#( script. )

[bewitcheds]

❛ you're so bad at this game, it hurts to watch. ❜

SHE STEPS INTO THE SNARE OF HIS CHALLENGE, not blindly, but incensed by his insufferable drawl, hooked by the barb of his provocation. it was a mistake, she knew it the moment she took the controller in her hands, the foreign geometry of it unfamiliar under her fingers. a wiser woman might have sought his counsel, swallowed her pride, endured the minor disgrace of tutelage to avert the greater humiliation of failure. but that, too, would have been a surrender: an exercise in degradation masquerading as instruction. the thought of it curdles something visceral in her. she would sooner let the earth split beneath her feet than ask him for anything.

she feels maddened by his voice, her patience has been stripped, gnawed down to meagre rations. the blood in her swelters, turbulent, rising. ❛   will you shut up. shut up! some of us have better things to do than sit and play games all day.    ❜     magic unfurls from her fingertips, neither grand nor ostentatious but steady in its intent, dark in its efficacy. it threads into the circuitry, burrows into the plastic, saturates every wire & every connection with its singular decree: narumi gen will lose every game he ever plays.

❛   you do it then, since you think you’re so clever.    ❜    

[devilsparda]

❛ hey, can you lend me some money? i need to get the new bundle on fortnite. ❜ what if we were both annoying broke mfs who gave each other migraines?<3

HE HAD, IN A MOMENT OF OPTIMISM, gossamer-thin & teetering on the precipice of delusion, entertained the thought that a position of this alleged calibre might afford him the occasional indulgence. a small slice of pleasure amid the endless grind. perhaps the greasy, unrepentant comfort of a takeaway, gluttonised thoughtlessly, as one might indulge in a guilty pleasure. or the contentment of paying full price for a drink, that ephemeral illusion of solvency — one that evaporates before you can even take an abstemious sip, let alone a swill.

naturally, reality comes knocking on — or in dante’s case, knocking down — his door with an invoice, itemised & insistent. lady’s cut vanishes first like some cheap parlour trick: the sum non-negotiable, handed over with the grim efficiency of ritual, as predictable as the sunrise. the property damages follow in quick succession, subtracted with the cold precision of bureaucratic necessity, as though mere proximity to the adversities were sufficient to brand him guilty. he didn’t cause it, but who cares? what’s left barely covers rent, & the rest? it dissolves into the churn, swept away by the relentless current of diurnal obligations.

splurging, it turns out, is a luxury afforded only to those whose financial acumen does not rest upon the frail hope that their coat pockets are somehow deeper than their mounting debts. speaking of which… ❛ you’re outta luck, gen. spent it all on a new coat. custom made… can’t you tell? ❜ save for a few embellishments — talismans for his particular line of work, others, no doubt, just for ostentatious display — it is, in essence, no different from the last but dante brandishes it like his favourite weapon, ready to be worn with flair. ❛ thought you would’ve had enough of skins, seeing as your last ones came with claws. ❜

[anarkissm]

SPECTREs bear a great burden,   nihlus remembers the words; platitudes and speeches spilling over him like a cold tide, as he stared up at the galactic community's council, inaugurating him into the citadel's SPECTRE forces from their proverbial pedestals.  they are protectors of the galactic peace. both our first  and last line of defense.  the safety of the galaxy is theirs to uphold.

if there is any truth to those words, carefully pieced together like glass puzzle pieces, sharp and translucent, nihlus does not find it in the eyes of a furious, injured batarian slaver, green blood in his mouth and seeping out of his eyes; dark, shiny, mostly pupil, they stare up at him with a cultivated hate that nihlus does not care to understand.

@laesarus's commentary is dry, dark with humor, “the world ends around us everyday.”

"of course," nihlus tilts his head in an acknowledging bow; his green eyes are warm and luminous against the dark plates of his face.

the batarian hegemony maintains a sociopolitical entity of slavers and spies and aggressive propaganda campaigns; they are rarely interested in galactic peace.

it makes his job harder. he remembers that, as he lifts his pistol (and the burnt, branded skin of the hegemony's victims, the blisters around their shock collars, as nihlus helped them out of small cages). gently curls his talon over the trigger, as the mercenary begins to fear, begins to beg.

nihlus watches the bullets, bright and burning, as they burst out of the weapon and sear into his face. kills him.

nihlus has seen many, many worlds end, many lights leaving many eyes. only feels the recoil.

"but there are certain worlds that i do not mind ending."

