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p1nkcanoe · 5 months

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the polaroid collection: cumulus

this is part one of the polaroid collection, based off of 'picture this'. you can either find the masterlist here, read on ao3, or read below:

“Mark them up good,” Cumulus breathes, moaning pretty when Swiss sucks a nipple between his teeth and nibbles, her other enveloped by his palm. His hands are large, it drives her crazy, but her breasts are larger and spill out on all sides. In most cases he’s able to make his partners feel small. Not here. Here, her breasts and her thighs and her tummy make him spin with desire, long to get his mouth on them. She loves the hold she has on him.

“Get them all pretty for the picture. You only have one chance to make it perfect.”

This is untrue. Swiss actually has eight whole tries to get the photo right, and another fresh cartridge of film waiting for him in his bedroom, but he lets it slide, nonetheless. Besides, it’s a lot hotter like this: when he’s sucking his own name into her skin with his mouth and getting her all ready. Making sure she’s picture-perfect.

“I’m trying,” he says while pressed up against her skin. “Making my mouth all sore.”

Cumulus sighs, rolls her eyes for dramatic effect and tsks as she looks down into Swiss’ big brown eyes. He’s already cum twice, once inside of her and the other across her stomach, and they're somehow still flooded with lust and desire, pleading and begging silently to devour her again. She doesn’t know how he does it… Her own clit twitches and throbs at the sight of him, nearly lost in the thin patch of curls painted across his chest, but she tries not to make it too obvious. He can probably feel it where it's buried in the hair on his tummy and making him slick with burning need. If he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s your picture,” she says, much too cool for how he’s spitting and drooling over her breasts like she’ll combust if he doesn’t, spreading it thin with his fingers and his tongue until they shine and present themselves exquisitely under her warm bedroom light. “Don’t mess it up.”

She doesn’t mean the cold bite behind her words, of course, but it still makes Swiss work harder nonetheless to make sure the messy ‘S’ he’s marked into the top of her breast, just above her nipple, is at least semi-legible for the camera. It sort of is. It looks as if a child had tried to write the letter for the first time with a bleeding marker on wet paper–uneven and bulging at different sections–and it’s obvious that he’s not going to be able to get the rest of his name on her if he wants to keep his erection up. Just to save time he unsheaths a claw and carves his name into her breast with the tip, smiling while she keens with the painful burn and waits for her pale gray skin to bloom with pretty purple lines, all while allowing his right hand to float down between their bodies to tug quickly at his dick.

He looks over his masterpiece, at hickeys old and new, faded greens and yellow and fresh purples and reds. They’re gorgeous alongside the various crimson-colored bites he made with his teeth and the tin, pinprick holes he accidentally made with his fangs when he got too carried away sucking on her sensitive nipples. And right on top, standing out like a beacon, is his name.

His name.

Just looking at it on her, claiming her, telling anyone who sees her who she really belongs to, makes him throb and his balls clench up. He drops his forehead right into the valley between them and groans as he circles his palm over his sensitive head and thumbs at the tip.

Cumulus arches her back to bring him back to her–force him back into the present. He unhinges his jaw and bites into her flesh, leaving behind an angry red print of his teeth before angling his face back up towards her own. He’s pained with desire.

“Need to fuck them. Let me fuck them?”

Cumulus huffs out a laugh from her nose, one of her hands wrapping around one of his horns, the other in the back of his curls, forcing him down, back towards where he should be. She nods and whispers when he whines all high and pretty, “I’m yours, baby. Use me.”

He doesn’t need much more convincing than that.

He crawls up and straddles the ghoulette with his last ounce of self control, inching forward until he’s perched right over her chest. His dick sits heavy between the valley of her breasts and he experimentally thrusts his hips forward, testing the feeling of her tacky skin and the ease of the slide. It’s not nearly enough and he leans forward over where he sits, drools a thick line of saliva down and over his cock, lets it drool into the space where they meet so he can spread it thin with the push of his shaft through the mess.

“Hold ‘em, Lus,” he says, breathless, and leans down to plant his hands down on either side of his head. “Make ‘em all tight for me.”

He pushes his hips forward while she places her manicured hands on either side of her tits and forces them together, smooshing them over his dick until they create a tight pocket for him to fuck. Immediately the pressure makes him groan and he pulls back, thrusting forward hard and pointed until the tip of his dick kisses the bottom of her chin and makes her bite her lip to stifle a groan.

At first he tries to go slow. He tries to savor the moment and memorize the sight of his cock disappearing and appearing between her gorgeous rack that’s branded with his own name, but then the ghoulette begins to talk, spit honey-laced venom, and he loses his mind a little bit.

“You like them? Aren’t they pretty?”

Her voice sounds smooth like honey. Burns like smoldering coals deep in his core.

“All pretty for you, only you. Gonna be even prettier when you cum all over them. Really claim them. Make them all yours.”

He whines, drops forward to bury his nose in her hair just above her short horns and breathes her scent in until he’s high on it and his head spins. His hips move on their own accord, sliding quicker and faster between the space made just for him in a mixture of his own spit and his pre that leaks from him with each desperate thrust. The last “-ss’ of his name disappears behind his dickhead with every slide. He pants, whines at the sight, and Cumulus never stops talking.

“You wanna cum? Gonna cum on these pretty tits? Get them all creamy? Think of how jealous everyone will be. When they see your picture. They’re all gonna want what you have here. Right now.”

His voice catches in his throat. He thrusts forward so hard he hits the bottom of her chin again and forces her to shut up. She gasps, rolls it over into a pretty laugh that makes his stomach flip and his balls tighten up dangerously.

“Yeah, c’mon, Swissypoo… Go ahead, make them pretty. Make that flash go off so you won’t ever forget what you did here tonight.”

He chokes on his tongue as his tummy burns and tightens, coils so hot that he can’t help but fuck her tits so fast that the only choice he’s left with is to build and build and build until he nearly caves in on himself, counting on the strength of his arms to hold him up as his balls finally tighten up so tight until they spill over and he cums hard, painting the ghoulette’s lips and chin so pretty and obscene despite it being his third orgasm. He spurts all pretty over her skin and paints her like his masterpiece.

Even the ghoulette cannot believe what he’s done. She darts her tongue out between her teeth but stops when she tastes him.

It has to stay.

“‘Lus,” he breathes out. His voice is nearly lost to the pretty little noises that escape her lips while he spreads his cum thin between her tits. “Can I–”

“Take it–,” she says, gazing up into dark brown eyes like she’s never needed anything more in her life. “Take the photo, Swiss.”

