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[glomcoast]

On the off chance you are still taking the smut prompt requests… Laszlo Kreizler, 49. If not, totally fine. I love your work, btw! ❤️

all work and no play

MY MASTERLIST

pairing(s): laszlo kreizler x fem!reader

summary: Laszlo can never be quite as firm with you as he wants, but oh, how he tries.

words: 2.8k

tags: explicit (18+ MINORS DNI), dubcon elements, dry humping/heavy petting, thigh riding, nipple play, slight exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, established relationship, sub!Laszlo, teasing, dirty talk, choking, coming in pants, slutty slutty victorian underwear, so slutty, Laszlo losing his mind at the sight of your shoulders, mention of spousal murder and self harm (in the context of a case laszlo is working)

taglist blog: @rosemareblogs

Laszlo doesn’t look up immediately when you enter his study. He’s accustomed to you coming in and out while he’s working, and he knows that you know, despite how absorbed he gets in his work, that he could never ignore your presence even if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

You don’t exactly do anything to catch his attention. There’s no short cough or spoken word that makes him break his focus as he stares down at the ledgers before him. You hardly do anything except pause in the doorway, just within his periphery. What makes him look up is the flash of stark white fabric against the dark wood grain of the wall. He can’t think of a reason why you would be wearing a summer dress in late autumn, or a nightgown this early in the evening.

You aren’t wearing a summer dress or a nightgown. In fact, you’re hardly wearing anything at all.

Granted, you are… covered. Mostly. His dark eyes trace the contours of your bared shoulders and the smooth curve of your calves. You’re wearing your finer lingerie, embroidered open combinations that bare little glimpses of your skin through insertion lace across the chest and the slight gap in the fabric between your legs. His mouth waters at the sight of you, his jaw flexing as he struggles to maintain his composure. You have him on a short leash, and all it takes is the slightest yank to have him on his knees. You both know it.

“Did you need something?” Laszlo asks, trying to keep his voice even and miserably failing.

A small, viper-like smile graces your face. “I just wanted to see how you were faring. You’ve been in here for quite some time, I was worried you might have fallen asleep at your post.”

You shift against the door frame, and as you move the strap of your soft linen undergarment slips off of your shoulder. Laszlo’s nostrils flare as he takes a short breath in, his eyes snapping to the pile of papers in front of him and then back to you, like he can’t decide whether he should look away or not.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asks with a bit more bite in his words than necessary.

“No.” You raise your brow at him, tilting your head as if daring him to say something else in that tone.

“Need I remind you that we are not the only people in this house,” he mumbles bitterly. “Any- anyone could see you. Stevie, Cyrus…”

“God forbid I walk about the upper floors of my own house without a corset.” You roll your eyes, swinging your head from side to side and offering him a tantalizing view of your neck twisting with the effort. “The scandal. The outrage.”

Laszlo’s cheeks are much too rosy for his words to hold any weight, but he nearly splutters as he tries to reel in his nerves. “Now is not the time for games, drágám.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s the perfect time.” You bat your eyes at him, an all-too-innocent gesture that, he has come to understand, means you’re annoyed. Bordering on livid, actually, but you are so well trained in minding your temper. “Besides, it’s only a game if two people are playing. From what I can tell, you’re all work and no play tonight.”

Laszlo wets his lips, staring down at his papers because he doesn’t trust himself to keep his composure if he continues staring at you directly. “I have entirely too much work to do this evening. Perhaps we can resume this at another time-”

He nearly chokes when you switch your weight from one foot to the other, and the gap in the fabric over your crotch flashes him a glimpse of your cunt.

You advance toward him across the office. Something about the way you walk when you aren’t hidden by so many layers of clothing- the sway of your hips, the sweep of your thighs against each other- makes him want to have you pace around his study until you wear trenches into the floor. You round his desk and perch the curve of your ass against the edge of it, crossing your legs at the ankles and looking at him attentively.

“So, tell me. What could possibly be so devastatingly important?”

“I’ve been asked to visit a patient at Bellevue Hospital,” he explains, hesitating to look anywhere except your face. “The patient is considered criminally insane. It would not be wise of me to proceed with the visit before I do further research into the matter, of course.”

Your eyes lock on the endless depths of his. “Explain.”

