#garish lie

[queenlua]

i’m using a moleskine for the first time in my entire life & i’m kind of pissed off to learn that it is... actually pretty nice...

#traditionally i've avoided them because i can't stand hardcover notebooks #but apparently they make softcover as well??? #and one was gifted to me #and for some reason the ~vibes~ have been off with my usual septcouleur notebooks for a while #and like. yeah. this one is nice. actually does lie flat. feels nice in the hand #so yeah guess i gotta be in the same corner as the people who make a weird cult out of enjoying the notebook alas #(at least they make one in a horrific lemon green color. if my notebook is not Obnoxiously Garish then what is the POINT)

[metanoias-substack]

When you think of ancient Greece or the Roman Empire, visions of white togas, ivory temples and sand-coloured amphitheatres likely come to mind.

If so, you might be in for a surprise.

Because this off-white and eggshell-dominated palette, which inspired the pristine surfaces of Renaissance sculptures and the blank facades of Neoclassical buildings, is… a lie.

We now know the ancient world was steeped in colour. It was, perhaps, a tad too colourful for our modern sensibilities — even borderline garish at times.

Click here to learn why generations of scholars and artists believed in a monochrome Classical Antiquity and see historically accurate reconstructions of ancient statues and buildings in all their glorious peacockery.

#art #ancient art #ancient greece #ancient rome #ancient history #ancientmonuments #ancient cities #ancient civilizations #ancient sculpture #roman empire #roman art #art history #history #archeology #archaeology #colors #colours #colour #italy #greece #greek mythology #roman mythology #ancient greek #rome #rome italy #histoire #historic

[infinitystoner]

The Serpent of Sakaar

READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

Summary: A handsome stranger complicates your life.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Word count: 1.6k

Tags/Content: Flirting, Humor, Sexual Tension & Other Escapades on a Trash Planet, (Not Quite) Enemies to Lovers, Smuttish

Rating: Mature

The air is unbearably thick tonight. Potent. Sticky.

You slip through the crowd of chittering alien courtiers, concluding the only thing that will grant you reprieve from Sakaar’s never-ending bacchanalia is a nice, long bath. 

Dodging a purring hologram of the celestial who rules this bizarre realm, you wonder if anyone else ever grows tired of it – too much of a good thing or whatever. The unexpected pivot lands you in the middle of the throne room, and your eyes traitorously fall on the charming newcomer standing at the edge of the Grandmaster’s dais. 

The one they call Loki, although you doubt that’s his true name. 

You’re well aware of the rumors, having started many of them yourself. Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with envy and everything to do with boredom. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as each exceedingly outlandish lie leaves your lips and falls upon greedy ears. 

All you know for certain is that Loki is the bane of your existence after snaking his way into the high order’s inner circle and winning the favor of the Grandmaster within days – effectively disrupting the long con you’ve painstakingly exacted these past years and swiftly replacing it with one of his own. 

And even though you hate that you recognize something familiar in him, you concede he is quite the gifted rogue. Executing each stratagem with ease. Imparting every countermove so effortlessly. 

It’s maddening. He’s maddening. 

His voice carries over the uproarious mix of music and chatter, regaling his audience with an undoubtedly embellished tale. And now he’s summoned your attentions, too. Dark curls rest gracefully atop pewter pauldrons, a garish blend of sapphire and citrine draping over his lean, leather-clad form. Cunning and handsome. The nerve of it all. 

You glance at your own flamboyant attire. Beneath your bodice, an iridescent swirl of vermilion and silver flows to your ankles. You look like flayed salmon. But, if it pleases the Grandmaster… 

Loki’s boisterous laugh shakes you from your thoughts and he turns on his heel, catching your unwary gaze. You ignore the stutter of your heart and the warm tingling in your core, instead focusing on how his regal brow furrows and his forced smile falls. But, as the facade quickly returns and he excuses himself from the revelry, his eyes – never breaking from your own – spark with intensity. 

You have to get out of here. Now.

Ducking behind a group of faceless creatures, you shuffle along the gilded perimeter of the room, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The din of the party echoes off the walls, the unrelenting buzz pulsing in your temples and settling in the crevices of your mind. The discomfort results in a moment of hesitation, and you glance over your shoulder, but Loki vanishes into the crowd. 

A portal to your left beckons with a soft, mechanical hum and you exhale, walking through the opening.

“Leaving so soon? I do hope I’m not the cause of your early departure.” 

It takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to the glaringly bright corridor, but there he is, just ahead, leaning against the hexagonal archway, a satisfied smirk on his infuriatingly gorgeous face. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you lie, squaring your shoulders and continuing your journey to the elevators.

“Things were getting a bit monotonous,” he offers, effortlessly falling in step beside you. “And I always find a nice, long bath invigorating after, well, after anything really.” 

His words cause your feet to falter slightly – surely he can’t… but what if? Thoughts whirring, you frantically push the salacious image of Loki disrobing and stepping into a bath from your mind.

“I take it you agree,” he taunts, opening the control panel next to the elevator. “Which level?” 

“71X-P.” What an ass.

Loki punches the code for the top-level suites, muttering something under his breath. 

“I beg your pardon?” you ask, stepping into the small space as the partition opens. The two of you ascend into the darkened sky – the jagged, glimmering expanse of the city on the other side of the glass shrinking beneath you. 

“Oh,” he says. “I was unaware we reside in the same wing of this so-called palace. How fortuitous.” 

“Indeed.” The word comes out more biting than intended.  

Loki tuts. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like me very much.” 

You perch on the guardrail, refusing to give him more than a playful roll of your eyes before pretending to inspect your nails. 

“But perhaps that’s just another of your machinations?” Loki hums, a mask of feigned contemplation crawling across his face as he stalks closer. Widening his stance, he cages you against the unyielding windowpane with his arms.

“Loki,” you warn, the warmth in your hips flaring back to life like embers reigniting beneath a thin layer of ash. Can he sense how wildly your heart is beating? 

“Ah, so you do know my name. Although I must admit, darling, I’ve grown fond of the Serpent of Sakaar.” 

He knows. He knows, and now what? Will he convince the Grandmaster to order a fight between you and his beloved champion? Or perhaps he’ll have you evicted from the palace? A life out there with the scrappers might be the only thing worse than a life in here under the thumb of a deranged celestial.

Everything is moving too fast, yet time stands still. Such is the way on Sakaar. Your stomach drops, settling somewhere beneath your feet as the lift reverses its trajectory, plummeting you towards a fate you aren’t prepared for. Yet a quick glance through the glass confirms you’re still steadily climbing up, up– 

“You know, you’re quite…” Loki pauses, tracing the pattern of the silver cuff adorning your bicep with his forefinger. The rapid cadence of your breath cuts through the charged air, entwining with the weight of his gaze as it locks onto your parted lips. 

When his eyes flit back to yours, the striking green of his irises is nearly eclipsed by his expanding pupils. “Clever.” 

“I- I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“Ah, but you do. And I must express my sincerest gratitude. Everyone here is so curious about my origins.” Loki raises an eyebrow, his fingertips ghosting a trail up your arm and across your collarbone. “And your crafty little rumors created the perfect illusion in which to hide. Even En Dwi Gast himself believes the stories to be true.” 

“I find the best lies are the ones shrouded in truth,” you retort, regaining a modicum of composure when Loki’s jaw twitches at your subtle accusation. 

“Such awful words from such sweet lips,” he says with an impish grin, brushing the back of his fingers along your jaw before tilting your face upwards — so close, too close, to his own. 

“And do you think me wicked?” you say breathlessly, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“No more so than I consider myself,” he replies, the pad of his thumb tugging at your bottom lip. It’s a lie of omission, but as his cool breath fans over your heated skin, you realize you don’t care if his words hold truth or not. 

Loki’s nose nudges yours, and any lingering apprehension fades away, an unfamiliar sensation enveloping you. It’s intoxicating and comforting and sets your skin aflame in each place his lips make contact – first the corner of your mouth, then just beneath your jaw, down the column of your throat, and back up again. 

“You’re divine,” he murmurs, and you understand what it is you’re feeling. Intimacy. 

His lips finally connect with yours and you melt into the kiss, curling your hands around the nape of Loki’s neck. Yet he hesitates to deepen it, pulling back each time your tongue runs across the seam of his lips. But, oh, the way he groans when you tug at his hair and take his bottom lip between your teeth makes you clench, your desire making itself evident between your thighs. 

Through whatever alchemy is sparking between you, Loki senses it and slips his knee between your legs, causing you to moan in response.

“Oh, little fox,” he rasps, roughly bunching your skirts up in his fist before lifting your knee to his hip and slowly grinding into you. “Don’t tease me. I couldn’t bear it.” 

If you had lovers before Loki, you can’t recall them – not now that he’s scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin below your ear and bringing you to the edge of ecstasy with each deliberate roll of his hips. He tilts his head, lips parting as his tongue finally slides over yours. It’s tender and warm and you ache for him. 

“Level seventy-one X P. The Grandmaster welcomes you home,” a voice announces as the elevator door whooshes open.

Loki breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, puffing out a laugh. “So, fancy that bath?”

“Mm, sounds delightful,” you purr, grabbing his hand and leading him into the hall. His purposeful footsteps reverberate throughout the space, but you barely make it five steps before he pins you against a cobalt door. 

“Stay with me,” Loki whispers earnestly, smiling when you softly kiss him in agreement. 

You continue to kiss along his beautiful neck as he meddles with a beeping keypad just above your shoulder, drinking in the scent of him for the first time. He smells like earth and bergamot – with just a hint of something familiar you can’t quite place, yet it grounds you. 

Allowing yourself another inhale, you gasp as it finally hits you: He smells of the ancient forests of Asgard. 

Of home. 

But that… that’s impossible. 

“Just for tonight,” Loki says when he feels your body tense.   

“Just for tonight,” you repeat as you follow him into his rooms. 

You always were a liar.

#loki x reader #loki smut #loki #loki imagine #loki fanfiction #loki x you #loki laufeyson

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

Bonus DP x DC prompt “Star-crossed lovers” to this prompt where Batclan ship “Pitch Pearl”

"Give me my Romeo, and, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun." -Juliet (act 3, scene 2)

Red Hood stays in Amity Park to observe the situation after the romantic conflict resolution between Fenton and Phantom.

One day from a rooftop next to the Fenton Works he sees Fenton putting toxic ectoplasm in a bottle on the table, sighing and pouring it into a glass.

The horror of plunging into the Lazarus pit flashes before Jason’s eyes. Who would be crazy enough to want to experience such a thing? And for what?

As a proud bookworm, he could not help but remember the story of Romeo and Juliet at the same moment.

"My only love sprung from my only hate, too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me that I must love my enemy." -Juliet (act 1, scene 5)

Parents who are against relationships and hate the fact that their child’s partner exists? Checked out.

Dead Romeo? Uh, yeah, definitely.

Vial of poison? Freely available in the lab.

There can be only one logical conclusion: Seeing the dead lover, Fenton thinks only about how soon to die himself.

Is Fenton ready to join his lover in the Kingdom of the Dead? He has no guarantee of returning as a ghost, so why risk it?

Jason*runs to save “Juliet”*: I defy you, stars!

~~~~

Needless to say, sleep-deprived Danny is extremely unhappy when a guy in a leather jacket breaks into his house and tries to take his lunch away. 

Both boys panick, scream and absolutely not hear each other.

Jason: Don’t do this! It’s not worth it, there must be another way! 

Danny: Give me my soup back, thief! Take the turkey, it’s going to go bad.

Jason: I am serious.“ Love moderately. Long love doth so.

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.” Leave the ectoplasm to the dead ones, boy.

Danny: What a coincidence, I’m already dead deep deep inside.

Jason: Don’t joke, you should talk to a therapist.

Danny: Great idea. Jazz, help! Human in the house! This is not a drill!

Jason:..In general, both of you should talk to the Justice League. They can protect Phantom from your parents, don’t worry. You are not alone. 

~~~~

Fenton, sitting in front of the Justice League.