The ghoul reaches an arm out and fumbles for the camera. His muscles feel like they’re buzzing with radio static. When he finds it he clicks the button until it turns on and glows orange, signifying that it’s on, raises it up above her to capture her tits and the debauched, bottom half of her face, dragging his hips forward and back through his own mess with smooth thrusts of his hips. Cumulus readjusts her hands and makes sure her painted claws are perfect and framing her nipples between her middle and fourth fingers, spreading around the spit he’d let fall from his tongue earlier in miniscule squeezing and groping motions until he tells her to hold still.

“There,” he says. His bottom lip gets bitten between his teeth. “Don’t move.”

Her tongue darts out–she bares her fangs, licks over them with a forked tongue for the camera lens.

Swiss presses his index finger into the button and tells her to smile.

And finally, the flash goes off.

#cumulus x swiss #cumulus ghoulette #swiss ghoul #p1nk ficlet

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kissmetwicekissmedeadly · 5 months

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Mirror | Identity | Love

—The themes from week 1 of @ikemenprompts !

I'm not happy with this!! This brown cartridge paper sketchbook hates cowards that are too afraid to put pressure and thus make their lines actually prominent, and i thought, ok, that's why im gonna use color once i sketch out this bad boy. But I won't! Because im an even bigger coward! I hope you're able to see shit!

Anyway i saw this week's (ok the week is over but we're not gonna talk about that) promtps and this visual projected itself into my mind begging me to do something with it. Could this be a fic? Hardly. Or maybe i just didn't try hard enough, either way i tried to draw for a change... No effort put into making sure the mirror is a mirror enough 👍🏻✨

I have this headcanon that at some point someone gifts Napo a hat just like the ones he loved to wear so much back in the day. And his and MC's shared space gradually becomes clustered with stuff they acquire during the journey of being together. I combined this with my love for three way mirrors which are good for. Putting stuff on and around. Not pictured: flowers vases, more books, jewellery...

Rip color palette of the week... i loved you but alas...

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp napoleon #ikemen vampire napoleon #ikemen vampire fanart #ikevamp mc

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uk3d · 8 months

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Brown hare sketch | Limited edition fine art print from an original drawing. The European hare, also known as the brown hare, is a species of hare native to Europe and parts of Asia. It is among the largest hare species and is adapted to temperate, open country. My sketches start life as hand-drawn graphite images made on cartridge paper. I often work on these with charcoal, oil pastel or Caran d'Ache to create the look I'm after. The artwork is then scanned and finessed digitally ready for fine art printing. This process often referred to as Giclée printing uses the highest standard of printing methods to give gallery quality results that maintain all the details of the original sketch. The graphite pencils I use are Faber-Castel, the oil pastels are Sennelier and the china-graph is Caran d’Ache. The inks are pigment based archive quality (100years+). The heavyweight specialist papers I use are of the best professional quality having a wonderful surface designed specifically for fine art drawings and illustrations. Very limited editions with only ten per size printed. All artwork is signed and includes a certificate of authenticity. The A5 are 5.8" x 8.25" (14.8cm x 21cm) The A4 are 8.25" x 11.7" (21cm x 29.8cm) The A3 are 11.7" x 16.5" (29.8 cm x 42cm) The A2 are 16.5" x 23.4" (42 cm x 59.4cm) Originals are A3 11.7" x 16.5" (29.8 cm x 42cm) Frames not included in price. Free shipping on artwork to all destinations.

#art #brown #drawing #hare #seanbriggs #sketch

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rowanthestrange · 4 months

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you like fountain pens? tell me about your favorite inks!

i'll tell you about mine in exchange :)

Okay, but I’m a fresh newbie to it all, having once again been autistic and gone ‘oooh tactile experiences with colours’, and made the mistake of touching something that has ensnared autistics for centuries.

I’ve got Diamine inks because they’re so cheap here with a good range.

Colour corrected as best as possible. Cerise is a brighter pinkier pink when it gets going, and Amber is yellow when you start but goes orange in the nib by the second time you pick it up, hence the unexpected Golden Sands purchase.

I like pangrams that feel fitting to the colours, which ended up with me having to make them up now lol - Celadon Cat and Golden Sands.

Pen wise…the community will probably hate me but there were these wooden pens that came with refillable cartridges and they were only five bucks. So that meant I could slowly acquire more and more for each ink, and colour them, and the wood feels nice in my hand cus i hate the feel of plastic it’s like school and-

(Washi tape on the glitter ones Blue Flame Shimmer (blue and gold glitter), and Golden Ivy Shimmer (you can guess) to mark them as separate. …And on Mondobbos Hat because apparently my eyes really struggle with the difference between their dark purple and Macassar brown in low light, and I keep making the mistake.)

When people didn’t know what to get me for a present this year, I just pointed them at the pens and… I have been enabled.

They’re not all perfect, there’s some variability in nib width - I’ve got one that needs squeezing before attempting to write (Golden Ivy one, but at least the glitter doesn’t clump) and one scratchy. But for the price, eh, that’s an alright percentage. Did need to seal the barrel metal with an all-purpose finish though, cus someone skimped on anti-oxidising costs, but I’m alright with that.

My main problem was finding notebooks that worked. Avocado And Spice have changed their branding and with it apparently their damn paper, so they were a bust. Surprisingly the very cheap Amazon Notebooks are perfectly good with no bleeding or real bleedthrough. But my favourite are these, because when I got it I went: *sigh*, okay let’s set up a test page at the back…and it already had one. Marked Test Page. Has a contents and numbered pages too, with great paper with no bleed or bleedthrough, and a nice feeling cover. Bargain.

At the moment it’s my chill-out hobby, or something to do when my heart starts acting up (god that makes me sound old). I’m currently writing out the first pages of my favourite books. It’s a cool exercise to try. Shows you how little consistency there is in grammar and punctuation choices, and how little they matter. As well as getting the creative juices flowing.

#rowan rants #pens #arts & crafts

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whumpacabra · 4 months

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22. Strangers

Referenced blood and torture, referenced past captivity, law enforcement mention, military mention, firearm mention, fictional politics

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

Thomas was fine - really, just swell. First day on the job without the Sheriff in town and not only do two strangers show up, they’re half a step from the grave and terrified beyond belief, barging into the gas station while his baby sister is at the register. It didn’t help that they had nearly crashed a (stolen?) humvee into Dan’s mailbox.

The old medic had left on foot to get some supplies for Merrill - her partner would drive him back over soon. In the meantime, Tom was talking himself down from a panic attack while waiting for the Trautmire’s towtruck.

Just looking at the blood soaked passenger seat made him queasy. He redirected his gaze to between the seats, catching sight of the duffel Harrison had mentioned - something about a hard drive.

Evidence.

Tom would be lying if he told the man he took his word for it when he started spouting off about being tortured by American soldiers. But he didn’t exactly have evidence to the contrary, and his gut wasn’t being cooperative with this fact. He blamed it on the blood and excitement of the last few hours, that the fact that entertaining the stranger’s story made him feel hollowed out.