“The patient suffers from bouts of psychosis.” Laszlo’s voice has softened, and he glances down at the papers beside your hip, one of which you lift at the corner and stroke between two fingers, as if it’s a linen cloth. “He became hysterical one night, and during the episode he beat his wife to death, and afterwards removed his own tongue.”

“Is that all?” The sarcasm drips from your words like venom. Over the years you have become accustomed to the Doctor’s impersonal bluntness, but still it shocks you to hear of the horrors he has to face in his profession.

“So, you can see why it is important that I focus on this for tonight.”

Your eyelashes flutter, but there’s a void look in your eyes that tells him that you don’t particularly care about his work. The notion makes him restless; he reaches up a shaking hand to loosen his tie just a bit.

You take in that one small gesture, and he already knows he’s lost whatever game you’re playing. Laszlo has made the mistake of thinking he can outmaneuver you more times than he can count; he should know by now that there is no way that he can order you about or derail you once you have a goal set in mind. It’s one of the many things he loves about you, of course.

“Don’t let me distract you,” you tell him with polite detachment.

Laszlo’s eyes fall to the delicate rise and fall of your breast, and the dark outline of your nipple through the almost inconsequential insertion lace. Right.

He gives you one last perturbed look before he reaches to turn the page in the ledger in front of him, and he doesn’t know why he does it. Perhaps to see what you do about it, or perhaps to assert some sort of dominance over you, if there’s any to be had.

You stand quietly beside him long enough that he foolishly assumes that is the end of the conversation. Surely, he thinks, the subject matter of the work itself is enough to curb your impatience- but, once again, he underestimates your resolve.

You move forward and lower yourself onto his lap, your hand nudging him by the shoulder to sit back and give you room. Laszlo freezes, his left hand still clutching a sheet of paper, his right resting on the arm of the chair as you slide in beside it. Your knees on either side of his hips, the chain on his waistcoat catching on the frilly lace at your midsection.

“What are you-”

“Don’t let me distract you,” you repeat icily, stealing his breath from his lungs.

With your legs parted like this, he can smell your sex in the air, your arousal tempting him beyond the point of distraction, almost to the point of lunacy. He withers in your grip, your hands solid on his shoulders as you shift your hips to the side, and his need for you battles with his own stubborn nature as he considers tossing the paper aside and letting you do what you want with him.

But then you lower yourself flush with his thigh, and he feels your heat, wet and humid like a lecher’s kiss against the fabric of his trousers, and Laszlo smacks the paper down onto the table at the same time as you begin to move your hips.

“Please, my darling,” he breathes as he turns his face toward you, his weak hand leaving the armrest to balance on your thigh and feel the soft linen of your underwear for himself, the heat of your skin barely covered by it.

You snatch his chin in your fingers and turn his face roughly away from you, forcing him to look at his desk again, and the rancid pile of work that seems so unappealing to him now. “Don’t stop working,” you practically growl into his ear as you grind your bare cunt against his thigh, your wetness finally seeping through the fabric and touching his skin, making him shudder and strain painfully against the front of his trousers.

Laszlo swallows, trying to find a base of focus again, but there’s nothing save for you, rocking against him, each shallow breath and quiet moan passing into his ear as you turn your face toward him, just to spite him. He lifts the paper again, staring at his own writing and trying to make sense of the letters on the page, but he may as well have written it in Hieroglyphics for how well he can make out the words.

Your fingers tug on his tie, and he remains still. You pull the silk knot loose and slip it out of his collar, and he remains still.

You loosen his collar and find his neck with your teeth, and he can’t sit still.

His eyes fall shut, and there’s no reason for him to keep holding the paper if he can’t read it to begin with. The page flutters to the ground, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck and hold you against him, and you purr at the feeling of him clinging to you like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing.

“My sweet husband,” you murmur, plucking the top two buttons of his shirt open so that you can slide your hand across his warm chest. His heart pounds beneath your fingers, and you smirk. “I thought your work was so important.”

“Please, I-” Laszlo hisses through his teeth as he feels you bare down hard on his thigh, moaning into his neck at the brush of the damp silk against your core. “Please, tell me what to do.”

“You can sit still and let me finish,” you say without pause.

“May I kiss you?”

“No.”

He moans, his cock twitching as he tries desperately not to buck his hips up against your leg to gain some sort of friction. Still, he lets his open mouth ghost along the bare skin of your shoulder, following the curve that the shoulder strap had slipped over, relishing your warmth against his lips.