Flash: So, you and Phantom, how did you decide to start dating?

Danny: Well, what can I say in defense.. "Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty." -Romeo (act 5, scene 3)

Justice League:

Danny: Just kidding. I learned a whole quote for this. Can someone be proud of me, please? 

Batman: Hmmm

Danny: Thanks. And relax, I knew him before he died. Our relationship has always been complicated but we literally can’t exist without each other. So don’t worry about our breakup, it’s unlikely.

Danny: And don’t think I’d kill myself in such a stupid way, it’s boring. You might want to be more concerned about whether or not I’m shocking myself with a Fenton portal than watching my food. My stomach is indestructible, tested by years of ecto-contaminated cooking. But I don’t want to die. All this RIP is a complete lie. Trust me.

Red Hood: You. use to eat. ectoplasm?!

Danny: Yes, it's very nutritious. But you need to develop tolerance to it, otherwise you will be able to try it only once in a lifetime.

#dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp #dp x dc #Danny Phantom #danny fenton #Jason Todd #red hood

[qentin-fuckre]

Walter White Cringe Compliation

People are always like “oooOOooHH Heisenberg badass he’s the one who knocks!!!!!!” to the point I went into breaking bad expecting his character to be like that. But what I didn’t expect is that the guy is genuinely 90% of the time a cringy motherfucker. So here’s a list of all the cringe things walter white has done, to balance the scales a bit.

1. Yelled at a cop because his windshield got broken and he refused to fix it despite having recently gotten a large sum of money. Kept escalating until the cop pepper sprayed him and made him cry.

2. Told a high school gymnasium that the plane crash they were all reeling from wasn’t that bad, and that they’d get over it.

3. Quit his job by knocking random shit off the walls and yelling while grabbing his balls.

4. Ended up kicked out of his house and sleeping on the floor of an apartment in a white t-shirt, underwear, and cheetos surrounding him. Yelled “Here’s your restraining order!” while once more grabbing his crotch.

5. Brought a full pizza to his wife to try to make up for selling meth, and then threw the pizza on the roof on accident.

6. Tried to ram a potted plant through a window to get to the guy who was sleeping with his wife. He didn’t succeed.

7. He then tried to seduce his boss out of spite and got fired.

8. Made his son drink tequila shots until he threw up just to feel better than his brother-in-law.

9. Literally came up with a plan where he strips naked in a supermarket and “has amnesia”. It doesn’t work.

10. After his soooo badass “I am the one who knocks” speech (which btw is just him bullying his wife,) he awkwardly shuffles off and takes a shower.

11. He buys the most garish sports cars he can for himself and his son and revs the engines in the damn driveway while mentally playing the lamest song ever

12. His ideas to kill Gus were to ask his right hand man to kill Gus, and then when that failed, walk up to the man’s house, playing his own theme music in his head to hype himself up, and then getting told to just go home.

13. “AM I THE ONLY PERSON CAPABLE OF BEHAVING IN A PROFESSIONAL MANNER?” Man who ruined his job prospects screams at Saul Goodman.

14. Made a terrible lie to Gus about Gale screwing up the batch and needing more time only for Gus to visit Walt at the hospital revealing he knew he was full of shit.

15. His absolutely awful lie about the second cell phone that Skyler doesn’t even believe

16. Spends a whole episode obsessing over and failing to kill a singular fly.

17. Tells his brother-in-law who is actively pursuing Heisenberg that Heisenberg might still be out there just because his ego couldn’t handle the thought of Gale getting the credit

I’m certain there’s more, but these all stick out to me. Stop with the “OOO HE BLEW UP TUCO” or “OOOH HE KILLED GUS” and remember that ninety percent of the time, Walter White was fucking embarrassing.

#breaking bad #bb #walter white #skyler white #saul goodman #hank schrader #walter white jr #gus fring #gustavo fring #heisenberg #gale boetticher #ted beneke #mike ehrmantraut #tuco salamanca

[buryustogether]

the end of forever (god’s day)

aziraphale x reader x crowley

summary: the end of forever comes on god’s day.

word count: 2.6k

warnings/tags: angst, mentions of blood

author’s note: dedicated to @avocado-writing , with whom i did a fic trade and this was my piece!! this fic is part of their good omens original timeline, and i highly recommend reading it!!! <333

The end of forever started on a Saturday evening.

Granted, it was not the Saturday evening that dominates the beginning to every weekend, fitted with gentle rainfall pattering against the windows, and a book propped in your lap, and the comfortable ambiance of your lovers on either side as you let yourself be lulled into peace. Instead it was a dark, thrashing kind of Saturday, filled with panicked whispers over dances, and demons busting down the bookshop windows in hails of twinkling glass. It was blinding, seared into the forefront of your mind with traces of a halo detached from its angel and a pair of souls running away, bound for opposite sides of the universe and forever vanished into one corner together.

And, of course, it was snapped up in the jaws of the Metatron. He had taken Aziraphale for a stroll around the block once or twice, leaving you and Crowley to stare down the mess of what had become the bookshop and wonder if perhaps this had all been a dream.

“Fancy breakfast at the Ritz, love?” Crowley had said as the pair of you began to pluck cracked books from the floor and stack them to be restored and reshelved. With a wave of his slender fingers, he had sent the shards of glass cascading through the air like a silent breeze back to where they belonged in the window frames. “Reckon we deserve it, after a night like that.”

“Sure you’ll be able to handle the drive?” you had said and handed him the empty fire extinguisher, which had fallen down the winding iron staircase. “I’m sure you’re exhausted, Crowley. Spending all that time in Heaven? Must have been awfully straining on you.”

Though he would never admit it, Crowley rather enjoyed it when you fussed over him. He relished in the worry threading your voice together, craved the inevitable babying that accompanied your measures of protection. His chest had puffed slightly, and if you could have seen them, you were sure his wings had ruffled a bit.

“I’ll be alright,” he’d assured, then dropped into the chair he had long ago claimed as his beside Aziraphale’s desk. “Wouldn’t say no to a nap when we come back, though. Could sleep for a few decades, I think. Skip all the garish drama that’s sure to follow something like this. Care to join, nightingale?”

You had smiled at him, eyes full of exhaustion and yet at the same time, the restlessness that came with the knowledge part of your trio was still missing from the picture. “Afraid I can only keep you company a few hours,” you mused. “Immortal as I am, I don’t think I can lie still long enough until you decide to wake up.” Despite your teasing, you reached out your hand to caress his jaw, and he leaned into your warm touch. He knew it like he knew his own breath in his throat at this point, but he still nuzzled into your palm like an animal seeking warmth. Funny enough creature as he was, he was still, deep down, a demon searching your soul for any glimpse of love you might spare him. “I’m glad you’re okay, Crowley,” you said, letting your voice lower in volume so he understood you had dropped your jokes and cracks. “I don’t think I could bear losing you. Either of you.”

He had leaned up to kiss you then, lips and tongue seeking yours like, in spite of your words, one side or the other might tear you away from him. He tasted like cinnamon - an odd enough musk for him, but he had just returned from Heaven, after all. You were sure he hated it. But you had drank it in like it was the last thing you’d taste before you fell.

You found yourself some time later amongst the back shelves of the shop, knees and the heels of your hands aching as you painstakingly wiped away and polished the spots on the floor upon which unholy blood had been spilt and spattered. Aziraphale would not care to have those on his tile, thank you. A voice in the back of your head told you that one of your boys could simply miracle the mess away, but this seemed a bit more intimate - cleaning up the mess for your lover. This was your shop, too, in a way. And you wanted to rid it of any trace of what had happened here last night.

You only realized it was Sunday morning - God’s day - when you heard the bell above the front door jingle with its familiar chime, and the low rumble of your lover’s voices filled the empty space between the air. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, not over the sound of your brush against the floor and the dull ache in your lower back. After a long few minutes, you sat back and inspected your work.

Like the demon invasion of Fell and Co. had never even happened.

You were just about to call out to your boys when you heard a sharp hiss to Crowley’s voice that caused your heart to skip a beat. You twisted your head around to face the front of the store. Crowley only ever hissed when he let his disguise slip and his tongue split. And he only ever let his tongue split when he was so distraught not even a raging thunderstorm could comfort him.

Wiping your hands on your legs, you cautiously made your way through the organized maze of shelves toward the front entrance of the bookshop. There stood your lovers, the angel and the demon, staring one another down like they had never met, like their love had vaporized, like they had never met in that garden at the beginning.

“What’s happened?” you said and made your presence known as you stepped down into the threshold. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale turned to face you, obviously making an effort to brighten his features, but it was Crowley who faced away. Dropped his weight onto his arm against the desk. Reached up to tug off his shades, toss them aside hard enough that the lens cracked in its frame. The air crackled with a kind of tension that reared its head so rarely it was almost foreign to you. Or, perhaps, was that divine energy rippling the air, stirred and upset by the creatures standing before you?

“Darling,” said Aziraphale, then reached out to take your hands and placed kisses upon your knuckles. His lips were plump and soft, and when they made contact with the skin of your hand, a tiny sense of ease washed over your veins. “You needn’t worry about this. Just a… little dispute.”

“Oh, don’t lie to her like a child,” seethed Crowley from across the room, and whatever ease had settled your nerves disappeared in the blink of an eye. You felt your blood turn to ice beneath your skin when you heard a wobble, a shake, in his voice. Was your demon… holding back tears? He bared his teeth, which he’d allowed to sharpen like blades, and jutted out an accusatory finger toward his husband. “Tell them, or I bloody will,” he snapped, then lifted a deadly brow. “And you won’t like the way I phrase things, angel.”

Alarm blared like a siren in your head, flashed like lights that burned your eyes even through your lids. You knew at once this surely had something to do with last night, with the Metatron, and you were unable to stop yourself from snapping around to stare at Aziraphale expectantly. Where you searched for comfort and reassurance, you found only irritation and exasperation.

“Aziraphale,” you said, gripping his hands tighter as you gently shook your head with confusion. You only barely managed to keep your voice from shaking; something was very, very wrong. This was not like the time two hundred years ago when they had stopped talking to one another for a decade. This was far more serious, far more dangerous. “Aziraphale, what’s happening?”

Your angel stared into your eyes - or, perhaps, he was staring at his own reflection in your irises - and he let out a breath you had not heard him take in. “The Metatron,” he began slowly, softly, like you were a spooked animal who would run if he talked too loud, “has given me a generous, generous offer.”

From across the room, Crowley scoffed over his shoulder and gave another hiss from between his teeth.

“Based on a few of the…” Aziraphale seemed to struggle with the words. “Good deeds that have been performed the last six thousand years, Heaven has agreed to allow me back into its order - as the Supreme Archangel, now that Gab… Jim has vacated his position.” Despite the slow, sinking feeling growing like a black hole in your gut as he went on, the beginnings of an excited smile played upon the corners of his lips. “And they’ve even offered to redeem Crowley - as an angel again!”

The bookshop was a deadly kind of quiet, the kind that filled empty spaces with fear, and dread, and horror until there was nothing left but a rotting mess. Your mouth hung agape as you tried to process your angel’s words, tried to swallow down what he’s just said. Heaven wanted him back - would take Crowley back. That would be it. Their time on Earth would come to a close, a thunderous applause, a devastating end.

Yet there was a single question that hung tight in the air, one that waited like a dagger above each of your heads, waiting to see who would speak of it first.

Could you handle the sting when it planted itself in your back? “Aziraphale,” you heard yourself whisper as your brows knitted together and tears puddled in the corners of your eyes, “what about me?”

Though you could not see it, Crowley shut his eyes and pursed his lips, still attempting to stop the tears from falling down the gaunt planes of his cheeks. He knew the answer already, knew his angel far too well to pretend it could be anything different. He wanted to protect you from it, clasp his hands over your ears and snarl and snap at the world until he’d frightened everything that could hurt you far, far away. But you had to hear this.

