#but i might draw a little something about this)

[moonstruckme]

request: was thinking about that one video that’s like “my wife, she’ll get upset if she sees you touching me like that on my chest” “i am your wife” and then the heart monitor starts going crazy and that put a doctor remus idea in my head after r gets out of surgery/is on anesthesia for something or other

Thanks for requesting!

cw: hospital, mention of surgery

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 855 words

Lots of people would probably be happy to have their significant other visit them at work, but as it turns out, Remus really doesn’t like it. He’s used to seeing patients post-op, and yet somehow when it’s you it feels sad, all those tubes and wires connected to his girl. The fluorescent lighting turns your complexion wan and the wary frown on your lips as a nurse checks your vitals makes Remus’ heart feel like a bruise. 

It helps some when you notice his entry and they stretch into a dopey smile instead. 

“Hi, dove.” His voice is soft and smitten, an automatic reaction to seeing you that he’s already heard the new residents commenting on in the break room. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m okay.” You tug at the sheets on your bed. Ball them in your fists like you might be nervous. “My stomach hurts a little.” 

“That’s normal,” Remus assures you, even as his stomach dips in sympathy. He sits on the edge of your bed, taking your hand and beginning to draw tight circles into the inside of your wrist. “If it starts to hurt worse, or badly at all, you should let me know, alright?” 

“Okay.” Your voice has quieted slightly, your eyes following the motion of his thumb on your skin. You glance at the nurse as though checking if she sees. Remus feels his lips tip up bemusedly. 

“Everything alright?” he asks the nurse.

She smiles at the both of you, passing him a clipboard. “She’s stable, ready to move when you’d like.” 

“Thanks,” he says, reading over your vitals quickly after she leaves. He sets the clipboard down and gives your hand a squeeze. If your heart monitor gives a quick beep, he pretends not to notice. “You’re all set, lovely girl. We’ll get you to your own room in just a bit.” 

You nod, not seeming to hear him. You look to be gnawing on the inside of your lip. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” Remus says gently, thumbing it free. Your eyes widen, and he drops his thumb to your chin, looking you in the eyes. “Is something the matter?”

You rub your lips together hesitantly. It’s normal to have a small fever after surgery, but your face feels suspiciously warm. “I just, um, I have a boyfriend.” 

Remus feels his face split into an irrepressible grin. He’d been wondering how the anesthesia would affect you. “Yeah, dove,” he agrees, delighted, “I know you do.” 

“I don’t…” Your eyes dart to where his thumb still rests on your chin, your shoulders gravitating towards your ears. “I think it would upset him if he knew you were touching me like this.” 

Truly, this could not be any better. Remus wishes he’d brought a video camera like James wanted him to. “I am your boyfriend, sweetheart.” 

Your expression freezes in place, but your heart monitor starts beeping loudly. Your eyes dart to it, alarm and embarrassment worsening, and Remus laughs, dropping his hand from your chin in favor of rubbing your shoulder until both you and the machine calm down. 

“You?” you ask. You appear nothing short of flabbergasted. 

“Yes.” He brings your hand to his smiling lips, kissing your knuckles as if to prove it. “Why, are you surprised?” 

“You’re serious,” you check. Remus has the opportunity to make a joke here, but he worries it’d only confuse you more. 

“I am,” he says. 

“But you’re so handsome.”

Another laugh startles out of him. “And what do you think you are? Of course,” he gives your knuckles another brief peck just to see your eyes flare again, “I would love you no matter how you looked, but you’re a far cry from hideous yourself.” 

You look taken aback by this news as well. Remus is half tempted to find you a mirror. 

Then you ask, voice soft as down feathers, “You love me?” 

Something in Remus’ chest goes all warm and mushy. “I do,” he says sincerely. “I love you so much, sweetheart, sometimes I don’t know what to do with it all.” 

You smile until your eyelashes kiss, and he can’t resist cupping your face again, smoothing his thumb along the skin of your cheek. 

“So that’s why you’re here?” you ask. 

“Well,” he hesitates, “yes, but I’m also here because I work here.” 

Your eyebrows raise. Your gaze dips to his white coat as if remembering it for the first time in a while. “Oh. You’re a doctor and my boyfriend?” 

“That’s right.” He squints at you amusedly. “Did you think I just snuck in here in a white coat so I could see you?” 

“My boyfriend is a doctor.” You don’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular, perhaps just asking the universe for confirmation. 

Remus decides to get back to business. “Right again, dove. I think it’s about time we get you to your room, yeah? Anything else I can do for you, anything you need?” 

“Nope.” You lay your head back on the pillow, looking somehow more dazed than when he’d come in. “I think I’m set. Like, probably for life.”

[notherpuppet]

hazbin race talk (kinda uncomfy but said w/ love!)

When it comes to human iterations of the hazbin characters, my decision making when it comes to race is usually dependent on canon/semi-canon info and voice actors.

Many of the demons in the show can have pretty "race-blind" casting because their characters don't necessarily have racial ties to their background. There are some characters who do have clear ties to an ethnicity and/or viv has overtly stated so, such as Vaggie (Latina), Angel Dust (Italian), and Alastor (Creole). Some of these may no longer even be canon since the show started. As for their race, their skin tone is still pretty open interpretation for artists because canon reference just does not exist (yet? maybe ever?).

As for other characters, such as Husk, Niffty, Charlie, Sir Pentious, etc. I feel that those characters have a pretty ambiguous background, open to interpretation by artists who are depicting their human forms. I depict Husk as Black because I watch the American version where his voice actor is Black. I depict Niffty as Japanese (when I do draw her human form) because Niffty's voice actress is Japanese. The Hazbin pilot did not have the same voice actors as the ones for the show, and internationally, that's not the case either. And the voice actors are usually just one direction I might take, I don't hold myself to that option as a rule.

Like, idek if I would depict Sir Pentious as White because his voice actor is a White American, I may consider his British background and honestly the fact that he is dark demon into play. I think that's where "casting" the human forms can be very open to interpretation for certain characters.

I think something that is really cool about the show is that there are opportunities to cast a character as whomever. (I think of Little Mermaid 2023). There are times where a character's race is integral to their background, and other times where it is not so explicit. When it is not explicit, I think it's okay for an artist to interpret a different design. I don't think it should be assumed that it is erasure or tokenism (though I do empathize with that reaction as someone who craves certain representation).

I personally love seeing a diverse cast, so I like incorporating that in my design choices! But I don't think someone is 'wrong' for having a different interpretation of a character. It's okay to not like a direction someone may take, but I don't think that means they're wrong and if you don't like it, idk, you can always just close your eyes or scroll lol.

My two cents.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[suashii]

— 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝓌𝓁 ౨ৎ

boothill x f!reader. 2k wc. ﾉ sfw ﾉ vaguely suggestive bits ﾉ fluff ﾉ non-canon compliant ﾉ farmhand!boothill ﾉ pet names ( darlin’ + sweetheart :3 )

previous part ౨ৎ masterlist ౨ৎ next part

it’s late—you know so because the sky has turned to a deep navy. you can hear the crickets chirping through the open window, feel the cool night breeze whisper against your skin. beyond those telling signs, your eyelids are beginning to feel heavy. they’re screaming at you to close them but you know that if you do, you’ll fall asleep in a second. you can’t do that now, not when you’re on the phone giving your weekly update to your friend back home. 

“so,” her voice crackles over the line, “how are things in farmville?”

you snort at meg’s nickname for the little town you’ve come to know as a second home. as much as she pokes fun at the idea of having a ranch to run away to, she’s been supportive of your decision to retreat here for solace. she keeps you in the loop when it comes to the drama unfolding in the office and listens attentively when you tell her what you’re up to on the farm.

you have a feeling she might be offended that you didn’t tell her this bit sooner.

“fine.” you draw the word out, rolling onto your other side on the couch as if repositioning will give you enough time to stall. despite not being able to see her face, you imagine that the woman is wearing an expression that says something along the lines of i know you’re hiding something. even through the phone, she can see through you. “i might have gotten a concussion a few days ago.”

she gasps and you can hear her slap her hand over her mouth. you’re sure if she could, she’d reach through the phone and shake you by the shoulders before thinking better of it and rushing out a string of apologies. though, she can’t, so she settles on questioning you instead. “what happened? are you okay? why the hell are you just now telling me?”

you relay the series of events to her—how it happened, boothill finding you, your visit to the doctor, and boothill playing nurse since then. her worry seems to dissipate as you explain and by the time you’re done, she’s laughing.

“what are you giggling about?” you ask her, but a little part of you already knows. boothill’s name always seems to make its way into your conversations and since the start of these weekly calls, meg has held onto the belief that you’re harboring a crush on the farmhand. you brush her off every time she suggests that you like him but like a leech, the thought always latches on and lingers.

“probably hard to deny your feelings now, huh?” you can hear the smile in her voice. you pucker your lips in annoyance. you didn’t think telling her about the way boothill makes you feel would result in meg throwing it back in your face at any given moment. though, you suppose you can’t be surprised. she’s frustrated that you’ll admit those feelings to her and not him, that you won’t act on them. “he’s already taking care of you like you’re his girlfriend—how romantic!”

“it’s not romantic,” you tell her, shaking your head, “he’d do that for anyone.”

“even better!” meg squeals. the shrill sound makes you pull the phone away from your ear and you only return it to its former position when the woman lowers her voice. “if he’s like that with everyone, that means he isn’t trying to impress you. he’s just a compassionate, caring guy who happens to have a thing for you.”

you chew on your cheek as you contemplate her words. you’ve never doubted that he’s a good guy—you’ve seen too many instances of his big heart in action to think otherwise, though, the part about boothill having a “thing” for you is a bit harder to believe. sure, he’s called you pretty numerous times, unintentionally held your hands on a couple of occasions, but that means nothing, at least when it comes to whatever feelings he might have for you. you’ve convinced yourself that most of the things he does that make your heart flutter or your cheeks burn are simply to get a reaction out of you—a little embarrassment for the sake of his entertainment.

“ugh, when are you going to be brave and spill your guts to him?” meg’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“never! i’m not telling him anything.” you close your eyes and take a deep breath to ground yourself. “i don’t know how long i’ll be here and, more importantly, i have no idea if he even likes me.”

“and you’ll never find out if you keep running away.”

you’re about to tell her that you aren’t running away or avoiding anything but you press your lips together before the words can hit the air. because you have been—you can recall a number of times you have in the past and you’re even thinking about it now, leaving without coming to terms with your feelings or figuring out if boothill reciprocates them.

“i’m not—” not running away? not going to tell him? not ready to tell him? you huff out a sigh, one that’s a mixture of frustration and confusion. “not now, meg.”

“that’s fine,” she assures you, her voice soft. “i just don’t want you to regret anything.”

“i know.” you nod even though she can’t see you.

she’s right. you’ll regret it if you don’t say anything, if you go home without facing your feelings head-on. the what ifs and what could have beens will follow you there, mercilessly haunting your mind.

“it’s getting late,” you tell meg, “i think i’m going to go to bed.”

“sure,” she hums. there’s a brief pause like she wants to say more but she settles on, “good night.”