Sheriff Clifford couldn’t get back soon enough.

He fished the duffel from the seats, surprised by its weight as he hefted it out of the vehicle and onto Dan’s driveway. A preliminary glance at the contents made his heart hammer. Certainly military grade firearms nestle among handfuls of cartridges, clips, and loose ammunition. Closer inspection revealed folded up clothes, water bottles, a crushed sleeve of saltines and -

A manila folder?

It wasn’t the hard drive Harrison had begged him to bring inside, but if he was being honest, Thomas wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. But a pale folded among the dark guns and clothes stood out like a sore thumb.

The bold red ‘confidential’ and ‘top secret’ stamps were a bit eye catching as well.

Half of him wanted to laugh it off as a prank (it wasn’t, not the way Harrison’s eyes shone with terror and grief and exhaustion). The other half was wary that this was some hostile operation, as ridiculous a target as a town of less than fifty people was.

The third half (Thomas didn’t pride himself on his maths) was curious to the point of trepidation - if it was all true, what did that mean? What legal recourse did these men have? He couldn’t begin to imagine the proceedings.

But he could pick up the folder.

It was thicker than he anticipated, dozens of papers with their clips and staples crammed into the sleeve. The tab simply read “The Wolf.”

He could see that man’s face clearly in his mind’s eye, the desperate, angry, terrified expression wrapped in bloody gauze looking up at him like Thomas was a walking nightmare. Any offense he took at that notion was tempered by the sight of his scarred, brutalized torso.

The fact that Merrill asked him to leave when she was treating his injuries below the belt made him shudder to imagine what this folder held.

Before he could crack it open, Lucy’s 64 impala came screeching to the curb. Dan hopped out, bag of supplies in hand. He nodded to the deputy, eyeing the duffel bag with a raised brown before continuing inside.

Lucy took her time, stepping over the dried splashes of blood on the driveway. She paused at the tilted mailbox, righting it only for it to lean lopsided once more. With a huff she marched up to Thomas, fluffy white hair freshly permed.

“Steph sounded pretty shook up when she called for Mer.” The old woman’s eyes were soft behind her thick glasses. “How you holding up kiddo?”

The manila folder was held in shaking hands.

“Sheriff didn’t answer on the radio. Might have to call over to Derby - these boys are in a bad way.”

“Trouble follow them?”

“Not that I know of.” Not yet.

Dan poked his head out the door, a short whistle catching their attention. He gestured, beckoning them inside. They must have finished taking care of the strangers. For now.

—

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Thomas shuddered, head in his hands as he sat at Dan’s kitchen table. The report from the two medics was…well, the coffee in his mug was certainly going untouched until his stomach settled.

“I’ve seen refugees and prisoner’s of war in better shape than those two.” Merrill’s face was etched in stone, a sharp contrast to Lucy’s tearful expression. “Multiple people were involved in this. For a very long time - at least a few years for Wolf, given his scarring.”

“The eight months Harrison reported to you would be consistent with his condition.” Dan’s eyes were bright, rage simmering in them as he rubbed a thumb over his newly acquired bruises. “I’m inclined to believe his story. What abridged version we have.”

“You seemed doubtful, Thomas.” Merrill nodded to him, hands clasped around her mug of tea. “What did you find in the duffel?”

He bit his lip, sliding the manila folder to the table’s center.

“Lots of ammunition, guns, and general bug-out-bag supplies. Supposedly there’s a hard drive someone were in there too. This…I haven’t opened this yet.”

Marrill shared a glance with Dan before pulling the file toward her side of the table, running her fingers over the stamps and label. She opened it slowly, steady as a familiar face peaked from the first piece of paper.

The Wolf stared dead eyed at the camera, far healthier than he was sleeping in the guest room but somehow far less alive. The burn scars down the left side of his neck were still pink, no silver luster from age.

She carefully detached the image from its paper clipped files and pushed it to the others to look at as she scanned the first document. It was heavily redacted - names, dates, locations blotted out.

Merrill scoffed; she had worked with redacted documents before. It wouldn’t be easily or quick, but she could figure out the finer details. What she could read wasn’t particularly insightful - not with what she had already seen written in that man’s broken body and desperate eyes.

The titles of the redacted lines pricked at her long retired journalist instincts. Date admitted. Project milestones. Handler. Overseer. The box labeled ‘Date Liquidated’ was empty.

“I can get the redacted information out of these with some time.” She wasn’t sure Thomas wanted her to, the way his face had sallowed to a shade of green. “But these are official documents.” She held the folder out, pointing to the stamp in the corner. “CIA.”

“So what do we…do about that?” Lucy had been quiet, squeezing Merrill’s hand under the table. She hadn’t seen war the way her partner and Dan had, but she understood the dire situation these two men found themselves in nonetheless.

“Keep it quiet. Keep it low. Give it time - maybe get some of the Trautmire’s to help demo that humvee before someone comes looking for it.”

“But - ” Thomas scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, anger burning in his throat. “They can’t get away with this - we can’t just, just keep these boys locked up here for the rest of their lives.”

“Whistleblowers don’t live long, kid.” Dan’s eyes were dark, a tight frown on his lips. “If Harrison wants to bring that hard drive to light, that’s on him.”

“We can’t just - just pretend nothing’s happened.”

“Never said that. But unless you want your murder made a suicide in print, we need to be smart about this.”

“We - the FBI? NSA? Couldn’t they help?”

“Doubt it.” Merrill was flipping through the files, jaw tight. “Looks like Wolf worked with the NSA. Something here about a Project Sandbox.”

“Harrison mentioned being in a bunker, out in the desert. Sounds like a sandbox to me.” Dan shot Thomas a sympathetic look, the younger man seething with impotent rage. “Son, Sheriff’ll have a better bead on what we do next. Until he gets back, we watch their backs and each others. Get the Carlisle boys to do a sweep on the outskirts - better safe than sorry.”

“Should we call a town meeting?” Lucy’s eyes were sharp behind her glasses.

“Nah, not yet.” Merrill closed the folder with a sigh, slipping the photograph into the file. “Don’t want folks panicking. And the less that know about these boys, the less they can let spill to any strangers who come knocking.”

“Mind if I get Steph home then?” Thomas gave the older folk at the table a sheepish glance. “She - Lucy you said she wasn’t sounding too well when she called ya. She’ll want to know…everything’s alright.”

“Go on, tell Carl she wasn’t feeling well. Get her home safe, then get on with gettin’ the Carlisles on some rounds. I’ll call the Trauts and ask ‘em about breaking down that truck.” Dan nodded to the deputy as he stood, pressing his hat back onto his head. “Relax, kid. If they got this far without a tail, chances are those fuckers ain’t got a clue where to start sniffing. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Time before they were, inevitably, tracked down. Thomas wasn’t sure what he would do then, but that was a problem for the (hopefully) distant future.