Aziraphale swallows thick, holding your hands a bit tighter, like you might bolt from his grasp any moment. Even when you shift, he grips you in an iron grasp. “Well,” he drawls slowly, hesitation creeping into the corners of his voice, “of course, Heaven can’t grant holy status to… ah… humans. Immortal or not, I’m afraid, my love. But do you know angels hold the ability to possess human souls within themselves? Keep them safe and sound - isn’t that lovely? Why, I’m not the first angel in history to find a human they can’t let go of.” His hold tightens again, turning your skin pale where he grips you. “I - we could bring you with us. Your soul, darling.”

Every ounce of curiosity, of worry and fear, has morphed into a single sickening, dripping, venomous sensation that floods your systems, encases your body like a cocoon swallowing you whole; horror.

“You want to take my soul to Heaven,” you said quietly, so terribly softly that it was barely above a whisper. “Like a pet.” With this, you yanked your hands from Aziraphale’s and forced yourself to take three steps back. It stung like knives between your ribs to do so, to bear the expression painting itself across your husband’s face, but there was no other choice. “Aziraphale, you would trade us - trade this - to go back to them? After what they’ve done to you?” You took another step back, and you felt yourself bump into the chest of your demon. “After what they did to Crowley?”

You had always heard betrayal hurt worse from a lover than anyone else. Was this what betrayal felt like? Like stones in your pocket with a river pulling you under? Like venom slowly sucking your life from your very veins.

“No, of course not,” your angel tried, raising his hands. He opened his mouth to go on, then threw up a palm and sniffed out an exasperated huff. “If you both would just try and understand…”

“Oh, we understand plenty.” There came no term of endearment at the end of Crowley’s statement, no playful lilt or head nod. Only the cold, piercing gaze of those yellow eyes, and the slow wrapping of his hands around your arms, pulling you closer against him.

The movement caught Aziraphale’s eye, and hellfire flashed within them. “Oh, I should have known it would go this way,” he chided, pacing forward. “Here I thought you could, for once, Crowley, suppress your demonic ways of swaying her to your side. For once! Are you satisfied, you old serpent? Are you content with what’s happening?”

“How dare you!” The shout came from deep within your chest, an explosive rage nothing short of a scream that leaves the angel frozen where he stands. Those ocean eyes flicker to yours as you at last allow yourself to cry, to feel the sobs wrack your body like earthquakes and feel the tears gathering at the point of your chin. “How dare you let them come between us, Aziraphale! Between us!” You choked a bit and your angel visibly fought a battle within himself, wanting to pull away and surge forward all at once. “After everything… after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve built, and you want to leave it to play God.”

“Of course I’m not leaving us,” your angel murmured, the crows feet against his eyes making themselves known as he knits his brows. Tears brim the edges of his vision. “I - I would be taking us with me. To somewhere safe… for all of us.”

“No,” you exhaled shakily, feeling Crowley’s fingers tighten around your upper arms. You shook your head at Aziraphale, your ears ringing and heart shattered. “Not safe for us. Better for you.” You peered into his eyes, into those watery blue eyes you could have drowned in, and saw your reflection staring back as he searched for something he could not find. “You miss Heaven, Aziraphale. You always have - and we know that. We all do.” There came a terrible, horrible, dreadful pause. “But we can’t go with you. We won’t.”

Your angel seemed at a loss for words. He simply stood there, staring you and his husband down. He gaped. Tried to form words. Took a step back.

Above you, his fingers now digging so tightly, so fiercely, so protectively, into your skin that his nails left marks, Crowley sneered and hissed in a voice filled with the desolation of a fallen angel, “You idiot.” You turned your face and tucked it into his shirt. “We could have been… us.”

Aziraphale said nothing for a very, very long time. Then he murmured, “I forgive you both.”

The bell over the door jingled, and he was gone, without leaving so much as a feather behind.

You sobbed loudly, awfully, horribly into Crowley’s chest, and you felt his own unholy, burning tears fall against your hairline as he stroked your tresses and kept you standing.

The end of forever started on a Saturday evening, and ended on a Sunday morning.

It was God’s day, after all.

#good omens #good omens crowley #good omens aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader #good omens x reader #the light the dark and the spaces in between fic

[writinginthetwilight]

Knock, knock.

Neighbour! Eddie Munson x Neighbour! Reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ for smut in later parts if you are under 18 you do not belong here, be gone. AFAB reader. Stress. Strong language. Nightmares. Sleep paralysis. Horror-esk/creepy vibes.. Hopefully. See Masterlist for full list of warnings.

Authors note. Thank you for all the love on the first part of this fic. This story is feeding my creepy brain and I'm truly loving it, all my love to @bettyfrommars @allthingsjoeq and @somnambulic-thing for writing the original prompt that birthed this weird little world I'm making and them all being so supportive of it.

6. You move into a new apartment and soon discover that you share a wall with a very noisy neighbor. Loud laughter, talking, and music are a constant companion. When you decide to go over and knock on their door to confront them in person, you find that the apartment is unoccupied and has been for months.

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated. Love you bye.

Part 2: Whispers from a shadow in the walls.

The building was too quiet.

The rain tapping lazily at your window and the muted hush of early morning traffic on the wet street below did little to distract you from it.

There's something tangible to the silence, one that can only be felt at this time of day, like your consciousness is disturbing it.

Headphones are quickly vetoed, the lack of awareness in your surroundings they created leaving you skittish in the still unfamiliar space.

So you work softly around the unpacked boxes, slowly searching your way through them until you find your old squat plastic CD player, adorned in peeling band stickers and Sharpie drawings. It's a relic from your youth.

A sigh of relief leaves you when it hums to life, filling the space with the low murmurs of a local early morning show, the silence crawling away to the recesses of where it came.

You lean against the kitchen cabinets, linoleum floor cold against your bare feet as you breathe for what feels like the first time since you woke.

You'd ripped yourself from a dream that left you drenched in sweat like you were purging a fever and eyeing the closed bathroom door like it was the gate to hell.

Footsteps had rung out from it, whispers reverberating out through a gap that crept open just enough to see through from where you were trapped in bed. Shadows morphed into faceless entities that watched you. Unable to look away, neither did they.

So when you had checked the time after falling out of bed to turn on the light and it showed 5 am, you had decided that the risk of falling back into that far outweighed the extra few hours of sleep.

There was little to do with your life in boxes, the disarray making you itch.

The stains on the walls for the most part had been superficial, easily removed with dish soap and rags, but it was made increasingly obvious the more you scrubbed at your bedroom walls, green fibres clinging to it and ruining another scrub pad, that the ‘no previous smokers’ on the lease was another lie.

So you cleaned.

The walls were more solid, so were the bathrooms, obviously part of what was once the original layout, they hold the telltale sticky yellow nicotine stains that had once crawled up your late grandmother's living room walls.

You take another picture to send off to the lease agency as daylight starts to creep in through the broken blinds. Another bargaining chip in your case against the ‘neutral paint colours only’. The tin of dark blue calls to you from the corner.

Soon my love.

Once the sun's fully risen you make the most of the limited gas left in your rental, badly navigating unfamiliar streets for necessities before rushing home to let the removal men ferry the last of your belongings up.

Items that had laid in storage since the day you bought them dust-covered and unloved now in a place where you could enjoy them, the green couch that sat still covered in plastic because it was too garish, the bed frame stuffed back in its packaging because it creaked too much. Your black desk showed too much dust.

Tvs, lamps, rugs and bookshelves.

Were all unneeded in a house which was never really yours.

But it didn't matter, it was all here now.

You're knee deep in baffling instructions surrounded by screws and wooden slats when you hear it. The distinct sound of somebody in the next room.

You arm yourself with one of the bed slats and creep through ready to try and disarm the intruder when you're met with an empty space.

The clear sound of footsteps and muffled voices rounds you, making you turn in place before they recede into nothing and all is quiet again.

You pad forward, makeshift weapon still raised and round the kitchen quickly only to see half unpacked boxes of utensils.

You allow yourself to sag a little, silently scolding yourself at what you were expecting to do with a plank of wood when music comes from behind you making you jerk backwards, the wooden slat flies from your grasp crashing into a pile of boxes.

You rush pointlessly towards them in an attempt to stop them falling and the music pauses as they crash to the floor loudly. You eye the room as you crouch to scoop up your belongings but just as you relax it's flaring up again.

It sounds tinny, far away and you rise cautiously like you might startle it out of existence, eyes trailing to where the music might emanate but it seems to travel unnaturally from no one source.

It gets clearer as you approach the far wall and when you press your ear against it you can hear humming which turns to the mimicking sounds of a guitar solo in time with the music. The voice gets closer before it rings out behind you, distant like before and it mingles with the sound of music and footsteps.

It's disorienting and your eyes trail around before they're drawn up to the scar. You quickly climb the back of the couch precariously balancing as you stretch up to it fingertips grazing the rough edges.

Found it. The sound trails through what you assume must be a space between the floors and you wonder if he has a scar like yours on his side too.

You camber down and make your way to your room. The sounds are still audible but muted and you thank whatever residential overlord that they didn't knock down the walls in here too.

You had lived in dorms, shared houses with noisy flatmates and a house that creaked because it had ‘character’.

You push in your headphones, deciding that you don't want to be that neighbour who nags on the first day.

Bleary eyes open as light casts over you, the couch below is soft if not still a little musty from the dust that made its way under its plastic wrap.

You will get used to it.

You don't remember falling asleep, you only sat down for a second, but the early morning must have caught up with you. The music has stopped and you let yourself bathe in the silence for a moment staring at the scar on the ceiling above.

Disorientation sets in, time is a mystery, and you shift to retrieve your phone which digs into your side from where it's slipped out of your pocket. The lifeless black screen stares back at you and you let it drop to your chest as you stretch out.

You double take a glance to the room as soon as you turn, sitting quickly to take it in.

The space is filled much more than seems possible, your furniture fused at odd angles with items you don't recognise, posters and pictures overlapping, like a bad AI generation where nothing quite looks right.

Light catches everything from angles with no source and it sprawls to the wall in front of you dancing over the plaster like its fabric caught in a breeze.

A sense of panic rises in you, the hair on your neck standing on end and you slowly turn to look behind you, scrambling to a stand at the sight of the darkness that shrouds the opposing side of the room, barely a yard from where you had been sleeping.

It seems to hum as you take a tentative step forward.

You have no doubt that if you were to step into it, it would swallow you, there's no gradualness to it, just a cliff edge into nothing. Your ears catch the only sound that echoes unnaturally around you and it drags you away from the abyss.

A drip.

You follow it, dodging items until you find your kitchen where black liquid is pooling on your countertops, spreading with every moment and soaking into the carpet beneath. You look up to the scar above it which weeps down feeding the puddle slowly.

This isn't real. You just need to wake up.

You try to peer out the windows but it seems the abyss lies there too, matte black with no reflection.

Your bedroom is oddly unchanged as you squeeze past a bookshelf that has become one with a suitcase. Everything as you left it. Your hand hovers over the handle of the bathroom door but you think better of it.

Whatever is in there can stay there.

The wall of light still flutters and you press your hand to it, it's plient and gives a little against your touch and you go to step through.

“Hello?”

The voice sounds solid and real and your drawn forward.

The sensation of rushing to the surface of water overcomes you, blood pounding in your ears and you wake eyes wide and gasping, a small yelp leaving you as you crash to the floor below you.

There's ringing in your ears but everything is exactly as it should be.

No abyss.

No lights.

No amorphys drip.

No disembodied voices.

A curse comes from the other side of the wall, then mumbles echo from above you.

The rest of the week passes quickly, your new neighbour's presence hadn't gotten under your skin all that much, granted you'd never had a neighbour that sounded like they were living in your fucking apartment but it was fine.

Well almost none.

Fine.

Fine.

Ear plugs, headphones and you assumed his odd work schedule meant moments of peace came relatively often.

The apartment got painted.

Dinners were made.

Nightmares were kept to a minimum, it probably wasn't safe the amount of string lights that now adorned your bathroom but all in all, you got settled.

Carved out a space for yourself.

But then you started work.

The first night you come home late, overwhelmed by paperwork and HR ‘welcoming packages’ that were basically instruction manuals on how many ways they could fire you.