“g’night.” you pull your phone away to end the call and toss the device on the other end of the couch. you should go upstairs and get in bed like you planned to but all these thoughts so fresh in your head make you feel like falling asleep won’t come easy tonight. slumping against the arm on the couch, you let out a groan, one quiet enough to not wake your grandpa and boothill upstairs but loud enough to grant you the slightest bit of relief.

though, the sound is cut off by another. it comes from the kitchen and you sit up to peer over the back of the couch to see if you’re hearing things—you’d prefer it that way. your fantasy comes to an end when you see boothill standing at the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and closing the door once he’s finished.

he meets your gaze and shoots you a smile before uncapping the water and taking a few gulps. it’s strange seeing him at this hour; he usually sleeps early so he can wake up with the sun. you rarely ever see him wearing anything but his jeans and his top of choice but the look is traded in for pajamas now—if you can call nothing but a pair of boxers pajamas.

you gasp at the sight and turn around. he just wanders around the house half-naked? carelessly risks running into you while wearing nothing but his underwear? you might not have heard him but he certainly must have seen you stretched out on the couch or at the very least heard you talking to meg on the phone.

the call.

you quickly turn around to face him once more.

“how long have you been there?” the question comes out rushed but you’re frantic to know if he was around to hear you talking about him.

he shrugs and swallows, setting his bottle on the counter before leaning against it. “i don’t know. long enough to hear you’re having some boy troubles.”

the confession makes your heart jump into your throat. you choose not to expand on it, instead reprimanding him for eavesdropping. “it’s rude to listen in on conversations you aren’t part of.”

“my apologies.” he raises his hands in mock surrender. “i just didn’t wanna interrupt.”

you stare him down in an attempt to read his expression and the look in his eyes. his perpetual smile is in place like usual but nothing else about his countenance seems knowing. he’s either very good at hiding it or he didn’t pick up on the fact that he was the one you’re talking about.

“want some advice?” boothill speaks up, tilting his head in a question of its own.

you look at him for a second before a laugh bubbles up from your chest, permeating the air. boothill’s smile slowly falls and that’s the last you see of him before turning your back to him. it seems a little more polite to laugh at him if it isn’t in his face.

he doesn’t stay at his place in the kitchen, feet carrying him to the back of the couch. you’re still laughing when he gets there. he’s never heard you laugh like this before—not at anything he’s said or done. as captivated as he is by the sound, he’s a touch more curious as to what brought it about. a cushion in between you, he leans over the back of the couch to ask, “what’s so funny?”

“i’m sorry.” you try to clear the humor from your voice but it lingers with your explanation. you turn your head to look boothill in the eye. “it’s just—what do you know about problems of the male variety?”

“hello?” he straightens up and gestures to himself and it’s only then that you remember how…undressed he is. that’s enough to sober you up from your humor. “you’re looking at a man, sweetheart.”

you don’t need him to tell you that—you’re more than aware of that. you just meant that he doesn’t seem like the type to help people out of romantic hardships, rather, he’s the one who causes them. strangely enough, though, you consider hearing his perspective. after all, he is the subject of your “boy troubles” as boothill called them.

“so, how about it?” he rounds the couch and plops down on it beside you, leaving a safe amount of space between the two of you. you hold his gaze, light gray irises glowing like stars in the darkness of the living room. “wanna hear my opinion?”

your heart rate quickens and you can’t tell why. because he’s this close to you and practically naked? because those gray eyes are boring into you, urging you to hear him out? because his advice could be the courage you need to admit your feelings or the very deterrent to keep you from doing so? 

maybe you aren’t quite brave enough to spill your guts yet but it’s time for you to stop being so scared of the what ifs. “okay, go for it.”

that seems to be the answer boothill was looking for, if his growing smile is any evidence. he doesn’t waste any time sharing his insight. “i say throw caution to the wind, tell him how you feel. and if he doesn’t feel the same way, well then, that’s his loss. because you, darlin’, are a catch. any man would be lucky to have you.”

you know boothill isn’t one to sugarcoat his words. every word he says, he means. is that the case here, too? any man would be lucky to have you—would he feel the same if that man was him?

“i’m headin’ to bed.” he groans as he stands up, stretching his arms above his head, mouth falling open in a yawn. you watch him silently, pondering his words. he doesn’t comment on your silence, doesn’t bother to tease you about your staring. all he does is offer you a wink before telling you, “sweet dreams.”

just as quietly as he appeared, he’s gone.

you let out a shaky breath that you didn’t know you were holding. instead of following boothill’s lead and going to sleep, you rest your head on the arm of the couch and turn your eyes up to the ceiling. your heart is still beating wildly against your rib cage but it’s not bad nerves this time around, it’s anticipation.

courage it is.

thanks for reading! reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

[bubbless-s]

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆.Rain drops ₊˚.༄

Request: “Could you do slytherin boys + Pansy first time showering together?”

Masterlist

- ʚɞ genre: fluff+comedy

- ʚɞ warnings: a little suggestive

Tom Riddle

• Would put the water super cold but changes it when he sees that you’re freezing.

• Pins you on the glass door.

• Became slightly clingy after the shower?

• “Come here my darling.”

• Surprise surprises he let you wash his hair.

• Suddenly got urges to play with your ass.

• Lost his cool and asked why did it jiggle this much.

Mattheo Riddle

• Opposite of Tom he puts the water so hot that you almost fry.

• Uses all your expensive creams and products on his balls..

• Actually helps you with washing your body.

• Of course its an opportunity to touch you. Why wouldn’t he take it.

• Gets cocky and kisses your body while washing it

• Hands on your ass squeezing it as if its a stress toy.

• Without giving you love bites Mattheo isn’t Mattheo.

Theodore Nott

• Starts talking in Italian. Bro got so amazed he switched to italian dub.

• Can’t stop smirking it kinda looks stupid like a kid who just got their Christmas gift earlier.

• Singing contest with you and the shampoo bottles.

• Probably practiced his singing infront of the mirror to impress you or sum

• Kisses all over your collar bone.

• Would also help you with your hair like shampooing it and giving it a little massage.

• After the shower Theo would help you dry your hair.

Draco Malfoy

• WOULDNT let you touch his precious hair.

• Loud white girl 2016 music. (Also sings in your ear.)

• “Babe how do you not know the lyrics to señorita?”

• Hugs you from behind and lifts you up randomly.

• “Angel is the water fine for you?”

• Wants to kiss you under the shower to make if all romantic but as he was about to kiss you he um..slips.

• As a result you and Draco after the shower have a make out session. I don’t make the rules Draco does.

Lorenzo Berskshire

• Would be super duper careful and slightly shy since its the first time showering together with you.

• Kisses your whole face.

• Puts on music to ease the tension.

• After calmness comes,he scoops you up while singing some random songs he put.

• Would draw dicks the foggy glass door 😭

• Got confused why you have this much products and accidentally put shower gel on your hair thinking it was shampoo.

• “Love look Im literally Elsa.”

Blaise Zabini

• “GOD DAYUM.”

• Touches your hips and waist.

• Tons of small kisses while his hands rest on your hips for some unknown reason.

• Jokingly put the water on cold pretending something was wrong with the shower instead.

• Asks you stupid questions if you get shy.

• “Darling do you think fishes don’t know what wetness is because they always live under water?”

• Tried to snuggle up with you. (mission= unsuccessful)

Pansy Parkinson

• Is so excited to have her first shower with you.

• Would treat you like a royalty. Like she made up a new skincare routine for you in the shower.

• Queen Pansy would leave the water to your liking even tho she might not like it.

• Bought a bunch of new products to try out with you.

• “This shower gel feels nice on the skin but it doesn’t smell that good. What do you think sunshine? Do you like it?”

• If you DO like a product she will buy lots of it for you.

• Overall the showering experience with Pansy is 10/10.

[randombush3]

cool about it

alexia putellas x reader

summary: you can't find inspiration for your play

notes: this was rotting in my drafts and then i got drunk and finished it lolz

i refuse to read it back so have fun

The first time Alexia sees you, you are with your friends; sleeves rolled-up, wide smile on your face, a pool cue in your hand as you wield it like a weapon the minute one of the women beside you opens her mouth. She is drawn into observing, craving the knowledge of what you are being told; what is making you blush so furiously. She sees your mouth open, a blackhole that draws her in without mercy, and she barely survives the sound of your loud, raucous laughter

Suddenly, in the universe of football and media events and her little sister’s embarrassingly active love-life, you appear. Like a new star, burning bright, big and hot and… “You’re staring,” says Mapi with a smile. She knows not to tease, and she treads lightly. “You’ve been staring for a while.” 

“They’re speaking English.” It’s an incriminating sentence, but it would have been futile to deny Mapi’s accusation anyway. 

“I saw her at the bar. She spoke Spanish then.” 

“You’ve been stalking her.” 

Mapi nods, and holds Alexia’s drink in a silent push to get her over to the pool table. To you. “Because you’ve been staring. I was only making sure she wasn’t a psycho.” 

“Thanks,” she scoffs, but, in truth, she is grateful. 

As she saunters over (a newly regained skill, months down the line from her traumatic ACL reconstruction surgery), her confidence a believable façade, she decides that she is going to be Alexia Putellas. She is going to be cool about it, and she is going to impress you, and she is going to make you laugh so that she can hear that sound again. 

Again, again, again. 

“Yeah, sure, you can take over for Soph,” you say, nodding towards the woman who had been on the receiving end of your light prodding with the wooden stick all of friends regret allowing three-drink you to be in charge of. “So you’re spots, I’m stripes. I’ve got two left until I can pot the black, and you, er, you might be at a disadvantage here.” You rub the back of your neck as you peer at the balls on the table, almost all of them left behind by Soph’s inability to play pool. “How about we just, um–” 

“Está bien.” Alexia pretends to understand a lot more of what you said than she really does, regretting her choice to approach you in English, but she gets the jist. And, although you make her feel as though life has only just begun, she remembers her competitiveness very, very clearly. “Voy a ganar,” she scoffs. 

She holds in her celebration as you break out into a grin, immediately rising to the challenge, glad your friends have tired of the pool table so that no one can interrupt the battle you are about to commence. A battle with a very pretty woman, you must admit. 

You lose. 

You blame it on Alexia – she tells you her name as she pots three balls in a row – and try not to acknowledge the taunts from your friends at the bar, most of them having watched the entire game from afar to have something to talk about tomorrow. “You win,” comes your pitiful concession after a brutal defeat. “So, what will your prize be?” 

It’s an easy answer. 

That morning, throat hoarse from the cries that left it the night before, eyes red and tired and way too sensitive to light for you to consider drinking a drop of alcohol ever again, you wrap your arms around the warm body in the unfamiliar bed, finding the intimacy to have lived on longer than it should for a one-night-stand. Barcelona is warm and sunny, the day one to be enjoyed, and the company the best you have had in a while. 

It isn’t just that Alexia is a goddess. It isn’t the Amazonian ridges of her stomach and the firmness of her thighs, nor the softness of her hair or the deft movements of her fingers against your scarred skin. No, that is not what has, in just one evening, made you fall in love with her. (You bite your lip as you are overcome with emotion, chest filling up – with which feeling, you do not know –, heart pounding into your bones as the rhythm of your desire to be in Alexia’s life sets into the very framework of your being.) No! How could it be that? How could it be that when there is more? 

The coarseness of her determination; the slippery confidence, delicate and sharp, as though it is both the petal of a rose and the thorn that will prick you. Her humour, mistranslated at times, but always ready to make fun of idiots (most often, a specific idiot with a neck tattoo, as you come to realise). 