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

(An AU of my Freelancers series)

Taglist: @i-eat-worlds

#whump #referenced captivity #referenced torture #blood #law enforcement #military mention #firearm mention #freelancers au #yall a few days ago: i dont trust tom hes sus.#me. having written this from his pov weeks ago: woe. tommy pov be upon ye.#i have Plans tm for this lad dont yall worry none about him #idk why but this chapter has been stressing me out to post lmao #literally took it outta my queue this morning bc my brain is mean #but I can’t be assed to rewrite it so. take this serviceable chapter so we can move on to more fun stuff #AAAAA I KEEP SAVING THIS AND STARING AT IT IM POSTING IT FEEL FREE TO LOOK AWAY I CANT STAND THIS CHAPTER ANYMORE

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jiragn · 11 months

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IMPRINTU Temporary Tattoo Printer How To + Review + Unboxing

What's in the Box

IMPRINTU Device + Charger (connects via Bluetooth)

Ink Cartridge/Lip Tint Ink Palette

Palette Cleaner

Priming Powder

Fixing Balm

Currently retailing for ₩348,000 on musinsa

What Can You Tattoo

You can upload any image from your camera roll or select an existing design from the built-in library. It looks like some tattoo designs will require purchases in the future but as I'm writing this they are all free. I personally really like the designs available, but it is hard to find a good one as the search engine is non-specific and a bit finnicky. The trick is to find an artist whose style you like and select exclusively from their library of designs.

The maximum width is ~.6 inches (1.34CM) and the length is infinite. If you are designing your own tattoo, opt for something rectangular as opposed to square-dimensioned. There is also an option to type and upload text.

Note that it is not possible to edit or layer images that you select from the library itself, something I hope they change in the next app update/rollout.

How Long Does it Last

If you mess up the placement of the tattoo, it will wipe away immediately with no residue with a makeup wipe. Once applying the fixing balm the tattoo will last for 1-2 days or will rinse away after a normal shower.

Does it print on anything else?

In addition to a "skin" mode for tattoos, there is also an object mode for paper/clothing.

I would highly reccomend testing your designs on paper. It shows up like an actual print and I can definitely see people utilizing this for letter-writing or bullet-journaling in the future. The ink on paper does not smudge.

test printing on paper

I've only tested the IMPRINTU on denim so far, and it does rinse out after one good wash (if there is residue, it might require a second wash). Unfortunately with denim, unlike skin, if you mess up it's hard to erase it and start over without completely having to wash your garment.

using the IMPRINTU to print style icon Garfield on the backs of white denim musinsa jeans

Pairing is quite easy and simple, just follow the instructions from their YouTube channel

Final Thoughts

PROS:

Perfect for concerts/sleepovers/festivals/spicing up daily makeup looks

Does not take that long to get set up

VERY versatile especially for creatives that draw/do fashion/makeup

Enables my severe commitment issues

Infinite designs/can do any design

Not a gimmick !!

CONS

Pricey ($300+ USD)

Not sure how long ink cartridge lasts/where to get replacement

Learning curve especially on getting tattoo placement can be difficult at first; requires lots of patience

TIPS

Don't push down when rolling your tattoo on or it will smudge and you will get a gross brown streak

#imprintu #kbeauty #beautytech #tattoo #temporarytattoo #temporary tattoos #bodyart #beauty editorial #productreview

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eggbunni · 2 years

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Sketching with the Kaweco Brass Liliput and Brass Sport using Kaweco Caramel Brown ink cartridges. Paper is my Hobonichi Cousin, my daily journal.

Watch me draw it on TikTok here:

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTdoSvYph/?k=1

#fountain pens #fountain pen ink #fountainpen #kaweco #kaweco brass sport #kaweco brass #kaweco liliput #liliput #hobonichi #hobonichi cousin #hobonichi a5 #art journal #traditional art #eggbunni #drawing #illustration

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k00299393 · 3 months

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Movement

Silhouette Animation - Background

I put a rough layout of what I wanted the background to be. And discussed with Yvonne how to move forward.

Background

I began with sizing it over the lightbox. Then making adjustments until I was happy with the composition. With each new piece I laid it on the lightbox.

Using a mixture of materials to add texture and depth. Today (Friday) I was working from home. I quickly discovered that it was extremely hard to guess how each material would look without having a lightbox. Luckily my daughter had a type of light I was able to use. It wasn't perfect but gave me a good idea of how it was going.

I'm very happy with the outcome but I am looking forward to seeing how it is with Yvonne's lightbox in college. Also found it interesting to see the difference in the image when the overhead lighting is turned off.

Materials Used:

2 Laminate sheets (for transporting it home)

Selection of different tracing paper

Kitchen paper

Toilet paper

Cartridge paper

Brown envelope

Transparent crumpled pallet wrap

Bubble wrap (popped)

Pencil

Ball point pen

Scissors

Scalpel

Cutting mat

Light box

Masking tape

Tweezers

Dried out baby wipe

It was a slow process but I enjoyed making it. I did discover that its nice to have different textures but when you introduce plastic you also introduce static which gave me a lot of hassle mainly because I also had everything laid out on a sheet of laminate which didn't help. I have planned to make a second background but that has a lot less detail so shouldn't take as long. First I will use the silhouette figure on this background to see if I can manage the movements I want to create. The figure is very small and Yvonne said I might have to scale everything up. So I'll do a trial run first with this background before moving forward.

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towelpng · 8 months

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Haiii this is my oc (Rene Petit / Daughter of God) origin storyyyy :)

All events, characters, and places are made the fuck up <3

CWS: weapons, physical abuse, torture, blood/gore (?), tragedy, the occult, christian extremism (basically not christian at all, just christian themes), death, suicide, all around very un-fun topics

please let me know if i left any out !!

As a secondary disclaimer, this may be a not very fun read!!

oki enjoy!!

—

Daughter of God

The meeting hall is an imposing building, too such a degree that I feel it necessary to check the signage in the tinted window. Sure enough, it reads simply “Life After Occultism”. I found the advertisement on a local page. A whole group about cult trauma? Sign me the fuck up.

I open the door, which obviously would have preferred I didn’t, given the grinding shriek its hinges released. It closes just as loudly, and the pristine white tile carries the sound down the hallway and back in what has to be my least favorite echo I’ve ever encountered. Unsurprisingly, the building is almost sterile. It did used to be a psychiatric institution, so I would expect no less in its glory days; but having been rented out sparingly for the last 30 or so years, I’d expected some level of dilapidation.

More laminated paper signs point arrows down the hallway, to an open set of double doors, not dissimilar to a high school gymnasium’s. As I approach, it’s already clear that the meeting started somewhat early. Several people are sat in chairs around the room, but most of the chairs are empty. Tables line the far back wall, dressed up in what appears to be birthday table cloths, held down by bins full of snacks and coolers of drinks.

