#apologies for the formatting

[worryswipe]

Panel 1: SANS SANS

Panel 2: SANS WAKE UP

Panel 3: *Papyrus*- DO YOU KNOW THE DATE BROTHER?

Panel 4: *Sans*- I dunno. is it let sans sleep in day?

*Papyrus*- .....WHAT NO

Panel 5: Welp it has to be someday

Panel 6: and that day is today. Night bro

Panel 7: SANS YOU FUCKING LAZYBONES

Panel 8: *Sans*- What

Panel 9: *Papyrus* NOTICE THE FUCKING DATE NOW SANS?

Panel 10: *Papyrus swearing in the background*

*Sans*- throw this world into the sun and let it BURN

[felikatze]

URGH. Emmerich Holyblade and I just went to The Ceremony to receive our RPG Job Titles, and he OBVIOUSLY got Chosen Hero Sword Saint. So now he's gonna set out to kill the Demon Lord of Darkness.

Me? I just got Dark Mage. Honestly, it's pretty rare, but the job opportunities are also limited. You either get into covert assassination or dungeon raiding.

God, just because we're the only two kids in The Village, Emmerich Holyblade automatically assumes this makes us friends. He doesn't even realize I hate him and his stupid smug swordsman ass.

URGGHHHH he just asked me to join his Grand Hero's Party. fuck. I can't just say no if the Grand Holy King himself is gonna payroll us to do this shit. Whatever man. Let's rock till the Demon Lord of Darkness is dead, and then I can retire and never see Emmerich Holyblade again.

[samglyph]

It’s really quite simple, Artie.

Commissions & Tip Jar

[demonicseries]

We got a category 4 tumblr event today

[torchstelechos]

[Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations.]

[graementality]

there's a flicker of harmonia within those dead eyes

[b33zlebubz]

six months | simon riley

you accidentally ask your ex for a ride home after six months no-contact tags: vomit, themes of ptsd and depression for both characters, alcohol, angst, fluff, soft simon

It’s raining.

Your hair pulls on the concrete whenever you adjust uselessly, tugging at the bottom of your dress so that you could sit on the ground in a way that won’t leave bruises you won’t remember.  Balance clumsy as you sink against the stone and press your face against the soothing coolness of the bricks.  Listen to the music that still pulses inside and try to imagine what your friends are doing, dancing and drinking.

Your phone slips onto your lap, the blue light obscenely bright against the dim, dingy alleyway and incandescent street lights.  A text conversation pulled up and untouched for months suddenly dinging with updates.  You barely realize you texted him to pick you up until you get a response to your drunken gibberish, short and sweet.  Three little letters that bring more relief than you’ll ever admit.

Omw.

You’re surprised he’s able to read what you sent.  You sure as hell can’t, from the combined effort of the rain and the dumbness of your fingers.  And maybe some part of you would be fond of the fact that he had replied so fast, kept your number unblocked.  Hadn’t just ignored it like he probably should have.  Hadn’t discarded you completely.

Six months.  Six months since he said he’d never marry, six months since you left.  Time went by faster when you weren’t staring at your phone callender aching for his return.  Waiting by the front door of your shared apartment like an anxious puppy when he was late to return, as usual.

Maybe it was muscle memory, tapping his contact.  Maybe it was subconscious.  Either way, you couldn’t go back on it now.

You hear it before you see it.  That same old sleek, black car rolling around the block and stopping some ways in front of you.  There’s a headache blooming in your skull and your hair is slick against your face whenever you open your eyes to the sound of boots.  

He’s there, in front of you.  Kneeling down in dark jeans and a darker T-shirt.  More tattoos up his arm than you remember.  A fresh, diamond-shaped one—stark against the faded sleeve of his forearm.  A more sober you would have at least pretended not to stare, not to rake your eyes up lean muscle and tall stature to the permanently tired, grey-ish eyes of Simon Riley.

“You’re a mess,”  He grunts, and his velvet, smokey accent really shouldn’t make your chest warm over as much as it does.  Unearth memories and feelings you thought you packed away with the rest of your belongings whenever you moved out of his flat.  

You huff, glance away.  “Mess is an understatement.”