Your hand grips the backrest of his chair, squeaking against the leather of it as you drag yourself across his thigh, sliding just a bit further upward. Your leg just barely brushes against his hard cock, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, his hand clamping down harshly on your arm.

“I-I…” he pants, his hand shakily moving from your arm to the front of your combinations to struggle with the buttons keeping it closed across your chest. “Won’t you take this damn thing off?”

“Mm, you said I was already too indecent.”

Before you can say anything else, he loses his patience and rips through the delicate eyelet lace and buttons. You gasp as the garment droops down your arm and hangs open, displaying your chest to him.

“That was my favorite,” you snap.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he returns just as testily, and dips his head to take your breast into his mouth.

You don’t even attempt to hide the moan that you make at the touch of his tongue on your nipple and the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin. You jolt down hard against his thigh, your leg twitching against his hip. “Oh fuck, Laszlo, I’m so close…” You tighten your legs against his hips, your thigh brushing up against Laszlo’s cock again, making him groan and release your breast along with a string of saliva.

“Please, my darling,” he grunts as the near desperate jerking of your hips continues to brush you up against him. “Can I…?”

“No,” you reply quickly, and your hand comes up to brace against his throat, driving him back against the backrest of his chair. You give the tiniest little squeeze, not enough to cut off his oxygen, but enough to let him know you mean business. “You’re going to come untouched, do you understand?”

Laszlo answers with a pathetic noise in his throat that tells you he understands. A hand comes up to palm at your wet breast, despite the warning squeeze you give his throat, but you’re too far gone to care about any other punishments you might dole out when your orgasm takes you all at once. The rolling of your hips turns sloppy, your head tossed back to the ceiling as you cry Laszlo’s name, and his deep moan vibrates against the palm of your hand when a particularly hard jerk of your hips makes you brush up against him just enough.

“Come on, Doctor,” you whisper to him once you’ve caught your breath, still moving your hips though you’ve thoroughly drenched his trousers in the course of your debauchery. “Didn’t you tell me once that the brain is the most sexual organ in the body? I’m sure you could come just from the sound of my voice, if you really applied yourself.”

Laszlo whimpers, his dark eyes finding yours, pleading with you even if he refuses to beg any more with his mouth.

“Oh, is that what you want? You want me to tell you how hard I’d fuck you, if only you hadn’t tried to turn me away?” You lean forward, your breath hitting him squarely on the mouth as you move. “You want me to tell you how I would have given you my mouth, and sucked you off under the desk until you came down my throat? Or how I would have let you bend me over it and take my tight little pussy from behind?”

His eyes darken further, fingers flexing where they grip at your chest, his other hand ghosting across your hip and fumbling as you continue to torturously rock against him, too far away from his cock for him to really gain any friction besides the occasional indirect brush of your leg across his lap.

“You know, I would have even let you toss me across the desk if you had asked me nicely. I’d have played the sweet university student for you, the famous Doctor Kreizler, and let you have your way with me until I couldn’t walk straight. But you just couldn’t put the work down for me, could you?”

He pants heavily, breath almost wheezing from his mouth as his cheeks turn red from the thought. “Drágám, my love, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want.”

“You’ll do anything for me? Really?”

Laszlo whines, his words coming out so breathy that there’s almost no substance to them. “Anything, my Goddess, I swear to you, whatever you ask for you’ll have it-”

“Come.”

His hips stutter up toward your leg beneath you, and you swear his eyes nearly roll back into his skull as he gives a long, nearly obscene groan that vibrates against your palm. His hand squeezes your chest, either from instinct or because he wants to feel it, you aren’t sure, but you watch in wonder as he slumps back in his seat, disheveled and damp with sweat.

After a beat, you slowly release his throat. “That worked,” you say breathlessly, but it’s really more out of awe than anything. You didn’t think it would happen, that it could happen, but Laszlo continues to surprise you.

Laszlo stares blankly forward like he’s still trying to comprehend what just happened, his breath still stuttering a bit when he breathes too deeply inward.

“I think you’ve earned yourself a bath and a cocktail, at least.” You glance down at the ripped front of your combinations, completely unsalvageable. “I’d be mad about this if I wasn’t desperately in love with you.”

Laszlo blinks up at you finally. “Are you entirely out of your wits?”