You collapsed with exhaustion face down into your comforter, body spent with the anxiety of first impressions and grappling with the ins and outs of office life. Wriggling out of rigid clothes that had suffocated you all day, you prayed for an interrupted sleep.

Only to be woken a few hours later at 3 am as loud laughter came from behind your bedroom wall as your new neighbour spoke loudly and animated on the phone for almost an hour.

It set the tone for the rest of the week.

You weren't an asshole, you weren't, but even without the thin walls and gaping peephole that left you involuntarily privy to the musing of another human being's life.

Music was constant but there was also the TV or singing, at the top of his lungs, talking to himself, always moving footsteps back and forth, back and forth, belonging crashing to the floor, cursing when said items fall.

He was just fucking loud, and Friday was the day that it broke you.

The day was a cluster fuck from the go, you forgot your lunch, got your period at work, forgot the password to your laptop and got locked out, had an unannounced team building afternoon and by the end of it, you just wanted to crawl into sweats, eat chips and drown your sorrows in cheap wine.

It all started surprisingly well, there wasn't the usual screech of guitar and one man karaoke show rattling your walls when you came in.

It only lasted an hour before you heard him come in, just enough time to relax and it wasn't just him, it was a group of them.

You deflate at the sound of their laughter and hate yourself for it, because who gets angry at the sound of laughter? You plug your headphones in but before long the laughter gets loud, dispersed with yelling, cheers and heckling audible over the sound that's being directly fed into your ears.

You're trying to keep a lid on it, but even moving to the bedroom, a sanctuary where the world is usually a little more your own doesn't seem to work as the sound travels in from outside the door.

And why should you have to hide yourself away? This was your home too and if you wanted to watch TV without headphones plugged into your Xbox pad then why was that an issue?

But you don't need to make a scene.

You make it to 11pm.

When the sound of them leaving is only followed by the start of his music you snap.

In all your crumpled band shirt and sweatpant glory you match out hammering on his door.

There's no music and you start to fidget when he doesn't answer, eyes searching the empty hallway, you assume he's got the message without you cursing him out.

But you're barely in the door when it starts again.

You rip the drawer of your desk open hastily scrawling a polite shut the fuck up note through gritted teeth.

Shoved it under the door, another knock that goes unanswered.

The musics gone.

It doesn't start up again and you crawl into bed smugly for the first uninterrupted night's sleep you've had in a week.

When you wake a note sits halfway sticking out under the door.

Hey sorry!

Didn't mean to be loud.

If we could keep this between us that would be cool.

I'll keep it down.

Eddie. No 5.

You instantly regret the email to the landlord asking about a way to close up the gaps in the ceiling due to being able to hear no 5’s entire life.

You stress about it all day, a good night's rest and a day sat vegetating in front of the TV making the whole ordeal feel like it got blown way out of proportion. By the time your phone lights up with a reply, you've come up with a way to cover your tracks so you don't get the poor guy evicted.

But it doesn't really matter.

Because the landlord's reply makes you run cold.

Nobody lives there

Next.

#stranger prompts #Knock knock #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #stranger things fic #stranger things #Nightmares #sleep paralysis #Spotify

[5starluvr]

Gangster

Paring:Gangster!Lee Felix x Gangster!reader

Genre:slight angst?,fluff?

Warnings:violence,blood(just a little at the end,guns,stealing

Words:1.2k

The dimly lit safehouse buzzed with nervous energy.Y/n, clad in her usual black jeans and combat boots, paced before a worn leather couch where the rest of her crew lounged. Felix, her ever-present partner-in-crime and maybe something more though they'd never admit it outright, fiddled with a silenced pistol, it’s sleek black frame catching the dim light.

"Alright, crew," Chan announced, his voice sharp. "Tonight's the night. Let's run the plan one last time."

They huddled closer, voices murmuring as they went over the details.Y/n, alias Tiffany Kim, daughter of a tech billionaire a carefully crafted lie for tonight, would infiltrate the high-society fundraiser thrown by Mark, the arrogant secret arms dealer who held the key to their mission.

"Tech here," Seungmin piped up, holding a sleek black earpiece. "Comms are crystal clear.Y/n, this bad boy will let you hear everything we're saying and vice versa."

She took the earpiece, the familiar cool plastic a source of comfort. Testing it, she spoke, "Can you hear me?"

A chorus of affirmations rose from the group. "Loud and clear," Felix said, his voice a steady rumble. "Remember, y/n, get close to Mark. Charm him, distract him, whatever it takes. We need that key."

She grinned, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Charming billionaires? Piece of cake."

They ran through the escape route, Felix pointing out the security cameras they'd disabled and the quickest way to their getaway van. The tension crackled in the air, a mix of fear and excitement. They were about to steal from the thief, reclaiming what was rightfully theirs – the weapons Mark had stolen from their gang.

Later, bathed in the garish glow of the ballroom, she navigated the sea of socialites with practiced ease. Her gown swished around her ankles. Mark, a walking cliché in a polished suit, approached, his eyes sweeping over her with a practiced appraisal.

She forced a smile, laying on the charm as thick as the caviar on a nearby platter. "Well, hello there, beautiful," Mark drawled, his cologne a disgusting presence in her nostrils. The act was loathsome but necessary.

"Why, hello yourself," she purred, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness. They waltzed to the deafening music, his every touch sending a shiver down her spine, a mix of disgust and the need to stay in character.

"You have eyes like gold," Mark declared, leaning in a little too close. "The kind that could pierce a man's soul and steal all his secrets." She fought back an eye roll. Was this supposed to be romantic?

"Oh, really?" she countered, batting her eyelashes for maximum effect. "Perhaps they can steal the key to your heart as well, Mr. ?"

"Mark," he supplied, puffing out his chest in a way that made him look like he was lifting heavyweights "Mark Lee, at your service, beautiful lady."

Y/n choked back a laugh. "Damn, How cringe." He said through the earpiece, Felix's voice cracklings with amusement. “That's gotta be the worst pick-up line I've ever heard.”

She stifled a smile. Tell me about it she thought. She focused back on Mark, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, Mr.Lee, perhaps you can show me some of your… treasures later?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Mark's eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck. Bingo. She thought, feeling a surge of satisfaction. This was going to be easier than she thought. As they twirled, y/n focused on the conversation Felix fed through the earpiece, their plan unfolding in real time. Her heart pounded in her chest, mimicking the rhythm of the music. Then, with a practiced flick of her wrist, she snagged the key from his pocket while they spun. Success. A silent thrill surged through her. The booming bass of the music seemed to vibrate the very floor beneath her feet. Through the earpiece, Felix's voice was a constant murmur, keeping her focused on the task at hand. Mark, thankfully oblivious, babbled about his latest yacht acquisition.

Suddenly, the air shimmered with a change in energy. She felt hair prickle on the back of her neck. A hush fell over the crowd, the music stuttering to a halt. Then, the ballroom doors exploded inward with a deafening bang.

Ateez, their most ruthless rivals, flooded the room. Their faces, twisted with murderous intent, scanned the sea of terrified socialites. Guns, a chilling army of black metal, rose in unison, trained on the unsuspecting crowd.

Panic ripped through the air. Screams rose, a cacophony of terror drowning out the remnants of the music.Y/n, momentarily frozen, felt a hand clamp around her wrist. Felix, his face a mask of cold fury, yanked her towards a strategically placed side door behind a towering potted plant.

"Go!" he barked, his voice a harsh rasp over the din. She stumbled the stolen key digging painfully into her palm.

"Felix, we need–" she spluttered, desperation warring with a burgeoning fear.

"No arguments!" he snarled, shoving her through the heavy oak door. It slammed shut behind her with a sickening thud, plunging her into the cool darkness of a deserted hallway. The faint thump of Felix's boots echoed against the floor as he disappeared back into the pandemonium.

Y/n sprinted, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her dress, ridiculously impractical, caught on a loose wood board, ripping at the hem. She ignored it, driven by the primal need to get away. Behind her, the ballroom erupted in chaos. Shouts, gunfire, and shattering glass formed a terrifying symphony.

Reaching a pre-arranged meeting point, a back door leading to a collection of fire escapes, she collapsed against the wall. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Relief, heavy and sweet, washed over her, laced with a sickening dread. Felix. Where was he?

His voice, rough and laced with concern, crackled in her earpiece. "Y/n, are you alright?"

She lunged for the microphone, her voice raw. "Felix, I'm here. But you—"

His reply was a guttural sound, a mixture of pain and determination. "Get back to the safe house. I'll meet you there."

The line went dead. Fear, cold and primal, coiled in her stomach. Felix. He couldn't be hurt. Not him. Not after everything.

Ignoring the tremors in her legs, she pushed herself up and sprinted into the night. The stolen key felt heavy in her hand. Maybe she had gotten the key, but at what cost?

Minutes bled into an eternity as she navigated the back alleys. Finally, she reached the safe house, a small building cloaked in shadows. The heavy steel door creaked open before she even knocked.

There, in the dim light, stood Felix. His Face was soft and a dark stain bloomed on his silk white shirt. Yet, his eyes, the familiar fiery, held an unwavering softness.

He pulled her into a crushing hug, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the familiar scent of his cologne. In that moment, the world around them faded away. There was only him, her anchor in the storm and the unspoken promise that hung heavy in the air.

"Always behind you," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "Ride or die, remember?"

Her tears stinging her eyes could only manage a shaky nod. A genuine smile bloomed on her face. "Now let's go get our weapons back, baby," he murmured, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he closed the gap between them.

#stray kids #skz x reader #skz fluff #lee felix #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #lee felix fluff #lee felix x reader #stray kids felix #stray kids imagine #Spotify

[starvonnie]

Our Pink Living Room

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Megatron/Rodimus Additional Tags: Sticky Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Artificial Intelligence, Angst, Androids, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 25

Also on AO3

He's not your Megatron.

Rodimus gasped as his spike met with aching ceiling nodes.

This is a lie.

Blue optics met red before shuttering closed for a vent-stealing kiss.

This isn't right.

Rodimus did everything he could to ground himself in the moment. For Primus’ sake, he was more than filled with spike—Megatron's spike—but it wasn't his. 

His Megatron. 

The condemned one. The dead one. The absolutely-not-alive one that couldn't be here. Couldn't be holding him.

And yet, he was.

“I love you,” the fake whispered against his lips.

Rodimus moaned before whispering back, “I love you, too.”

But what he loved was a program. AI. Just ones and zeros strung together in just the right way, with a one-to-one scale non-sentient (well… his sentience was debatable) robot. His only solace was that whatever this near-clone did, supposedly Megatron would have done, too. So maybe Rodimus had been too much of a coward to take that leap, but at least he knew his love was horribly requited.

Rodimus regretted. He regretted so much. He wished he had been braver. He wished he'd enjoyed Megatron while he'd had him. And he wished he had fought harder at his trial. Maybe if he had said the right things…

He mentally shook his helm. Interfacing. He was fucking. He shouldn't be getting sad, he should be getting railed.

Rodimus kissed him some more. He'd wanted to kiss Megatron more than anything. While Brainstorm had assured him that this Megatron would be as close to the real thing as could be, he knew deep in his spark that Megatron's lips wouldn't have been as soft and yielding. He imagined they'd be scarred and a little rough.

He couldn't really believe this wonderful lie. He talked like Megatron. Moved like him. Sounded like him. But they never bickered. Not like they used to. He was too damn agreeable. He wanted him to mock Rodimus’ garish colour choices or raise an optic ridge at the amount of sweetener he put in his morning cube. Instead, he awoke to Megatron—or this facsimile of him—having already made his morning cube. With the exact number of sweeteners he usually added.

He tried to test him. 

“I don't actually like it this sweet,” Rodimus lied.

“No? I apologize. Tomorrow I will make it how you like it.”

And the stupid programming remembered, leaving Rodimus to suck down less-sweet energon until he corrected Megatron again.

It was always how he liked it again.

“Can you write me a poem?” Rodimus asked.