Personally, you believe it to be unfair that Alexia, Alexia Putellas, is simply ‘all that’. 

Getting to know each other fails to feel awkward, though you spend a lot of time waiting for the tension to appear. 

She discovers who you are, how you have moved to Barcelona for inspiration, finding that very thing lacking in dreary Leeds (the most depressing place on Earth, you could argue). She learns of your dream, although you label it as your ‘plan’: to write a play and to see it on the stage, preferably a grand theatre in the West End. Or in Stratford, where upon lies the greatest soil from which a playwright can grow. 

You show her your empty pages, devoid of black print marks. White and white, that goes on until it is clear that you have tired of pressing the ‘enter’ button as though it will ignite a story within. A story that hasn’t yet come, mind. 

“Do you think it will work?” she asks you, her accusation carrying nothing but curiosity once you see past the abrupt manner in which she interrupts your lengthy monologue about your severe case of writer’s block. 

Maybe you intend to be a little vague, for the sake of your racing heart and your delicate emotions, because you only shrug. You have already found your inspiration, not that you are going to tell her. 

Alexia is forward in the sense that she checks how temporary your presence is in her city before asking you out on a date. Your answer of ‘however long this shit takes’ is enough for her to be sure that she wants a second. A third, too. 

Then, before you know it, it has been a year. 

A year of Barcelona, a year of Spanish sun, and, excitingly, a year in which you have been cured; fingers blessed with movement and ideas and words on the tip of your tongue that run free in Alexia’s ear as you talk and talk and talk. She listens and listens and listens, and switches into the focus of your pairing when you go with her to watch her team play and play and play (why the fuck does football have so many matches?!). The final stage direction, all curling italics and sentimentality, sits at the bottom of the page. 

The end of your play. 

It is finished, it is done, and, soon after you have revised it one last time, it is sent to your producer friend with a nervous click of the ‘new email’ button and the hope that he is thankful for the times at university when you cared for him when he drank himself so silly that he barely made it to his lectures two days after the night-out. 

“It feels good,” you tell Ingrid, the girlfriend of the idiot with the neck tattoo, beaming as she inquires about your work. “I feel like I lived through it to get to this moment, you know? All that’s left to do is for him to read it and decide whether he’ll pick it up. Then, table reads and funding, of course. I’d want to direct, but, also, I’m not going to sell this one. Leasing it and taking a percentage of the royalties will make me loads more, because, Ingrid, this one is the best thing I’ve ever written.” 

There is a moment, usually, that comes after you have finished writing. A brief, sharp sort of panic, where you question your worth and your talent; you wonder if you have been lied to your whole life, and that your version of the same twenty-six letters of the alphabet, jumbled up on a white canvas as though you are (after a sleepless, usually) Picasso, is terrible. Or, worse, bad. 

Bad. Bad is so… plain. If it is just ‘bad’, you have failed as a writer. If it is not outrageous or unbelievably horrible, or, as one obviously hopes, incredible and amazing… if it is just ‘bad’, well: “Alexia, I’m terrified.” 

Alexia kisses your neck (you do not feel the finality of it, or maybe it is that you do not want to) because she knows it isn’t bad; she is more than aware that your play, your new creation, is really rather good. Brilliant, even. “Tranquila, mi amor,” she murmurs in your ear, bringing her arms to rest on your tense shoulders, a hand closing your laptop on its journey. “Le va a flipar.” 

“You think so?” 

“Sí.”

“Are you saying that because we’re together and you love me?” Your voice is small and unsure, and its teasing lilt is thrown off-kilter by the croak of your anxiety. “Or do you mean it? Please, I hope you mean it.” 

“I mean it.” She hates that she does. “Yes, of course I mean it. I love you and I am proud of you.” She hates it, she hates this, and she hates the talent your mind wields; something that is going to rip you from her grasp. It was bound to happen.

Your phone rings; soft, electronic trills dancing in the space between you and the coffee table it has been placed on. “I think that’s him,” you whisper, the volume you had intended to speak at smited by the nervous lump in your throat. Alexia nods mournfully, but you are too busy accepting the call to see.

“Let’s do this,” he says. 

…

The first frost of London comes that January. It’s unusual, the locals claim, because the city exists in its own polluted microclimate, but their statistics do not stop the layer of ice from freezing onto the windshield of your car. You are glad London feels just as cold as you do. 

Your play is beloved by the actors who speak your words, and the critics amongst your friend group, who for once, have no criticism to give. There is promise here. It is going very well. 

You drive to the theatre, ready to sit in on another rehearsal. Though your original intention had been to direct, you pawed off the role to an old school friend upon her return from Broadway. Your decision, you tell her, comes from a lack of experience in direction. You pretend to have had an epiphany: you only want to write the plays. 

In truth, this is a lie. 

Of course it is a lie. 

But how can you direct such happiness, such love and romance, if you know that the very thing that inspired each line has ceased to exist? 

Alexia feels like she has ceased to exist. 

On the outside, she seems relatively fine. She trains well, plays well, makes appearances where she should, says what you’d expect of her, hopes to make the world a better place. She walks Nala as though the Pomeranian does not whine for you to hold her leash, and she visits her mother and sister even though they continue to ask her why she did what she did. 

At night, she scrolls through social media, fingers always leading her back to you; your life; your work; your experiences that you no longer share with her. She cries, then, usually: a common occurrence nowadays. 

There is a gaping hole in her chest that has been made by her sticking her fucking foot in it. 

She has questions, naturally; each directed hatefully at herself. Why? Why, why why? Why on Earth did she tell you never to come back? Why did she blame you for leaving? 

You were always going to leave! Alexia knows that, hates that she knows that. 

You came to Barcelona because you couldn’t write, and you wrote. You wrote, you made her fall in love with you, and, when you had finished, you discarded the life you had unexpectedly built all because of some stupid, stupid play. 

A play titled–

A play. 

A… Alexia can’t even bring herself to think about it. 

No, all Alexia can think about is how insignificant she feels when you are no longer in love with her. You: sophisticated, intelligent, brilliant, adoring. Her? 

“Lex, you can’t mope if you’re the one who broke it off.” The words leave Alba’s mouth in jest but Alexia recoils as though she has been whipped by her sister’s tongue. 

“I’m trying to be cool about it,” she replies like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

It seems as though the globe has spun a full circle on its axis by the time Alba formulates her response, dumb-struck by such fucking idiocy. 

Alba hopes her sister feels like a fool – she hopes Alexia looks at herself in the mirror and… laughs, at this point. The whole thing has been ridiculous, in her opinion. 

First, her sister claims she is in love with a playwright with no plays to her name (Alba is examining the facts objectively, here, because she did quite like you); then, poof! Like a rabbit in a magician’s hat played in twisted reverse, away you go, and it somehow isn’t even your fault. 

She’d like to hate you, for her sister’s sake, but she finds herself loathing her own blood as it thins and thins until it trickles just like water. 

Okay, maybe she is being a little dramatic there, but she is still annoyed with Alexia. 

Alexia – whose existence as more-than-a-footballer is fading as she loses herself to waves of futile guilt – hates that she cannot hate you. She is plagued by emotional constipation, and though she tries to squeeze the situation for a drop of cruelty from you, she fails to discover a gram of relief.

It would have been kinder for you to have been cruel. Mercy is getting Alexia nowhere, and she would run to you if it were fast enough. Mercy is what renders her in a perpetual state of regret. Mercy is what keeps her up at night, but maybe mercy is what she likes having because it is yours and, in that way, she carries a piece of you with her. 

To confuse herself even more, to skew her mind further onto a path of unconventional self-destruction, she silently begs the mercy you have left behind to disappear so that she can learn to do without it. It’ll become a crutch and she wants it ripped from her grasp so that she can learn to walk on her own. She’s capable of that, she tells herself. 

(It probably isn’t true.)

…

Opening night. 

You’re wearing something far too nice to be comfortable, and there has been a champagne flute in your hand since the lunch held by the investors of the production company. The bubbles have served their purpose, clouding your mind with thoughts that weren’t to do with Alexia and her Alexia life and her Alexia smile and her Alexia way of making an Alexia-shaped cavity in your heart. 

It gushes quite a bit, because Alexia is strong and big and capable of damaging you to this extent. You reckon your surprise is foolish but fuck off, you’re trying your best. 

Comfortingly, not one scrap of red velvet is visible once the audience is ushered inside the theatre. 

It’s beautiful here; small, old. The perfect place to fall in love, just as you did. Or at least, experience the good part through deliciously talented actors and a stellar script (your horn has been tooted enough times for you to give it a go). 

Fear creeps up your legs as you take your seat in the front row, guarded by friends and family and proud English teachers who’d believe in you, but you take another sip and it simmers down. 

“Careful,” whispers your mum, shoulder nudging yours as you place your plastic cup (no glass in the auditorium) on the patterned carpet just as the show is about to begin. “You’ll not remember this if you don’t take a break.” 

And you’re halfway to announcing you don’t want to remember anything at all when the curtain goes up and a woman walks onto stage. 

It’s sobering. 

The audience is restlessly quiet, anticipating the brilliance they’ve been promised with an impatience that demands to be sated, but the actress takes her sweet time. 

She walks from stage left to stage right, then up and down. She’s passively searching for something. 

Someone. 

(It’s the fucking point, and you knew this would happen because you typed out these exact stage directions once upon a time. Alexia had misplaced a sock – a lucky sock, she claimed – and her passion, her desire to discover it, had weirdly morphed into a scene you could see being played out on a stage.) 

“Figure this out later,” speaks the actress with a satisfied smile, folding her arms over her chest. Finally, the audience’s breaths catch, enraptured by the vaguest cop-out of opening lines you could’ve chosen. 

They love it, though; they lean forwards in their seats as they are plucked from London and dropped into the middle of Barcelona. It’s mildly unnerving that you can’t escape the journey, clearly a member of the audience even if you don’t need to be told the story, but you land without the masses in the rows behind you. 

You land right into Alexia’s arms. 

There she is before you, in all her glory, proudly displaying the blue and red that she is so admirably dedicated to. Muscular and tanned, beautiful in the way that she always is, but shining brighter than just that. 

And you fucking hate it. 

When you imagine Alexia, you imagine her crippled and bed-ridden. Cracked knuckles come to mind, too, and she can barely speak without descending into rattling sobs that hack on and on until she somehow falls into fitful rest. 

You come prepared for absolution, expecting to see her dying just as you are, so it’s no wonder that your fists clench at her blasé declaration of “no regrets”. 

(By the way, Alexia’s not really there. You’d been stalking her Instagram and so that’s why she’s wearing her training kit, and… and you’re drunk!)

There are many things you’d like to say to her. 

Alexia had always been apprehensive of your relationship. She was closed-off to new people, and though she was certain of your importance to her, she was untrusting of much else. It happens when you’re famous; there are many wrong turns to take. And she needed to stay on the right path. 

It was impossible to pass Alexia’s test. 

For you, that is clear. Broken up with, told to leave and never come back, and begged to find someone else are not descriptors of the winner, nor she who achieved full marks. You’re a bit of a stranger to failing, but you’re trying to forget about it so that it never happens again. 

You’re breaking a sweat trying to banish her from your brain, barely registering the applause rippling through the theatre as you reach the interval. Trying to get her out of your head is like tugging at your intestines – a hand down your throat renders you dumb, and pains sears through your stomach as you are emptied and left to be a carcass.