“Hello,” I speak anxiously, finally catching the attention of the people in the chairs. “This, this is the… ex-cult thing?” I struggle to find the words among unfamiliar faces. A man in a brown suit nods affirmatively, a kind smile putting my nerves at rest, if only a little.

“Yes, it is. We start in,” He looks at his watch. “Oh!” He chirps. “Right now! If you’d like to take a seat…” He gestures widely, but gently, to the array of chairs. I thank him, and sit in a chair none too close to anyone else. A brief, awkward quiet falls over the group of what I have only just counted to be 8 people. 9 maybe, I’m not very reliable in terms of counting people. “Well, I, I suppose we start with you, miss.” He smiles warmly. “If that’s alright.” I nod nervously, and carefully and slowly remove an aged notebook from my bag.

“I have notes,” I chuckle nervously, and several others in the session return it with a sympathetic laugh. “Um, when I was growing up, my mom was in a cult, until I was 11, and she committed suicide. My dad was already dead by then, and my grandparents disowned her, so I basically got all of her stuff. Among that stuff was this notebook,” I drummed my fingers on it lightly, drawing the attention to the printed cover. “She liked faeries I guess. Before everything. Kind of hurts to look at.”

I hesitate a little here. I don’t talk about her often, and when I do, she’s a concept. Not a person. It feels strange to address her that way. I look up nervously, and make eye contact with the man in the brown suit again, then the blonde woman beside him. They share a similar complexion, and I wonder briefly if they’re related. She nods gently to me, affectionately.

“Um. The, the journal, has, a lot of weird stuff in it. It kind of goes off the deep end as soon as I’m born. Before that, it’s mostly just, teenager stuff I guess? Where teens will kinda revisit old journals every couple years.” I open it cautiously, and my stomach turns. Seeing her handwriting is almost sickening. A person, my mother, wrote these words with her hands. I get lost for a moment in the idea. I wonder if it was that dumb Dolphin pen that she was obsessed with, that never really worked, even when she replaced the ink cartridge.

“I could read it, if you like..?” The blonde woman offers gently, sympathy in her big brown eyes. “Only if you’re comfortable, I mean…” She trails off, looking away, then back to me. I grapple with the idea for a second, but give it to her, albeit holding on maybe a moment too long. She takes it gently, and doesn’t try to pull it away when I pause. She smiles at me again, and sits back slightly, holding the book up to read it.

“May 29th, 2003. It feels weird to hold this book now. My mom bought this when I was only 5, and now I’m writing in it on a desk attached to a hospital bed while my daughter sleeps just beside me! Rene Louise Holden, born May 28th, 2003 at 9:28PM, 8 pounds and 2 ounces. She’s the littlest thing I think I’ve ever seen! Her little feet are only as big as my pinkie! I was in labor for what had to be ages, I haven’t actually asked yet. For now, I think I’ll go back to sleep. It’s only 9am, and everyone’s saying to sleep when Rene does. So goodnight, Journal! I will see you soon!!”

The session livens up a little, with smiles and coos; none more genuine than the woman holding my mother’s journal in her aged, tan hands. This changes quickly.

“November 30th, 2003. I… I killed my baby today. I dropped her on the tile stairs. Her head hit right on the corner of one, and it collapsed in. I didn’t think that much blood could fit in a thing so little. It was everywhere. I could have identified her brain.” The woman paused a moment. “..I, I called an ambulance, and I opened the door for them. I knew she was dead, there was no use in trying to save her. But when we approached the stairs, there she sat at the bottom. She wasn’t happy about the strangers, but she looked just fine. The strangers weren’t happy about me. I’ll remember the judgement in their eyes as much as I’ll remember the blood in hers. It will kill me. They told me she’s fine, and checked her vital signs, but advised I take her to an urgent care soon. Soon. They said soon. I dropped my baby head first onto tile stairs, I slipped in her blood trying to reach my phone, and they said ‘Soon’. Like she scraped her knee. Journal, I worry about my mind. I don’t know if I’m cut out for motherhood. I feel like I haven’t been sleeping very well.” She turns the page with more urgency this time.

“February 3, 2005. It happened again. I was drinking, I know I shouldn’t. Rene was in the pool with us, in a pink flamingo pool float. We ran inside for only a minute, just to grab another drink. I thought someone stayed with her. It should have been me. She was upside-down when we came back out. And she was blue when we put her on the pavement.

“A miracle. That’s what they called it. They hardly touched her. They moved as though they would do CPR, but they never did. She just became pink again, and took a big breath. This time, they did take her to the hospital. No water in her lungs. No signs of hypoxia. Nothing. A miracle.”

She turns the page, and gently slides a news clipping from the paperclip.

“Uh… Oh.” She nods slightly, finding the relevance of the clipping, I guess. “Tragedy Strikes in Dosangels, Florida.

“This Monday, December 5th, local handyman David Holden fell from the roof of his home while putting up Christmas lights with his two year old daughter. His daughter had been strapped to his back, when he fell 26 feet on top of her, into their unused concrete swimming pool, which contained only 7 inches of water at its deepest. Miraculously, the infant survived the fall, but is in critical condition.”

She slips the paper back into its place under the paper clip.

“December 17th, 2005. The mortician says Dave was using again when he got on the roof. While Rene was in the hospital, Father Jaimes from the chapel visited us. I told him everything. He says Rene must be made for something great, and God will protect her. I told him I think Rene is cursed, and he didn’t make me feel evil for it in the slightest. He told me about Job, and how he was tormented by God to prove his devotion. He says I’m like Job, and must persevere. I feel like all I do anymore is persevere. I don’t know how to keep going. Dave is gone, and I won’t even be able to make rent. This was his house. His parents house. I cant afford it. I hope God does have a plan for us. Because I am lost.”

“November 7th, 2007. Jeremiah is moving in with us. His parents cut him off, and this is the first year he won’t even have Dave to help him. He and Dave were always close. He’s back on meth again, but he’s trying to get clean. He promised to get clean, and he goes to the detox place tomorrow. I could use the company.”

She turns the page, and is visibly disheartened as she pulls the news snippet from the paper clip.

“Miracle Baby Critically Wounded For A Second Time

“In 2005, she was crushed by her addict father when he fell off of the roof. This year, 4 year old Rene was shot by her uncle, Jeremiah Holden, who then shot himself. The murder suicide is…”

She turns the paper over, then turns it back over, and places it back under the paper clip. The mood in the room has soured considerably by now, but that’s what I’m here for, I guess.

“January 29th, 2008. Sepsis. Hospitalized.”

