#buzzing like flies in a web

[tango-of-webs]

gay people 😒😒/j

james, sorry to break it to ya, the entire facility is gay (including you) /lhj

[an-android-in-a-tutu]

Romancing the Exit Sign

Art: @nickelkeep

Writing: @an-android-in-a-tutu

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Other Tags: Alternate Universe, Eldritch Horror, Cults, Gore, Suicidal Ideation, Mystery

Summary: A teenage boy is left to die in a shallow grave and something slithers into his bones. Devotees of an ancient god work to bring Her into the world, as with equivalent fanaticism, a man on a mission picks them off one by one. A lonesome drifter crosses paths with a mysterious stranger and finds himself inexorably drawn into the middle of it all.

Dean Winchester is adrift. All he has is his car, the next hunt, and a conversation he doesn't want to have waiting for him in California. Then a case involving mangled bodies washing up on shore in an idyllic lakeside community puts him on the trail of a man calling himself Castiel, and the dangerous web he's entangled in. Dean is used to living in a world of monsters, but the End of Days is a little out of his wheelhouse. Especially when his only ally is determined to keep his secrets behind his teeth, even as they draw closer together. Still, he intends to see things through, no matter how dark the path ahead gets.

It's either that, or call his brother.

Excerpt:

The smell of rot was stronger here, flies buzzing away over what looked to be the remains of animals, shunted into the corners, bones and bits of fur and unidentifiable red mush. The walls were covered with scrawls, symbols and pictures painted in something dark and shiny, and pools of wax melted around stubs of burnt out candles littered the room. The centerpiece, though, was the massive pool of blood that had soaked into the decaying floorboards, half obscuring the scrawl of a magic circle underneath, five points of a star, each adorned with a tool of the trade: an offering bowl filled with lumpy ash, an incense holder, a dull copper coloured knife, a bundle of herbs and feathers, and a black crystal.

“Guess it was a gateway drug after all,” he muttered, stepping forward and tracing the script that filled the circle with his eyes. He couldn’t identify it, but he didn’t have to be a scholar to figure whatever it was was major bad juju.

Cas stood with his back to all of it, staring at the symbols on the wall across from the door.

“Looks like we found the right place,” Dean said wryly. “Good call, Cas.”

Cas didn’t answer, stayed facing the wall. Something about the line of his back set Dean ill at ease.

“Hey-” He took another step forward.

Something whispered in his ear.

Dean whirled, staring into the empty space behind him, his hand coming up to his neck where he could have sworn he’d felt someone’s breath.

“What the hell-” He took two steps back, away from the open door, jumping when his foot collided with the offering bowl, knocking it over with a clatter that rang loud in the silence.

No, not silence. There was whispering, still. Constant, so quiet as to be indistinct, but if Dean strained his ears he could just hear it.

“Cas?” He called out, shaky. “Do you hear…”

His voice died in his throat as he turned and caught sight of the man again, silhouetted against that strange mural, a jarring gap in the twisting symbols that seemed to draw them in, they curled towards him, writhing on the wall as the room darkened, the shadows pulling in and the whispers getting louder until he could make out the shape of words-

Come home.

Dean’s pulse pounded in his ears, a drumbeat to accompany the chant. Come home, come home, come home to me. In front of the wall of writhing shadows, Cas started to turn, and something in Dean quailed, knowing he wasn’t prepared, wasn’t ready, but stuck in place all the same by his wanting.

Come home to the Mother.

Coming in October as part of the @deancashorrorfest!

[valentiyne]

𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 ✘ 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗆!𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝖾𝗋

TASM!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Summary: Uncovering the truth about your little affair with Spiderman to your obvious friend Peter. What could go wrong? (Let me know if I should do a part two!)

Warnings: Mild cursing & Peter being a dork

Word Count: 1.5k (not proofread)

Copyright © 2024 Valentiyne. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

Peter Parker stuck to himself for a majority of his time at Empire State High. I met him in middle school but we didn't meet up until eighth grade, and when I was stuck next to him in Chemistry- I knew we'd be inseparable. He was a nerd, a 4.8 GPA and enrolled in almost every club the counselors would allow.

He was a nerd, but he was also my best friend. My best friend that I hadn't talked to in two years.

The hundredth refilled coffee of the night almost dropped me to my knees. I was beyond exhausted, and it didn't help that my phone was almost dead. It was my fourth double this week, and I knew no amount of Redbulls would keep me going. There were a few stray customers sitting around the counter, reading the daily bugle or staring up at the old television playing a recap of the morning news.

Ben, a man who I've come to learn as a night shift security guard always came in before close. His hair was black with a few stray greys, mid forties with no wife or kids. He ordered a cherry pie with a black coffee and sat in silence until it was time to close.

He left a hefty tip- so I didn't mind.

"How you doing, Cherry." His nickname rolled off his tongue as he reaches down to grab his sweater from the stool. He knew everything about Peter and I, he had been here to see it all.