“You alright?”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching a dumb hand up to rub at your face.  You’re not.  You’re really not; not with him finally within arms reach.  Not when nausea claws distantly in your throat and your brain feels like it's been knocked loose in your skull.  But, as always, you lie.

“Yeah,”  you breathe, and your voice is hoarse from yelling and singing.  You curse yourself for drinking so much.  Curse yourself even more for asking him to come pick you up; you wanted this interaction to be something else.  Coffee, maybe, or a few drinks at the bar.  Talking.  Reminiscing.  Discussing what led you to split in the first place; his job and your loneliness.  Not getting baby-sat because you partied too hard and your ride got too drunk.

“Why’d you come?”  You mutter, voice hoarse and slurred, and even to you it sounds pitiful.

He huffs in response.  Quiet.  Barely a breath and a twitch of his lips, but it still happens.  Maskless, eyeblack still stained around his exhausted eyes.  Stuck to his blond eyelashes and caught in his brow.  He must have just gotten home from whatever he’s been up to the past few months, you probably don’t want to know.  It might make you want to stick around more than you should.  Make sure he’s alright.  That he’s eating and sleeping.  You’re probably the only one alive that knows he struggles, coming home and adjusting back to civilian life.

Simon reaches out, warm hand tenderly holding the side of your face and wiping away runny mascara.

“Because you called,”  he says, genuine.  Without an ounce of the annoyance you somehow expected, although he’s never once been annoyed before.  “Can you stand?”

You swallow again,  “probably not.”

He shifts.  You watch as he shuffles closer, snaking a large hand under your knees and the other around your back.  Lifting you with no visible effort other than a stifled grunt, tucking you close to his chest.  Careful not to jostle you too much as the movement makes you dizzy and you clutch hard at his bicep.  Hide your face in his collar and shut your eyes tight as your head swims.  Try to focus on the pulse between his ribs. His shirt smells like cigarettes and old leather, something distinctly him.

“Your heartbeat is fast,”  you breathe.

Simon's boots splash against the puddles on the street.

“Mm,”  he hums, adjusts his hold on you.  “A little.”

“Why?”

He pulls the door open with a finger and sets you down carefully in the passenger seat.  Gets you situated.  Something about it shoots a distant memory through your brain; wrangling a wet German Shepherd into your old car.  Thunder rumbling across the sky.  Driving home with a very relieved Simon in the backseat, curled up and rain-soaked with the dog he thought he lost forever.  

That was the first time you met.  Spotting him dejectedly along the side of the M62 motorway, leash in hand.  Trying to find his dog Riley who had jumped from his car in the midst of the worst rainstorm you’ve seen in years.

“‘Was worried,”  he confesses, low and sincere.  “Reckon you’d have to be real desperate to ask my sorry ass to get you.  Thought I'd have to beat someone up."

Hurt wells, hot and upset, through your chest.  Makes you clutch his shirt a little tighter as he gets to his car, even if he did intend for it to be a lighthearted joke.

“I’m sorry,”  it’s genuine.  You don’t exactly know if you’re apologizing for not staying in touch, the argument before he left, or bothering him in the first place. Either way, the apology is genuine.

He smiles.  Warm, tired, sad.  Much like he would whenever you’d drop him off at the airport or when he’d climb into bed after his return: sore, exhausted, and apologizing.  Something you like to think is reserved for you, although you know might be wishful thinking.

“S’alright, love.”

The drive itself is quiet.  You press your face to the cool of the window and let your eyes shut.  You’re still shivering from the rain despite Simon cranking the heat up.  A part of you is glad for it, it gives you something to zero in on.  Keeps you from vomiting in his car as you listen to the rain tap against the windows.  Watch the city lights come and go as he navigates traffic carefully.

“Where to?”  He rumbles.

“Same flat,”  you slur.  “The one on 8th.”

He sends a glance your way.  You meant to leave the city after you left but with money so tight you haven’t had enough time to go looking, so you moved back into the apartment complex you inhabited before the both of you got together.  Easy, cheap.  Sketchy neighborhood but close to work.  Small, but you never needed a whole lot of space, anyway.

He doesn’t comment on it.  Just flicks the turn signal on and takes you home.  You’re a little grateful.