Megatron cocked his helm. “What would you like it to be about?”

Rodimus frowned. “Me, obviously.”

Megatron had nodded, stood, then immediately got to work on a datapad. Within a few minutes he'd completed a whole-ass poem, and it was good. Definitely in Megatron’s voice, too, but it still felt off.

Rodimus glanced at that very poem, sitting on the nightstand. He wondered if Megatron, had he loved him, would have actually written him poetry. He burned to know.

“You love fucking my valve, don't you?” Rodimus said between breathy moans.

“I love fucking you,” that damn AI corrected.

It always said exactly what he wanted to hear. Like it was reading his damn processor. He hated it. 

But he couldn't live without it.

Rodimus returned home from work later that day, and Megatron was waiting. Same chair. Same energon blend. Same damn day. Over and over and over.

Frowning at the fake, Rodimus did something different. He ignored him. He walked straight to the washracks and scrubbed at his plating until it felt raw. He wanted to go back to the beginning where he was just so happy for the companionship that he didn't care that this wasn't real. That it would never be real.

Still simmering beneath the surface, Rodimus went back out to the kitchen where Megatron still waited, unmoved. It was like he was waiting to start some program.

Once again, Rodimus did something different. He grabbed some engex and took a swig straight from the bottle. 

“You're drinking again?” Not-Megatron sounded concerned.

“I'm having a drink,” Rodimus corrected. “What do you care?”

“You're my conjunx.”

A flare of anger burst from Rodimus’ field. Of course, this fake never understood him in that way. “Too complicated,” Brainstorm had said when Rodimus asked about his lack of a field.

“We're not conjunx,” Rodimus said quietly.

“What? Of course we are, I lo—”

“You are not real! How could we become conjunx if i didn't initiate, huh? What could possibly put you in a bad light? You have no substance for the Act of Disclosure!”

Megatron's optics dimmed and he lowered his gaze. “Perhaps because I am not real. But I am. I am Megatron.”

“Megatron never would've let me paint the living room pink! Much less with flames around the door!”

Not-Megatron looked around, his brow creased with worry. ��We can paint it another colour.”

“That's not—AARGH!” Rodimus kicked the couch. “No! You're supposed to tell me this is a hideous colour and then suggest some bland shit that's an offense to colours everywhere!”

“Maybe… beige?”

“Maybe beige? Are you serious? I lied! You'd want to paint it purple! It's always purple with you!”

Megatron stood and closed the distance between them, and Rodimus stupidly let him. “Then we can paint it purple.”

“That's not the point!” Rodimus grabbed him by the collar faring and tugged him down until they were optic-to-optic. “Fight me on it. Argue with me. We always argued!”

“Will that make you happy?”

No.

“Yes!”

Megatron frowned. “It's a hideous colour.”

Rodimus should've been embarrassed, but his horniness hit him full-throttle and he smashed his mouth against Not-Megatron’s too-pillowy lips. It wasn't long before those strong arms had whisked him away to their berthroom and Megatron was deep inside of him again, fucking him like it was his Primus-given purpose.

Except Primus had no purpose for him. Primus didn't make him. Really, he was basically just a sex robot. Which, normally, Rodimus wouldn't have a problem with, but that wasn't why he had him made.

He needed more.

The next day, while at work, he did the bare minimum and spent most of the day just thinking. He weighed the pros and cons and did some deep soul-searching to figure out what he really wanted.

His processor hurt by the end of it.

Of course, he came to the same realization he always did: he wanted Megatron. He wanted to actual mech. The one with free will who wouldn't just let him do whatever he wanted without consequence. 

What finally pushed him to do it was the realization that Megatron wouldn't want this. The dead were dead and there was no way to emulate that.

Megatron didn't resist when Rodimus told him to open his chest. Where a spark should've been was nothing more than a computer compiling and spitting out data. All it took was a few snips from wire cutters for his not-conjunx to go dark and silent.

Rodimus still cried.

#megarod #megatron/rodimus #rodimus/megatron #megatron #rodimus #mtmte #lost light #valveplug #starvonnie writes #hannah dont look at this

[killthekilljoy]

I never Said I'd lie and wait forever If I died We'd be together 🔪🩸

[Image ID: The short description: a glitter gif of My Chemical Romance's 'Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge' with Nandor and Guillermo and animated glitter blood and titles. Read on for detailed description...

So what you have before you is an animated collage-type Nandermo recreation of My Chemical Romance's 'Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge' album cover created during a fit of sleep deprivation and hyperfixation.

The original album's demolition lovers (man and woman on the front) have been replaced by two subparly photoshopped images of Guillermo and Nandor from What We Do In The Shadows from episode 5x10 (from the vampiriric transmogrification scene so they're looking at eachother all longingly). The lighting is blue and dramatic so it meshes pretty well with the original album cover's vibes.

I know what you're thinking, where's the animation in all of this? Well get this, the blood splatters on their faces are made from red animated glitter. It's a bit garish because it's that kind of animated glitter that was all the rage in the early 2000s but it works. The blood was hand drawn before it was animated so it's not just a cheesy blood splatter sticker thrown over their faces, it actually follows the contours of their faces. Big splash in the front, small spatters fading out towards their hair in a fashion that suggests that something filled with blood exploded in front of them.

But wait, it gets worse. The My Chemical Romance logo and 'Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge' titles at the top of the cover have also been animated. The My Chemical Romance logo is animated with red glitter, similar to the blood, while the 'Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge' title kind of jitters in horror at what has become of its album cover (it just does an up and down animation). /.End ID]

#three cheers for sweet nandermo #for the last night I lie could I lie with you? #my chemical romance #mcr #nandermo #nandor the relentless #wwdits #what we do in the shadows #guillermo #guillermo de la cruz #nandor #wwdits s5 #guillermo wwdits #wwdits edit #nandor wwdits #glitter gif #glitter #flash warning #flashing gif #flashing tw #my posts #edited to illuminate Nandor's face

[bloodykora]

Phantom of the Opera but its Buggy finding you and wanting to hire you for his circus. There is no Raoul adjacent in this, not in my brain and home

I think this is like my actual first mention of sex in my writing so some nsfw content ahead but very minor. Speaking of, minors dni

A few lines I'd like to give everyone:

Insolent boy, this slave of fashion. Basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor. Sharing in my triumph.

He made your start as a star, his star. Your glories, the applause you receive also belong to him.

Sing my angel of music. Sing my angel. Sing for me.

Just ahhh, that line is what made me think of him. Do it for him, he wants it greedily to be for him. He needs it to be.

Turn your face away from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light.

The first part I think of stereotypical old circuses happening at night time but the second. Turn your thoughts away from the past, the loneliness you had faced before. You now have him and his crew, you're not alone anymore.

*uhh the whole song of Past the Point of No Return basically*

(Haha the sex song ahem I mean) look i ain't gonna lie to yall, that's the boning stage come on.

Pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate. An eternity of this, before your eyes.

Man is insecure okay, we all know (and assume) that LA Buggy has some issues under that facade. He is convinced in his mind that he doesn't deserve you, no matter how badly he wants to keep you.

#buggy x reader #buggy the clown #buggy live action #another musical with songs that reminds me of him is Chicago but thats mostly for my oc/insert/reader/whatever u wanna call it

[whereonceiwasfire]

I saw @theshadowrealmitself's post the other day about what if a supervillain outed their secret identity becuase they infodumped to the cashier (who happens to be the hero) and you know I had to do a DP oneshot for it. It's a few different kinds of AU, so you just have to roll with me here.

Without further ado:

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT (EXCEPT WHEN THEY'RE AN EGOMANIACAL SUPERVILLAIN)

Automatic doors slide apart with a woosh as Danny bursts through the entrance of Hattie's Haunted Hardware Emporium, unzipped backpack barely caught in the crook of his elbow, one arm stuffed through the armhole of the gaudy yellow vest of his uniform. 

He's out of breath as he scrambles past the customer service desk, gives a frantic, “I'm here, I'm here!” to the startled employee behind the computer as hops the counter. He’s sprinting past stacked boxes of returns for the door with a STAFF ONLY sign slapped askew across the chipping green paint when a voice stops him in his tracks. 

“Danny Fenton.” The words drip cool disapproval, and Danny's shoulders immediately hunch toward his ears, his fingers uncurling from around the door handle. 

So close. 

“Y-yes?” He slowly turns around, his expression sheepish as he comes to face Hattie herself. 

She stands, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, a MANAGER tag pinned to the chest of her tucked in shirt. The polo is the same hideous yellow as Danny's vest but has the Hattie's Hardware logo—a floating hammer surrounded by a ghostly glow—sewn onto the breast pocket. A funny gag, no doubt, when the place decided to open in the heart of haunted AF Amity Park. Less funny, probably, now that the store room is in disarray every other day because some low-level specter keeps casting stock haphazardly about and flinging empty boxes everywhere.

“You're late,” manager Hattie says, expression pinching. “Again.” 

“Aha. Yeah. About that.” Danny scrubs the back of his neck with a palm, teeth bared on something that's more a grimace than a smile. “The bus was behind schedule?” 

She doesn't look particularly like she believes him, which is entirely valid, since it's a bald-faced lie. But what is he supposed to say? That he got sidetracked by his new archnemesis, that freaking Plasmius ghost, because the guy somehow managed to compel an entire doggie daycare to do his bidding? What that crackpot needed a canine army for, Danny didn't even want to know, but he wasn't about to just let it go down. Stopping ghosts is kind of his whole shtick as town hero, after all. 

He’s just lucky the whole thing didn’t take that long—once Danny managed to snap his fluffy foes out of their trance, they kind of took care of Plasmius for him. Guess they weren't too happy about being mind controlled. Go figure.

But again, Danny can’t exactly just come out and tell his manager, well, any of this. As far as everyone knows, Danny Fenton is a very normal, very human kid—one who maybe isn’t great at the whole being punctual thing and has a penchant for running to the bathroom when ghosts show up—but otherwise exhibits no symptoms of being undead. He’s hoping to keep it that way.  

Manager Hattie’s eyes narrow, as if she can tell what he’s thinking, but she just gives a curt jerk of her chin in the direction of the staff room. 

“Don’t let it happen again,” she says, and he gives an overzealous nod of assent as he lets out the breath trapped in his chest. 

“You got it, boss!” he says, giving her a two-fingered salute and throwing himself into the back before she can change her mind. 

***

“That’ll be eight twenty-two. How will you be paying for that?” It comes out a bored drawl as Danny shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“It’ll be cash—just—give me a sec. I know I had change in here somewhere.” 

“Sure, no problem.” 

Danny crosses his arms over the chest of his garish vest and tips his gaze toward the industrial ceiling, trying to find literally anywhere to look so he’s not the overly intense cashier staring at the woman across the counter as she rummages through her oversized, bubblegum purse for a couple of nickels.  

He hadn’t even wanted to get a job—staying on top of school, protecting the town from ghosts, and keeping his secret identity from everyone in his life was enough of a struggle, nevermind trying to fit his weekend sentences at Hattie’s Hardware into the mix. But turns out if you break your phone (in a ghost fight), lose a couple of backpacks (after dumping them in an alley so you can go stop a bank robbery), mysteriously misplace articles of clothing (AKA, throw them away because ectoplasm apparently doesn’t come out in the wash), or otherwise ask your parents to replace your crap enough times without a decent explanation, they’ll stop paying for it.

So, as much as he’d love to not be watching stacks of nickels, pennies, and dimes grow on his counter—the bottle-blonde slapping each coin down with a decisive clack before thrusting her arm back into the depths of her bag—he really can’t get fired. Not only does he desperately need a new pair of shoes after stepping in a suspicious puddle Cujo left behind (please just let it have been radioactive drool), but he has to prove to his parents that he’s responsible, even if he’s going through a bit of a “destructive phase” with his belongings.

“Eight twenty-two!” the woman declares proudly, hiking her purse up onto her shoulder and beaming down at the skyscraper diorama of coins piled up on his counter. “I told you I had change.” 