“Is it good?” you ask your mum as you head to the bar in the foyer. 

“I wish you had let me meet her.” 

…

Alexia has never been to London outside of football before. She’s played in the north and in the south – she’s won every time – and it’s summery enough right now, but she is still a foreigner in the city. 

It’s fitting, this feeling of being lost, and it’s acceptable to feel it here because she has an excuse. Lost in Barcelona would be ridiculous. 

(But she is.) 

Why is Alexia in London when she could be in Spain? 

Well the only answer is that she has a ticket to a play in a theatre just off the West End that reminds her of someone she once loved. 

She thought it might help, seeing as she hasn’t scored a goal in four weeks with no assists to excuse the drought. Her manager gladly gave her the weekend to recharge, and she escapes matchday seven of Liga F under the guise of illness. 

While sleeping with your pillow, your t-shirt, she must have absorbed whatever the fuck you were on. By osmosis. 

That block. 

And now she has to act like she can’t read your mind. 

Her ticket, acquired last minute by a friend in high places as a massive favour, means that she has a front row seat to a damned play. She is well-prepared for the dread that wrenches her gut. 

The silence settling over her is uncomfortable and impatient, and the lights go down with a sense of impending doom. It’s a bit like being on death row, Alexia thinks. Here she gets to see the good things – a last meal of whatever she would like (you, of course that’s you) – but it is only because of her inevitable execution that this happens. 

The necklace hanging from her collarbones is a noose, the seat is a wooden box about to be kicked out from underneath her, and she needs to make her decision now: does she scream? Should she– 

She’s pulled out of her insanely dramatic spiral by a woman walking onto the stage. 

Her shoulders are hunched slightly and she has that look in her eye; that pang of hunger. 

The actress is recognisable, sure, but that is not the familiarity that strikes Alexia. 

It’s the character. 

It’s you. 

Walking from right to left, towards the back, down to the front, the actress is desperately searching for something. 

Inspiration, Alexia assumes, a smug smile briefly brushing her lips as the opening line breaks the tense silence. 

“Figure this out later,” you say. 

The actress is experienced but she has never read a script like yours before. It moved her to tears, though you claimed it was very happy. 

She lies awake at night, furiously envying those who could love like you do. 

She pities you, partly, because it’s no secret that the story of this love ended when you came here to put the show on. 

She has had to fall in love with someone – method acting, according to the director. 

It’s not quite the universe exploding and stars being born that your relationship must have been, but it’s alright and she is glad to see him in the audience. 

He’s next to a woman who does not seem to be enamoured by the beauty of the plot. 

A woman who seems absolutely fucking horrified. 

Her eyes are wide, fists clenched.

You – the real you – are watching Alexia with curiosity, more interested in her reaction to the play than the play itself. You wonder if she knows the significance of tonight; the reason you are here once more. 

In one month, the set and costumes will be packed up in boxes and taken onto the main street. 

It’s a dream come true. 

You’re here to announce the good news at the end of the show. 

…

“Alexia.” 

She tries not to turn around but she does. 

The night is cool and fresher than she’d expected the London pollution to allow, and the lamp posts are scarily looming over her as she forces herself to not run into your arms. You don’t wear a coat, although your year in Barcelona has borne a certain nostalgia for a warmer climate, but Alexia is wrapped up warm. 

“How… how are you doing?” 

You cringe at how apologetic it sounds. She broke up with you. 

There is a year that will be forever lost to love and happiness, bliss in Barcelona that was always going to be too good to be true. 

There is a year that you will never get back, but there is a breakup you must deal with. 

It’s not a brick wall, it’s a hurdle to jump over. 

Breaking up won’t be the end of your worlds. 

Knowing this, despite the weakness in her knees and the aching of her heart, Alexia lies. For your sake, she lies. 

“I’m good. It’s nice to see you.” 

You’re drowning but you’ll eventually remember how to swim. 

“You too,” you say with formulated sincerity that one day will grow naturally. “Score a goal next time you play, though.” 

[thesilmarillionblog]

A Sweet Distraction

Summary: When you're in a club, you have to make sure Soldier Boy stays out of trouble and doesn't draw attention of other people while Butcher and the boys look for Payback members. Whatever it takes, you have to keep him busy and distracted.

Pairing: Soldier Boy / Reader

Warnings: Language, Soldier Boy being a dick, violence

Word Count: 1704

A/N: English is not my first language.

You put on modest makeup, adjusted your outfit, and gave Butcher a brief glance in the mirror as you prepared to go out with the most dangerous and unpredictable supe alive to keep him distracted. Although he was aware of your fear of Soldier Boy and your lack of desire to spend as little time as possible with him, Butcher believed that you were the only person fit for this dreadful task. You already felt bad about accepting Butcher's suggestion after learning about Soldier Boy's outburst and everything.

“Hey, I know you're new here, but while we're away, it might be best if a lady kept him in check. Don't misunderstand me, lovely.” Butcher remarked, placing his hand on your shoulder to encourage confidence in you. You sighed with acceptance at that. 

You reluctantly said, “Fine,” as if you had the option to say ‘no.’

“Oi, I'm not making any sort of suggestion, you know. I just ask that you keep your eyes on him.” 

“I know, I know,” you quickly answered as your cheeks started to blush. 

You were assigned your first job, but it seemed like your last mission because Butcher, who called you "his boys" only a week prior, forced you to join his team. Being aware of Solider Boy's reputation for uncontrollable explosions, you made every effort to stay away from him during your first week. There didn't seem to be any way to get in touch with him, though. Either Soldier Boy himself would be the cause of your death, or Butcher.

“Don't misjudge him; as long as he drinks and fucking sniffs his cocaine, he won't cause a scene. You'll be alright, I promise. He's not all that miserable.”

Even if you had doubts about Butcher's belief in his own remarks, you nonetheless nodded to him.

“Alright. Yes, indeed, I understand.” You muttered to Butcher. “I can handle this,” but in reality, you were talking to yourself.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed while clapping his hands. He was glad you avoided arguing with him. “My car is yours, and we'll get the van. Let's not keep Soldier Boy waiting around much longer.”

As you looked at yourself in the mirror one more time, your heart raced, and you took a sip of whiskey from the closest table.

You entered Soldier Boy's room, where a massive amount of cocaine was on his table, and he was already getting high. You did your best to avoid staring at his massive, well-muscled chest while he was somewhat naked. You were afraid that weed use would increase his nervousness levels or something, or worse, cause him to become even more unstable. You were waiting quietly beside Butcher, wanting to say something about the current state of things, yet you uttered nothing. 

“Hey, are you prepared to enjoy yourself in the modern world?” Butcher inquired in a lighthearted manner.

You retreated a step as he approached you, asking, "With her?" with a grin on his face as he examined you from head to toe after standing up from his chair. 

“Buddy, don't be harsh on her; she's already scared of you.” Butcher spoke firmly, and he added, “Y/N will just be your company tonight while me and my boys look for your most devoted teammates. She is one of us.”

You turned your back as your cheeks became red while Soldier Boy raised his eyebrows and turned back to Butcher. He proceeded to smoke while pulling down his sweatpants suddenly and putting on a shirt over his bare chest. 

“I wouldn’t try,” Soldier Boy said as he changed his clothes. “She better take me to a good fucking place. I’m sick of staying in this fucking room.”

“That is not anything to worry about for you.” You all left the room as Butcher murmured.

You and Soldier Boy arrived at one of the most well-known and weird clubs, which was primarily packed with supes, after having nothing at all to talk about while driving. Soldier Boy's mouth curled into a satisfied smile as you became extremely nervous.

As soon as you two walked into the club, he said, “Not bad.”

If you were a supe, you would find it much easier to adjust to the environment and everything, but you weren't, and if you pissed someone off, they could kill you in a second. That's why you got a drink right away and followed Soldier Boy everywhere.

He removed the drug from one of his pockets and said, “I wonder if there is a fine chick to fuck,” before turning to face you. “All the sperm feels heavy in my balls though I jerked off at least five times, fuck.”

You said to yourself, "Oh, god," as he continued to spit filthy words. He turned to face you, licked his lips, and gave you a smile that was so inviting that it stopped you in a moment.

He asked, “What happened now?” as if you were exaggerating. “I thought you all wanted to take away my attention.”

As you were going to say something unpleasant about his actions, you remembered what Butcher had said and changed your mind.

“It is not important.” You sipped your drink and kept an eye on the folks in the crowd who were getting wild, intoxicated, and dancing, and you added, “Everything's fine.”

Soldier Boy smirked as he saw your shy demeanor and chose to focus on you briefly before giving someone a hard and deep fuck. He may even attempt to get you to open you spread your legs for him so he can give you a satisfying fuck. Your bashful demeanor made him wonder if your pussy was as tight as he thought it was.

“You don’t need to be scared of me, you know,” Soldier Boy said and he gave you another inviting look.

You muttered, “How is that even possible? After all, you are a supe on cocaine with PTSD.”

Even though you felt bad right away for speaking out loud, he only laughed at your harsh remarks and replied, “Touche.”

You asked him with an uneasy smile, “Are you having fun?”

"Well, sweet thing, I'll start having fun as soon as my dick disappear into some really tight pussy.”

You muttered, “Okay, okay,” cutting him off from continuing. You took a deep breath, muttered, “You keep having fun, I will be around,” and hurriedly moved away from his side.

You just hoped that the night would end soon enough for you as you faded into the crowd. Should you get through this night without injury, you vowed to spit hate in Butcher's face. 

You chose to watch Soldier Boy from a distance, so you made some space between you and tried not to pay attention to the bizarre and frightening behaviors of the people around you. It appeared to be a massive freak show. You couldn't determine which club was worse, Herogasm or this one. 

As you locked eyes with Soldier Boy, you noticed that his lethal green eyes were already bound to you, as though you were some kind of prey to be pursued. He frowned as he moved to approach you through the chaotic crowd, and you gasped. Perhaps you were just making things up in your thoughts, and he was just staring at someone else. You tried pushing some people and finding a quieter place to avoid him.

But the person you might have shoved hard turned around and yelled, “Why the fuck are you pushing my fucking back?” to you. He became increasingly enraged after you muttered an apology, saying, “Why do they even let ordinary people get in here? You only bring difficulty upon yourselves, fuck.”

Once more, you pleaded, hoping to get out of there without stirring up any more tension. “I sincerely apologize.”

You moaned in agony as the supe's large hands gripped your arm tightly. It was not as if he would give up. You should never have accepted Butcher's suggestion in the first place.

But happily, Soldier Boy's stronger hands grabbed the strangers tightly, saving them from a terrifying situation in an instant and giving them a sense of happiness. If not, it appeared unlikely that you would survive to escape this strange club. As Soldier Boy turned to face the supe stranger and shot you a glare, you touched your arm with a painful moan.

“Is it that, you fuckface, your micropenis gets hard for the weak? You wanna play the big bad tough guy?” Soldier Boy asked angrily as his hands tightened a rough, quick grip around the other man's throat. He wasn't allowing the other supe to say anything. With feeble mutterings, he was urgently attempting to free himself from Soldier Boy's brutal hold.

“Please, don't cause any trouble,” you urged, touching Soldier Boy's big arm. Despite your attempts to calm him down, he continued to tighten his hold even after the supe kept apologizing. 

