna not be blind but still be fine)

-Prettier whiter teeth and pinker tongue and gums and just dental/mouth in general + OP top notch hygiene skills (I feel people who have bipolar depression understand this part)

-better mental health + no mental health issues + no anxiety/fearful etc

- balanced hormones + increased estrogen(as a girl I have wayy too much testosterone n I've been insecure about it for years)

-perfect coochani + OP coochanini skills (ummm so this is just self explanatory but honestly if yk yk 😭)

-Naturally smell like my desired scent (which is basically like a bakery n just so deliciously annoyingly sweet and seductive; but remember how I said I have too much testosterone gor my body to handle yea..ifykyk😭)

-No more sweating (I don't sweat excessive I just hate it period)

-top notch crystal clean health + no more constipation + no longer pooping n its healthy (ik somebody gon question me but those who suffer from severe constipation especially for me its been my whole life u understand where I'm coming from)

- desired voice + accent + unique lingo n slang etc

-Desired personality + persona + aura + vibe etc etc

-super flexibility skills

-unbearably photogenic videogenic audiogenic + always looking perfect naturally

-Desired school, friends, lover, etc + school it girl

-Speak/know already desired languages

-drivets license, car, motorcycle, etc etc

-Be intimidatingly wealthy (when I say wealthy I mean WEALTHYYYYY) + come from a family of aristocrats + wealthy generational family in general (yall know what I'm tryna say) + luxury etc etc

-Revised life and childhood

-Dream singing + rapping skills + song writing etc

-Good in all sports like frfr just good at everything (basically the perfect it girl)

-Be a Gazillion times better then Kokomi teruhashi (not tryna be self centered i promise🥲)

-Perfect life + graduation + live teenage fever dream

-Bald, completely hairless body and face (but keeping my brows, lashes and scalp hair)

It's more I just can't think of it rn but this is all I will be manifesting

How will I manifest all this?

So for me I'm not really tryna overcomplicate any more I'm just gonna go straight back to the basics n apply what I know which is choose what I desire, affirm/assume its done and persist. I already overconsumed so much and at this point it's a waste of time. I'm not really tryna do no challenges I'm just gonna focus strictly on trusting and having faith not just in myself but my imagination and subconscious thats its done n taken care of, I'll give yall updates on anything that happens soon! I love you guyssss💗💗💗

Affirmations I'll be using

-I have all of my desires from my notes

-I am living my dream life

-it is done

-I choose to live my new story, my old story no longer exist

#law of assumption #manifestation #manifesting #neville goddard #affirm and persist #affirmations #MsAllurea

293 notes · View notes

gold-snek-hoe · 2 months

Text

Hello and welcome to Opinions from an Internet Nobody. Today's essay:

"Ger therapy" is the new "You need Jesus": One Weirdo's Navigation through Cultural Shame

This is a supposedly well-meaning sentiment that is often weaponized against people who are behaving outside of perceived cultural norms. It's a favorite of homophobes who see queerness/transness as a mental illness, but I've been seeing it used to demonize kink (which historically is often linked to queerness), and more generally any "weird" behavior that makes people uncomfortable.

For example, otherkin, systems (especially those with fictives), and people who take fictional characters as partners. Y'know, "weirdos" who "can't separate reality from fiction." And, sure, sometimes there can be a problem with that distinction, but I know as well as you that most internet strangers saying "get therapy" don't actually give a shit about the mental health of those they target. It's code for "your behavior makes me uncomfortable, stop it."

Same sentiment as "you need Jesus."

This has actually taken me a long time to figure out. I've been in therapy for my entire adult life, working through various traumas, severe depression, anxiety, all that. Those were the biggest problems as they negatively impacted, and often endangered, my life. It was only after my hospitalization in 2020, where I was finally put on much needed medication, that I could start to grow into myself.

I changed my name. I top surgery. I came out as polyamorous. I finally got my official autism diagnosis. Now I'm fuckin' married! But... there are still things I'm working through in therapy. Mainly, shame over my "weirder" behaviors. My current therapist has been a huge blessing in helping me accept the things I was too ashamed to admit.

Now, I feel comfortable enough to share.

I'm otherkin. Always have been. My connection to my humanity is tenuous, and I'm sure that's connected to my autism. When mad, I feel phantom horns sprouting from my forehead. I have a tail that swishes back and forth at the base of my spine. In my soul, I am monstrous, and years of therapy has not erased that.

I feel like I'm only half in the physical world most of the time. This doesn't hinder my real-world success (I graduated college Summa Cum Laude, have an IMDB page, and am on my third book), but informs the way I look at the world. There's a whole other universe in my head that hums along with me in my day-to-day. That's part of why I'm so skilled as a writer. To ask me to divorce from that is to tell me to stop existing. Sorry, it's how I've always operated.

Lastly, and this is the one I'm really anxious about, I have a fictional husband. Now, looking at my blog, you might say "yeah, no shit," but I don't just ship myself with him. I mean I practice pop-culture Witchcraft, and the Goblin King is my patron. I mean I have a Labyrinth-themed tarot deck that I talk to him with. I mean I held a ritual to spiritually marry him. Basically, I Snape-wived myself.

And guess what? My therapist isn't concerned. It's not hurting my ability to live my life. I have other interests, hobbies, and goals outside of him, which he actively encourages in all our tarot sessions! I wouldn't be doing this if he didn't support me. My IRL spouse is usually there for whatever magical shit I'm doing, and supports me! Some of my closest friends know, and the only complaint I've gotten is "this guy seems important to you, I wish you told me sooner." Hell, my MOTHER knows and supports me, which is huge, because our relationship was pretty damaged after I came out as trans.

If you have a problem with the way I live my life, when literally nobody else does, take a good long look at why. You don't give a fuck about my mental health. You just don't like that I'm weird.

Tl;dr: My mental health is better than it's ever been since embracing the weird, so leave me and my imaginary husband Marak Sixfinger alone.

102 notes · View notes

bubuslutty · 1 month

Text

40-something Moon Man ROCKS the Dancefloor! (REAL NOT CLICKBAIT!)

pairing: Marc Spector & Female Reader

word count: 4026

warnings: none

summary:

Marc Spector accidentally goes viral on TikTok after his uni student neighbour/friend drags him to the club with her.

a/n: i wrote this in a silly goofy mood and i love marc sooo much <3 Also I used Darling instead of Y/n cuz im funky like that.

“Please, Marc.” Darling begged the 40-something man while he tried to clean his flat.