“Yes. You did,” Danny says with a defeated breath, scooping the first stack of nickels into his hand, and spreading them out across his palm. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

“It’s eight twenty-two. Trust me.” 

“Sorry, policy. I have to double check,” Danny says with his best apologetic grimace before turning his gaze back down to the coins in his hand. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

“Well, that’s kind of unfair, don’t you think? Isn’t the customer always right?” 

“Right, of course.” 

Twenty, twenty-five, thirty…     

“This is a bad look. It makes it feel like you don’t trust your clientele.” 

Danny gives a half-hearted shrug, not lifting his eyes from the coins. “Sorry. Not my policy.” 

Thirty-five, forty, forty-five…

“Well, I never.” 

Danny makes the mistake of looking up as the woman tsks, gripping the strap of her bag and giving him a scandalized glower.

“Sorry,” he says again, shoulders slumping as he lets out a sigh, his gaze falling back to the mess of nickels in his hand.

Five, ten, fifteen…

***

Danny’s fellow cashier heads up for their lunch during the mid-afternoon lull, leaving Danny up front alone, standing at his till, pretending to be busy in case Hattie wanders past. He types random SKU numbers into the computer to see if it’ll bring up anything, he flips through the binder of faded lumber codes, he sprays his counter down with a bottle of something that smells like death and wipes it away with paper towels that come away gray with grime, he sorts the air fresheners that hang on a display beside his counter. And after all that is done, he’s managed to kill about seven minutes. 

It’s almost a relief when a customer finally wanders up to his till. Almost. 

The man wordlessly plops a length of cord, a roll of duct tape, and a box of garbage bags down on the counter—doesn’t even bother to glance up at Danny, just rolls up the cuff of his dark suit jacket and checks his watch as though the point five seconds he’s been waiting is already too long. 

Danny manages to plaster on his best customer-service smile, hoping his eyes don’t give away the “not this asshole again”  that he’s thinking. 

Nearly once a week, buddy here shows up—way overdressed, with his smarmy ponytail and his suit—acts put out that he has to breathe the same air as the rest of Amity Park’s peons, then proceeds to purchase some of the sketchiest shit Hattie’s Hardware has to offer. Danny’s always left wondering if he should be calling the police instead of ringing up the serial killer’s checklist of supplies on his counter.

But, honestly, he does not get paid enough to keep tabs on Hannibal Lector over there, so he lets it slide. 

“Find everything you were looking for today?” Danny asks as he tips the garbage bags on their side and scans the code on the bottom with a beep.

The man gives the vaguest grunt of acknowledgement, and just before his sleeve falls back in place over the face of his Rolex, Danny notices the fresh scratches marking the man’s pale forearm. 

His brow furrows, but instead of prying, he just plucks up the duct tape and cracks a friendly joke as he twists the roll to find the barcode. “Already got the shovel and axe at home, hunh? Good for you.”

The beep is the only thing to split the silence, and when Danny glances up, it’s to find the man’s dark gaze pinned on him, lips pursed on a thin line. He is very much not laughing.

“Just ah—a joke.” Danny blanches as he gestures weakly at the items on the counter. “Because uhm. You know. If you had a shovel and axe, this would look kind of like you were, ah…”

“I get it,” the man answers frostily.

“Okay,” Danny answers, chastened as he drops his head and picks up the rope. 

Immediately, he can tell Sketchy McBillionaire completely ignored the sign in the hardware aisle asking customers to get an employee’s assistance with the custom lengths of cord—there’s absolutely no SKU or length written anywhere, but Danny makes a show of turning the rope in his hand anyway. 

“Shoot. It looks like your label must have fallen off?” he says, doing his very best not to sound too accusatory, just in case the guy really isn’t above murder. 

“I’m sorry?” the man asks pointedly, brow arching, and it is so very clearly not an apology. 

“Uhm. Well. Since you grabbed a custom length of rope instead of a pre-measured spool, there should be a tag on here somewhere. I need that to ring you up,” Danny tries, gesturing uselessly at the cord.

“Are you serious?” the man asks, teeth gritting. “This is just what I need right now.” 

“I can, uh, page someone from hardware to get us the number?” 

“No need. I’ll go get a pre-measure spool.” The words drip with derision, as if this is somehow Danny’s fault, as the man snaps up the rope and twists on his heel. 

“Actually—” Danny cuts in, withering under the man’s icy gaze as he snaps his head back around. Sheepishly, he continues, “Once the length has been cut, we can’t really keep it…” 

The man’s shoulders heave with a deep breath, his grip curling tight around the cord between his fingers.

“Fine,” he snaps, tossing the looped rope back onto the counter with a thud. “But make it quick. I’ve already been significantly delayed today.” 

Danny gives a curt nod, picking up the receiver beside his register and paging for a hardware employee, his crackly, amplified voice sounding weak as it reverberates through the store. Which is so stupid. He’s a literal superhero—can punch a ghost three ways into next Thursday—so why is he cowed by some guy strutting around the hardware store in a suit?

Maybe because he knows punching this dude isn't an option unless he wants to get fired.

Ugh, why do bad things always happen to him?

Danny tries to play nice—determining not to piss the guy off or lose his job—and schools his features into an affable smile. 

“It’ll just be a couple minutes,” he says.

The man gives a tight “hmmm,” crossing his arms over his chest, brows dropped low over cold blue eyes.

As the silence stretches between them, Danny awkwardly drumming his fingers against the metal till top, the urge to claw out of his skin grows unbearable. Against all better judgment, he finally blurts, “how’s your day going so far?”

“You want to know how my day is going?” The man’s tone drips vitriol, teeth bared as he steps in closer to the till. There’s something hysteric in the twist of the words as he repeats himself. “You want to know how my day is going?”

Danny tries to backpedal, jerkily shakes his head no, but it’s too late. The man gives a laugh somewhere just left of unhinged (why does it almost sound familiar?) and is off on a tangent before Danny can stop him.  

“My day started with a very unwelcome intrusion, weeks of hard work thrown out the window because of some insolent boy and his need to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. My day found me bitter and behind schedule, interrupted at a crucial moment because someone has decided to treat my work like some blasted video game. My day”—the man’s eyes dart to the nametag on Danny’s vest, heedless of the way he’s stiffened, heart beating hard in his throat—“Daniel, has left me thwarted, again, an extension of a dismal several months in this wretched town, a string of one disappointment after another. And now I’m delayed once more, stuck waiting here with you, for someone to perform a menial task on my behalf since you can’t identify a length of rope. So tell me, boy. How do you think my day has been going?”

It’s how he spits the word boy, the cadence of the diatribe, the implication behind the words.

Danny just stares at the man, wide-eyed, any kind of response at all sticking in his throat as his palms brace against the back of the till.

It's then the employee from hardware comes bounding over, her cheery, freckled face split on a smile, oblivious to the weighted silence. “How can I help y'all?” 

“I need a price on this.” The man practically snarls the words, snatching the cord and thrusting it at Poppy or Penny or…Genevieve?

Crap. Danny has got to get better at remembering his coworkers’ names.

“O-oh,” she stammers.

“The SKU actually,” Danny manages, and her expression softens with relief—that that’s all he needs, that she doesn't have to put up with this nightmare of a man before them.

She pulls free a small notebook from a pocket in her ugly vest. Thwipping through the pages, she drops a glance to the rope in her hands, flips a little further, then reads off some digits from her hand-scrawled notes. Danny taps them in obediently as Poppy/Penny/Genevieve turns the rope forward and back. 

“Probably about twelve feet,” she guesstimates. 

“Awesome, thank you,” Danny says, the price coming up on screen as he taps in a one-two and thumbs enter.

The man has barely moved, his expression all hard, sharp, unimpressed lines as he stands back and watches them with crossed arms. Poppy/Penny/Genevieve flickers a glance in his direction, then away. 

“Noproblemhereyougotalktoyoulater,” she says, the sentence coming out in one hurried breath as she drops the cord on Danny's counter and bolts. 

With her gone, it's just Danny, the silver-haired man, and the suffocating tension between them once again. 

Danny knows he should focus on getting the purchase rung through and getting the guy out of here, but can't help the beat too long he stares at the man.

He's about the right height, the same goatee, the graying stripe parting his long hair. 

“I don’t have all day.”

“Right!” Danny starts, shifting his attention back to his till’s screen, his pulse fluttering in his chest. Could it be? “Uhm. That comes to—” 

“Yes, yes, it’ll be on credit,” the man interrupts, thrusting a black card at him. 

Danny catches the card against his chest, holds it there as he mashes the man’s total into the debit machine. Before swiping the card, he turns a glance down to the plastic in his hand, his eyes roving past the long string of numbers and the expiration date to find the raised silver lettering beneath.

Vlad Masters. 

His gaze lifts, and he finds the man—Vlad—watching him impatiently. Danny jerks his eyes away as he swipes the card, hands it back, places the printed receipt on the counter to be signed. 

Vlad huffs—doesn't say a word as he fishes a pen from his inside pocket and scrawls a quick, jagged signature.

The arch of his brow, the condescending weight of his gaze, the impatient snap of his movements...

As the man gathers up his supplies, scowling, and pushes through the exit, Danny picks up the merchant copy of the receipt left on his counter. His gaze fixes on the V. Masters on the till paper, his lips twisted on a frown. 

He doesn't know how it's possible, but he thinks that man—Vlad Masters—is his archrival. 

Which means…Plasmius is a half-ghost?

#danny phantom #dp #phan phic #danny phantom fanfic #danny fenton #vlad masters #AU #no one knows AU #sorry got carried away vamping #my hate letter to working retail

[estrophore]

Signalis Post (barely coherent thought vomit)

So I finished signalis on Monday and i think ive just about recovered enough for me to make a gush post about it on tumblr dot com, which i think i have to do cause i dont think any other game has really hit me as hard as this one. Spoilers obvs.

Being pre-transion, with that associated depression and closing off from oneself, ive always found it difficult to get out my feelings, even in private with just myself, and yet signalis has filled me throughout with its beautiful romantic melancholy and left me genuinely sobbing for the gay robot and her space girlfriend (almost worried that if id played this game on estrogen it might actually have just killed me on the spot). the only other times i can think of where i really cried were playing We Know The Devil near the beginning of the year, which really fkin hit the part of me that struggles to accept myself, and that time i rewatched the last episode of she-ra after reading the ‘Word War Etheria’ fanfic, which brings the characters so much more to life i fell for them all over again.

Signalis is a game that calls back to a lot of classic horror like resident evil and silent hill, which i havent got round to playing any of yet, but i think nostalgia works both ways sometimes and i’ll be playing them sooner now. sometimes horror gets stereotyped as all death and violence, some games fill themselves with skulls and corpses, and big ugly monsters and basically shout ‘DEATH!’ in your face repeatedly and it all just comes off as a bit garish and ridiculous and not actually very scary really. Signalis sits at the other end of that scale (with some of my other fav horror games like soma, cry of fear) where its environs are most usually just… quiet. Still. Muffled. Sad. just as often as theres tension or creeping fear because of this i find theres a strange kind of comfort too. Maybe its just that in most other genres of games theres so much of music, UI elements, pickups and interactibles with vibrant design. Here, theres room for your mind to just occupy the space. A soft fog. A dimly lit room. An empty train. Snow out a window. Liminal spaces that dont expect anything from you.

Signalis is a game thats just simply, unapologetically gay, and i dont think i would have been quite so invested in Elster and Ariane’s relationship if they were a straight couple. Its why representation is important, if art’s way for us to explore our emotions then its important to have media that we can relate to. Even Adler’s role isnt typically masculine. Our replika characters are manufactured, designed for certain roles in the base. Notes from the tough Stars and Storchs in the shooting range, the dollish Eules with the fairy lights and music player in the dorm. I couldnt help but think of groups of Eules sat around chatting, together, and im yearning for that feeling of togetherness, of understanding a friend that closely. I somehow missed the couple in the mineshaft (next playthough, ill find you v_v ). Despite the harshness of life in the Eusan nation (especially for the gestalts) the characters in it are defined by their feelings of belonging and hope. With the obvious parallels to east germany, i think of posters of cosmonauts and space travel from the time. Propaganda, sure but also made with the genuine belief in something greater. When the events of the game take this away, well, we find the last Kolibri, whod rather lose herself than lose her [ah. Im not sure theres a word here to properly describe the relationship they embody]. Its a game defined by loneliness.