“No,” he angrily said. “I found a way to have fun. This fucking cocksucker is going to die.”

You tried to get him to move by saying, “Please, stop,” but it was obviously impossible. You panickedly muttered, “Oh, no,” as you noticed his chest suddenly glowing. 

He clinched his mouth, trying to control his chest and halt what was about to happen, but Soldier Boy threw him between the crowd and he growled, “Stay away.”

 You knew that you wouldn't make it to the exit between all the chaos and supes before Soldier Boy exploded, so you disregarded his warnings, softly cupped his neck, and placed your cold lips on his warm ones, hoping to surprise him with your unexpected move and calm him down a little.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

A/N: I might write a part 2, but I don’t know, haha. Comments and reblogs are very appreciated.

You can check my Masterlist for more Soldier Boy / Reader stories. Thank you!!

-`♡´-

[zedif-y]

please imagine zedaph cuddling his boyfriend in every single bed contraption hes ever made. yes including the one that kills you 10 times thats just what you get when your boyfriend is zedaph

The crazy thing is, he feels safe around Zedaph.

Tango narrows his eyes. Sometimes, at least, if not all the time.

(He can almost hear Zed's voice.)

(Sometimes?! Zedaph would reply, aghast. I'll have you know that I am the pinnacle of safety! The safest in the land!)

(Tango snorts. Yeah, right.)

He pets idly at Zed's hair, the blonde curls soft as he begins to card through them. They part easily, which would be surprising, Tango thinks, if he hadn't known the guy for years— Zed may not give a rat's ass about maintaining his hair, but he hates when it tangles.

Zedaph snores, soft and muffled into Tango's chest. His arm is thrown around Tango's middle, their legs tangled up underneath the sheets. Zed's clinging to him like a koala.

Tango hums, staring up at the smooth stone ceiling. It's nice here, you know, if you ignore the—

His eyes drift to the walls.

—The everything else.

Cold, stoic faces of the observers Zed has placed around his bed stare them down, easily mistaken for guardians if Tango didn't know exactly what they were for.

Tango shivers, drawing his eyes away. Talk about creepy.

At this point, he's only like 40% worried about the 'waking up to die 10 times' thing. Which. Might say some things about his survival instincts, but hey.

Zedaph mutters something incoherent under his breath. Tango's thoughts falter as Zed shifts a little, burying his face into Tango's neck. Tango's tail sways languidly off the side of the bed.

It's insane, really, how Zed makes him feel like this.

Makes him feel like things will be okay, even when he's staring death right in the face. Like things will work out, and when they don't, it's not the end of the world.

(Tango shivers, feeling the phantom cold of- of space. Loneliness and isolation and the cool, sarcastic voice of Holsten—)

...It's not the end of the world.

Tango lets out a breath.

He doesn't really know how to explain the feeling, but the peaceful quiet of the night makes him want to try. Makes him want to put to words what he feels when Zedaph smiles at him, in that bright, distinct curve that makes his cupid's bow stretch and Tango's heart stutter in his chest.

Makes him want to explain why he feels fine, feels safe even when he's just a button press away from death at any moment in Zed's base, as long as Zedaph is there at his side.

Makes him feel like sunlight.

Tango makes a face.

When did he get so poetic?

(He looks down at Zed's sleeping face, and thinks he might have an idea.)

Overcome with... A fluttering something, Tango presses a kiss between Zed's horns—they're short, filed down into dull points for exactly this sleeping arrangement— and smiles a little when he feels Zed's fluffy ears twitch in his sleep.

Dammit all, Tango thinks to himself, scowling. Why's he so cute?

Tango thinks Zed would have words to say about that. He presses another kiss on his head for good measure.

His eyelids start to feel heavy. Tango lets out a breath, closes his eyes.

He focuses on the warm line of Zedaph beside him, the soft snoring, the gentle breathing. The world seems to shrink— just the two of them, huddled together on this bed.

What's a little death, really, in the face of this?

[panoffrying]

We need another meme prompt. We shall make cotl stay on trends with the endless source of memes and the burning desire of our community. Let's make a meme every 2 weeks. We have consensual sex, the lady drawing, go get my purse and the it's pride month. Let's have more. So much that artists began feeling the pens sticking to their skins! :D

-A cotl fan that takes things far (I know it sounds threatening a little but I mean these to show my excitement)

AAA I LOVE YOUR EXCITEMENT NEVER CHANGE! 💜🎊🎉 me and some others have been getting questions about when the next event will be and I can’t wait to do our next event it’s gonna be so much fun! We didn’t know people would be this interested in the events! It makes me really excited!

However the Shrimpers Council has had to come to a hard decision. The next event won’t be any time soon sadly. We want to, believe us we do but we don’t want to flood the tags. The first two times it was fun but if it keeps happening like this it can become annoying to some and people can get burnt out on the events fast.

The Shrimpers Council is very excited for our next event but we want to give it some time.

Also something to know I might not be hosting this next event! I had my fun hosting the Myersfault event but I want to give another person in the Shrimpers Council a chance to host! I won’t say who it is but the council will all be sending updates when the time comes for the next event!

Again thank yall so much for participating in the Myersfault event we had so much fun with it and I can’t wait for our next collab!

🎉 🏳️‍🌈HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!🏳️‍🌈🎊

[fieldofdaisiies]

In canon. Azriel finds himself utterly bored as he is lounging on the couch in Eris' office, waiting for his mate to finally be done with High Lord's business and so he comes up with an idea... for @azrisweek | azrisweek masterlist | read on ao3 | no warnings

“Eriiiiiiiiis,” Azriel whines. The High Lord ignores him.

With a loud and dramatic sigh, Azriel then throws his head back. “Eris….” he moans a little louder, hoping to somehow catch his mate‘s attention, but the High Lord has the audacity to only grumble a few incomprehensible words, not even deigning the shadowsinger with a look.

Is he truly ignoring me? Azriel thinks and furrows his brow The shadowsinger exhales another loud sigh, letting his head fall back, now hanging over the side of the couch he is lounging on.

He intensely stares at his mate’s back, hoping that Eris can somehow feel it. But still no reaction from the High Lord. Not even when Azriel tugs at the bond. Not even when he tugs many times, and hard. Not even when he lets Eris feel how deeply the absolute agony of the other's betrayal affects him he is going through (namely getting ignored and desperately wanting his mate) through the bond.

The High Lord of Autumn continues to scribble something down on a piece of paper, one hand holding the pen, the other braced atop at least ten books and pieces of parchment.

“Eris, I am bored and I want you!” 

“You‘ll have me later,” Eris answers matter-of-factly, not turning to look over his shoulder. He keeps staring at the paper in front of him. 

Azriel’s eyes widen in disbelief, and he throws his arms up in exasperation, shadows shifting with the movement.

“I want you now!” Azriel grumbles and once again receives no answer. He isn’t really mad about Eris and his indifference — he is the new High Lord, has a lot to do and Azriel didn’t announce his visit. He is just there and needs his mate, but Eris is busy. He had spent a little time with his mate in the morning, they ate together, went for a walk and made love in the forest, when they returned Azriel fell asleep in Eris arms but woke up to find an empty bed. And since this morning —it’s now late afternoon— Eris has been working nonstop and has had no time for his mate.

Azriel rather starts to worry about Eris. He is working so much – too much probably, and Azriel is afraid that it might become overwhelming for his mate.

“And you are working too much.” Azriel shifts his gaze to one shadow curling and swirling around his stretched out arm, quickly glancing sideways to his mate and then back at his hand.

“I have a lot of work, my love.”

A silly grin appears on Azriel’s face at the nickname. He wants to wipe it off his face, trying so hard right now to be angry at his mate. But he can’t. He just can’t be mad at him. Not when Eris says things like my love.

Azriel folds a hand over his mouth, hoping for the grin to disappear so he can glower at his mate again. “When will you be done?”

“If you stopped distracting me, I would be done much faster.” Eris’ tone edges on annoyance and it hurts Azriel a little. It also disappoints him. He doesn’t like it when Eris threatens to fall back into old patterns and talks to him like this. But instead of confronting Eris, the shadowsinger decides to really shut his mouth and keep calm.

He flips onto his side, careful of his wings of course, and his eyes land on Ares, Eris‘ youngest greyhound, casually stretched out on the luxurious carpet in front of the couch. The animal‘s gaze is fully focused on him and Azriel smiles, but then realises—

The hound is not looking at him, or at least not directly. Ares is ogling the shadow that is curled around his arm, and that with a predatory gaze.

The corner of Azriel’s mouth quirks up, and an idea sparks in his mind. His lips form a happy, and slightly mischievous grin, and he pushes up on his elbow, resting his chin in his palm.

“You want to play?” This draws Ares‘ attention to his face, and the hound meets his gaze, ears twitching. His tongue pokes out and he begins to pant, looking like he is about to jump up and dart into Azriel’s direction.

A big grin spreads over the shadowsinger’s face, and a devilish idea forms in his mind. He allows the shadow to slide down his arm, down his hand until it is only connected to the tips of his fingers, and then he says, or rather commands, “Go!”

The shadow darts ahead, swirling over the ground and Ares after it. The shadow is fast and so is Ares, but whenever his paw reaches for it, it is nothing more than black mist he touches, not able to catch it. 

Azriel loves this, laughing from the bottom of his heart while he directs his shadow and allows his precious hound to run after it. Ares is relentless, and fast, blazing through the entire office, and somehow Eris still manages to ignore them. 

Azriel’s annoyance grows, and his brows bunch. He allows Ares to chase the shadow for a few more rounds and then he gets another idea. An idea that sounds absolutely brilliant in his mind and one that he knows will make his mate finally focus on something else than work. 

He commands the shadow to change course, now slithering over the ground, right into the direction of the chair Eris is sitting atop. Ares follows, his paws padding loudly on the floor. His snout is pressed against the cool stones, his tail wiggling excitedly. 

The shadow reaches Eris' chair, climbing upwards until curls around his arm and slides onto the parchments he is currently reading through. 

“What–Ares!?”

The large hound lands on top of Eris‘ desk and work and half on top of Eris who yelps in shock. Ares' weight almost makes Eris fall backwards and he now has to hold onto the hound and the desk, hoping to not tumble and really fall to the ground. “AZRIEL!”

The shadowsinger has to laugh so hard, he is bending over, eventually tumbling onto the floor, after seeing how the large greyhound jumped onto its owner and hearing his mate shriek in horror.

“Azriel!” Eris shouts, his voice sounding furious. He knows exactly whose doing it was. Who the culprit was! It must have been his mate. Ares wouldn’t do something just like that, Eris knows this, so it had to be his mate’s brilliant idea.

He somehow manages to help Ares back to the ground, staring at him for a moment before his gaze returns to the crumbled papers in front of him. Rolling his eyes, he smooths his hand over the paper, and then has to crack a smile.

He wishes he could be mad at his mate for what he has done, but damn, does he fail miserably. Azriel is just…he is a menace, but he loves him just too much and maybe he has truly been a little inattentive. 

“Ares,” Eris lifts a hand. “Be a good boy and play outside.” Waving his hand, Eris magically opens the door, allowing the greyhound to blaze outside, following his owner’s command. With another flick of his wrist, the door closes after him.

Slowly, Eris shoves the pieces of paper, now crumbled and messy, back on the table, placing a pile of books atop them.