Simon carries you inside.  Still avoids that one stair that is higher than all the others.  Still ducking his head down just a little under that one doorway he hit his head on once.  Water drips from his clothes and taps against dusty linoleum floors, boots squeaking as he sets you down carefully outside your door.

By the time your shoes hit the floor again, it seems to contort and dip underneath you.  Your heartbeat pulses in your ears and hands shake as you fumble for your keys.  Swaying as you clumsily press them into the knob and turn.

“Hm,”  Simon huffs, blinking at the familiar, dark, empty living room around him.  “Looks exactly the same.”

You barely register his comment before the lump in your throat grows unbearable, barely hearing what he says.  Stumble across the room to the bathroom just in time to collapse by the toilet and retch a night of drinking, painfully, into the bowl.  It hurts.  The kind of vomit that only happens when you go too long without eating before having a drink.  The kind of sick that carries a thick kind of shame with it—a kind of oh no, I’m getting bad again.

Simon's at your side in an instant, a roll of paper towels under one arm and a glass of water in the other.

“Bloody hell, easy,”  comes his voice as he wipes at your face, fuzzy and distant behind the headache that pounds in your skull.  You breathe and it burns down your irritated throat as you lean your head against the porcelain. Let him fuss over you as you recover.

“Fuck,”  you curse yourself as the sobriety of throwing up brings with it a massive wave of clarity.  You run a shaky hand over your eyes, swallow thickly.  “I’m sorry, Simon, I—”

“It’s fine."

“I shouldn’t have texted you,”  you continue, voice cracking as you grimace.  “Should’ve just walked home or Ubered or something.”

He sighs,  “love—”

“I’m a fucking mess and I really didn’t want to—”

“Stop,”  Simon finally says, stern but never mean.  You shut your mouth tearfully.  Look up at him with that look that he knows all-to-well by now; from date nights he had to miss to disappearances without goodbyes.  Nights you needed him to stay but he couldn’t because the job needed him more.  When he shot down your suggestion of getting married because he didn’t want you in harm’s way should anything happen to him.

He wasn’t mad when you got tired of it, when you broke the news that you were packing up and leaving.  Left his flat jarringly empty and made his life outside of the Task Force a lot quieter.  A mediocre partner at best, really; he should’ve expected it.  Too tired to do much and too messed up to love you like you deserved.

He wasn’t about to leave you hanging here, too.  Wouldn’t.  Couldn’t.

“I’d rather me pick you up than some creepy bloke,”  he tells you, tone almost somber.  He runs a warm hand comfortingly over where your dress exposes your back.  “You’ve sat beside me while I puked too many times.  ‘Bout time I returned the favor.”

That gets a weak scoff out of you.  A twitch of your mouth just barely visible through the dark of the bathroom.

“This feels a little more pathetic, though,”  you breathe.  “At least you can hold your alcohol.”

“At least you made it home,”  he smiles.  “I wouldn’t have moved.  ‘Woulda spent the night sleeping against that building, most likely.”

You chuckle a little at the thought and he shifts, taking you into his arms again.

“You gonna get sick again?”

“No,”  you breathe, eyes drooping.  You swallow and it tastes like bile, but the tightness in your throat is gone.  “M’good now.”

He hums, but you barely hear it.  Letting the world fade into black just as he carries you down the hall.

You don’t remember much else.

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in bed.  Warm, golden sunlight settles in through the cracks in your blinds and irritates your eyes.  He somehow got you out of your dress last night and into one of the large T-shirts you’re always wearing to bed, wiped off most of the makeup on your face so that only stubborn mascara dots your pillow when you turn over.  Tucked you into all the blankets he could to ward off the worst of the rain's chill. It's the most care anyone has shown you in a while.

There’s water on the nightstand, your tumbler damp with condensation. Two red ibuprofen pills next to it.  In front of your messy side table, on the floor, is Simon.  Blond head perched up on an extra pillow, softly snoring away as he sleeps on his stomach.  Fresh tattoo on display thrown over a light blanket from your couch.  

For a moment, you blink at it.  Confused by the jarring difference in it compared to his others; all dogtags and fire and death.  A diamond with a landscape of a rainy highway inside, a road sign the main focus. A breath fills your lungs as you realize, then, what it is.

M62.

You stare at it for longer than you’ll ever admit.