“Yes. I have been since we met, or didn’t you know, Doctor Kreizler?” You wink at him, tugging his collar back into order. “I hope you’ll survive if I rip you away from your studies, just for tonight?”

He sighs heavily, his eyes lingering on your bare chest for a bit too long. “I believe that you already have, Schatz.”

You cradle his face in your hands, stroking your thumbs through his beard for a second before kissing him deeply. “Thank god for small favors, hm?”

[glomcoast]

stay awhile, and listen.

So I created some stuff and posted it to my account.

And someone reblogged that post.

And in their reblog, they accused me of stealing the thing I made, because I didn’t credit the original poster.

Motherfucker, I AM THE ORIGINAL POSTER. Remind me who the fuck you are, again?

My brothers and sisters in Christ. I’ve been on this hellsite longer than you’ve been able to stand up on your own. I’ve survived so many porn purges, I can’t even remember them all. You think you complain about mobile? Get in line, you sweet, summer child. I was here when boost only was a drink for old people who didn’t like ensure, blaze didn’t exist, and nickles had pictures of bumblebees on them. I’m on my second fork of Xkit, and my Tumblr Savior list has more entries on it than your entire blog. I was shitposting before you were shitting in your diapers. You’re goddamn right I post screenshots because I’ve been here long enough to know how useless the search function is, and frankly I don’t give a flying fuck what you think about that.

So don’t come at me with your personal Tumblr rules and demand I follow them. Respect your elders, you goddamn zygotes.

Thank you for your kind attention. Please sign the guestbook on your way  out.

[glomcoast]

I’m Here - Helmut Zemo/Reader

Summary: You’ve dealt with migraines forever and right now you have a really bad one. It’s all gotten to be a little too much, but at least you have someone that cares. Angst and some fluff

word count: 1.5k

Your head was killing you. It felt like your head was going to explode. There was this intense pressure just building behind your eyes and occasionally a sharp throbbing pain would strike you just above your brows. 

You were sitting on the couch with your head in your hands, squeezing your eyes shut, letting the tears fall into your palms. Maybe if you cried enough tears, the pressure in your head would go away. 

You let out a frustrated sigh. God, you wanted to scream. You’ve always gotten migraines, ever since you were a teenager. Sometimes they’d last for a few days, others for weeks. And when it wasn’t a migraine, it was headaches. Just endless, constant headaches. An ever present ache in your skull that never truly went away. You were sick of it. Nothing you have tried, no medications or diet changes ever helped. Not even meditation or acupuncture. No doctor you’ve ever been to has been able to find out why, so you just live with it.

But it is starting to wear you thin. You were exhausted. Everything ached all of the time and you were just so incredibly tired. Physically. Emotionally. It was too much and it never got better. You were pretty sure it never would and that left a gaping hole in your chest. The thought of living in pain like this for the rest of your life was harrowing. You could barely keep going as it is, how much longer would you last?

You sat up and leaned your head back against the couch, staring at the high ceilings with bleary eyes. Your body shook with a silent sob. You didn’t want anyone to hear you. Sam and Bucky were out exploring Riga, but you were left behind to watch Zemo. The Baron, of course, was skulking about somewhere in the apartment. You’d rather he not find you in such a vulnerable state, but all of the pain just suddenly overwhelmed you and you couldn’t stop it.

You don’t know how long you were staring at the ceiling, but you when you lifted your head to the sound of approaching footsteps, your cheeks felt sticky where your tears had dried. The footsteps belonged to the Baron. He approached with long confident strides wearing that god forsaken turtleneck with the stupid holsters, a glass of amber liquid in hand.

“Hey-“ he paused at the sight of you head slightly tilting to the side. “You have been crying.”

You turned your head away from his curious gaze. You could have swore you actually saw genuine worry in his eyes. You didn’t reply, instead you clenched your jaw tight and tried to swallow the reforming lump in your throat. 

“Is it your head, draga?” 

Your whole body went rigid, and you turned to face him with a frown. “How did you…?”

The corner of his lips tugged up and he gave you a small smile. Taking a few steps, the Baron came to sit beside you. He set down his glass and turned to face you, the warm hand resting gently above your knee not going unnoticed.

“In Madripoor, in the club before we met with Selby,” he began.