“No.” Marc answered flatly, wearing a very washed-out and loose t-shirt and a pair of dark blue shorts. His hair, now longer was tied at the back of his head in a tiny man bun.

“Why??? We’ll have so much fun and you need a night out to dislodge the stick up your ass.” Darling groaned and fell on her knees in the kitchen, ready to hold onto his legs and beg if need be. Marc sighed and ignored the 19-year-old teenager on his kitchen floor as he cracked another window open and increased the volume of the radio on the window ledge, BBC Radio 1 playing a Central Cee song in the flat as he picked up stray books, papers, food wrappers, socks and random junk, a bin bag clutched in one hand and a laundry basket clutched in his other arm.

Marc finally got himself to start cleaning his flat, he read that it would help his mental health to live in a cleaner space. That’s why she was over, she was meant to help him clean so it wouldn’t be too overwhelming on his own, and motivate him to get on with cleaning so he finished faster and could escape her non-ending yapping sessions. But now, it seemed like she was more interested in annoying him, which is literally second nature now, a natural reaction she had to him, annoying the shit out of Marc.

I mean, he could literally kick her out, and scare her enough that she’ll leave him alone for good, he’s done it before, to other people. He’s tried, but she’s Steven’s friend and he can’t do that to him. And he knows deep down he actually enjoys her presence and would kill anyone that hurts her then himself. He cannot lie, the kid had a big heart and was incredibly kind and patient. He was a little jealous that her parents were able to make a girl like that because Marc knew he could never produce that level of goodness into the world. He can never come close. She was too good.

Marc dropped the basket on a chair and the trash bag on top of it, letting out a long sigh and putting his hands on his hips. “Why do you want me to go with you?”

Darling’s miserable puppy eyes immediately vanished and she got up from the floor, walking up to him with a huge grin on her face. “Well, first of all, you’re my friend, and I like hanging out with you.” Marc raised one brow and didn’t say anything.

“I found this club with great music and I really want to try it out,” Darling said shrugging.

“Why don’t you go with your friends? People your own age.” Marc asked, his arms now crossed over his chest. “People from my uni are… I never really enjoyed going out with them, sure, nothing terrible happened cuz we always stuck together but uh-” Darling tried to explain and Marc failed to understand why the hell she wanted him to go with her out of all people.

“I’ll just be in the way if I go with you. And I can always pick you up at the end of the night, you know?” Marc said and Darling frowned in confusion, “In the way of what?”

Marc almost laughed in disbelief but held it together, “Don’t you want a boyfriend? No one will get close to you if I’m with you.”

Darling looked unimpressed, “What boyfriend? You mean drunk finance bros with an Andrew Tate mentality? Plus, I don’t do hookups, I have anxiety, mate.” Marc was confused and Darling remembered he wasn’t as chronically online as she was, so he probably had no idea who the abomination of a man was.

“I just want the experience. I just want to dress up and dance all night without men I don’t know breathing down my neck.” Darling explained, picking lint up from her way too big t-shirt with a Pikachu plastered on the front, so she wouldn’t have to look at him in the eyes.

Marc understood and thought about it for a second before picking up the trash bag and walking to the area that was his kitchen and putting it on the floor, next to the bin. “You want me to be your bodyguard?”

Darling’s head snapped up, eyes wide, “No! I mean- Yeah, sure..”

Marc pondered over the thought and asked, “When?”

“This Friday.” Darling quickly answered, smiling big and all, excitement radiating off her in waves.

“Alright, but so you know, I don’t dance.” That’s also what Chad from High School Musical said but go off. Darling knew to keep her mouth shut instead of calling him out.

“Thank you. Thank you so much!” She squealed, jumping up and wrapping her arms around his waist.

“Alright, enough.” He grumbled even though he was smiling, and ripped her away with his hands on her shoulders. “You won’t regret this,” Darling promised and Marc just nodded, he’ll see about that.

“Now, do me a favour,” Marc said, turning around and picking up two trash bags in his hands. “Take out the trash.”

Darling groaned and Marc fixed her with a look and her shoulders slumped, taking the bags out of the door to put them downstairs.

🌙

“How do I look? Be honest.” Darling asked, standing in the corridors as Marc locked his door and shoved the keys in his pockets, his black leather jacket held in his other hand.

Marc straightened his back and analysed her outfit from head to toe. She was wearing a sleeveless, backless sparkly blue top paired with jean shorts and white trainers. Simply put, she looked pretty and it surprised Marc a little, he didn’t know she was capable of wearing anything but washed-out old t-shirts with unhinged slogans on them. It was an addiction at this point, she loved buying the weirdest t-shirts she could find on the internet. She even bought him a t-shirt once that said “I lactate”. And swear to God, Marc almost killed her right then and there. It’s still ranked as one of her “biggest Ws” whatever the fuck that meant.

“Not ugly,” Marc answered flatly and Darling grinned, that was Marc’s way of saying she looked nice.

“And you look great, did Jake pick the clothes?” She asked, looking him over.

“No.” Marc lied and she giggled, because the one who dressed cunty every single time without fail, was Jake, and unfortunately, Marc didn’t possess the level of serve Jake did.

Marc was wearing a black short-sleeved button-up, unbuttoned at the top, where his David’s star necklace glinted against his tan chest, paired with black trousers and black shoes. Simple, clean. His hair was brushed back this time, but still, some curls fell over his forehead no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it.

“Let’s go,” Darling said after checking she had everything she needed in her small handbag.

The two decided to take the underground rather than Jake’s cab because it was faster than being stuck in traffic in central London. It was a bit busy and lots of people looked like they were heading to clubs and pubs for the night, dressed in all sorts of manner. Marc was honestly just looking around and taking everything in, he had never witnessed London’s nightlife like this, maybe saw some things from rooftops while tracking someone, but that didn’t count.

He saw an alarming amount of young men dressed in techs, standing in hoards. And girls wearing matching bodycon dresses. The underground station was hot, extremely loud and stinky. Darling was standing next to him, complaining about the prices that TFL charged. How ridiculously expensive the tube and trains were, even with a student oyster. He just hoped he wouldn’t get a nasty headache by the end of the night.

They hopped on the tube when it came, screeching to a stop, people spilling out of it in crowds. When they got in, they sat across each other as more people sat around them. And if it couldn’t get any louder, a man walked in with a big speaker resting on his shoulder and a cracked iPhone gripped in his other hand. “Bassline Junkie” blasted loudly as he sang along, and soon enough, a group of rowdy teenagers, around Darling’s age, started singing along too. Darling started laughing and Marc watched as the man started approaching them, goading the sitting people to get up and start singing with him. Darling got up and shouted the lyrics at some girls as they sang together. They somehow managed to drag Darling away from her seat, holding each other and singing loudly, multiple phones recording the scene. When they reached their stop, Marc got up and pulled Darling by the hand out of the tube before they missed it.