[peaceinsilence]

《Pair: Quinn Hughes x fem!Reader

*no mention of y/n*

Warnings: 18+, dark Quinn, alcohol consumption, age gap, obsession, cursing, controlling, angsty Quinn, eludes to dominant/submissive kink, potential kidnapping, slow burn

Synopsis: It's monthly game night with your friend group. It's Quinn's turn to host. Upon arriving early and being the only guest, Quinn can't help but let it slip what his true intentions were for you on his game night.》

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Knocking twice on Quinn's massive, oak door, I take a step back in giddy anticipation. I was vibrating with excitement, more than ready to unwind after a long work day with my friends and Quinn.

One Saturday out of the month, you all planned in the group chat who was hosting for that month and what games were to be played, what we were eating and drinking, etc. It was a big deal as we were all so busy with our lives now, but it was still important we maintained our friendships.

This Saturday game night, Quinn was hosting.

》

The front door creaks open, and I flash Quinn a dimpled, half smile.

"Well, hellooo, Captain, how's it -"

"Why are you here today?" Quinn groans, taking in the sight of you, bouncing on his doorstep like an energized bunny.

Frowning at his lack of response to my arrival, I glance down at my watch, noting the current time and date. It was 5:00 pm, Saturday.

"Um... w-was it not for 5:00 pm?"

"Check the group chat again, sweetheart."

Quinn leans his body against his door frame, hands snug in his denim pockets as he studies me with a slight look of annoyance, mixed with heavy amusement.

Yup, I didn't realize that Quinn had changed game night to tomorrow, 5:00 pm.

"So.... no one else is here then?"

Quinn rolls his irises and motions for me to come in and out of the brisk evening night.

"Well, no, you dummy. The rest of our friends know how to read."

"Y'know, for a host, you have a reeeal attitude towards your guest of honour," I retort, slinking off my emerald puffer onto Quinn's wooden coffee table.

I flip my hair out of my sweater and re-adjust the fit around my neckline, peeling the wool a bit further past my collarbones and off my shoulders. Much better.

Quinn stares at me, his expression one of neutrality and... of something else that I could never quite place. Typical Quinn, always dissociating.

I returned his leery gaze back and wondered what he was thinking about, or lack of.

"...well then, I think I need a drink," I mutter awkwardly, cutting the stillness that was growing between us.

Quietly making my way into Quinn's kitchen, I proceed to help myself, knowing he doesn't mind that I've made myself comfortable in his space. Reaching for a martini glass, I hum to fill the silent space, knowing that Quinn was simply observing me. Something he did often.

We were close friends on the surface, I guess. Quinn and I didn't spend much time together outside of mutual group settings. He was a few years older, usually occupied with work or at practice, and the most reserved out of our shared friend group. Not quiet per se, he just chose his words carefully and only engaged when he felt his voice or opinion or help was warranted. He was a calculated man.

"Do you have a cocktail shaker, Quinn?"

Quinn pushes himself off and away from his large, marbled island. His feet took him over to his expansive bar stand, pulling out a beautiful, copper shaker.

"What do you want? I'll make it."

Interesting.

He never once offered in the years I've known him to make me my drinks. Or a drink. In fact, I was pretty sure Quinn was put off by doing anything for me with how he teased and pushed my buttons relentlessly.

"Oh, sure. Thank you, Quinn. I'll just have a dirty martini."

Quinn simply nods his head in acknowledgment, piling out some bottles from the bottom rack of his stand.

For some reason, I found myself admiring how his supple lips pursed into a tight line, his dark eyes remaining dead, despite being laser focused on what he was doing. I was mesmerized by his swift movements.

Quinn tightly caps the shaker shut and begins to vigorously jerk it back and forth from his lower abdomen, outwards. Making sure the contents he had just dumped inside was mulling together.

I feel my face slowly start to get flush, my mind dizzy, and a perverted arousal flooding my core. I know I should stop staring at him, but the way Quinn kept twisting and jerking the shaker in one tight grip was absolutely sending me with an animalistic urge.

Quinn catches my needy gaze for a moment, somehow painfully aware of the effect he had on my crumbling psyche.

"What? Want me to go harder?"

A delicate sigh of content and a muffled whimper escape from my chest upon registering his words.

I fidget with the oversized sleeves to my sweater nervously, peeling my now shy gaze away from him.