Ah, that’s right. You think back to that night and how desperately you wanted to be literally anywhere else. The pulsing bass and rhythmic beat of the music seemed to mimic the pounding in your head. The pain had started to get worse, growing from a rough headache into a full on migraine before they even set foot in Madripoor. Fuck. And the flashing lights? Each flash send searing sharp pains through your eyeballs. The whole time, you were plastered to Zemo’s side, arm linked with his while you pretended to be his latest fling. You mentally face-palmed. You were probably cutting the circulation from his arm from gripping it so tightly. And if you weren’t holding onto him for dear life with each wave of pain, he probably felt every flinch whenever the music would hit the right note, or someone laughed too loudly, or the lights hit your eyes just right. You thought you were better at masking the pain, guess you were wrong. 

The music, the people, even the lights would not have been so bad if it wasn’t for the fact that it was followed by a shoot out. Oh, and more shooting and an explosion the following day. You were fighting the nausea and dizziness the whole way to Riga. Not to mention the brain fog. You tried not to say anything at all, or at least very little, since Madripoor because your brain felt like mush. Thoughts and words came so slowly. You knew what you wanted to say but you just couldn’t quite grasp the right words in the right order and actually get your mouth to speak them. You’ve been in limbo, everything seemed like a blur, but you refused to say anything because there isn’t anything anyone could do. It was something you just had to live with, so you put on a brave face and just fought through the pain.

“Its just a migraine, Zemo. No big deal.”

He didn’t believe you, you could tell by the look on his face. You couldn’t stand it and suddenly your hands in your lap became the most interesting things in the world. 

“‘Just.’” He repeats back to you. “Apologies, draga, but I do not believe this migraine of yours is ‘no big deal’. You are in pain and, quite frankly, you look exhausted.” 

The hand on your knee gave you a gentle squeeze. You lifted your head once again to meet his eyes, and confirmed your earlier suspicions. His brows were furrowed and a small frown adorned his lips. But it was those eyes of his. They were filled with pity and concern. Genuine concern. A look you didn’t expect to ever grace the Baron’s beautiful face. It sent you back over the edge, and once again, the tears started pouring. 

Zemo’s concern only grew and the hand on your leg moved to gently grip your shoulder when you started to hunch over and sob. 

“Draga,” he said softly, with a light squeeze to your shoulder, just enough to draw your attention back to him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

You began to become borderline hysterical when you tried to explain to him that nothing could help and nothing ever would. Your body shook violently as you cried. You were so frustrated and angry. You just wanted the pain to go away. So, when Zemo realized that he could not calm you down with words, you hardly noticed that he simply wrapped his arms around you, pulled you onto his lap, and held you against his chest. 

You were too overwhelmed to care about what the position might like look to Sam and Bucky if they were to come back and find you two like that. You fisted your hands in his soft shirt and buried your face into the crook of his neck. You held onto him for dear life, squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as you could. You wanted to be as close to him as you could because there was just something about the warmth of his body surrounding your own. Or maybe it was the way his chest rose and fell against yours. Or the vibration in his chest as he hummed and cooed to you while trying to sooth you. Either way, whatever it was, it was soothing.

When you were finally able to calm down a bit, and sobs were no longer tearing through your body, he placed his lips upon your scalp while the now silent tears rolled down your face and wet the fabric on his shoulder. He whispered into your hair, telling you it was going to be okay, that you were going to get through this. And although the pain remained, just having Zemo so close and hearing his voice as he comforted you was enough. Maybe the pain eased up a tad, but best thing was you were able to relax and let some of the frustration slip away. 

“I’m here, draga. I’ve got you,” he squeezed you just a little tighter. “You are strong, Y/N, this will pass. You will find something that works, and if you don’t, I will be right here for you.” 

Zemo wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t lying. He would do anything for you, and it confused him to no end, because how had he grown so attached to this girl he has only just met? (Who was a friend of the Avengers, no less.) But, alas, it was true. He hated seeing you in pain and everything in his being compelled him to hold you and comfort you and make the pain go away. 

James and Sam were going to kill him. They had specifically told him they would should he lay a hand on you or even look at you the wrong way. You were like a little sister to the two men, so Zemo was certain this new relationship, whatever it turned out to be, was going to lead to some strong reactions. Zemo being Zemo, however, couldn’t help but smirk thinking about the looks on their faces when they saw you in his lap. 