“BYE!” She shouted over her shoulder, laughing and breathing hard.

Marc let go of her hand and watched her put her hands on her knees, panting and straightening, fixing her hair and looking at Marc with bright eyes, “I’ve never done that before.”

He smiled a little, “Good job.”

“To the club!” Darling pointed in the direction of the gates, pulling Marc by his arm.

When they left the station, Darling let out a shuddering breathing, suddenly feeling very cold in the polluted crisp air of London. Marc noticed and frowned, “Don’t get sick.”

“Wow, thank you, Marc.” Darling rolled her eyes and started walking down the street, Marc following her behind. She turned around, walking backwards, “By the way, I have your jacket so I won’t get sick.”

“I’m not giving you my jacket, dipshit.” Marc said and Darling rolled her eyes, “Yeah, whatever you say.”

They spent 30 minutes trying to figure out where the hell that club was, bickering while following the map on Darling’s phone. At some point, she ended up locking arms with Marc after a rando whistled after her when she walked by and had to physically stop Marc from turning around and bashing the man’s face in.

When they finally reached the club, Darling was so excited and Marc had a hand wrapped around the back of her neck, guiding her through the crowds of people to the bar so they could get a drink in their system first and take in the place. “You’re paying, by the way,” Darling said over the loud music, taking a sip of her cocktail, this drink will probably be her first and last. She didn’t plan on throwing up on the pavement, and she wants to be able to remember tonight.

“You’re the one taking me out, aren’t you supposed to be paying?” Marc asked, leaning in so she could hear him over the music. “I’m paying for kebabs later. 50/50, yeah?” She said and he hummed.

He looked around and noticed how a lot of people were dressed, it faintly reminded him of the early 2000s with twists to fit today’s fashion trends. He could tell that this was the look Darling was going for, then he finally allowed himself to actually hear the music and was surprised when Flo Rida was blasting from the speakers, the floor vibrating under the weight of the bass.

“Come on, let’s dance,” Darling said after she finished her drink and dragged him on the dance floor, drink still in hand. Rihanna was now playing and Marc was a little mortified because he doesn’t remember the last time he danced in a club. Darling gave him encouraging nods while she practised a Just Dance routine without missing a beat as Marc nodded to the music, finishing his drink and trying not to laugh at her and failing miserably.

At some point Darling got rid of his empty glass for him and ran back, almost crashing face-first on his chest if he didn’t catch her. “THAT’S MY SONG!” She shouted over the music and Marc immediately recognised the beat. It was that Usher song that even the aliens from outer space could recognise, the one and only: “Yeah!”. Marc was a little confused because he was sure as hell she wasn’t even born when it came out.

“I WAS BORN TO SERVE CUNT AND SLAY THE CLUB!” She shrieked and Marc knew she must be out of her mind because there’s no way one drink made her say shit like that. He was dragged to the centre of the dance floor and Darling started busting moves he never saw her do, and Marc had to admit, she was a good dancer. But he was a great dancer.

He ran a hand through his curly hair and watched her dance with fire in her eyes. Marc smirked. Alright , if this is how this is going to go, then so be it. He popped another button open from the top of the shirt and rolled his neck, getting his muscles loose, nodding to the beat. Darling watched him as she bounced with the beat and honest to God, Marc started krumping. Krumping in the club.

Darling’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets and she screamed in delight, hyping him up with her whole body, “I knew you could do it!”

He was good. Really good.

So good in fact that the people around them started to notice and the space between them got bigger, creating a clear space where they could see Marc and Darling better. Darling didn’t even notice, her eyes glued to Marc who was absolutely destroying the dance floor. She didn’t even notice the phones pulled out to record the scene. And when it looked like Darling was starting to lose against Marc, a random girl squeezed herself through the crowd, handing Darling her drink and started dancing battling Marc. Darling was losing her mind, laughing and having the time of her life. The crowd hyped both the girl and Marc.

Marc was smiling the whole time, his curls moving this and that way, now falling over his eyes, sticking to his forehead. His face was warm and his necklace kept constantly swinging as he ate up every single person who decided to battle him. In between songs, he kept being offered drinks while Darling kept complimenting his skills. She was proud to get him out of his shell and was genuinely so grateful that everything went as planned. But most importantly, she was proud of him.

Hours later, by the time they left the club, the two were walking down the streets, singing together to a Britney Spears song, arms linked and still warm and sweaty. Darling had Marc’s (Well, it was actually Jake’s) leather jacket draped over her shoulders, keeping her shielded from the cold wind. Meanwhile, Marc may as well unbutton his shirt all the way down and take it off because it was sticking to him and a huge, very generous chunk of his chest could be seen, still shining with drying sweat. His hair was a little crazy because no matter what he tried to do, it refused to stay still and he didn’t have anything to hold it with. But that’s alright, he looked very pretty and he had a great time to care about his hair at the moment.

The two made their way to the first kebab place they saw. “What do you want?” She asked, looking at the old and worn menu above the counter, on the wall. “A number 2.”

“Bossman, let me get two number 2s and two Coke Zero’s.” Darling said and the man nodded, “£22.98, please.” Darling reached for her purse. “I got it,” Marc said, digging in his pocket for notes before she had the chance to protest.

“I was going to pay.” She mumbled, rubbing her eyes, feeling tired.

“You can pay next time.” He said, patting her head.

“You always say that and you never let me.” She complained, leaning her weight against him, cheek squished against his warm arm. “Yeah, yeah.” Marc checked his phone for any notifications and scrolled a bit while waiting for their food to be done. When they got their food, they left the joint because there were literally no seats in there, you just collect your food and leave. Marc held the plastic bag in one hand and wrapped the other around Darling’s shoulder just in case she tripped, she didn’t drink much but she exhausted herself to the bone, and he didn’t want to end up in the ER looking after her.

“Do you want to eat in the tube?” He asked.

“No, I’ll get sick. Aren’t there any chairs anywhere?” She asked.

Marc hummed and looked around, spotting a park? A garden? It was really small and fenced, and in the middle, there was a big statue of a man Marc couldn’t recognise. He walked closer and saw that there was an empty bench inside. Perfect.

They got settled down, Marc unwrapped their food and Darling complained about the cold bench against her thighs. “Sit on the jacket.” He said, opening his Coke and taking a sip.