"Quinn... " I warn, realizing he was just trying to fuck with me now. He knew exactly the influence he had over me and I was positive he was just abusing it at this point.

Quinn gives the shaker one last, painfully slow jerk before setting it back onto the counter. Instead of pouring the delicious liquid into my martini glass, I watch him tip his head back. His brunette curls, falling back with him. Quinn slowly, in a teasing manner, pours the alcohol down his throat through the spout of the cocktail shaker. W...what... I felt my brain start to short circuit.

What the hell.

"C'mere." Quinn instructs. I'm reluctant at first, unsure of what he wants from me, as he clearly can't be bothered to elaborate on his current scheming. But I oblige, too obediently.

"Open."

Quinn's calloused hands settle for a gentle grip around my chin, as he regards me with an expression of yearning and a need for... control.

"I said open. Wide."

Shyly, I have no choice but to purse my red lips, parting my mouth open for Quinn as he can't help but smile at me with a proud, fond expression.

"Aw. So obedient. But, wider. It's okay, sweetheart."

Quinn grips my jaw a bit firmer this time, as he uses his other hand to bring the copper bottle up to my lips, tilting it back painfully slow so it drains down my throat in a steady, controlled stream.

"That's it. Careful, I don't want you wasting a drop. It'll be a mess to clean, then," Quinn coo's in encouragement.

He loosens the steady grip on my jaw, noticing that I'm eagerly taking the delicious concoction on my own now. I feel some of the liquid about to dribble down my chin, but Quinn quickly catches it with his thumb.

"Good girl."

Quinn pulls the shaker away from my gaping mouth, dumping the remnants into my glass, garnishing it with 3 olives.

As the alcohol coats my stomach and a deep, buzzing sensation fills my frame, I try to push past the sudden intimacy I shared with Quinn seconds ago. Especially because he seems to think nothing of the exchange now.

"Let's watch a movie."

Quinn's sudden statement pulls me out of my clouds.

"A movie? Um... well I'll be back here tomorrow for game night, right? We can just watch something to-"

"I canceled game night tomorrow."

My brows furrow in deep confusion at what he had just said admitted.

"Y-You canceled game night? Okay... well, when are you rescheduling it then?"

I pull out my Samsung from the back of my jeans, unlocking it with my fingerprint and pulling up our shared group chat.

🎲The Weekender's🎮

《Captain 🐋: Hey, I'm down with a bad cold right now. Reschedule for next month- drinks and dinner on me. Sorry guys.》

Read by everyone-

What on earth. Quinn was not sick. At all. Why would he lie to our friends like that.

"Quinn, you are not sick."

Quinn simply shrugs his shoulders in response, that dissociative look flooding his vacant eyes again for the second time tonight.

An uneasy feeling began to creep into the pit of my gut, festering into nervousness and making me very aware of the shift in energy in the room.

"O-Okay...um, I think I'm going to h...head ho-"

"You don't want to watch a movie with me?"

Quinn's gaze dropped in disappointment, and a tinge of growing irritance quickly replacing it.

"No... not at the moment, Quinn. I-I think I'm going to go home and just relax... " I trail off hesitantly, unsure of how he was going to respond at me doubling down on my decline of his offer.

My emerald puffer was on the coffee table in front of Quinn.

Calculating my next movements, at a leisurely pace, I shuffle towards his uncertain demeanor. As I try to reach for my jacket, Quinn immediately strips it away from my possession and holds it against his torso.

"Here you go."

Quinn extends my puffer towards me, a growing smirk on his face as he motions for me to invade his space and grab it.

In my attempt to take it back, he holds it up in the air, above my head in a mocking manner.

"Don't be a child, Quinn. My car keys and wallet are in there. G-Give it back," I plead pathetically.

"Watch 1 movie with me. Then you can go."

My eyes widen at his incredulous demand.

"Actually, how about I watch 0 movies with you and you give me my jacket back, now... you know what, just forget it Quinn, I'll call an Uber and pick up my jacket some other-"

As I pull out my phone to order a ride, Quinn peels my phone from my grip and shoves it deep into his front pocket.

Speechless, I try to rack my brain on what just happened and why Quinn was acting so out of character.

"I'll drop you home, Princess."