“Now to you!” Slowly, the High Lord rises and then turns to his mate, a frown on his face. “You are impossible.” He approaches Azriel with long and slow steps, staring down at him from above.

“And yet you love me.” Azriel beams, his cheeks rosy, his grin reaching from one ear to the other.

“I guess I‘ll have to reconsider…I had important business to do.”

Azriel shrugs a casual shoulder, allowing one of his shadows to curl around Eris‘ leg, slowly climbing upwards until it reaches his head, softly brushing his ear and the side of his face.

“Well, I think you‘ll have important business to do with me as well.”

This elicits a low and breathy chuckle from Eris, and slowly he steps into his mate, crouching down so they are on eye-level. “Is that so, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel straightens his posture which allows him to almost touch Eris mouth with his lips. “I need you.”

Eris leans in as well, gaze dropping to his mate’s lips. He can feel Azriel’s desire through the bond, the raw carnal need, and has been feeling it for the past hours. 

“Yes, you do,” Eris breathes. “I guess the letters can wait a little.”

general Azris tag list (please let me know if you want to be added/removed): @azrielsbabyg @lady-riel @moonlightazriel @aayo-whatt @brekkershadowsinger @ladyelain @banasheefan56 @a-frog-with-a-laptop @ofduskanddreams @acourtofladydeath @secret-third-thing @born-to-riot @chunkypossum

thank you so much for beta reading @queercontrarian and @born-to-riot 💛

[elvenbeard]

Old and Happy

😭 my feels have been all over the place since I finally finished this! Don't even remember when I started, as I kept working on and off on it over a couple of months. But I think it was after writing something particularly angsty and going "you know what, they will get their happy ending though, so it's all good".

Some details and thoughts below the read more cause it got long hhhh ;A;

This is in about 2087 maybe, roughly "ten years later". Vince changed his hair, ditched the rattail for good (or again xD) for something still colorful but a bit more easy to style. But he might change it up again, he's done so repeatedly and still likes to experiment with his hair.

Not visible, he probably would've added some elements to his back tattoo after surviving all of 2077. Johnny's tattoo he covered up as well, he would've done that first probably before the back piece. Adding some things here and there over time, with colors and patterns and wings, some cherry blossoms ('cause a thing of beauty will never truly fade away - hence just not getting laser removal but covering it with something that suits him more, but keeping some elements like the J and V visible). It started with three roses below the "V" as a little homage to Jackie, and 2077 as the year that finally put him on the right track in his life, even if it almost killed him in the process.

Overall he is a healthier weight than he was for most of his life, and finally got some therapy he desperately needed to deal with all the crap he went through pre-2077 already. He's not dyeing his first grey hairs because hell, that he's even still around to get some is amazing with his line of work and life story. And he realized that there's no need to be super well put togeher 24/7, clean shaven and whatnot, when you know you're just gonna be hanging out with your man and cat all weekend (and actually allowing yourself to something like that - leisure time and pizza in bed, unheard of to 2077!Vince). He's doing good and feels good and comfortable, physically and mentally.

Kerry also changed, also embracing the dad bod over abs, probably still experimenting with his looks a lot now and then whenever the label feels like they need to draw attention to him for whatever reason. But to the brown eyes he returned in 2078 already in my headcanon for the Sun ending timeline, and he stuck with them.

Overall I think he might finally care a little less about other people's opinions too, the buzz and the drama, cause he knows that at the end of the day there's always gonna be someone waiting for him at home who loves him unconditionally. He's a bit calmer and at ease, but of course still up to no good whenever he gets the chance to stir shit up xD Vince and him remain to be a dangerous duo you don't wanna mess with. At that point Vince is a well-respected, even if somewhat elusive, fixer, so he's probably even more dangerous now than he used to be as a mere merc with an arsenal of connections and resources at his disposal that can almost rival Kerry's.

I also gave Kerry a lil new cyberware piece on his hand - he is an old man and I think, using his hands as a musician on the daily, at some point there's just gonna be some wear and tear to your bones and joints only tech can fix anymore... Especially if you're stubborn and refuse to retire cause no, you're not done yet, you still have so much to yell into the world and music to make, stuff to add to your legacy and all.

Last but not least: Nibbles is an old lady already as well here, but living her best life with her dads spoiling her rotten, of course!

And then öalkshjdfagsdföasgdfaösfh ;___;

Y'know, "to bad decisions" and all, and two very different pieces still fitting together perfectly somehow, and light and shadows, and the sun and moon and yeah. ;___; Brb crying, the feels are back xD

Thanks so much for reading if you made it this far!! They mean so much to me and aösdjhfajsfhasfk could go on forever about every little detail xD On to the next drawing!

[thepaintedsable]

PYRO! It’s Pyro! Yippee e!

I accidentally inverted the colors all of the insignias and gave Blue Pyro Red Pyro’s flamethrower :( My professional explanation for the second part is that Blue Pyro beat the living shit out of Red Pyro and stole their weapon, my professional explanation for the first part is I am is have are stupid.

Close-ups and special sketch page below the cut!!!

I remembered TF2 existed and this happened.

I have to mention that I have never touched this game, but I’ve been fairly aware of it for a really long time. I strayed away from it all because I was not/am not the best at multiplayer games, especially shooters (especially team shooters), and I never exactly felt like I had the skill to draw any of the characters. Plus the comic’s whole “missing the last issue” situation. I just really, really, didn’t want to be let down by investing myself in something I couldn’t be invested in. But something about “Meet the Pyro” stuck in my head like a burr to a shoe.

Rewatched Meet the Pyro more times than I should have. Looked into more animations and the fandom. Finally broke down and read the comic LMFAO. Surprisingly, I really enjoyed it! Even with the missing part, the format it’s presented in and the general wackiness was refreshing compared to what I normally read.

I still like Pyro, and when I remembered I’m better at drawing now, augh. There he go. They are all over, as they should be.

MF has a homemade flamethrower, canonically killed great value brand Smokey the Bear (on purpose), is/was the highly successful CEO of an engineering company, and is so efficient on the battlefield his teammates are horrified by him and his methods. Also there is no telling wether they even know what they are doing or where they actually are because of the pyro vision stuff. Plus the fun mystery of who they are under the mask. :) We don’t even know nothin about this guy.

Just a silly little guy. I’d like to take both the “They know nothing about what they are doing” and the “They know everything about what they are doing” and staple them to Blue and Red respectively. Which is which, though? Not important. Only need enough info to pit two bad bitches against each other, and also to consider how their teams treat them in response. They are both fucked up, but in opposite directions.

ALSO WHY DID I HAVE TO FIND OUT THIS FANDOM HAS THE CUTEST SHIP NAMES EVER ON MY OWN????? I don’t even really like ships in general, but like… Texas Toast? Speeding Bullet? Brush Fire??? Can someone please please confirm that French Toast is another one oh my god???? I don’t even care about the ships, I care about wordplay and cleverness. If you look up Texas Toast on this site it is all Engineer x Pyro and that is SO FUNNY

I can’t promise that this will be the last Pyro page. He might be the one that’ll actually stay.

[sapphixxx]

Man, I think what makes me so sad about Guilty Gear is just knowing that there won't ever be anything quite like it. The cultural soup that spawned it just doesn't exist anymore. The edgy 90s counterculture boom can't really be replicated. Doom is something you run on thermostats and microwaves, Mortal Kombat is something your brother's friends played in college, spiked leather and heavy metal are things anyone might be into, arcades have been dead longer than they were alive, everyone is aware of JoJo. Everything that was shocking, transgressive, and exciting then is now pretty normal (if still beloved--nay, more beloved, even). They even made a new Matrix movie about this feeling. And the thing is, there were a lot of fighting games tapping into the same things as Guilty Gear was. They all died in obscurity, and Guilty Gear is the lone survivor, carrying the DNA of a cultural moment but unable to propagate, being the last of its species. Sol Badguy is a perfect protagonist for it, in that sense.

At the end of the day, there's just no real analogue. The genre of musclebound blood soaked anime it was drawing from like Fist of the North Star, Bastard! and Ninja Scroll don't really exist anymore. Rockstars of the hotel thrashing middle finger waving hard drinking hard partying variety don't really exist in the same way, either. Very few recent album covers would make for good stage backgrounds. There isn't really an "underground" subculture or counterculture--we're all just in different niches that are one online search away from each other. Nobody has to "introduce" you to metal, you don't have to know a guy, just look up a few whole discographies and listen on your commute. Fighting games themselves are a firmly established genre with it's own self selecting population--in the 90s it was pretty common for basically anyone to casually try a few rounds of Tekken or have some version of street fighter at home. That's not really the case anymore, and, as such, fighting games need to be designed differently and more thoughtfully than they used to be.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!None of these are bad things!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But it does mean that any attempt to do something in the same vein as Guilty Gear will necessarily be a pastiche. Hell, even Guilty Gear itself was pastiche by the time of XX. This isn't a bad thing either--I'm loving Little Goody Two Shoes, for example, which is the most lavish and loving throwback to 90s shojo and 00s RPG Maker horror games. But it would still be different. Because even the most loving reference or recreation, even the ones that surpass the quality of the originals, can't replace the spirit of expressing something quintessential to your current moment, whatever that moment is.

The moment that I cherish cause I grew up in its shadow is long gone. I don't know if there's anything in the current moment that could speak to me in the same way. Most of my favorite all time games, manga, anime, etc etc all came out in the last few years, so this isn't about old shit being better. I guess most of what I love that's currently being made just didn't lend itself well to riffing on in the same way. Unfortunately, high passion rock operas screaming your feelings just lend themselves perfectly to kickass games, and those aren't in vogue like they used to be. And, ultimately, on a strictly personal level, I'll never be 15 again, being shown the sickest shit I've ever seen before a D&D game for the first time.

[sataniquepanique]

The Fallout

Angel Dust x Platonic!Soulmate Reader

WC: 2k+

Summary: You wake up in Hell, struggling with your choices made back on Earth. A spider-demon manages to crack through your tough exterior.

Warnings: talk of suic!de and self-harm, mention of drugs.

A/N: I've had a rough few months, and the Hellaverse has become a little light in my life. Angel (almost immediately?) became a comfort character for me, and I just wanted to write about him. This might turn into an Alastor x Reader fix because I've grown to love that weird little dude, but that's still up in the air. Reader is a crow-demon in this btw, and I tried to write them GN.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sighing softly, you carefully run fingers through the set of wings protruding from your back. In this light, the inky-black was iridescent; a feature that almost brought a smile to your face. There’s no way you’d get used to this any time soon.

It’d been a little over two weeks since you arrived in hell, a few days since you had shown up on the doorstep of the dilapidated hotel on the outskirts of Pentagram City. You had known ending up in Hell was a possibility, one that wasn’t ideal but overall a thought that hadn’t deterred you. The deed was done, and you’d now have to deal with the consequences. 

After roaming the streets for a few days, squatting in whatever abandoned building or sheltered alleyway you could find, a news segment caught your attention in the window of an electronics shop. The Hazbin Hotel: a place for sinners to be rehabilitated. The entire idea was ludicrous, but the overly-chipper blonde pitching the cause was adamant that they would provide accommodations for anyone interested, no questions asked. 

So that’s how you ended up here, standing in front of the floor length mirror in your new bedroom, completely avoiding the presence of any of the other fellow inhabitants of the hotel. 