We dont lie up at night scared by some corrupted android. We arent stuck with horror at the flesh everywhere, not on its own. We lie awake thinking about Elster and Ariane’s love for each other, the horror of their decline, the futility of trying to hold on forever. Its existential horror done perfectly. It shows an ending postponed and stretched far beyond its limits, and so squarely reminds you that you do, in fact, have to die one day. You’ll break down. One day you’ll say your last words to the people you love and you wont even know you have. Ariane’s final few diaries arrive with the full force of the narrative behind it, like a spear through my heart. For the record, I got the promise ending. Im still sad. It's a game about raging desperately against an unfair ending. I might think about this game for the rest of my life. I would sincerely say its an artistic masterpiece, by the sure definition of video games as art.

I like that the story leaves a lot open and abstract. I think it makes the emotional themes takes centre stage more. And i havent had nearly enough time to sift through it and come up with my own takes, we’ll need a few more playthroughs for that. And theres so much more to say that cant go in just these few paragraphs! Signalis is a game about two girls who had to run away from everything to find someone they belonged with. The universe may be cold and bleak, but you have to try, you might just find something beautiful, even if it doesnt last forever. I think if anything, we should all have the chance to find love and happiness like that, and we shouldnt have abandon a world that doesnt work for us to do it.

#signalis #lgbt #lesbian #long ass emotional ramble post #fuck im nearly crying again #horror #liminal #signalis spoilers #elster #ariane yeong

[throughtrialbyfire]

WIP Wednesday!!

happy wip wednesday!! i've been very busy irl with school and family, but i'm so excited to see what everyones doing this week!

tagged by the lovely @thequeenofthewinter @totally-not-deacon and @skyrim-forever !! thank you so much, and as always, i love what you're all working on!!

tagging the fantastic @thana-topsy @orfeoarte @aphocryphas @dirty-bosmer @mareenavee @wispstalk @polypolymorph @wildhexe @boethiahspillowbook @gilgamish @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @umbracirrus @caliblorn and you!! the lovely writer/artist/modder reading this, i'm always here to see your wips!!

this week, since i just published chapter 15 of CotS, i wanted to jump ahead and share three small snippets. these are from chapters 22, 23, and 24 respectively. i'm sharing sections from all three of these chapters because i wanted to highlight the differences in POVs of the trio, and how the LDBs process one specific situation. i hope you enjoy!! <3

Night. Wyndrelis became acutely aware that it was night. The flicker of torches passing by the windows of the inn marked long stretches of orange along the stone walls, pawing like a cat along a rug. He could feel the claws digging in, deeper, pinprick needles of the dark surrounding the three in the small room. What were they doing last? What had they done? He closed his eyes. He wished he hadn't.

Roggvir. That's right. The execution. He jolted, making desperate attempts to keep the image of the man's corpse from his mind. He could still see the spray of blood, the spinal column severed by the axe, the way his skull lulled off the stage- Oh, gods. Wyndrelis' stomach churned. He cupped a palm over his lips and leaned forward, off the bed - bed, he was sitting on a bed - and hoped only that he would- A cold rag met his forehead, easy motions, a palm circling between his shoulder blades. He shuddered and winced and begged it all to stop, squeezing his eyes shut as the nausea passed, as something was presented to him, a scent he couldn't place wafting under his nose. He swallowed down hard. As though through water, a voice said, "you'll be fine, you need to lie on your side and breathe slowly." Emeros. He nodded and crawled up into the bed, lying down as instructed, allowing the waves of nausea to pass him by, sweeping over him. The room came back to him, piece by piece. The bed, the inn. He turned his gaze to the foot of the bed and saw Athenath, staring straight ahead, unmoving. Athenath was never not moving. The Altmer always rocked in their seat or bounced his leg or did a hundred other little things, and now, unmoving, staring to the wall. Arms folded over their middle. Soon, Emeros was guiding them to the middle of the bed. Soon, his hand brushed the Altmer's forehead, stray curls tickling their nose, making the Mer grimace. Then, he blew out the candles, and climbed into bed with the other two. Wyndrelis could feel Athenath beside him. The young Mer laid there, staring at the ceiling, watching torchlight pass through the window. Emeros on one side, Wyndrelis on the other, the Dunmer's head pounding.

----

If Emeros ever got General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak together in a room, he'd kill them both. A languid haze shone off the waters of the Sea of Ghosts. He watched it from the window of the Winking Skeever with what could only be described as mild contempt. Contempt for the silence. For the goings-on of the people down the hall, at the hearth, in the town square. The sundry moods of them in all their garish hues, impish laughter coating one, stress coating another, cloaked all in these colors of the day ahead. But in none of them, did Emeros sense grief. Roggvir's head had lolled off the stone stage, landing squarely with a wet and stone-hard plop at the foot of an Imperial soldier. This had aroused no response. Another head. Another axe. What difference, then, was made in this one? None. None at all, he concluded with a quiet scoff. So, it had meant what, nothing? A life cut with a deft swinging of a blade at orders given, same as a tree fallen to a woodsman? Sawmill machinery, this war. The warmth of a hand on his arm startled him from thought. In the reflection of the glass, he saw the face of Athenath, Wyndrelis' figure hovering close behind. The night's rest had done them all some good; Athenath's unusually rosy hue returned, and Wyndrelis seemed to have gotten his color back, for all good that observation did of a Dunmer. "You okay, Emeros?" The question arrested him, a quiet surprise settling in the Bosmers features. What good would it do to answer honestly? What would be the point? They had all seen the same thing, the same, horrific thing. They shared, too, in the suffering for it, the knowledge of their own terrible near-miss with the executioners. How ironic, then, the dragons, those dreadful bastards of Akatosh, had been the ones to save them. The bashful shuffling of Wyndrelis' fur-lined boots against the stone floors drew Emeros back from his silent thoughts, meeting Athenath's gaze. "Yes, I'm fine," he replied, shaking his head, "I'm more worried about you two."

----

Don't think about it. Athenath stood, back to the low wall blocking off the craggy cliffs, the sea, the gulls encircling the stars in their briny white wings. All through the noon, all through dinner, his mind had reverberated with the single thought. Don't think about it. Emeros, asleep, circles under his keen eyes. Wyndrelis, resting on his back, flattened out like a corpse for burial. The grey of him, the moons on his cheeks and the cold dead bloodied thing formerly known as- Don't think about it. What was it that old priest in Bravil used to say? The lilting cant of his worn voice, the cold of his shoulder, mercy was only as powerful as one let it be? He'd lost a son to the war, it was no wonder the priest held Mara in such high regard. He'd paced the chapel and prayed with the young elf, much younger then. The war. Talos outlawed, now Ulfric and his Stormcloaks- no, before this. Anvils architecture floating up raft-like on the sick and turbulent seas of Athenath's mind, the sand in his sandals and the sky high above and- Don't think about it. A deeply familiar thought over the years. The rain would wash the blood, but for now, the block remained rust-stained, saddled with the weight of it. Its stench and buzzing flies screeched of Helgen and it made Athenath wish he'd never escaped it, the nightmares prominent, the kind where they awoke with a heart-racing start, eyes jolting open only to face one or the other of his companions and what did he really know of them to find such comfort in sleeping in a shared bed and what did they know of him to trust the same and they had all nearly died and then the dragon and- The more he pushed it out, the more it came back, head pounding head race heart race no no, don't think about it don't let it come to mind even though their hands shook now and their thoughts numbed against all noise and the world blurred and they could feel it in their skin the fire and the blood and the sword in hand and don't think about it don't- "Oh." Wyndrelis' voice shook the Altmer from their thoughts. Were their eyes wide? Was their face pale? He hoped not. The pair watched one another, night shrouding all expressions, thick with silence. Wyndrelis coughed absently into a balled fist. "I suppose I'm not surprised, you weren't in bed, but I… Nevermind." The Dunmer gave a nervous chuckle, eyes darting off to the side, rims of his glasses catching the light. Athenath forced a half-laugh. "It's fine." They leaned against the stone, arms folding over their chest, fingers curled against the fabric of their sleeves. "Um… So, how're you holding up?"

#skyrim fic #skyrim #tesblr #tes v #skyrim fanfiction #tes v fanfic #skyrim fanfic #ldb #last dragonborn #ldb oc #last dragonborn ocs #oc ; wyndrelis #oc ; emeros #oc ; athenath #cycle of the serpent #my writing #bishop.txt #wip wednesday #dragonborn trio #the last dragonborn #halloween is coming up and its my fav holiday aside from valentines <3333 might write some horror content but we'll see #havent had much time to write lately so im thrilled to be able to work on this when i can!!

[five-miles-over]

Heyyy, could you please do a fic with Loki dating a shy virgin and has slightly corruption kink, the idea of ruining the reader, a bit dirty talking and loads of aftercare!!

Thank you for this request, and for your patience, @goldinheart ! I hope you like this piece.

Also, to anyone reading this, this piece was inspired a little by the song "Lover of Mine" by 5 Seconds of Summer. I've known about this song for a long time, and Loki is always one of the people this song reminds me of. Without any further ado...

Take All of Me

Warnings: SMUT, oral - female receiving, loss of virginity, dirty talking, and...some declarations of love.

Surrounded by soft candlelight, you sat in your bedroom at the foot of your bed wearing a loose white nightgown. In your hands lay a leatherbound copy of Romeo and Juliet, and in your lap rested none other than your beloved Loki, gazing up at you with fondness. Turning the page, you continued to read to him in a hushed voice.

"Come, civil night,

Thou sober-suited matron all in black,

And learn me how to lose a winning match,

Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.

Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle, till strange love grow bold,

Think true love acted simple modesty."

Blushing at the words, your fingers wandered towards Loki's raven locks, stroking them affectionately. 

"Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day in night,

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night,

Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night,

Give me my Romeo, and, when I shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun."

Loki hummed with delight. "I enjoy this part the most, even more after hearing it from you."

"Oh?" You tried to hide your face in your hand for a moment, but to no avail.

The God of Mischief rolled over and looked up with an impish grin. "The words fluster you, my dear…perhaps you know what sweet Juliet was longing for?"

You shook your head, hiding a giggle as Loki moved closer, like a predator crawling toward its prey. "She wished for night, so that Romeo may come to her bed and take her sweet maidenhead." As he cornered you against the bed, you playfully raised the book in front of your face only for Loki to push it away. Amused by your bashfulness, the God of Mischief murmured, "Don't look away from me, my sweet." 

"Loki," you giggled, closing your eyes. 

He merely pressed his lips against your eyelid and, entwining his fingers with yours, passionately kissed you. Your mouth faintly began to move against his, and your body began to melt, as if you were now fully at the mercy of his romantic spell.

Loki pressed his forehead against yours, his hot breath mingling with yours. "A simple kiss, and you've become so weak in my arms?" A soft chuckle escapes him, "I wonder…" Loki steals a kiss from you, "what will become of you when I ruin you?"

Your arms wrapped around Loki's shoulders when he kissed you again, and you could feel the warmth rushing to your cheeks. "Ruin me?"

"Yes," he replies. "Every time we kiss…ever time I hold you close to my chest, I think about your skin against mine." Loki begins to kiss his way along your jawline, eventually reaching your soft, sensitive neck. "I think about marking you with my lips, ruining your precious innocence once and for all." Loki teases, "A winning match played for thy stainless maidenheads."

Giggling, leaning to one side to give him more access to your neck while yours fingers grabbed the ends of his jet-black hairs. "Loki.."

"Let me lose myself while I ravage you, touching you in a way that no one has ever touched you before," You gasped at his lips against your skin. "Loki, I…I…" "Tell me, sweet one." He continued to kiss you, keeping you almost pinned against the foot of your bed. 