“January 14th, 2009. Father Jaimes has baptized Rene, after so many turns of her nearly going to Hell. My poor daughter, and her horrible mother. I will be baptized tomorrow, and God will save me too. I hope he can forgive me for my years of hubris and sacrilege, and my years of neglect to my daughter, my Rene. He let the holy water fill her lungs, and she breathed her first godly breath soon after. She looks to be glowing, she is a visage, the mother Mary surely felt as I do. Her eyes are blue, and reflect heaven unto us. May peace be with me, may she giveth as she taketh away, my Rene.”

“January 10th, 2010. Today was a day of great sacrifice and glory. God truly was with us, and with Rene. Lambs blood cleansed her holy skin, white as wool, and she breathed God’s child as He breathed Her. She first refused, and Satan had us in his grasp when She coughed and spit blood, but She was submerged and made whole nonetheless. My daughter, daughter of God and mine, His daughter and ours, my Rene.”

“May 27th, 2010. Today, before Rene becomes yet another year older, we try again tonight to send Her to sleep. In three days time, She will awake, and we will be saved. Her living blood will feed us, all of us, and Her internals will be laid bare to be judged. Our God, Her father, will guide us to ascension, and will save our miserable, undeserving souls. As Christ rose, so too will She, my Rene.”

“May 31st, 2010. God has abandoned us. All of us fell ill, with nothing to show a doctor nor a priest. We drained Her body wholly, from head to toe, of blood; and each organ was set separately of Her. She died only after we had removed Her heart, surely a sign. We drank the blood, as the disciples of Jesus once did, and it tasted of honey and vanilla. But we fell ill, and surely must have been poisoned. But doctors nor Father Jaimes found anything to be wrong. Her blood was taken from us, though She was not. Upon our return, She sat playing with the nativity dolls. She ordered them, mother Mary first, and baby Jesus Christ last. I wonder what this means for us. Rene, my Rene, please guide me.”

“December 5th, 2010. Father Jaimes laid bare to us his sins. He is a liar and a thief of the title ‘Father’, but I do not think of him this way. Anointed with holy blood collected from Rene’s own neck, Father Dresko beheaded Father Jaimes, and he was cremated promptly. May he follow us in our bodies, and be forgiven at Heaven’s gate. My Rene, show us how to proceed.”

“December 5th, 2014–“ The woman yelps and drops the book on her lap, the news clipping still in her hand. “Th..There’s blood, on.. On the page..”

“I can take it if—“

“No!” She cried sharply, then sighed shakily. “This is, it’s important. Right? It’s important…” She takes the notebook back in her hands, reading more quickly now.

“December 5th, 2014. My Rene, my God. Be with me in my final moments. My heart aches for you, for the trials you will face. I will see you at Heaven’s gate, and take you into my arms. You will be safe. But you must first save. Until we meet again, my Rene.”

The woman’s press-on nails scratch across the paper as she frantically places the news clipping where it belongs, giving the book back to me. The silence that fills the room is palpable, and it threatens to fill my lungs.

“Are you Rene..?” An older man asks me gently, his pale hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, um. I just, didn’t actually die. I got lucky a lot, in a lot of situations I shouldn’t have been in.”

“Can I ask,” The man in the brown suit hesitates. “Can I ask where you went? After your mother..”

“Father Dresko adopted me. I wasn’t with him for really long, probably half a year, and he spent a week torturing me, held me hostage, and got shot by a police officer.”

“How could someone… I’m sorry, it isn’t my place. But.. How could someone do something like that, and not kill you…? If that was the intention, I mean.”

“He sucks at killing people, evidently.”

“Where did you go, after him?” The blonde woman rubs her arms in an effort to comfort herself.

“Karine Grienwilo. She was a saint, if anyone ever was. The type of woman who calls an anxious cashier ‘baby’ and fixes everything. Then I fucked everything up by going back. I made friends, Cameron Diniero tried to drown me and went to jail; Melina Fresno, Brady Harmin, and Jade Cabernaki threw me out of a car and almost under someone else’s car on the interstate and went to jail; Peter Ande and Jude Paton poisoned the church, Peter killed himself and Jude went to jail; and Sonia Wes committed suicide. Father Julio planned the poisoning and made it out easy, killed Jayla Barnes’ baby and she took the blame for it, then killed Karine in front of me.”

“Why would he do something like that?”

“To piss me off enough to get me to kill him. He thought it was the only way he’d go to heaven.”

A tense silence filled the room, but it felt more so that it was filled with unasked questions.

“Did you ever die?” A brunette woman asked. I hardly noticed her.

“Once. I got in a car accident. Semi slid on ice and cause a pile-up. I was the only one who lived.”

“How?” She asked tentatively, pulling at her sleeve.

“Luck, I guess.”

The man in the brown suit chuckled awkwardly.

“If anything, I’d call that a miracle.” I stared at him, and hoped he caught the message that the joke was in poor taste. He didn’t seem to. All at once, the fire alarms went off. As the group scattered, looking for the source of the fire, I stared out a narrow window in the emergency exit. Fire was already lapping at it. But just beyond it, the Sheriff’s van.

I waited until the only sound echoing in the tile and wood-paneled halls was the crackling and roaring of fire, and prepared for the worst walk of my life. The room I was in was full of smoke, but the openness of it ensured that only the walls and roof had caught.

I wake up in the car, taking a deep breath, and coughing. The cough is agonizing, and rips at my throat with all the ease of a sanding belt. Sheriff Petit sighed in relief, and I heard his head thump back on the headrest.

“Scared the hell out of me, rainy.”

“Sorry,” I croaked, but he cut me off with shushes, as he gave me an open bottle of water. I couldn’t help but gasp when the cold plastic touched my hands, searing pain shredding my palms.

“Right, shit,” He cursed under his breath, holding the bottle to my lips and pouring the water into my mouth. It was almost alien, I felt like my mouth was filled with sand, and it burned going down my throat. “How long does it take to clear up?”

“Um,” I sigh, my throat already beginning to heal. “It’s starting now, but it’ll take a few hours.”

We sit in silence, and I finally start to tune in enough to realize he’s driving.

“Hey Don?”

“Yeah, Ren?”

“How the fuck did you just give me water if you’re driving?” He laughed, loud and hearty.

“I stopped the car for a damn second,” He chuckled. “There’s a pedal for it—“

“Alright alright I get it.” My vision started coming back as my face healed, feeling less scaly by the second. I looked over at him, and could tell he’d been crying. “What’s up?”

He took a long moment to respond. I looked out the windshield, at the snowy landscape around us.

“I’m gonna miss you, rainy.”

“Cmon, I’ll visit! You’re basically my dad at this point. ..Like, my father figure, I’m not comparing you to—“

“I gotcha.” He paused again, but it was comfortable. Sad, sure, but comfortable. “It’s hard for me to just, drop you off someplace.”

“I’ll never get away from them if I stay here. They’ll always just bring someone new in.”