[glomcoast]

in case anyone was wondering, you can summon a couple thousand crabs before losing the ability to press the crab button (because it is covered by crabs)

[glomcoast]

Not me opening my desktop tumblr just to spend 20 minutes summoning crabs and trying to post through the crab army

[glomcoast]

🦀 time for crab 🦀

today i summoned 1,743 crabs! i caught 238 💰 of them. i became friends with 5 🌼 of them.

group picture!!!

🦀🌼 🦀🌼 🦀🌼 🦀🌼 🦀🌼 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀 🦀

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[glomcoast]

For God's sake look after our people.

- Robert Falcon Scott

[glomcoast]

Blorbo from My Shows is bravely rescuing the plinko horse!

requested by anonymous

[glomcoast]

Continue✨ Keep going✨

[glomcoast]

castle // halsey

[glomcoast]

his everything - Crowley x f!reader

He looked at her like she was everything. She was the swirling wisps of a nebula. Green and blue and purple clouds of stardust breathing  in the black and star speckled vastness of space. She was the low rumble of thunder, the clouds erupting in purples and blues with the strike of faraway heat lightning on a humid summer evening. She was the peace, the gentle tranquility, of snow falling from grey skies on a silent winter morning. 

When he looked at her, he felt at peace. At home. He looked at her and the tension left his body, like a weight gently lifted from his shoulders. The world’s problems melted away as she flashed him that beautiful smile. That playful gleam in her eyes like she was always up to something. It was enough to bring him to his knees before her. Like she was a goddess. Like she was his salvation. 

He could kill a man with the snap of his fingers. Disperse a demon into nothing but dust. He has killed angels and monsters. He has stood toe to toe with the Devil himself. And yet, here he was. Absolutely smitten with simple human girl. 

She wasn’t necessarily special in any way, not in the big picture of things. She was just your average human. No special powers or abilities. Sure, she was passionate and mischievous. Snarky and sarcastic. She was kind and forgiving and compassionate. 

Oh, but she was head strong and stubborn. If she could have it her way, she’d try to take on an army of demons by herself. Hell, she’d even try to take on God himself with nothing but her fists if she could. But she was still just a human.

He was a demon. The literal King of Hell. Yet he would do anything for her. He’d kill for her. He’d set fire to heaven and hell if she asked him to. He would die for her without second thought. And she didn’t even know it. Yet. 

So there he sat in one of the bunker’s old chairs, a glass of whiskey in hand, one leg crossed over the other. He sat silently admiring her from across the room as she attempted to tell Castiel a joke, only half listening to whatever it was Dean was telling him. The corner of his lips lightly tugged up as he watched her throw her head back with a wide smile and gentle laugh when the punchline completely flew over Cas’ head. 

“Hey! Crowley!” The older Winchester snapped his fingers in front of his face, “You listening to me? We need your help.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed. Taking a slow sip from the glass in his hand, he stood up and said, “Yes, Squirrel, I heard you. You want me to drop everything for you boys. Risk my life, again, to help you get some stupid weapon for one of your silly little cases. I know the drill.”

“Well?” The younger brother said with his arms crossed, towering next to his brother. 

“Fine,” Crowley said simply.

Sam’s brows pinched in confusion., “Fine? That’s it? No deals or conditions? No I-owe-you’s that will come back to bite us in the ass?” 

Crowley shrugged. “I can’t help you boys out of the goodness of my heart?”

“No. No you cannot.” Dean narrowed his eyes at the demon, “What the hell do you want, Crowley? No bullshit, you want something. You always do.”

Crowley turned to set down his glass and looked at the boys. He hummed with a quirk of his brows as he mulled it over in his head. After a few moments, he sucked in a breath and clicked his tongue a few times. He crossed his arms, bringing one hand to rub the stubble on his jaw and chin. 

“I suppose,” he started, “there may be one thing.”

“I knew it,” Dean huffed and threw his hands in the air. 

“What the hell do you want this time, Crowley?” Sam let out a defeated sigh. 

“Don’t worry, Moose, nothing too crazy.” Crowley turned to face the girl, still preoccupied trying, and failing, to get Castiel to understand her jokes. “Y/N, love,” he said.

With a smile still on her lips, a little breathless from laughter, she turned to face the demon king and said oh so sweetly, “Yes, Crowley?”