[lunatheartist22446]

"Look! I found a fishy in my coffee today!"

(Luna holds up her coffee mug)

"I think I need to draw it first before I drink it.."

(She looks down at her non-existent mug with disappointment on her face)

[jer3miah]

cold, sender places their jacket over receiver's shoulders / hussixand

the jacket slips over his shoulders easily, warmly, as it still carries the heat and dizzying scent that typically clings to the man strolling alongside. this man who doesn't give him flowers or candy, in the very way jeremiah could've done for any other person that wasn’t his forever.    what andrés did was give him the moon and the stars;    he feels it with every single touch gliding along his skin, in promises sealed within every kiss, with declarations in the safety net of vows.    andrés has given him infinity.    is this what it’s supposed to feel like?    what he’s been waiting for this entire time?    belly and conrad, infinity has always been theirs, but maybe jeremiah's was simply unresolved. imminent, waiting. he didn't grow up knowing the man of his dreams, but he sure as hell found him later. perhaps everyone can be fortunate enough to experience a staggering love in their lifetime like this, too. softness eases the corners of his eyes as they crinkle in line with a sweet smile, the glacial piercing of jeremiah's eyes thawing the longer he gazes at andrès beside him.   

this hadn't been the plan, in fact, it was far from it. today wasn't supposed to be the day. but the weight of the ring encased in a velvet box in his pocket has only become heavier and heavier with every passing day. he had a plan, at the end of the week when they got back to cousins, he'd drop to a knee and ask this beautiful man to be his forever. but today, strolling along the shore in madrid at the glowing hours of sunset is just a good a day as any. he comes to a gradual halt as they walk, eyes briefly closing as he releases a breath he'd failed to notice he'd even been holding until his chest ached. stepping forth and turning with equal parts leisure and resolution, beck's sunshine boy takes the other's hand in his and sinks into the sand, his legs dropping his frame to a kneel. andrés’ hand is now in his, a ring having at some point been single-handedly extracted from its box now held up between forefinger and thumb.    if this is what’s meant to be his infinity, it doesn't matter where infinity begins. "marry me," that isn't what he'd planned to say either, yet tears spring into his eyes, smile blinding. "marry me, andrés. make me the happiest guy in the world."

actions speak louder than words starters, accepting. cold, sender places their jacket over receiver's shoulders.

[puriette-archived]

meow meow meow meow

mew mew mew

how could someone ever be mean to someone as cute as mwe :3c

[greatesthitz]

EXT. BUS STOP - NIGHT

A light fall of rain trickles down onto the wet concrete. Jamie sits on the bench under the awning with a large backpack at his side. He’s the only person waiting for the next bus.

There’s a puddle at the edge of the road, right where it meets the sidewalk, a few steps away from his feet. Each passing car speeds right through it, causing heavy splashes as the tires drag through.

Everything looks misty in the rain, in the dark. Almost like a dream.

Jamie’s hair is damp from the rain. His sneakers - already in a state of near decay - are visibly soaked through. He clutches onto his backpack for dear life.

The bus pulls up. The door opens.

Jamie steps onto the bus, lugging his backpack over his shoulder. He keeps his head down as he slides through the small space - avoiding other passengers, eye contact - and takes a seat in the back corner, away from others.

There’s a quiet exhale as he sits down, setting his backpack in the neighboring seat. The bus starts to move again; he stares out the window. The look on his face is just barely a smile, but the closest thing to one that we’ve ever seen on Jamie. Relief. Exhaustion. Nerves.

As the bus picks up a gradual speed, everything through the window starts to become a blur. Trees and houses all melt together into shadowy nothingness, illuminated only for a few brief seconds by streetlights and the other headlights on the road. The night is black, then white, then neon, then black again.

The bus stops again. A few more passengers board - one of them, a woman with a sleeping baby in her arms. She takes a seat a few rows ahead of Jamie.

Jamie glances up at the other passengers briefly. His smile has faded. He loops his arm through his backpack’s straps, tugs it a bit closer. He leans his head against the window, watching the night pass by him.

He breathes out hard, fogging up the glass, like it’s caught in his throat.

There’s a sudden sound, a wail - Jamie flinches, like he’s been struck. The woman a few rows ahead mutters an apology to the other passengers as she rocks the baby back and forth in her arms.

The rain’s growing heavier each passing second, rapping loud against the windows. The baby continues to whine and sob, drowning out the sounds of its mother’s failed attempts at soothing.

Jamie closes his eyes, squeezing tight, gripping his backpack even tighter.