Charlie (the even-more-cheery-in-person blonde from the TV) had tried to get you to join them in the lobby for the past few days for “exercises”, which basically included trust falls and other weird bonding techniques. You had ignored her pleas from beyond the other side of the bedroom door, pretending to be asleep. 

It’s not that you didn’t belong here, you probably did, it’s the permanence of it that was becoming debilitating; the solitude of it all. You were alone here.

You missed your family.

You missed your friends. 

The thought of their faces brought an onslaught of tears, obscuring the sight of your new demonic body in the mirror. 

You had fucked up. You definitely deserved to be here. 

After what you assumed was dinnertime, Charlie came back to your room and knocked softly.

“Hey!” She chimed gently from outside, “We’re all going to watch a movie in the lounge, figure I’d extend an invite! We’d love to have you—“

Another voice cut her off from down the hall, more stern but still with a gentle undertone. “Charlie, babe. Leave them alone, they just needs time to adjust.”

Vaggie. You had felt a weird draw to her the moment the hotel doors had opened. She had seemed to understand better than the rest about what you were feeling. She was one of the only people you had considered talking to.

Curling up on the bed, you begged sleep to consume you entirely. 

———

The darkness was alive. 

The void humming and vibrating with movement and emotions that you couldn’t grasp. Calling out, your voice wouldn’t ring true, only a choking gasp emitting from your throat. Crawling on all fours, you frantically felt through the blackness for something, anything to help. Your left hand landed in a wet puddle, fingers brought to your face for further inspection were only met with blindness. That’s when you heard it: the screaming.

Rising to your feet, you began to stumble through the abyss towards the sound of the guttural sobs, trying to scream back to whoever it was know that you were here. The voice was obscured, yet somehow familiar. A sudden obstacle had you tumbling back onto your knees. Unlike before, the darkness was beginning to fade, showing the outstretched limb that had tripped you. Following the arm upwards, you were met with your own vacant eyes, staring unseeingly toward the heavens. 

Waking with a violent sob, you choked on every gasping breath. Dim red light filtered through the window, a mocking reminder of where you had ended up. This bedroom was beginning to  suffocate you. Looking over at the clock on the bedside table, the witching hour assured you that everyone was fast asleep. 

The hallway was silent as you crept on socked feet, destination unknown. Everything that had happened over the past few weeks played on a loop in your brain. You began to run, desperate to get to somewhere that you knew no longer existed; the screaming from the earlier dream becoming deafening. The sound of an opening door sent a wave of electric panic shooting through your veins. At the far end of the hall, an out-of-use dumbwaiter sat half rusted shut, but the opening was big enough to slide through. You ran as quietly as possible, squeezing through the cracked steel door. The metal contraption was oddly secure, though the space was tight. Bringing both knees to your chest, you took a deep breath. The shakiness of the exhale triggered another sob, followed by another, until the material of your pants was soaked by tears. 

The metal door of the dumbwaiter groaned slightly, making you jump. A pair of wide mis-matched eyes gazed back; Angel. Charlie had introduced you both upon arrival, though the spider-demon had seemed too pre-occupied with his phone to actually give a shit about your presence. 

“Oh shit—“ he was halfway into the dumbwaiter, recoiling slightly upon seeing your curled form, “Sorry toots, I uh…wasn’t expected anyone to be in here.”

You wiped both cheeks with a sleeve, “It’s okay, I should—“

“What’re you doing in here anyways?” Angel’s gaze swept over your face, “Sick of the luxurious suites we’re all so graciously given?” 

You knew he was trying to make a joke, but the last thing you wanted to do was laugh, let alone with a complete stranger. 

“I couldn’t be in that room anymore…I needed some air.”

“So you settled on a rusty metal box?” Angel cocked an eyebrow. You shrugged, avoiding his stare.

He sighed, and you heard the metal door groan again. Looking up, Angel was crawling his way into the dumbwaiter, settling in across from you. 

“What’re you doing?” You pulled both knees closer to accommodate his long legs.

“Joinin’ ya.”

“I can see that, but why?”

Angel fished for something in the pocket of his blazer, “‘cause I’ve got nothin’ else better to do right now, and it looks like you could use some company. And who’s better company than yours truly?” He grinned devilishly, one gold fang glinting in the dim light. 

You watched as he continued to dig in his pocket. “Why were you looking in here?”

Angel pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket, reaching up to unlatch a small compartment at the top of the dumbwaiter. “Oh, well you seem to have stumbled upon one of my many secret hiding spots.”

“And Charlie doesn’t mind you stashing drugs around the hotel?”

“This is Hell, dollface. No one cares what you do, as long as you play the game.” There was a bitterness in his voice, one that left as soon as it emerged, covered up by a sultry wink. “Besides, no one’s been able to find any of my hiding spots yet.” 

You hummed noncommittally, falling into a companionable silence. For as cramped of a space as it was, it was he most comfortable you’d felt since arriving in the afterlife.

“So…” Angel examined his nails, “Are you going to tell me why you was cryin’ or…?”

Something about this fluffy pink demon soothed your soul, more than even Charlie Morningstar: Queen of Hospitality had been able to do. You found your expertly-built wall cracking.

“I just…I fucked up.”

“We’ve all fucked up, toots. How else d’ya think we ended up here?” 

You shot him a glare just to find Angel smirking back. 

“I mean I fucked up by leaving everyone. My friends, my family. Now they’re stuck cleaning up my mess.”

Angel cocked his head to the side, a tendril of white hair falling over an eye, “Got yourself into a li’l trouble? Been there—”

“I ended it. It all got to be too much: life, working a dead-end job, and the constant pressure to put on a composed persona, so I ended it myself.”

You felt his body go rigid against your leg.

“Oh…shit.” Angel whispered, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah…shit.” The two of you sat in silence for a few more minutes, both unsure of what to say. You shifted slightly and sighed, “I dreamt of it earlier tonight, the aftermath of it all. I saw my body, I heard—“ You swallowed audibly, “—I heard my mother’s screaming.”

Angel was watching intently as you looked up, “I miss them. More than anything.”

His leg brushed against yours as Angel scooted towards the opening into the hallway, sliding his lithe body through the gap in the door. Your heart sank a little. Of course you had scared away the one person you were just beginning to feel comfortable with in this god-forsaken place. The burn of fresh tears pricked behind your eyes, until you saw Angel peering through the opening again.

“You comin’ or what?” 

You wiped a hand over your cheek, “To where?”

“Just trust me, I’ve got somethin’ to show you,” Angel held a hand out to help you slide through into the dark hallway. 

———

The door at the end of the corridor was covered in small polaroids and pink lights. The most personality you had seen since arriving in Hell.

“Is this your room?” You felt stupid the moment it came out of your mouth.

Angel smirked as he shouldered the door open, “What gave it away?”

The interior of his bedroom was bathed in neon pink light. Clothes in various fabrics and colors were strewn about, while a bed with numerous overly-plush pillows sat pushed against one of the far corners. There was life in here. There was personality and a sense of belonging. 

A loud squeal emanated from somewhere beneath the bed, startling you out of the mental tour of Angel’s room. A soft nudge of something against your ankle had you staring back at a tiny demon-pig, it’s little beady black eyes blinking curiously up at you. 

“Oh my god…” you breathed.

Angel reached to pick up the little pig, “Sorry about him—“

You were on the floor quicker than he could move, holding out both hands to let the little creature get used to your scent. The piglet snorted softly as it trailed sniffs up your palms, the feeling making you giggle slightly. Your laughter caused him to cease the exploration and instead launch into your lap, nuzzling against your body.

“He reminds me of my dog from home,” you looked up at Angel while stroking the velvet ear of the little pig. 

“I’ve never seen Fat Nuggets take to someone so quickly before,” he smiled, walking towards the bed, “C’mere, this is what I wanted to show you.”

You rose from the floor still clutching Fat Nuggets, who was now beginning to fall back asleep. Joining Angel near the headboard, you followed his gaze to the smattering of polaroids adhered to the wall behind the bed. Dozens of photos of himself with various people, some of which you recognized from the hotel, all of them smiling or laughing. 

“I fucked up too.” Angel’s voice was low, the undertone of sadness unmistakable, “In the living world, I spent years alone in a miserable existence of my own making,” He took a glance down at you, “So I know exactly what you were feeling back on Earth…trust me.” 

You leaned closer to him, feeling a familiar tightness in your throat.

“These people,” He motioned towards the photos, “They didn’t give a shit who I was, or where I came from, or what baggage I had. They accepted me, the real me, and became more of a family than I could ever ask for.” He turned to you fully, one hand coming to rest on your shoulder, the other petting Fat Nuggets snoring body. “I know they’d do the same for you, you just gotta give them a chance.”

The tears came freely now, and against all better judgement you stepped closer to lean against Angels chest, careful not to squish the sleeping pig in your arms. Four slender arms embraced you, and for the first time since you’d arrived in Hell, you could breathe. 

[ninyard]

do you think you might do the aaron trial social media coverage? i ask mostly cause you're too good at what you do, some of these fake bitches made me mad i wanna see them humbled

I’d like to!!! I’m just thinking about any of the famous trials that have went on recently and how big they were on social media ++ my brain is ready to sit here and come up with like a two week timeline from the start to end of this trial. I’m making a mock trial happen in my brain just to figure out how it would potentially pan out

I wanna see all these people who assumed it was Andrew be absolutely mortified and humbled when they tweet “omg so sad what happened to Andrew!” And someone response “this you?” With a tweet that’s like “ANDREWS A PSYCHO”

I think considering all the little things that I do to make em more realistic, it’s only right that I like…commission some artists to draw their courtroom sketches or something because I don’t think I can do the tweets without having SOMETHING that makes it feel like some sort of trial actually happened

[purrplegyuu]

The best for both of us | Choi Beomgyu

Pairing: Writter!oc (named Seoli), animator!Beomgyu

Warnings: penetrative sex, oral (fem receiving), clitoris stimulation, unprotected sex, overstimulation, poor plot, gaslighting, non corresponded love, toxic Beomgyu, soft som Beomgyu, sub reader, lemmie know if im missing something.

Word count: 2,6k

Masterlist

“We’ve already read your book and it’s amazing. We also saw the animations, and we all thought they are perfect for our style. However…” he stops talking.

“However, it’s too disturbing for anyone under fifteen” says his boss. The woman, the owner of the video games company, who wears an expensive suit that screams everywhere she’s a squared closed box. I don’t really know how she manages a video games company. “Which wouldn’t concern us if we didn’t want the money, but we need this project to be suitable for all ages”

“I talked about this before, I have already rejected various contracts because I’m not interested in any project in which my art is changed” I say.

“Well, as I already said before, we need this to be suitable for all ages”

I stand up, taking my documents from the table, and when I’m about to leave, Beomgyu takes my arm, forcing me to sit down.

“Well, why don’t we listen to their proposal?” He asks, looking at me with killing eyes, which I don’t really understand since he’s always been on my side when I rejected last projects for the same reason.