“But then my back will touch the bench.” She complained and Marc rolled his eyes.

“Just eat your food.” He said and they dug in.

They didn’t speak for a long time, both looking up at the dark sky. There were no stars to be seen due to the city lights, but they could see the moon and the clouds. It was as peaceful as London could get. When they were done, they collected the trash in the plastic bag but didn’t move, still sitting on the bench, looking at the moon together. “Uhm-” Marc spoke and Darling turned to look at him. As soon as she met his eyes, he snapped his mouth shut.

Darling didn’t say anything, just looked at him with an open expression, eyes heavy-lidded due to sleepiness. Marc licked his lower lip and parted his lips to speak but nothing came out. So instead, he opted for squeezing one of her knees in his warm hand, trying to make her understand what he was trying to say with his eyes.

He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to say that he appreciated her taking him out with her. He appreciated her patience and kindness. He appreciated how she never judged him for being himself. How she was brave and strong and didn’t get scared easily.

And Darling understood.

🌙

It was around 12 in the afternoon the next day when Darling got a text message from one of her uni friends. She frowned in confusion, she usually never received any messages from them during the weekends. She put her spoon in her cereal bowl as she chewed, and paused the YouTube video she was watching on her laptop.

Darling opened the message. It was two messages actually, one of them read, “Is this you?” And the other was a link.

She suddenly felt scared as her finger hovered over the link, she was sure she had a good digital footprint. I mean, she had profiles where family and friends followed, and she also had separate accounts online where she caused havoc without revealing her identity. And she was sure there was no way anyone she knew in real life could find her accounts and link them to her. She was careful.

Darling opened the link and instead of loading in a browser tab, it opened the TikTok app. Now, what the hell is this?

At first, she didn’t know what she was looking at, but her brain caught on and she felt like screaming. It was a video of the day before, from the club. There she was dancing battling Marc in the middle of the circle. Her jaw was on the floor, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Then she looked at the likes and screamed because why did it have 2M likes?

Her finger pressed the comment section before she could think and was flooded with comments like “This is what I mean when I say I want to go to the club”, “Okay but why did he eat?”, “Where is this??”, “Get this man in a Step Up movie NOW”, “Goo Goo Ga Ga”.

Darling leapt off the bed laughing and scrambled out of her flat, phone in hand. She didn’t even bother to wear slippers and instead ran over next door, Steven’s door, knocking quickly. When the door didn’t open in a millisecond, she turned the doorknob and walked inside without bothering to shut the door properly behind her, “Marc, you have to see this!”

Marc was in bed, shirtless and wearing a pair of loose PJ bottoms, wearing his reading glasses as he read his book. Well, he wasn’t reading it now . He was looking at Darling with an annoyed expression. She ignored it and ran to him, but not without throwing a quick “Hi, Gus” to the tank. She dived knees first on his bed and he sighed, slamming his book shut and placing it on the bedside table.

“What do you want?”

“Look!” She held her phone in front of his face and he tried to comprehend what he was looking at. Darling saw the moment he realised what it was, he grabbed the phone with both hands, a look of horror plastered on his face. “All of London saw the video. You’re viral, Marc.”

“Delete it.” He said without ripping his eyes from the screen.

“What?” Darling frowned.

“Delete it. Right now.” He repeated.

“It’s not my video. I can’t delete it.” Darling said and Marc dropped the phone in his lap, gathering his head in his hands, groaning. He truly had fun, but he didn’t know how he felt about all of London seeing this video.

Darling picked up her phone again, “I’m going to send it to DuChamp, he’s going to love it.”

Marc screamed and ripped the phone away from her hands, scaring her. She got scared not because he had taken her phone but because she never heard the man scream before. “Give it back!” She said, trying to grab her phone but Marc didn’t let her. It was a struggle because not only Marc was stronger, way stronger, but he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt so she didn’t have any grip on him, except his shoulders and hair. But she knew if she even thought about pulling his hair he’d throw her out of the window. “I’m going to report the video so it can be taken down.” He said and Darling gasped, “You don’t even know how to do that! You never used TikTok in your life, boomer!”

“Watch me,” Marc said through gritted teeth as Darling struggled against him, then she somehow managed to wrap her arms around his free arm and threw herself down on the bed, back first and swung her legs up to wrap them around his head, choking him. Marc let out a surprised shout, his eyes sent 500 million invisible daggers to Darling. He threw the phone down on the floor, out of her reach and lifted her off the bed, her legs still wrapped around his neck and she screamed when he flipped them around and slammed her down on the bed, head first, WWE style.

The two kept wrestling and clawing at each other until Darling ended up in a headlock, Marc squishing her body on the bed with his whole weight, “Help!” She wheezed, clawing at him, trying to get away from him. “Quit it.” He hissed as she tried to kick him with the heel of her foot on his ass.

A cough startled the two out of their fight, both of them looked up and Marc froze.

“What are you…doing?” Layla asked, looking at Marc, then back down at Darling. She had her phone in her hand, and a big Tesco shopping bag in the other. God bless her heart, she brought her disaster of not-technically-divorced husband groceries.

“Oooh, is that the bad bitch you fumbled-”

🌙

Tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @bobastayhigh @weblesstherains @h-leigh @unspokenmoon @ahookedheroespureheart @thursdaywritings @gebstargeb @softieekayy @fem-moony @peachjellypackets @pakhiya @darlinglittledevil @anixluxtt @mrs-cupidd @gebgeb @poeticabomination

this work is part of the "I'm friends with the moon" series. You can read it as a stand-alone or delve deeper into this AU.

63 notes · View notes

scientia-rex · 10 months

Text

Medicine is a numbers game. I use probability all the time. If you don't understand probability, you'll look at someone with chest pain and have no fucking clue how likely it is that you're looking at a heart attack. You may not even know what the other top contenders are. GERD is common. Anxiety. An angry rib muscle. Lots of options. Most of the time, most chest pain won't be a heart attack, but sometime it'll be something worse--an aortic dissection that's rupturing will kill you even faster than most heart attacks.