There are no more houses or buildings in view from where he sits. That neighborhood, that old house, is now far out of sight. There is only the woods now - a murky, dark green haze that seems to swallow up everything else, even in the dark.

The sound of Jamie’s breathing becomes more rapid and the bus’s speed seems to increase with every inhale. He keeps his head tucked down and pressed firmly against the window.

Brief flashes of headlights reveal Jamie’s face, a glassy expression forming as he holds back tears. Everything is foggy now.

Car horns blare in the distance. The baby wails. The mother shushes.

Jamie, no longer in control of himself, begins to cry.

END OF EPISODE.

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

stop using chatgpt!!!! take a bronze pin and carve your questions onto an ox scapula, then toss it into the fire!!!! use the cracks to divine the gods answer!!!!

[mikimuun]

this man is about to be banned from the public library for being too stinky

[bewitcheds]

thana blows a kiss to ismahan

SHE BLINKS, WARMTH PERMEATING THE CAVITY OF HER CHEST, before she turns to one of her many undated journals, some antiquated & other’s more contemporary & polished, their spines rigid with disuse. her fingers trace the timeworn edges of the pages, flipping through the dog-eared parchment until they come to a stop. she opens it to a passage she believes hails from the late nineteenth century — the recollection of her memories are indistinct.

  ❛     read this one,     ❜     she says, voice buffered with a diaphaneity she does not ordinarily possess. ❛     it’s the first time i rode on a train. i’ve never liked them and you had to stand.    ❜     not the most riveting fragment of her troves of journals, but there’s a sudden willingness to divulge more about herself. she ponders for a moment. ❛   well, i don’t mind the ones with private compartments but i don’t need transport. i can—    ❜  

her thoughts are truncated when jinx slinks into view, his presence an encroachment she registers first in the periphery — a slow, languid trespass. her gaze narrows as he sinks into thana’s side, draping himself over them like something that belongs. he regards ismahan only briefly through a bleary glance, before surrendering himself to slumber, his breathing deep & unhurried, as if she were not there at all. her foot finds him without hesitation, the movement as absent of malice as it is of care. ❛     get out, we’re talking.   ❜

[devilsparda]

blows a kiss at dante specifically to distract him from whatever demon is about to knock him on his ass

REBELLION, IMBUED WITH A PRIMORDIAL ESSENCE, cleaves through demon sinew with an immaculate precision, slicing through the viscous, hell-bile-hot entrails of demons. in the periphery of his vision, there flits a motion: thana, already disassociated from the chaos, their figure a celestial aberration amongst the writhing remnants of the demonic horde, a macabre tableau of posthumous denial that flickers & spasms in death’s throes.

dante’s gaze lifts, instinctively tracing the arc of their retreat, and finds them ensconced above, impervious to the pandemonium unfolding below them, sequestered away on the ruins of a dilapidated balcony, the architecture itself crumbling under the weight of history's neglect. in an exaggerated movement they bring their hand to their mouth & blow a kiss at dante, a pantomime too deliberate to be genuine.

the subsequent event careens forth, unbidden, before the dubiety has the chance to settle: a demon, so mangled in its visage, lunges for his back with a routine ferocity. dante doesn’t flinch. with the cool detachment of someone long since desensitised to hell’s worst attempts, he springs backwards, a motion as fluid as it is contemptuous. he twists mid-air, a flash of scarlet & steel: an acrobat not of grace, but of ruthless utility, his coat flaring out behind him like a red flag at a bull fight. he moves with the accuracy of a seasoned rhetorician, every motion less an attack & more a brutal rebuttal. the demon crashes, its weight against the earth unremarkable in the grand scheme of things, dante strides with deliberate intent towards the fallen creature. with a fluidity, he brings a heavy combat boot down upon its skull with a sharp, satisfying crack — an auditory punctuation to the sentence of the demon’s life.

his voice cuts through the cacophony of hell’s battlefield with the dry, imperturbable cadence of a man who has long ceased to be moved by such trivialities. ❛    now, there’s something you don’t wanna dodge, how about another for good luck?    ❜ the words drift impudently from his mouth, the tip of rebellion pointing towards them, slick with sanguinary residue, its blade still gleaming with the remnants of a demon’s demise. ❛    i’ll be sure to catch it this time.    ❜

[anarkissm]

since the start of the twenty-first century, international collaborations between the u.s. government's central intelligence agency, universities and nobel-winning physicists across the world have produced the era of the green bomb: a quantum de-materializer. eco-friendly. none of the drawbacks of widespread nuclear radiation.

the science of the mechanism involves words selina has never heard of. deep space tachyons. base-particle string theory. singularity events. she is not being paid to care about the scientific and ethical nuances of standard-edition war profiteering. as far as she is concerned, amanda waller is underpaying her; the catwoman's skills and services, for the meager price of freedom. one more empty prison cell in arkham asylum for the criminally insane, one less professional kleptomaniac among its patrons.

a rogue CIA officer has been moving assets and seed capital across international waters; one billion u.s. dollars for the price of a green bomb.