Suddenly a rush of deep relief wafts over me as I place a hand over my pounding chest, exhaling a breath I didn't even know I was holding in.

"Jesus, Quinn. You scared the-"

"Later this week. Or maybe the week after, I'll drop you home."

What.

Quinn ignores the confusion and fear painted on me as he brings his face towards mine. He plants a tender kiss on my forehead, lightly stroking my hair in a possessive manner.

"You look like a wounded kitten, sweetheart. It's alright. I'm here to take care of you now. I'll make you all better, little one."

Quinn pulls away from me, walking towards the large alarm panel near his back door. I watch him arm the house and begin to lower all of the blinds in the living room, an impending doom seeping into my trembling body.

"Now. Be good and sit on the fucking couch like the good girl I know you are. It's our first movie night. I won't let you ruin it."

With laboured breaths, I feel my body going into a dreaded fight or flight response.

*due to my own selfish needs, there will be an unhinged part ||*

[paxbe]

new meme format just dropped:

what is drawfee pointing at? i sure hope it isn't anything nasty 👀

[kd-holloman]

MaM3

“What the hell is this?” Mike asked when Slater kicked the front door shut. 

“Don’t be rude. His name is Louis. He’s not a hostage, even if he thinks he is.” In spite of his words, Slater knew that was exactly how it looked. 

Louis was handcuffed and had the cuffs padlocked to a chain around his waist. He essentially looked like a convict, save for the lack of an orange jumpsuit. 

“Why is he handcuffed?” 

“So he doesn’t try to kill us, as he’s wont to do.” Slater shoved Louis down into a chair at the table. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless for now.” 

“For now?"  

Slater ignored him and dropped a large slice of pizza on a paper plate. He slid it in front of Louis. “There you go. Eat up. You’re going to have to do it with the cuffs on. I’m not taking them off.” 

Louis gave him an impressive dirty look. 

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[zvahlne]

[ncwhereman]

but it ain’t me it ain’t me you’re looking for

[wandaverse]

playing with fire.

— buff firefighter!wanda x college student!reader

— summary: the 5 times you meet and the 1 time wanda lights a different kind of fire

— tags: pure fluff, major horniness, implied smut

— word count: 1,252 words

1. the first time you meet is late at night when there’s a fire in your dorm.

someone down the hall sets fire to their microwave trying to heat up a burrito. deeply asleep with fatigue from the week’s intense assessments, you don’t hear the screeching alarms.

without hesitation, a chilvarous wanda arrives at the scene and kicks down your door, carrying you out bridal style. wanda’s not complaining, not with the way you sleepily nuzzle into the safety of her neck.

through your sleepy haze you wonder who the buff woman carrying you out the building is, she smells like smoked cedar with faint hints of sea salt. you decide that you like this scent and the warmth that accompanies it.

2. you next meet at a sorority party gone wrong.

your friends get the stupid idea of trying fire breathing. the only thing you end up breathing though is clouds of smoke when your sorority house almost burns down. wanda arrives in the nick of time in her blaring red truck and douses the flames.

something else ignites within you though when you meet her properly for the first time, awake and certainly alert. you take in the sight of her breathless figure after rushing to fight the flames. so this is who saved you that night in your dorm… oh.

wanda is not particularly amused at you and your friends’ irresponsible antics. you shrink under the weight of her disapproving gaze, but also can’t help but cheekily grin. wanda can’t stay upset, she has to admit you look cute with ash all over your face.

3. your paths cross again when you notice a kitten stuck in a tree while studying on your campus’ lawn.

after many futile rescue attempts, you call emergency services and once again your knight in shining armour (or rather, reflective PPE) arrives. she gallantly climbs her ladder and saves the kitten. you don’t deny enjoying the view of her sunkissed skin when she takes off her jacket to swaddle the kitten.

afterwards, wanting to prolong the encounter, wanda asks if you want to ride with her in her fire truck to drop the kitten off at the nearest vet. you excitedly accept her offer and enjoy the trip around the city. wanda secretly steals fond glances at you, looking adorable with the kitten in your lap.