I see so many patients who come in with a symptom that the Internet, whether Google or influencers, has told them is associated with this one thing. It's often the thyroid. And yeah! A fucked-up thyroid can cause all kinds of symptoms. But here's the deal: if I check your thyroid and it looks normal, it's probably not your thyroid that's causing the symptoms. It could be something else we understand. It is very often something we don't understand. But the fact that I can tell you modern medicine doesn't understand some process doesn't mean your naturopath or chiropractor or Certified Hormone Expert Influencer does understand it because they have this different way of looking at the body. Look, long, long before I wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to be an herbalist. I'm queer, I'm a woman(ish), I am neurodivergent, I am not The Man. I'm not beholden to the system; the system doesn't care for me and wishes I would sit down and shut up, most days. And I have a background in research science and statistics. I used to have a rubber stamp that said "Denied" and one that said "Approved" and I'd hit piles of paper for research applications at an R-1 university, in triplicate, with my stamps, because I understood research well enough to get a Human Subjects Division job evaluating it. If a naturopathic approach to thyroid worked well, I would be doing it. I'm a utilitarian. I don't give a rat's ass about the theoretical underpinnings of modern medical practice, I want things to work. Ideally I would like to know why they work, too, but hey, we can't always have it all.

So the dozens of patients I get every month who are looking elsewhere for answers, looking to people who don't actually know any better but are good at pretending they do, who pay money for elaborate supplement regimens or unvalidated genetic tests or (my personal least favorite) "memory-improving games," I have to be calm and professional and diplomatic about what I say. I can't say, "That's quack shit." I can't say, "Your favorite influencer is a liar and an idiot." Not just because I'd get lower patient satisfaction scores, but because patients wouldn't believe me, and they would reactively like me less and the other guy more. (You're calling me stupid? You're saying I wasted money? If I believe you're just a shill for Big Pharma, that hurts less.)

It takes years, even decades, to understand how to put together the probability maps. Chest pain in a patient under 40? Highly unlikely to be a myocardial infarction, but not totally impossible, especially if they've been doing cocaine. In a patient over 60? Much more likely. Is the pain crushing? Is it sub-sternal? How long has it been going on? Is it constant, or intermittent? Does the patient smoke? What other health conditions does the patient have? These are all deeply important questions, and I remember feeling overwhelmed by things like this all the time in medical school. It's taken so long to build my knowledge, and my background in research is only tangentially valuable most of the time.

Please don't believe authority just because it looks good. Don't trust people because you want to trust them. Learn about the scientific process, learn how the sausage gets made, and then you'll be in an infinitely better position to know whether this is a "wow! science!!!" or a "wow! science bullshit!" moment.

#the attending dr. kristophine

154 notes · View notes

caffstrink · 1 year

Note

do you have any tips on how to live off as artist professionally?

First of all art isn't always a viable option depending where you live. The only reason ive been able to live off art is because the american dollar is worth 5x more than the brazilian real so even if i didn't get many comms i could still get by with the few i had. and if that wasn't the case I'd pretty much be eating breadcrumbs off the floor like a pigeon.

1. Whore yourself out and draw fanart of every popular or trending thing to gather attention to youe art

2. Learn your platforms: learn how each websites algorithm works, learn what are the best hours to post, etc

3. I cannot stress enough how important it is to find your niche

4. Everyone is fake no one wants to be your friend, other popular artists will start following you the moment your following becomes good enough. They'll start to interact with you too and want to become mutuals in order to share followings/traction. If you can play into that you can get them to share your stuff as well, but honestly don't fall for it bc most of them shittalk other artists on their privs or personal servers and the stress isnt worth it

5. Draw nsfw if possible/if you're comfortable with. People who commission porn pay well and they often have very few options when commissioning stuff bc most artists don't accept porn commissions.

6. Accept being an artist is a hard job that doesn't pay really well. If you're freelancing on comms life's always going to be a tightrope, so i suggest trying to do professional work once in a while so you can at least have the security of a salary. Draw backgrounds, gestures, scenes, studies, and the likes, bc those are what companies will want in your portfolio

7. Depending where you live it's extremely hard to live off as an artist, and being an artist is often means a very difficult struggle with finances. It's a job that requires passion, and more often than not turning art in a job causes creative burnout and complete loss of spark for it. Ask yourself: why do you want to be a professional artist? Isn't it better to keep it as a hobby? Maybe a side gig if you need money? You can still pursue art even if you don't do it to earn money, and it doesn't make you any less of an artist. It's a difficult job, and you need to understand its not going to be viable at all times and sometimes you'll have to throw in the towel and do something else to survive and there's 0 shame in that.

8. Be professional and courteous with your clients. Don't be a doormat, but don't go around ghosting people or being passive aggressive or taking them for granted and never deliver any product. Doing art for money is a JOB. Treat it like such. Inform your clients about delays, or any issues that may come up.

9. Take care of yourself and by that i mean eat decent food, exercise your arms, get 8 hours of sleep and get some sun (or take vitamin D periodically if youre a basement dweller). This isn't some self care uwu shit, it's actual science that your body is a machine and not providing what it needs to function leads to issues, and some of those issues include affecting your mental health, and mental health issues include and are not limited to: anxiety, depression, burnout, loneliness, feeling like your art sucks, feeling unmotivated, feeling like you're a failure, etc. Same with physical: for the love of GOD you DON'T want wrist issues. You dont want carpal or ulnar nerve entrapment. Don't draw 24/7. Don't push yourself either. If youre feeling shitty its time to STOP. Just picture a shitty graphics card trying to run minecraft with 5 shaders and 10 mods at once on fullscreen with 60 fps. Thats you. Youre the graphics card

10. Don't be a bitch, don't get involved with drama. Can't be an internet artist if you get cancelled so don't try to start shit at any point in time. Don't be a shit person.

And from the top of my head thats it, hope you like eating plain bread 🍞

159 notes · View notes

jimmy-johns-was-taken · 27 days

Note

hello!! I absolutely adore your writing and I wanted to request masky/tim x reader who’s having a bad mental health day. (feel free to ignore this if you don’t want to lol <3)

Thank you so much!!!!!!!!

I didn’t know if you wanted romantic or platonic; but I took it as platonic? I had a vision for a platonic reader, I hope that’s ok :)

We All Have Bad Days

Platonic Tim / Masky x Reader

T.W. Depression, mentions of self harm, smoking, mentions of past abuse, reader had a shit life before b coming a proxy, violence

Sliding through the now open window, you carefully landed on the floor. A simple home invasion, should be a piece of cake. Slender needed some files from the mother of the family, you didn’t know what exactly they were about, but you couldn’t care. He said you could kill them if you wanted, didn’t matter if they lived as long as you weren’t caught. With the week you had, you wanted to blow off some steam.

Quietly walking through the house, you poked around and attempted to find an office. People keep files in there, right? Or maybe some kind of study. Slender hadn’t given you much information, just where the house was, who would be in it, and your objective. Finding nothing on the first floor other than the kitchen, living room, laundry, and a home gym, you started your way upstairs.