@falsedking is one of four other DEVGRU operators assigned as a fireteam to the primary exfiltration mission. the rationale is simple enough: no money, no bomb.

with their supervision (she doubts they will be helpful for anything beyond canon fodder), the catwoman is assigned to steal it. from a virtually impenetrable vault. built inside a mountain in rural switzerland.

she observes the men checking and rechecking their heavy, tier-one gear with a faint furl to her lip. cold air pushes through the open hangar door, a C-130 special operations aircraft set inside its yawning space.

she stares at the large knife that erik unsheathes from a shoulder-holster. wrinkles her nose.

"we are infiltrating a secured facility, not a meat market."

[jer3miah]

i hope if everyone leaves ,  you choose to stay .

so much has been met with the inevitable fate that awaits all.   change, everything meets it at one point or another.     due to that, there are some things that he’s come to long accept, that in life one is only ever certain of two things — that everything is to ultimately change with time, and that someday, somehow, everyone dies.     the latter isn’t a musing that keeps him up at night anymore, he’s as at peace as he can be with it.     it’s been almost six years since his mom was laid to rest, they’ve all graduated, conrad’s in medical school, and although everything has transformed in numerous ways, some things weren’t permanent.     his mom’s in everything he does, she’s in the very wind, she’s in his heart and from there she’ll never leave.     there are also things that have changed for the better.     he and belly, there has been many shifts in their friendship — but she’s a change that found its way back, their friendship now stronger than ever.

his arm is slung over her shoulders as they watch the sun descend past the horizon at cousins beach, bailey digging a hole so deep in the sand that he’s half convinced she’ll reach earth’s core.     ❝     hey, no one else is gonna leave, not now at least.     definitely not conrad.     ❞     he reassures softly, that’s something that’s always come naturally to him.     caring for her, easing her worries, it’s so inherent for him.     he’s no longer riddled in discomfort by the mention of conrad and belly’s relationship.     instead, he only wishes them a lifetime of contentment.     tucking her in closer as a gust of wind rattles through them, he rests his cheek against the crown of her head.     ❝     i’m not going anywhere, belly button.     i’ll always be here for you.     ❞     without warning or summoning, bailey glances up from the depths of her sand crater, halting just before breaking out into a sprint toward them — bulldozing into belly’s legs.     ❝     and apparently so will bailey.     ❞

music for the soul sentence starters, accepting. i hope if everyone leaves, you choose to stay.

[puriette-archived]

what if i blow you up. 💥

what IF i explode you first ?!??!?! 💥💥💥

[bewitcheds]

"fuck. hey, you got a light?" a freshly rolled cigarette between their lips, kara looks up at ismahan from under their brows. their own lighter, empty by the looks of it, is tossed aside without a second thought. she doesn't look like she smokes, through if prompted, the mercenary couldn't have explained why they think that.

+ from @karving, hi jannah <3

❛  NO.   ❜ it’s out before she even rummages through her bag, before the thought can coagulate, before the muscle of hesitation can even twitch. the denial is raw, instinctual, not chosen but excreted. her lighters are all at home, meticulously placed into a drawer compartment lined up like teeth in a jaw.

she reaches into her bag anyway, skimming past the detritus at bottom of it, mostly a procession of crumpled receipts amidst her bulging pouch of cosmetics, the sediment of her daily existence. her fingers meet something smooth: a lighter, pressed against the lining of her bag, waiting.

the moment flickers & she deliberates on if she should give it to them now that she’s already provided her answer but she takes a perfunctory glance at their fingers, the flesh discoloured, seamed with nicotine’s slow rot, a residue of indulgence inscribed on skin. a sigh is expelled then, as if dredged from some subterranean reservoir of grievance. the movement that follows is neither fluid nor considered but convulsive. the lighter is wrenched from the bag’s depths. she shakes it once in their face, an offering suffused with mild contempt. ❛   here.    ❜