"I like this," you breathily confessed, "your kisses."

Humming with delight, his lips made their way along your neck and roamed the top of your breasts, barely concealed by your nightgown. "I want you. I want you so much, my dear." Muttering your name, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and slid his hand up your leg, exhaling with delight as his fingers caressed your inner thigh. "Let me have you…all of you, my dear."

With another gasp, you leaned against the bed. "I'm yours." You were unsure of what was to come, but the way that Loki intimately held you and kissed you, the way that he confessed his desire for you made you feel as if you were the only worthy maiden in the entire Nine Realms. The only one who could make a god mad with lust.

Loki pushed your hair back and looked into your eyes with a naughty smile. "Tonight, I'm going to hear you moan my name as you come undone in my arms, and worship that beautiful body of yours the way it was always meant to be."

He swiftly picked you up and laid you onto the bed, your hair spilling across a pillow. His fingers unlaced your nightgown so he could have a better look at your perfect breasts and your lovely torso, his lips soon replacing his fingers as he kissed along your chest and gently licked your pert nipples.

You shuddered with delight, chanting his name as if it were a dark prayer.

Loki hurriedly removed your nightgown completely, almost ripping it in the process before tossing it to the side. 

Gasping and wearing nothing but a pair of cotton panties, you tried to cover your half-nakedness with an arm and rolled over. But Loki immediately pinned you onto the bed, placing your arms above your head. "I won't let you hide your beauty away from me, my sweet pet." He lowered his lips onto yours one more time before spending what felt like hours worshipping each and every inch of your skin with kisses and soft bites. 

Closing your eyes, you whined, begging to release the pleasure building up inside of you. But just before you could feel yourself about to climax, Loki removed your panties with a swift tug, a gust of wintry air grazing against your cunt. He pressed a kiss against it, and you felt yourself come undone immediately.

And when you opened your eyes to see what Loki was doing, he was magically naked, his pale body a work of masculine perfection. Without thinking, you reached your hand to caress his broad chest, running a thumb over one of his nipples. Your breath quickened, and you swallowed, looking up to meet Loki's eyes. 

"Do you like what you see?"

A wide grin upon your face, you nodded. While his body tantalized you indeed - he was always the most handsome one you'd ever beheld in your life -  it brought you comfort to see Loki just as unclothed as you in the moment. Your arms slowly encircled his shoulders, a tentative embrace. It was as if you were both allowing yourselves to be in your most vulnerable state with each other.

"You're…handsome beyond words." You delicately placed a kiss on his chin, the way that he'd done to you before, and pressed your forehead against his. "Loki…you're trembling. Are you cold?"

"No," he simply said. "Are you?"

You nodded again and captured Loki's lips with yours.

Though he might not outrightly say it to you, Loki always rejoiced on the inside whenever you praised him. Since childhood, he wondered if he was ever good enough for many things, having always been cast aside in favor of his more overtly brash and strong brother. For a long time, he did not even feel as if he were a true Asgardian. 

But with you, so innocent with your heart upon your sleeve, showering him with affection…there was no uncertainty. You always made it so clear to him. Your loyalty was his, your affection was his, and now, your maidenhood would be his. Loki swore to himself that he would never, ever make you regret giving him those gifts.

Loki kissed his way down your body and grabbed one of your legs, brushing his lips along your soft inner thigh. "I'm going to put my tongue in you now, my dear. I want to taste your sweetness that lies between your legs…and claim it for my own." With a hungry look, he spread your legs apart and placed his tongue upon your quivering folds, licking a clean stripe. Digging his fingernails into your thigh, Loki then swirled his tongue around your clit.

You cried his name again and again in pleasure, your eyes rolling into the back. "Loki, you'll make me…" Your hips bucked without warning, and you felt Loki's tongue enter your slit, moving against your tight walls. Moaning and whimpering even more, you reached down and tugged Loki's hair. 

Immediately, the God of Mischief pulled back and began to suck on your clit. Within moments, you came undone, and Loki lavished each and every drop.

"That was wonderful," you breathed, your chest rising and falling.

Loki smirked. "I'm not finished yet."

"No, no…" You shook your head, giggling a little. "Wait." You held Loki close for a few moments, able to hear his comforting heartbeat. "I need to wait."

When you whispered to Loki that you were ready for more, Loki entered you with a single thrust, groaning with satisfaction. With one hand pushing your hair back, Loki moved his hips against yours, rolling them in a serpentine fashion. Your breasts began to bounce just a little as you moved with him. 

"You belong to me now," he growls holding you close, accelerating his pace. "I'm yours, and you're mine. Don't ever forget it." 

"I'm yours," you mewled, looking up in hopes for a kiss only for Loki to bury his face in your neck. You continue to cry his name, your shrieks growing louder and more desperate by the moment. You weren't sure if you could take the dizzying ecstasy that grew inside you as Loki's cock penetrated your cunt again and again. If one were to die, then surely this is the way to die. You raked your fingernails along Loki's smooth back, and it only made him want to move even faster. 

"I'm close,…I'm close…" Loki moaned, holding you close while he almost pounded into you. 

Just when you were almost incoherent and barely babbling, Loki sunk his teeth into your shoulder. You felt him quickly pull out, his sticky seed spilling against your inner thigh and dribbling onto the bedsheets.

"Loki…" You fell back into the bed, gasping for air. He gently kissed your lips, and then kissed the red mark he left on your shoulder. 

"Are you alright?" Loki whispered with soft smile. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head and reached up to stroke his hair.. "I…I've never felt anything like this before."

"You were so good." Loki pressed his lips against your fingertips before conjuring a warm, wet towel out of thin air. He began to gently wipe the inside of your thighs, stealing a kiss to your shoulder. 

You chuckled softly. "Loki?…What does this mean now?"

"Now?"

"After this…" you tried to ask, "what happens to you and me?"

Loki finished cleaning you up, and made the towel disappear. Then, he lay next to you, placing his arms around your waist. "Anything you wish. We could sleep…we could read another book…perhaps we could just talk. Another day, we could repeat our amorous activities."

"And in the morning? Will you leave?"

"No." Loki kissed your forehead. "I'll never give you away. You're the only thing in my life that I've gotten right, despite ever wrong I've ever done in my life. Even when we are separated by distance, I will remain loyal to you, just as you have always remained loyal to me."

You hugged him. "I love you, Loki."

"I love you as well. I always will."

After a quiet moment, you climbed under the sheets and rolled over in bed for another book. Grabbing a red, leather-bound hardcover, you placed it on your lap. Before you could open it, Loki stealthily placed his hand upon it.

"Henry the Fifth?" He asked, tracing the golden lettering on the cover that proclaimed the title.

"It's a play, but we could still read it."

"Anything for you, my love." With another forehead kiss, Loki opened the book to the first act and began to read it to you until you fell asleep against his chest. 

Tagging: @lokischambermaid , @lokiismineforever, @lokisgoodgirl, @lokiprompts21 , @lokisprettygirl22 , @holdmytesseract , @icytrickster17 , @thatdummy-girl , @cakesandtom , @turniptitaness , @winterfrostlovetriangle , @lady-rose-moon , @lokisninerealms , @muddyorbsblr , @123forgottherest

#loki #marvel loki #loki god of mischief #loki mcu smut #loki mcu #loki marvel #loki odinson #loki x y/n #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #mcu loki #loki imagine #loki imagines #loki fanfic

[yellowcry]

We don't talk about Julieta

Garish' version of 'We don't talk about Bruno'

There's only lyrical part, maybe I'll make a сhoreography/what happens on the screen later, but no promises as I don't really know how to put everything down

[Pepa:]

We don't talk about Julieta, no, no, no

We don't talk about Julieta, but

It was at Mirabel's ceremony

[Félix:]

It was your sister's ceremony

[Pepa:]

We were getting ready

And there wasn't anything wrong

[Félix:]

Nothing could be wrong

[Pepa:]

Julieta walks out with an angry face

[Félix:]

Thunder

[Pepa:]

You're telling the story or am I?

[Félix:]

I'm sorry, mi vida, go on

[Pepa:]

Julieta says, "I won't leave her, no matter what"

[Félix:]

Why had she lie to us?

[Pepa:]

In doing so she broke our hearts

[Félix:]

Abuela gets explanation

[Pepa:]

The next day we found her nowhere

[Félix:]

What a upsetting story, but anyway

[Pepa & Félix:]

We don't talk about Julieta, no, no, no

We don't talk about Julieta

[Camilo:]

Hey, I loved the sound of her planned steaming

I can never hear her muttering or mumbling

I can tell her food was always best

Hey, it's good!

It's a nice lift with a skill so valuable

Always left the village and me comfortable

Grinding with the passion that we couldn't understand

Do you understand?

[Dolores:]

Never is blaring, always in the work

Talks in a caring, and gets to the dark

Yeah, she sees your fear and knows what to do

[Pepa & Camilo:]

We don't talk about Julieta, no, no, no

[Dolores:]

No, no

[Pepa & Camilo:]

We don't talk about Julieta

[Dolores:]

We don't talk about Julieta

[Townsperson 1:]

She knew my fish would die, did nothing at all

[Ensemble:]

No, no

[Townsperson 2:]

She said I'll grow a gut, and just how she said

[Ensemble:]

No, no

[Townsperson 3:]

She didn't give me food, just look at my head

[Ensemble:]

Hey!

No, no

Your fate is sealed when Julieta's jury complete

[Luisa:]

She told me that she loves me so much

Just like a mother should love her child

She told me my strength would launch

More than my mind can imagine

[Abuela Alma:]

Óye, Mariano's on his way

[Agustin:]

She told me I won't be alone

That there won't be a capstone

That we'll be together and ever

It's like I see her now

[Luisa:]

Hey sis, can you stay out of this?

[Agústin:]

It's like I can see him now, I wish I could see her now

[Isabela:]

Um, Julieta

Yeah, about my mama

I really need to know about Julieta

Give me the truth behind it all, Julieta

[Felix:]

Mija, your boyfriend's here

[Abuela Alma & Dolores:]

Time for dinner

[Dolores:]

Never is blaring, always in the work

[Pepa:]

It was at Mirabel's ceremony

[Félix:]

It was your sister's ceremony

[Luisa:]

She told me that she loves me so much

[Dolores:]

Talks in a caring, and gets to the dark

[Pepa:]

We were getting ready and nothing was wrong

[Félix:]

Nothing could go wrong

[Luisa and Isabela:]

Just like a mother should love her child

[Dolores:]

Yes, she sees your fear

[Pepa:]

Julieta walks out with an angry face

[Luisa:]

She told me my strength would launch

[Dolores:]

Knows what to do

[Félix:]

Thunder

[Pepa:]

You're telling the story or am I?

[Félix:]

I'm sorry mi vida go on

[Luisa:]

More than my mind can imagine

[Abuela Alma:]

Óye, Mariano's on his way

[Pepa:]

Julieta says, "I won't leave her, no matter what"

[Félix and Isabela:]

Why had she lie to us?

[Dolores:]

Never is blaring, always in the workk

[Luisa:]

She told me that she loves me so much, just like a mother should love her child

[Agustin:]

She told me I won't be alone, that there won't be a capstone

[Pepa:]

In doing so, she broke our hearts

[Félix:]

Abuela gets explanation

[Dolores:]

Talks in a caring, and gets to the dark

[Agustin:]

That we'll be together and ever, and ever...

[Dolores:]

Yeah, she sees your fear and knows what to do

[Pepa:]

The next day we found her nowhere

[Félix:]

What an upsetting story

[Agustin, Luisa, Mirabel and Isabela:]

And I'm fine, and I'm fine, and I'm fine, I'm fine

[Ensemble:]

He's here

Don't talk about Julieta

[Isabela:]

Okay, what the hell does it mean?

[Ensemble:]

Not a word about Julieta

[Isabela:]

Maybe I shouldn't have brought Julieta...

#encanto #garish au #julieta madrigal #isabela madrigal #pepa madrigal #felix madrigal #dolores madrigal #camilo madrigal #luisa madrigal #agustin madrigal