The first room on the right was an empty room, looked like a teenage boys room. Messy, posters and flags lining the walls, dirty dishes everywhere. Nobody seemed to be in the room, so you shut the door and moved on. The room across the hall was a bathroom, which you didn’t bother with. The next room on the right was exactly what you were looking for.

The office was smaller, but neat and tidy. A dark pine desk was in the corner, bookshelf above it, with a computer, notepad, pens and pencils thrown around. Three large filing cabinets sat beside it. Grinning, you opened the one closest to the desk and began looking. Slender said that you would know it when you saw it, a dirty file case that was marked “1994” in large red ink.

You guessed it was some kind of evidence of slender or another creep, it needed to be destroyed. Not finding anything in the top, you searched the rest. Coming up empty handed, you looked around the room for anything else. Opening the desk draws, through some of the books, nothing was found. Panic slowly filled you, where was it? You shot a quick text to Tim, anxiety rising as you realized that the objective wasn’t there and you couldn’t complete the mission.

You set your phone down for a moment, re-checking the desk draws. You heard the phone buzz, but a gun clocking sound made you freeze. You looked toward the door as a women stood there, a small hunting rifle pointed at you. You had a hunting knife on you, but it wouldn’t do much good against a gun. Your baseball bat was downstairs and handgun was left at the cabin. You figured you wouldn’t need it, but fate would say otherwise.

As your phone buzzed once more, the women let loose, firing at you. You swore and ducked, trying to find your bearings. She let out a cry and turned on her heels, sprinting away. You sprung up, knife in hand, and chased her down the hall, to the last room. The master bedroom was large, with a walk-in closet and large bathroom connecting to it. The women, now yelling at you in a language you weren’t familiar with, pointed the gun at you once more.

“Jeez, will you shut up?!” You yelled, lunging at her. You grabbed the gun and threw it to the side as she shot, taking your knife in the other hand and quickly slitting her throat. As you glanced around the room, a file caught your eye. Old and dusty, the number “1994” in big red in. Bingo. Curious, you opened the file.

You stopped breathing. Panic and terrible memories flooded you. It was a picture of you, standing next to your mother. This picture was taken in 1994, it was of you in a Chucky costume on Halloween. A month before your father had been caught cheating and kicked out. A month before your mother had started drinking. A month before the hell of your life started. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, you wanted to just burn the picture. Not being able to go through the rest of it, you closed it with tears in your eyes, and turned back.

You stopped by the office, grabbing your phone. Tim had texted you several times, mostly asking if you had found it and if you were ok. You replied shortly “got it.” Back downstairs you grabbed the bat you had and left the house, walking back toward the mansion. Thoughts filled your head as you walked. Who was that women? How did she have that photo? How did she know you? Why would slender send you on this mission? You began to slightly cry, you just wanted an easy mission to blow off some steam after a rough week. Not be brought back to a life of abuse and suffering.

You quickly entered the mansion, bee-lining it for Slender’s office. You opened the door, not bothering to knock, and Slender’s attention snapped to you. You laid the file on his desk, nodding to him. He grabbed it, thumbing through the inside of it. He dismissed you without another word, opening the file and looking through its contents. You lingered for a moment, tempted to ask him why he had sent you on the mission. You decided against it, walking away and back to the woods. Now, the make it to the cabin without breaking down.

When you arrived, Tim was on the porch, smoking a cigarette. He looked at you, an uncertain look in his eyes.

“Mission go ok?” He raised a brow, sensing your off attitude.

“Yeah, fine,” you brushed past him, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

He watched you walk inside, something telling him that something was seriously wrong. Toby was on the couch, eyes glued to some show. Brian was put on a mission with Cody and Kate, some surveillance mission. You quickly walked to your room, Toby glancing over their shoulder to catch a quick glance. They shrugged before turning their attention back to the show as Tim walked in.

You made it to your room and let out a shaky breath. You needed a hot shower, just to calm down and breathe. Making your way to the bathroom, you started the water and took off the bloodstained shirt. Scars littered your body, most were just from missions. But, you glanced to your arms. Long marks up and down your arms, you looked away and got in the shower. Once in, you broke down, your sobs being drowned out by the running water.

You were able to pull yourself together to finish showering and get out. Putting on comfy sweat pants and a oversized sweatshirt you stole from a victim, you flipped on the bed. Tear stained cheeks, you sniffled once more. Memories and thoughts flooding your mind, you felt your breath hitch as another wave of tears hit you. You began to cry again, tears soaking the pillow below you. A knock of the door snapped you out of your sob session.

“Who is it?” You shakily asked.

“Just Tim,” his gruff voice called. How long had he been there?

You opened the door, looking anywhere but his eyes. He pushed his way past you, shutting the door behind him and sitting on the bed. Seconds that felt like hours pasted as you finally looked at him. He noticed the puffy eyes, tear marks, red cheeks, and stuffy nose almost instantly.

“You ok?”

“No.”

Tim stood and walked over, pulling you into a tight hug. You stayed like that for a long while, in his arms sobbing. For fucks sake, you hated being like this. Weak in front of others, especially Tim. Eventually, you pushed away.

“My mom,” you started, “a picture of me and my mom were in that file. Before everything went to shit? When we were still happy,” you explained. Tim knew of your past and the shit-show your mother had put you through.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“It’s fine, it’s gone now. Slender has it, out of sight out of mind.”

“How about,” Tim started to change the subject, “we head to the store yeah? We need some new food anyway.”

You looked at him a little confused but agreed anyways. Getting up, you threw on your shoes and left, Tim yelling at Toby that you were leaving. You hoped in the passenger seat of the old pick up truck as Tim started it up. The drive to the store was long and quiet.

When you arrived, you and Tim started shopping. At first, it was quiet and to a list. However, as you passed the candy isle, Tim took a turn. He grabbed some chocolate and looked at you.

“How mad do you think Brian would be if we spent a lot of money on candy?” He smirked, a small chuckle leaving him.

“Oh, he’d be very pissed, especially if we didn’t share,” you grinned, grabbing a pack of sour gummy worms.

From that point, you and Tim had eveything you actually needed, you both started to grab junk food. Chips, candy, and eventually you hit the bakery section. Cake, brownies, cookies, and more piled up in the cart as you both laughed. Brian would be so pissed, but the look on his face would be worth it. Paying, you walked out and started loading the back of the truck.