4. the next time you meet is not in the face of life threatening danger, but rather danger to your self-composure.

on a regular trip to the supermarket, you pass the row of calendars and your eyes land on a familiar face on the annual westview firefighters calendar sold for charity. you can’t ignore the curiosity that compels you to take a sneaky peak at its contents.

your cheeks instantly burn red when you turn to february’s page and find your favourite firefighter scantily clad and leaving little to the imagination. standing in a shallow pool of water with flames raging around her, wanda poses with an axe slung across her shoulders, wearing only a black training bra and her firefighter pants. her buff arms and unsurprisingly toned abs are on show as she stares directly at you the camera. you fight the urge to bite your lip at her flexed muscles, her sunkissed skin, the shine of her sweat mixing with ash. you’ve never felt so taken before, you forget your bearings for a second.

that is, until you hear a familiar voice call out your name.

your ears register her presence before your eyes and you quickly shut the calendar, throwing it back on the shelf as if its touch has burned you. you ready to make an excuse until you finally look up and find the firefighter just as scantily clad as, if not more than, her outfit in the calendar’s photoshoot.

wanda approaches you, seemingly in her post-workout fit and you have to stop yourself from drooling at the sight of her sweaty and taut arms and abs, only this time in real life. god, the photo doesn’t even do her justice. wanda calls out your name again with a husky laugh and your blush profusely, realising you’ve been caught ogling her not once but twice.

5. you meet once again when you move out to an apartment near campus and decide to cook dinner for yourself.

you quickly realise that you actually have no idea how to cook when your entire kitchen ends up in flames. wanda arrives just in time and puts out the grease fire. for a second, you can’t help but question fate. it’s as if there’s only one firefighter in all of westview with the way wanda always finds her way back to you. you’re not complaining though.

she turns to you and scolds you for your carelessness, but not before checking that you’re okay and not hurt by the wild fire. your heart secretly skips a beat at the continued display of care. ever the prince charming, isn’t she?

before she leaves for the next emergency, though, she asks you out for dinner instead. unsurprisingly, you say yes.

+1. the evening of your first date arrives.

you’re lounging on the couch in your apartment watching a sitcom when you hear a knock on your window. wanda has climbed up the fire escape and asks to be let in like a lost kitten. you lift open the window with a laugh and she tells you that she’s set up a picnic under the stars on the rooftop. she escorts you back out the window and up the fire escape. you giggle adoringly at her antics.

the evening goes well as you two happily find that the spark between you wasn’t imagined and isn’t going to fizzle out anytime soon. conversation flows naturally and you enjoy the food wanda has cooked for you. she jokes that at least one of you can cook, which earns her a playful slap. but when you reach over to do so, you accidentally knock over a candle and almost burn the entire picnic blanket. the fire is quickly avoided though thanks to wanda’s quick reflexes. she gives you a humuored tsk, but you secretly revel in her display of protection.

the evening comes to an end as the city around you calms down and the stars settle in for the night. wanda escorts you down the fire escape once again and the butterflies in your stomach continue to take flight. when you reach your window, you turn to wanda and thank her for the evening, for thinking of such a lovely idea and packing such a delightful picnic. when you place a goodbye kiss on her lips though and she takes you in her arms, you quickly realise that that’s not the only thing she’s packed.

wanda pulls back and blushes sheepishly at your realisation, but it’s enough to set you off. all night you’ve been teased with the sight of her shirt lifting and showing the slightest glimpse of her abs, the tight fit of her t-shirt’s sleeve around her arms, the simple yet alluringly attractive way she runs her fingers through her hair. she’s been teasing you all night and you decide that you’ve had enough. you quickly engulf her in kisses and pull her boldly through your window.

your night rages on and as the flaming sun begins to rise, wanda pleasantly learns that there’s one particular fire that she just can’t put out.

the end.

[theanonymousninja247]

Pretty Random Turtle Thunks

Noise

Rating: Cookies and Cream (16+ plz)

Summary: Flash Fiction of 835 words.

Bay!Raph struggles to deal with overwhelm of living in a world constantly at full volume.

His latest struggle with sound is you.

pspsps @avery73 @anobodyinabog @redsrooftopprincess

I have a little something for ju big red girlies

header belonging to @firefly-graphics

Raphael always thought that he had a solid grasp on understanding what it meant to live in a world full of noise.

His entire life, his entire world for as long as he could remember, had always been a collection of cacophonies. 