“Yeah, sure. We just thought it would be better if Kira’s enemy isn’t her mother but her father. This way, we can avoid some future problems with angry mothers” one of the workers points out in the presentation, the part where all of the changes appear. I frown, disgusted. “We can also make her boyfriend the good guy instead of just another enemy—you know, for the love scenes we need to create a fandom” A good boyfriend? In real life? I cannot help laughing sarcastically at this, to which Beomgyu hits me with his elbow on my arm. “And she might also change a little bit—see, this is Kira before, and this might be her after” the picture on the presentation shows the draw Beomgyu made with my instructions. I told him to use only black ink, and draw it very messy. I remember the day we decided that this art style was just perfect for my book. When I created Kira I was thinking of the worst part of the world, I even got inspired by my own life. She’s too thin because she had very poor eating habits, she’s tall, her hair is messy and greasy and the clothes she wears are made for someone bigger. Which makes a big contrast with the whole new character they made—this Kira is short, and has a big pair of round boobs, a tiny waist and big thighs; her hair is pretty and… she just seems like another video game girl character.

“We will skip her eating disorder, and she will not die at the end. There’s obviously more changes to do, but those are the most important ones”

Everyone looks at me while I try to do as much as I can in order to not explode there and then. I feel just so offended that I cannot even speak. Even if I open my mouth, nothing comes out.

I stand up, take my papers and get out of the office, not even worrying if Beomgyu tries to hold me once again.

After an hour or two of getting back home, I finally start to calm down. That’s exactly when Beomgyu enters home too.

“Fuck, you could have waited for me, you know?” He wasn’t mad, that’s just his usual behavior.

“Seoli, we need to talk” I do not turn around to face him, keeping up on reading the instructions of the new bedroom lamp I just bought. “Seoli” he takes my hand, forcing me to turn around. “Why do you keep rejecting any minor change in your books?”

I turn my eyes. “You should know that, Gyu. My books are all too personal. If I write something is because I feel it, and I don’t like it to be changed”

“Yeah, I understand that, but you cannot keep rejecting every opportunity you have” he sighs. “See, babe, I think this is the best company you’ve been contacted by, and if you want to succeed, you should sign with them”

I frown. “Why do you like this company that much? I’ve rejected thousands of companies before, and you always supported me”

“I’m just looking for the best for both of us. We’re twenty now, but soon, we’re gonna be thirty, and forty, and fifty; we need to make money for the future… this isn’t a big company—small enough for you to be important and ask for almost everything you want, but also big enough to succeed monetarily and as an artist. This is just what we need”

“I don’t care about the money, everything I care about is being loyal to myself. I won’t sell myself and my art to some shitty company. The things they said to me in that reunion were almost insulting! How the fuck am I supposed to be fine while seeing one of my deepest books being thrown away this bad and be happy with it because I MIGHT get two hundred dollars a month from now on?! Specially in this one book!… this is almost my own autobiography…” the last words were almost audible, very low in contrast with the rest of my screams. It hurts my heart as I said it.

I see some kind of compassion in my colleague’s eyes. We never talked too deeply about it, but I did tell him that most of my books have some kind of self insert somewhere, but never as important as this one.

He takes my body in his hands, hugging me so comfortably as one only time before—when I confessed to him, and he said sorry because he couldn’t correspond to me.

He moves apart without letting me go, and unexpectedly, takes the back of my neck and kisses me. He only touches my lips with his once, moving away just a little, and then kisses me deeper when I take the back of his neck also with my right hand and his shoulder with my left hand.

He’s gentle at first, only leaving some close mouthed kisses on my lips, until he notices I’m more eager, and then, he devours my mouth whole like it's the last thing he’s gonna do on earth.

His hands travel all over my body as he starts kissing the side of my neck, sucking on my skin, biting and then licking, to which I cannot do anything but hum in pleasure—he touches my back, caresses my waist and pushes the hem of my gray shirt up.

I squeeze his shoulder when he take off my shirt and starts kissing my clavicles, and scream of pleasure as he bites the bone.

While devouring my torax, he manages to take off my black bralette, and kisses all of the skin of my small breasts, making me wonder if he actually likes the curvy girls he shows me of it it’s always been nothing but a façade in order to no look like a pervert.

He takes my hand from the back of his neck, moving away from me, unbuttoning my low-rise jeans and lowering my panties, then guiding me to sit on the couch. I oblige, and soon he’s kissing my body again, my abdomen, my pelvis, my thighs—which he takes and puts them over his shoulders before looking at me, right in the eyes as if looking for consent, but keeps going without a second of thought.

I scream when I feel his muscle exploring all of my cunt without a warning.

“Gyu-“ I moan while tapping his back with the tip of my foot.

He notices I got more sensitive everytime he stimulates my clitoris with his tongue, so he decides to do precisely this while one of his fingers caresses my entrance. A second finger enters, and he starts scissoring as if measuring if something will be able to come in.

My hand found its way on Beomgyu’s fluffy hair, which I take strongly trying to move it apart but also trying to keep it as close as I can.

Once he positions himself on the perfect way to have me screaming his name once and again and again, he starts doing it nonstop, faster, and holding my body by my pelvic area so I don’t move too much. My whole body trembles from pleasure, and I feel the knot on my lower abdomen tightening so much I feel it’s about to break.

And within thirty seconds morr, my whole body spasms under his, while I scream nonesenses and cry his name. He keeps on licking my whole cunt, cleaning me from my orgasm, making me cry at the oversensitivity. I try to push his face away, however, my strength after an orgasm is always null.

He goes back to the same speed as earlier, to which I scream: “Too much, gyu!”, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his pace becomes even faster, making my head spin as I unexpectedly orgasm once again, faster than the first time.

He caresses my pelvic bones, licking my juices from his face. He stands up and kisses my lips once again, letting me taste my own cum.

I hear his right hand unbuttoning his jeans while his left hand helps him hover over me. I hear his clothes fall to the ground, and then, his tip touches my left thigh. I move away from the kiss for a second, moaning as I mentally prepare myself for having sex after one and a half large years of not being active.

“I know it’s always been hard to go through changes, babe,” he mutters in between kisses. “but everything I’m doing is looking for the best for you. You’re really successful with your books, but you don’t know if it will ever change as you grow up” the contrast between his lovely words and his condescending voice tone, and his hand lifting one of my legs up to my ribs making me go crazy. “Besides, you can ask for any change you want, and as long as it doesn’t make the game too disturbing for kids under twelve years old, they will accept it” the tip of his cock touches my clitoris at first, and then, he explores my whole cunt, looking too casual in contrast with my high expression. “Seoli, I will always be by your side” and suddenly, that option didn’t seem like trash anymore.

With that, he puts the head of his cock inside my entrance, to which I scream squeezing his shoulder. He goes back to kiss my clavicles while going on until he bottoms out. Feeling his tip against my spongy point, the deepest part of my cunt, makes me forget about all of the doubts I have, and I already know that the second I wake up tomorrow, I will be calling the company and ask for them to meet again.

He doesn’t give me time to get used to his big size, and starts moving immediately after he bottoms out, at a savage pace that makes my head spin. The way he’s hitting my cervix strongly over and over again has me cumming after less than two or three minutes. He doesn’t stop there though, and doesn’t even slow down. The second orgasm comes after maybe five minutes more, much more intense and piercing. My legs tremble, and he chuckles while taking my other leg and lifting it up to my chest also, making his cock go even deeper.

He holds both my legs up with one hand while the other stimulates my clitoris in circular motion, nonstoping, without giving me time to recover.

I cum once again, and my whole body feels so tense I feel like I'm about to break.

“Gyu-yu, I can’t anymore” I cry, the tears spilling from the corner of my eyes as I take his shoulders, trying to move his body away from mine. “please”

“I know, sweet, but you’re gonna help me cum too, right? You’re not a selfish princess, right?” His face is not close to mine now, and my legs find their way on his shoulders while he prepares himself for fucking my cunt faster and stronger than before.

I squeeze the silk of the couch, while my tears run down my face and all over the couch, and I scream his name over and over. His pace becoming even more animalistic as I feel his cock twitch inside of my vagina, the heat inside of me making me feel like I’m about to be torn there and then. The feeling is so unbearable, but also addictive. At this point, I don’t even understand myself.

He cums inside of me with a guttural growl, and keeps fucking his cum in for some seconds before using his hand to try to put his cum in when it tries to escape. I cum on his fingers one last time, and he leaves a kiss on my forehead.

(…)

I fix my lanyard with my work ID on my neck, holding my drawing tablet and the handmade sketches I’ve made.

“Oh, see! There’s coffee over there!” Beomgyu says amazed.

“Every company has coffee for workers, Gyu”

He goes to get a cup while I look for the office. The boss asked me to meet her once I accepted working with her. I signed the contract a week ago after making her accept the clause of letting my opinion be the most important one over there.

“Oh, Seoli!” That voice… it’s just impossible to forget it. “Oh my god, I’m so excited to see you again! Ever since high school I knew you were gonna succeed, you’re so talented!”

We went to high school together, and after we graduated, we also went to the same college. She stuck to me since then, but I never liked her a lot. She wasn’t a bad person, I just didn’t match her energy. However, I did everything I could in order to separate her from me in college, right after I realized Beomgyu liked her. Beomgyu and I met at college—the three of us decided to study an art major—, and it took us only one semester to start living together as roommates, and two more months to start working together on the animation of my books. We left college so we could put all of our time on making money with the animations, and luckily, that was enough for Beomgyu to forget her. At least that was what I thought.

“Dami? Do you work here?” I ask.

“Kind of. My mother is the owner of this company, and she likes me to participate on all of the projects. We’re gonna be a team! Just like in college!” She says with a big smile. “Where’s Beomgyu, by the way?”

Everything makes sense suddenly, why did he get so excited when I received the invitation to this company, and why was he so eager for me to come, and why did he want me to stay here.

I turn around slowly, and as soon as I find him with a scared expression, I feel my eyes ache.

He fucked me so he could get a chance with the one girl he likes.

How dumb.

[relaxxattack]

a dumb little dialogue exercise for fun

DAVE: ok so this is probably going to come as a shock to you JADE: youre dying your hair? DAVE: what DAVE: no DAVE: why do you think id look better with dyed hair DAVE: what the fuck whats wrong with my hair DAVE: should i dye it black JADE: no silly i was just guessing something that would be shocking!! DAVE: oh JADE: duh DAVE: ok JADE: duhhhhh DAVE: yeah yeah JADE: what were you gonna say? DAVE: ok well DAVE: basically DAVE: i havent told anyone else this first of all you get to be the first to know JADE: :0 DAVE: partially because i think rose might already know and be smug about it if i tell her DAVE: and partially because youre my friend and maybe i want to make things between us super weird forever by telling you DAVE: not that i want shit to be weird forever i just wanted you to know a thing and itll probably just make shit weird forever like you know the very basics of cause and effect and im like one of those toddlers that hasnt quite come to grasp with consequences yet JADE: what is it?? DAVE: basically DAVE: shit DAVE: do you ever think you know a thing about yourself and so then you never ever have to think about it again because yeah we got that one clocked and locked chief we never have to examine that ever again now DAVE: but then it turns out that oh shit maybe we didnt actually know shit about fuck and theres a leak in the goddamn brig and now this whole shop is gonna fucking sink unless someone redefines your entire personality right the fuck now JADE: … DAVE: i think im gay JADE: ohhh... JADE: yeah i kind of knew that dumbass :P DAVE: what how DAVE: did your fucking magic clouds tell you that bullshit too DAVE: were they drawing suspiciously phallic shapes above my sleeping head in a really obvious infographic about teenage repression JADE: no JADE: well um… do you remember davesprite DAVE: vaguely