“I know. I just… I wish things were easier, I suppose.”

“Me too.”

The car slowed to a stop at a secluded, but obviously still functional, bus stop. We sat there for a while. There wasn’t much else to say.

“You’ll visit?”

“I swear to visit at least once a year.” He chuckles quietly, and pulls me uncomfortably over the console to hug me tightly. I squeeze him back as tight as I’m able.

“You better. I love you rainy. Stay safe out there.”

“I love you too, dad.” Before he got the chance to change his mind, I got out of the car and went to the bus stop, waving gently to him. He mouthed something that I could only guess was confirming I had my bus pass, and I held it up so he could see it. He nodded, and pulled off.

He was due to head to Texas.

And I’m due to get the fuck out of here.

#my ocs #rene petit #if you’re confused: good #this story is for me to know and me to know #also im outrageously high and it’s really late #creepypasta #creepypasta oc #cw everything #creative writing #girl wtf

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ranger-penny · 6 months

Text

click here to see a tarantula 👇

Look at that, it's just a baby tarantula! ;v;

(Ranger Charlie's boot, for scale)

This little guy was no bigger than a gameboy cartridge. The tail-end of summer is just about when they're up and about (its breeding season for them but I'm not sure if they breed this young).

This is a California Black Tarantula, and they're native to this area. Males will live about 7-8 years, while females can live over twice as long.

I know spiders can be scary, and 90% of people might recoil from the sight of one so big, but tarantulas in particular are a very docile species :'> Their venom is definitely not strong enough to do any arm to us either (black widows and brown recluses, though... woof, those are the ones you need to be careful of).

I cant say that I'm not afraid of spiders too, but my tolerance and appreciation for them has gone up quite a bit since learning about them at my job ;v;

Finding a spider in the wild where it belongs rather than in your home where you dont want one doesnt exactly help their reputation though. Like, come on man, eat the other bugs in my house or pay rent!! 😂

Make sure you help spiders outside if you find one indoors. The old cup and paper trick is the safest way to trap and release. They help the environment by eating mosquitoes and other pests!!!

#spiders //#show and tell #its nothing too detailed really just a grainy pic of a tarantula haha

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everydayoriginal · 3 months

Photo

Unicorn by Natee

Unicorn

Brown pencil on ivory cartridge paper, 150 x 105 mm.

There are only sad unicorns in Himmapaanland. :’)

VIEW DETAILS brought to you by Every Day Original

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gumnut-logic · 2 years

Photo

It was late.

It had been a very long day.

A very, very long day.

Scott had been held back at the danger zone by bureaucratic nonsense and a CEO throwing a fit over a couple of Thunderbirds parking in his carpark and the resultant damage to a nearby building.

The insensitivity and self-involvement had John reining Scott in over comms. It wasn’t like he was going to hit the guy, really, no matter how satisfying it might have been. But it had been a gruelling and messy rescue digging people out of a collapsed shopping mall.

He and his brothers had been digging for hours.

Eventually he had to call it and had sent Thunderbird Two back to base.

He had intended to follow shortly after, but…obstacles.

It was just past three in the morning when One streaked into a hover above Tracy Island. The shift to vertical flight was smooth and mostly subconscious. Scott felt his ‘bird in his bones.

As he lowered her through the gap left by the pool, a dim light from the lounge told him he wasn’t the only one awake.

He had his suspicions who it might be and that only had him working through post-flight faster.

It could be Grandma, but chances were it was Virgil waiting for him to come home.

He didn’t always do this. Only after the difficult ones.

And this one had been far from easy.

Scott hurried up to the locker room and, shucking his uniform, washed the sweat and grime from his skin. It felt good to be clean, an extra step further away from the tragedy they had left behind.

He didn’t bother getting dressed other than to throw on some pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. he would check on his brother, possibly grab a quick bite of food and a drink, and then hit the sack.

The house was quiet as he made his way to the lounge. No doubt Grandma and Virgil combined were a force that saw the younger Tracys safe in bed. Virgil likely then turned on his partner in crime and bundled her off as well.

He was determined like that.

Sure enough, a quiet step into the lounge and he found his brother in their father’s chair.

Asleep.

Dark curls let loose from their product by a long-ago shower were a hastily combed mess on his forehead as Dad’s chair held Scott’s brother as if it were its owner. The worn upholstery cradling worn out rescue operative ever so gently.

Scott’s bare feet made little sound as he stepped across the hardwood floor. It was a warm night. The open windows let in a soft breeze off the Pacific laced with the honey scent of flowering pōhutukawa trees.

Virgil muttered and shifted in his sleep.

The sound drew Scott’s attention back to his brother. The desk lamp was the only source of light in the room beyond the starlight far above. The moon had already set and outside was almost as dark as it got, the ocean murmuring in the distance.

There was paper on the desk.

Scott didn’t use much in the way of paper himself. Most of his work was digital, often holographic and as ecologically sound as he could get it.

Virgil, however, did keep a stash of different surfaces to art on in his studio. Paper was one of them. Obviously, some had made it out tonight.

Pencil sketches covered the white sheets. Eyes, half drawn faces. Gordon popped up in one corner, a familiar smile on his face. Thunderbird One had her grapple out and was lifting something half-drawn.

He found his own face staring out of the paper. His drawn self was obviously angry and glaring at a faceless head.

Scott arched an eyebrow at the obscenity scratched into the cartridge under the non-person creature.

Virgil had obviously not been happy that Scott had been held up.

There were other words on the page amongst the drawings. Virgil doodling and possibly venting in the process. Even Scott could see the emotion drawn in graphite.

He sighed.

As if agreeing, Virgil snorted and tried to turn over in the chair, a manoeuvre that wasn’t recommended.

Scott caught his brother under his arms as he tried to slide off the leather upholstery.

He earned a grunt for his efforts. Bleary brown eyes opened and stared up at him. “Sc-t?”

“Hey.” A soft smile. “You planning on camping out tonight?”

Another grunt and his brother tried to right himself in the chair. “You took too long. Why didn’t you sic John on ‘em?”

“I did. But not until tomorrow. John needs his sleep as much as you do.”

“Yes. Yes, he does. Tol’ him.” Virgil’s eyes drifted closed again and he began to sink back into the chair.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re going to bed, little brother.” Scott gripped Virgil a little tighter and pulled him up and out of the chair.

Various limbs pinwheeled a little and Scott ended up with his arms full of dopey brother, but he got the man on to his feet.

Virgil grumbled into his t-shirt and Scott let off a snort of a laugh. His biggest brother was hopeless when his sleep was disturbed. It was an ongoing source of prankdom – at the risk of the perpetrator’s life.

Hell, Gordon had managed to draw in a second pair of eyebrows on Virgil’s forehead once – while the man was supposedly awake and nursing his coffee.