From the constant racket of living beneath THE city that never slept or the never ending tumult that came from the reckless and wild life he lived, Raph had forever been surrounded by sound. 

If it wasn’t the city, or vigilant violence, any chance of possible silence was shattered by Raph’s brothers.

Leo’s tirelessly tirades, Donnie’s incessant info-dumping and Mikey’s constant chatter. 

Call him a grinch or whatever but it was always noise, noise, noise.

And if not his own brother’s, then Raph’s Achilles heel, his very own traitorous heart would betray him. The beat of heated drums that thrummed in his veins. Thoughts of inadequacy, self loathing and all over anger. At the world. At himself.

Such resonance that haunted his every step, his every thought, the entirety of his existence.

Raph, the little Atlas that he was, thought he could bear the weight of it all. His shoulders were certainly wide enough. He was strong enough. 

Ohhhh he made very sure that he was strong enough to could carry it all. Even convinced himself that he’d miss the weight of the hubbub if it was gone.

So yeah, he thought he can handle the noise of it all. 

Until you. 

Oh, until you. 

He didn’t know what it was. Just the comfortability of a safe companionship that grew over time? A stubborn seedling of fond affection that he never could seem to unroot in the protected garden of his heart? Or maybe the inevitable weakness of a spring season hinting just around the corner? 

Whatever it was, lately whenever you were near, the world went silent and you…

Well, you just…you were loud. 

Not necessarily in exact volume, though you did tend to get a bit more passionate in those moments of innocent and genuine excitement.

Those small moments that Raph treasured deep in the recesses of his heart that he would pull out like a picture to glance at on a rainy day. 

No, you were loud in the way that everything about you just started to scream for his attention. 

It wasn’t unbearable per sé, but it was heavy with a sudden weight that for the first time, Raph didn’t know how to hold. How to handle.

Your smile was a flash bang that had him reeling every time you shot it in his direction. Completely blinded by the fact something as soft and delicate could ever be graced upon such a creature as himself. 

It made his face hurt in his attempts to strangle back the ferocity of desire to smile, really smile the way he wanted to, right back at you.  With you, his heart cried out.

Your sweet scent was a siren song in a key that beckoned to him that caused his soul to ache for the mere whisper of hope, the smallest chance to have the privilege to harmonize with you. 

Your presence, just a mere brush or touch of your hand caused the constant state of drumming that was his heart to increase tempo like intense war drums. To the point he could feel it in his pounding in his finger tips as he had to physically restrain himself from unconsciously reaching out to you. 

If he ever go the chance to touch you, to hold you the way he wanted to, Raph wondered if he’d finally find the peace and quiet that he so desperately craved. 

Would all the noise go away? Or with your body in his hands, your heartbeat dancing in tandem with his, would all the volume of the world, in his head, in his heart, finally make sense?

Would all the sound come together and get lost in the symphony of you?

So that’s why he finds himself he’s sitting alone in his brooding corner. His elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, his breath heavy and labored with the weight of trying to hold the weight of…well…everything back.

Your visage branded to the back of his eyelids and your voice echoing in his memory like an unfair vision of the night. 

It made Raph feel like slamming his hands over his head and fully retreating into his shell, hoping to finding one dark corner not haunted by you, where he could get the stupid staccato of his heart back into place.

Because he couldn’t look away; he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop listening. 

And the worst part of it all, was Raphael was scared of the fact that he didn’t know if he could, or even wanted to. 

Yeah, Raph thought he could handle the noise.

But he very may well just perish at the thought of being able to one day have the privilege of pulling a sound from you.

[flowerplushie]

BEEG Homestar Cuff (^_^)

[parasocial-paradox]

Rebrand Trailer Screenplay Pitch

Throwing my proverbial prophecy-hat into the ring here in the buildup to the imminent rebrand! Considering how much fun they had with the first one, it seems pretty likely that we might get a trailer similar to the absolute cinema that was the gaming channel's revival announcement. With that in mind, i had my own stupid ideas for what this might look like, so i put a little screenplay together. Here’s what i’m squinking:

Something something. Parasocial subversion of expectations-themed "wedding", plus the wedding itself looking like it was plonked on top of the funeral set to represent parting with the past and embracing something new. There's symbolism here I swear