Unexpectedly, Tim grabbed you and threw you into the cart. He pushed you across the parking lot, you screaming and laughing the entire way. Putting the cart up, he pretend to leave you there, getting in and staring up the truck. You scrambled out of the cart and to the truck, yelling at him not to leave you. Both of you laughed and started your way home. It fell silent soon after, but it was comfortable.

“So, we don’t tell Brian about half of this, ok?” Tim spoke.

“Well duh,” you rolled your eyes, smiling at all the sweets.

“We deserve them, especially after this week. That mission Tuesday? We cannot let that happen again,” he explained, letting out a long breath.

“Real,” you responded, “thank you Tim.” You smiled at him.

“Of course,” he began, “listen kiddo, we all have bad days and bad weeks. It’s normal. Us proxies tend to have worse weeks than normal people,” he chuckled slightly. “But listen, it’ll be alright, ok? I know it was shit then, and sometimes it still is shit, but that’s ok. ‘Cuz after we have a shit week, we can go blow 50$ on sweets,” Tim smiled at you and you nearly lost it again.

“Thank you Tim,” you smiled back, a warm feeling spreading over your body. Although it was fucked up, you had a family. A family of murderers who lived in the forest and served a supernatural cryptid thing, but a family nonetheless. You would never trade it for the world.

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #ticci toby #ben drowned #eyeless jack #jane the killer #jeff the killer #nina the killer #creepypasta x reader #plantonic tim/masky #plantonic creepypasta #kinda angsty #frick #slender a bitch

26 notes · View notes

feliciafancybottom · 27 days

Text

I haven't been here long and I know, like, no one, and I feel totally stupid sitting here in tears writing a dumb emotional post where I am probably going to overshare and sound like an idiot I guess the positive thing is that no one is likely to read it, I have never been much of an engaging writer. So in my last post I was getting frustrated at myself for procrastinating. I should have just kept that up, but I didn't. I was so proud of myself. Friday night and all day Saturday I forced myself to sit in front of my computer and set up my Etsy store. I even made a banner so it looked pretty. I listed a few things for sale and it took forever, and I was exhausted from forcing myself to focus on something that I really don't enjoy for so long but I did it, and I was so happy that I finally took the step because I'd been putting it off for such a long time. And literally the next day they permanently suspended my account and told me that they would not be giving me an explanation why. Like WTF. I put SO much work into this. I feel like I don't even know. I feel numb.

I used to be a nurse, years ago. I used to live on the other side of the country. Then I met this guy and it's a long story but the end result is that I now live in a different state where I barely know anyone. I'm not with him anymore, thank fuck, but I have severe C-PTSD, s does my youngest kid. I can't work anymore because because my child was always a lot health wise but with C-PTSD on top of everything else they have, they need me around. They rarely go to school because of anxiety. Then they do, I wait in the office because I know they'll only be there an hour or so and I have to drive them home again. Anyway, trying not to overshare. Basically, can't work outside the house. So this Pop Figure thing. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. It's just, I had fun doing it. I thought I wasn't that bad at it. I bought a bunch of old broken ones to practice on. I experimented with different kinds of paints and primers and top coats and clays etc. to figure out what looks best. Then I started making them properly. I still feel like maybe I'm crap at it but I have looked at what people are selling on Etsy and mine are just as good, if not better as the custom Pop figures other people sell on there. It's just hard. I have two disabled kids. I can't work. Their father doesn't give a shit. I'm not trying to be all woe is me but after I pay the rent and bills and food there is nothing left I just wanted to do this so there was a bit extra so everything isn't always so fucking scary and stressful. Fuck. I read their fucking policies. I didn't do anything that violates anything. I hate being such a whiny fucking cry baby but I was was so excited about this. Now it just seems like the last six months of planning and practice has been a gigantic waste of time and money that I couldn't afford. This is the Aziraphale & Snake Crowley I was working on. I was happy with how they were going. They're almost finished. I just have to wait for the epoxy to dry, paint it, and reassemble them but now I don't even want to look at them 😞 I really don't know what I'm going do.

#custom funko pop #funko pop #good omens fanart #good omens #aziraphale #snek crowley #crowley #etsy #fuckyouetsy #sorryIhatebeingawhinycow

27 notes · View notes

tam-shade-song · 1 month

Text

Platonic SoTam Band AU, anyone?

Tam laid on the bed with his finger intertwined on his stomach, the notebook beside him long since discarded. The top of his head was pressed against the outside of Sophi’s thigh as they sat upside down on the bed, their blond hair pooling on the floor below them like a river of gold.

He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. Sophi, oblivious to his anxiety, hummed the melody to the bridge of the new song they were working on. Or at least they were. The two had long since gotten distracted, and conversation had turned into peaceful silence.But the atmosphere had started to shift from serenity to nervousness, and even Sophi had become aware.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” Tam asked his voice low. He pictured the sold-out concerts, the tours, all of their friends together, just them.

“Make it to what?”Sophi asked. “Adulthood?Graduation?” Looking back, it was really horrible that someone like Sophi should even have been concerned, but all honors classes didn’t mean much when it comes to the crushing reality of their situation.

Tam had been expelled from middle school, and had come to Foxfire looking for a fresh start. Sophi was a foster kid who had just been separated from the family she had known all their life. No matter the amount of As on their report card, it didn’t lift the heaviness from their shoulders, and mental health problems wasn’t something just left at the door.

Tam supposed that was why they found so much comfort in each other. Two trans kids in public school, two kids who felt like they were losing their minds. Even Tam didn’t feel the same with his twin sister, who at the end of the day would never understand the way he avoided mirrors and tight fitting shirts.

“I mean as musicians,” Tam said. Sophi snorted the lifted their hand. Tam pulled them up until they were both sitting crossed-legged on the bed facing each other.

“Yeah, I think so, Tam,” Sophi said. “Once Forkle finishes the papers and I’m officially a Ruewen, what’s going to stop us? Once we get you the hell out of that house, we’re free.”

“That does mean people will like our stuff,” Tam said. He fidgeted with his shirt, and pulled it forward. “No one likes us,” he added.

“I like us,” Sophie said. They had a wrinkle in between their brows with proved to Tam that they had the same fears and was just trying to hide it. “Linh likes us, Fitz likes us, Dex, Biana, Keefe-“

“Keefe doesn’t like me,” Tam rolled his eyes. “And that’s what I mean. I don’t doubt our music or our lyrics or even getting our shit out there. What if people just don’t like us for who we are?”