The double-eyebrowed death monster that had resulted once enough coffee had been ingested was of legendary proportions. Grandma had literally roasted Gordon alive and a ban on markers on anyone’s faces had been instituted for all eternity.

Gordon was a multitalented artist, however, and simply switched mediums.

The honey had Scott blowing a circuit.

But dopey Virgil was a familiar and smile-inducing feature of the Tracy household.

Scott found himself grinning.

“Shuddup.”

Well, at least Virgil had managed a couple of neurons worth of thought.

Scott’s smile only got wider.

Virgil groaned and pushed his brother away and stumbled a little. “’M gonna bed.”

“You do that.” Scott had to stick out a hand and steady him as he wobbled into the side of the desk. “Need a hand?”

That triggered some incoherent grumbling that threatened bear territory. Scott couldn’t help himself and just grinned more as Virgil teetered away in the direction of the elevator.

The fact Scott had to save him from falling into the sunken lounge was probably a sign that the answer to his question was a definite ‘yes’.

A hand on his brother’s elbow prompted more grumbling, but the elbow wasn’t yanked away and by the time they made it into the elevator, Virgil had pretty much faceplanted himself into Scott’s shoulder.

The grin turned into a fond smile as he hit the button for the residential levels.

“You neeb togoto bed too.” It was muffled by the sleeve of Scott’s t-shirt.

“That’s the plan.”

“You bedda.”

Scott wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Or what?”

More incoherent grumbling.

Scott pulled him in a little tighter as the elevator doors opened.

It was like leading a zombie down the corridor, though Scott could easily empathise. He was looking forward to his own pillow as soon as he saw Virgil to his.

A yawn escaped.

His brother looked up as if the medic had bypassed his brain and booted in safe mode. “You need sleep. Go to bed.”

He gestured towards door to Virgil’s rooms. “After you.”

Virgil frowned. “You first.”

Scott rolled his eyes and, reaching around his brother, activated the door and, with a little manoeuvring, manhandled Virgil into his rooms.

“Hey!”

His hand returned to his brother’s elbow and he marched him into his bedroom, amid protests.

“You need to look after yourself.” Virgil finger was jabbed into Scott’s breastbone.

Was it possible for a human to have one half of his brain awake and the other asleep at the same time? Apparently, some birds could do that. Gordon had gone into great detail that year they spotted some migratory waders landing on their beaches mid-transit.

In any case, Virgil obviously wasn’t all there as Scott backed him up against the end of his bed and pulled back the covers. Virgil continued to nag Scott to bed with varying levels of coherence. Smiling, Scott gave his rambling brother a gentle nudge and their gentle giant went Gulliver, flat on his back.

“Scott?!”

The eldest yanked up the covers and muffled the outraged mutterings. “Yes, Virgil?”

But his protests began to fade away and, as Scott pulled down the covers a little and tucked them in, he realised Virgil’s eyes were already drooping again.

Dopey indeed.

He brushed curls off his brother’s forehead. “Sleep, Virg.”

“Mmm, Sco’, go bed.”

Softly. “I will.”

“Mmmhm.”

Scott couldn’t help but smile a little more as Virgil drifted off.

A final touch to his brother’s hair and Scott straightened, his body creaking enough to remind him, that yes, he needed his bed as well.

He slipped quietly out of Virgil’s room and secured the door. A glance down the corridor, a thought, and he walked quietly down to check on Gordon.

The last he had seen of his fish brother had involved sad eyes and concrete dust. A quiet step into his rooms and he found Gordon as he had suspected he would.

The aquanaut was tangled in his sheets and throttling his pillow.

There was a frown on his face.

Much practised manoeuvring and he managed to straighten the Fish out and untangle him from his bedclothes.

Half asleep protests were halted by a plushie squid that awake Gordon would claim to his death never left the mantle above his bed.

Scott knew better.

His little brother quietened, falling into a deeper sleep.

After that, Scott couldn’t help but check in on Alan. It was probably a fortunate thing, because opening the door found Alan asleep in front of it.

The littlest Tracy had a history of wandering in his sleep. Scott had it checked out and it was directly related to early childhood trauma. Which one was a game of pick one.

It was managed, but occasionally it flared up. One of the most common symptoms was climbing out of bed and sleeping on the floor. Sometimes, the piece of floor chosen was a little inconvenient.

Scott was just happy the piece chosen wasn’t a balcony. Five and now Eos had been tracking Alan while he slept for years and issued alerts if he should wander too far.

Scott slipped into the room sideways and, with cracking knees, lifted his little brother off the floor.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Alan shared his sleep type with Virgil and slept like the dead. So, it was easy to move him over to his specially plush rug and snuggle him up with a pillow and quilt from his bed.

Alan muttered something about Virgil pulling him up, possibly something to do with the day’s rescue.

Scott reached out and touched Alan’s cheek.

His little brother mumbled his name and leant into his hand.

Scott blinked. The emotion that suddenly gripped him was just a sign of how tired he was.

Letting go, he pushed to his feet and slipped from the room. In the corridor, he closed his eyes and leant back against the wall for a moment.

One to go.

He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. “Eos? You there?”

“Where else would I be?” Despite the smart-ass remark, her voice was quiet. Something she had learnt the hard way.

He ignored the comment. “John’s status?”

“John is currently in REM sleep. No signs of nightmare. Pulse regular, respiration as to be expected, body temperature 36.7 degrees Celsius. John is well, Commander.”

Scott let out a breath. “Thank you, Eos.”

“You’re welcome. Kayo and Mrs Tracy are asleep in their rooms, as is Hiram. Which is a concern, if I may say so, because he left Max on the ceiling.”

A blink. “Again?”

“It would appear so.”

Scott groaned. “Keep him out of the hangars this time.”

“I will try. But you know how he is.”

A grunt and Scott pushed himself off the wall. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good. Virgil was adamant you do exactly that.”

A frown. “Or what?”

“He said ‘or I’ll knock his ass out and drag him there myself’. His tone seemed humorous, however, John said it was a half-truth.” A pause. “Which half, I’m not sure.”

Another grunt. “Both halves, most likely.” To stave off a round of questioning at that, Scott quickly followed up with, “Tracy Island out.”

The house fell quiet after that and he let his shoulders drop, rolling his neck as he made his way to his own quarters. In his rooms lay freedom. A moment where he could just be himself, relax and sleep.

Sleep.

The door clicked shut and exhaustion caught up with him. It was a matter of steps to his bedroom, a modicum of the last of his energy to shove the covers aside, and he let himself fall face first into his pillow.

His body melted into the mattress.

It had been a shitty rescue, but his family was all home, safe, uninjured and resting.

He could let go.

So he did.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy #Virgil Tracy #big brother #so much fluff #floppy!Virgil #nuttyfic reblog

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