Oh, he could have just died right then. The sound of her sweet voice, the way his named rolled off her beautiful lips. The playful sparkle in her eyes. And the way she looked at him, like he wasn’t just a demon. An enemy that isn’t quite an enemy but isn’t quite an ally either. She looked at him like he was a friend, someone worth kindness and love. 

“How would you like to go on a date with yours truly? Perhaps dinner?”

She bit her lip, and her smile grew wider. She let out a silent laugh and looked down at her hands, that gorgeous smile still adorning her lips. She lifted her head to meet his eyes. She gently shook her head at the mischief and sincerity behind his gaze. He wore a cocky smirk, eyebrow raised as he awaited an answer.

“I-,” she tried to respond before being interrupted. 

“No way. Absolutely not,” Dean took a step, placing himself between Crowley and the girl. “Not happening, Crowley.”

Next to Y/N, Cas tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. He watched the scene before him silently, perplexed.

Crowley’s smirk turned into a wicked grin. He already knew the answer to his question. “Why don’t you let her decide for herself, hm? She’s a big girl.” 

“No, Crowley. It’s not happening,” Sam reiterated, clearly oblivious to the way she was looking at the demon. 

“Oh, is that so, Moose?”

Dean nearly exploded. “Yes! You dick, she isn’t going anywhere with you and if you so much as go near her I swear I will-”

“Yes, Crowley. I’d love to go on a date with you,” she cut Dean off, still wearing that wide smile. 

Crowley met her eyes before turning to the boys with a smug face, “See, boys, Y/N made her choice. Now you get my help, and I finally get a date with this gorgeous woman. Everyone’s happy.”

Dean was furious and Sam nearly had to jump to place a hand on his chest before he attacked Crowley. If it weren’t for the obvious excitement on her face, Sam wouldn’t have held him back. Hell, he would’ve been right there with him. 

In an instant, Crowley teleported so he stood before the girl. He held out a hand, “Now. Where would you like to go, love?”

[glomcoast]

id be so pissed if i got a parking ticket in gotham like a MAN dressed up like a CLOWN is violating the geneva convention weekly fucking calendar man is out there doing god KNOWS what and ur gonna fine me for parking for 30 min in a 10 min loading zone??? fuck this im becoming parking man and never paying for parking again weeheehee you’ll never catch me batman !

[glomcoast]

libra and i will hold grudges to the day i die. not really sure about revenge but im not opposed to seeing someone that wronged me have a really really bad day. im all about karma

reblog with your astrological sign and how you feel about grudges/revenge im trying to see something

[glomcoast]

why is my teacher roleplaying with me in a formal email

[glomcoast]

god i can’t believe i wrote this?? and its good?? this was literally six plus years ago??? 

Graceful (Victor Zsasz x Reader)

Imagine Zsasz admiring you at one of Penguin’s parties.

A/N: This is my first x Reader and I’ve never posted any of my woks before, so I hope you enjoy!

He was leaning against the wall in a dimly lit corner, scanning the room for threats. These parties were all the same: boring. Occasionally someone would make a scene, insult the boss or what-not, and Victor would get to have a little fun. However, that usually wasn’t the case. 

So here he stood, watching petty people get drunk in their finery all the while thinking they’re the most important people to ever live. Cobblepot loved to flaunt his power and wealth, and these small, insignificant people soaked it right up, feeding the crime lord’s ego. 

Scanning the endless sea of people, his eyes landed on a peculiar sight. You.

You were intriguing to say the least. He continued to watch you, following you around the room with his eyes. You were classy and graceful, a vision of elegance and poise. Unlike the other attendees, you looked as if everything came naturally. Whilst everyone else wore their fanciest clothes, most of which looked like old window curtains if you asked him, and plastered on their fake jewels and makeup, you looked like royalty. You most definitely stuck out in the crowd.

He watched you smile and laugh at someone’s joke, and for some unknown reason, his heart fluttered in his chest. Maybe it was the way the corner of your eyes scrunched up or the glint in your eye. Maybe it was the way you moved so fluid and graceful. Every move you made seemed precise and calculated. Maybe you were a dancer? You were the essence of beauty, that he knew. And he hadn’t even met you yet!

He wondered who you were, what a girl like you was doing at one of the Penguin’s parties. He continued to admire you, from a distance of course, and continued to wonder.

[glomcoast]

Slashy kitty party!

Commissioned by a good friend @labellecorbellesansmerci !❤️

[glomcoast]

Feelings