“Tam,” Sophi scolded. “Keefe does not… dislike you, one, and two, who gives a damn. I’m here for the people who will like us. Didn’t we think there was something wrong with us? Don’t we owe it to the kids who are like us? And don’t we owe it to our families? Do you want a boring ass day job you’ll hate, Tam? Or do you want to just be a fucking camp counselor forever? This is what we can do, to make our existence on this fucked up hell hole worth it.”

Tam sighed. And nodded. Then he picked up the guitar he had set on the floor and strummed a chord to make sure it was still in tune.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Let’s get to work.” The skin on Tam’s fingers was threatening to split as the already tender blisters were pressed against the wires, but he ignored it.

He only focused on the dream, the one thing left in the world, with the exception of his sister and Sophi, that he could still believe in.

———————————————————————

Tam pulled the bandaids off his sore fingers, and shook out his hands. Even after two years, he still got anxiety from concerts. Hell, even playing for anyone outside the band made him nervous.

“Tam, let me get a picture,” Biana said. Her glittery pink hijab reflected the light and made little sparkles on Tam’s shirt. “Get your bass.” The social medias manager made Tam take a few pictures before moving onto the other band members. “Good luck, Song.”

“You too,” Tam called over his shoulder. Biana had a way of putting everyone at ease, something Tam appreciated.

Tam took the roll of tape from his bag, and walked to the bathroom. Once the door was locked behind him, he started wrapping Rayni’s old lacrosse tape around his chest. At one concert, there would be dozens of photos, and Tam wouldn’t risk anyone noticing his chest or seeing the strap of his black binder.

There was a ding from his phone, and Tam went to check it. He inhaled as deeply as he could with the sticky tape would allow. It pulled at his skin, but he ignored it.

Don’t wear your binder, you’ll need to breathe. The message read, from Rayni. Tam sighed, and didn’t give a response.

Tam used to be afraid of his father, he used to be afraid of having to get an office job he would hate. Now he was afraid someone would find out he was trans. As soon as he turned eighteen he got his name changed, and before that he had done everything possible to stay out of the spotlight. It had been real shitty to watch everyone preform the song he wrote with Sophi, and to only exist behind a black medical mask or as a prerecorded bass riff. Now, he would everything in his power to make sure he never had to live in the shadows again.

Tam walked out of the bathroom, phone in hand. Outside Sophi tossed him a bottle of water.

“Here,” they said. They wore the same anxious expression Tam remembered from the day they first came into his homeroom. They still felt they owed the world everything, all the other kids with no homes.

“Let’s go,” Tam said. Fitz, the band manager, gave them the signal to go out.

Dex, Linh, Sophi, Tam and Keefe took their places on stage. Slowly, trying to hide his fear as much as possible, Tam started the song, ignoring the pain in his fingers and chest. Sophi took up the mic and began singing.

It was a song about acceptance, responsibility and faith. Wikipedia said the writer of the song was Tam Dai Tong, stage name Tam Song. But really, the song never would have existed if not for Sophi. Not just because the song was a narration of their life, but because without them Tam wouldn’t have been Tam Song in the first place. He never would have been able to live to be true to himself.

The tape around his chest made it hard to breathe, but he played on, growing increasingly light headed.

———————————————————————

Nine months and two singles later, Tam stared at the roll of pink tape in front of him. It hurt to breathe sometimes now. After a performance or rehearsal Tam’s back ached when he breathed heavily. Rayni freaked when she found out, the band’s photographer tried to drag Tam to a doctor then and there.

“You need to take care of yourself,” she stressed. “I know you’re trying to be true to yourself but your body won’t last this way.”

Tam had tried not to roll his eyes. He really had. Maybe he would have tried harder had he known what kind of face Rayni would make. He expected anger, not sadness. Seeing it made his fury rise, and tears also.

He went to Sophi, like always. He didn’t want to burden Linh with his problems, and because he was pissed at Rayni, she was out of the question. That left Sophi.

Over a call, one that Tam was barely paying attention too, Sophi irritably snapped at him, “You bitch about being true to yourself but your body is a part of you too. You can talk all you want about honesty, but you’re just a liar.”

Tam had stared at the blank screen.

And now he was there. In the bathroom, staring at a roll of tape. He cast it away from himself.

The bassist waited for Biana to make her rounds, foot tapping anxiously. Keefe snapped at him when he stared pacing.

“What don’t we know, Bangs Boy?” Keefe asked, ever the detective. Tam scoffed.

“You don’t know a lot of things,” Tam said. Wylie, the technical worker who did the lights, laughed. Stina, the stylist was pinning Keefe’s shirt raised a brow.

“Is this about…” she didn’t finish her question when Tam silenced her with a look. Linh probably told her everything, but even if she hadn’t there was a possibility she had come to her own, incorrect, conclusion.

Biana and Rayni were talking about posting pictures, but Rayni looked up and smiled.

Sophi just raised a brow knowingly.

The players filed out onto stage.

When the same song from the last concert played, Tam’s heart sped up. He could back out, and no one would know, except Rayni, Linh, and Sophi. Maybe some people would notice how his chest wasn’t as flat and they’d come to their own conclusion.

The song was almost up.

Tam broke a nail playing a chord, and it only made his nerves worsen.

When the song ended, Sophi searched through the crowd. Openly nonbinary, they made it a tradition to find someone in the audience with their flag and hand them a little trans or nonbinary flag or pin. When they found who they jokingly refured to as their “victim” they beckoned them closer and took a pin off their own shirt to hand to the audience member.

The crowd cheered. When Tam stepped forward, all he could do was hope the anxiety didn’t show on his face as he took the flag he had asked Stina to stitch for him out of scrap fabric, and waved it over his head.

He was trembling and his palms were sweating, but the transmasc flag waved proudly above his head, and he actually smiled. With tears at the corners of his eyes he walked towards the edge of the stage and searched the crowd. With raised hands there was a young kid, around fourteen, with a make shift he/him pin mad with the trans flag on graph paper.

Reaching so far he had to strain, Tam got it into the boy’s hand.

Sophi tossed Tam a mic, that he fumbled and dropped with quickly picked up. Clearing his throat, Tam tried to keep his voice steady as he said, “We won’t live in the shadows anymore.”

Tam laughed, pretended not to notice how his voice cracked and handed the mic back to Sophi. A new song played, with heavy bass and drums.

When it came for his part, the others got quiet while the bass riff was played, before coming back in.

#tw unsafe binding #platonic sotam #kotlc #kotlc fandom #kotlc headcanons #keeper of the lost cities #kotlc tam #not your shade pet #kotlc thoughts #kotlc fanart #sophie foster #kotlc sophie

21 notes · View notes