I shrug, dropping my dirty rag in the sink with a sigh. "I'll be okay."

"You said that two years ago when I first asked you." He teased, earning a small smile from me.

"That's what I like to see," He drops a twenty on the counter and gives a soft wave, letting the bells from the front door do the talking as he left to work.

As I lock the front door, I drop my skateboard to the floor and kick my feet up to head home. The skateboard was a limited edition OSCORP branded drop. Peter had camped out for two days to get it for me before the beginning of sophomore year, and i've treasured it every since. The train left 7 minutes ago, and I knew it would be a good forty minutes before I was home.

My headphones flowed with my hair as I pushed myself faster down the sidewalk. Queen was almost dead this time of night, aside from a few people who roamed the streets- and of course the vigilante the daily bugle has named Spider Man.

I've learned of his existence from a newspaper Ben was reading, his red and blue suit depicting on the front cover. It was something out a movie- a man who flies through the air with webs?

Peter thought it was fascinating, of course he did. He was a boy who thought everything was fascinating- except for me.

It wasn't that big of a deal, he liked Gwen. She was everything I wasn't. She had an internship at Oscorp, she was involved in the community, she was smart- if not smarter than Peter. Thank you Linkedln!

He was head over heels for her. And I was head over heels for him.

As my skateboard glided over the concrete, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket a few times. Slipping it out, I glance down to my screen to see a couple of messages from my roommate.

Just as I went to open the messages, my skateboard halted and I was launched from the board- sideways ankle and chin first into the rough pavement. "Fuck!" I cry out, my shaky hands immediately reaching for my chin. Crimson blood littered my fingers and I groaned obnoxiously, leaning down to my now shattered phone to check and see if it was still salvageable.

It was not.

Groaning in pain, I managed to extend my ankle out and look at it. It was probably a sprain, nothing that wasn't too life threatening but I knew I wasn't going to be able to skate any further.

Speaking of skating... Where the hell is my board?

I glance around the dark sidewalk, squinting to correct my vision but it was no use. My board was gone. I leaned down in pain, clutching my ankle and letting the blood drip onto the pavement below me.

I was screwed.

Peter kept his promise he had made to her years ago. He made sure she got home safe every night she worked. He watched her step out of the diner with his heart in his throat as he dangled off the side of a building. He had overheard all the conversations she had at work, not in a creepy way- he just wanted to know if she talked about him to some of her regulars.

His side hurt from a beating he took a few hours ago, a fight he had to cut short because he didn't want to miss "watching" her go home. He could have easily taken the guy out, but his mind was so lost on what went wrong between him and her. He wanted to just sleep. But the city never slept, and neither did he.

He left Gwen's apartment early this morning, almost couldn't stand the feeling of not watching and keeping tabs on the girl. His girl. It took him almost an hour to put the suit on, feeling like he wasn't strong enough mentally anymore. He wanted to walk her home as Peter, not Spiderman.

He told himself: stay away from her. Keep her safe that way.

But watching her collide with the pavement, her face hitting the hard cement and the board he had bought her going flying- he knew he had to step in.

I wiped the last of my blood from my chin with the back of my hand when a voice suddenly spoke right behind me.

"Ahem, You-Uh... You okay Miss?"

I yelped, turning around to see no one was there. My eyes traveling down the dark street and sidewalks.

Am I going crazy?

I look back down to my hands that were now stained red when the voice spoke again,

"I'm up here.." My head slowly angled upward and I see it- well I see him.

Standing ontop of a street light infront of me, I see none other than Spider Man.

"Yeah-" I cut my sentance off, my mind suddenly wandering to the fact that I was speaking to the infamous vigilante.

His head turns, his eyes on his mask narrowing at me. His mannerisms were odd, almost...familiar?

I look around, avoiding his gaze. "I fell off my skateboard... i need to get up," I hoist myself onto my right foot.

"Whoa whoa whoa", The man suddenly jumps down from his crouch position above and puts his hands on my shoulders. As his masked hands touch my shoulder, he flinches slightly. "The board isn't important, you're hurt."

My head shakes quickly, almost scrambling to get back on my feet. "No No no, you don't understand. That board, someone... he gave it to me."

The man steps back now, his eyes widening as he looks down at me. He looks... confused?

"Who did?"

I mentally slap myself in the face. He wasn't a therapist, he was a hero. I take a deep breath, "An old friend...." The breath that I let out was shaky, almost like I was about to cry.

The man now puts his hands up in defense, letting me get up onto my feet with a wince. I stumbled a bit from the unevenness, but I eventually got myself steady.

"I sprained my ankle," I say, gritting my teeth.

He immediately kneels down beside me and I limped as he starts to examine my ankle. He moves it gently, taking care not to cause any more pain. "It's not too bad," he says, "But it could use some ice."

I gave up hope looking for the board, and I let out a frustrated groan. I was annoyed. It was the last thing I had of Peter's, and now it was gone too.

"Shouldn't you be stopping a heist?" I suddenly snap, turning around to see the man standing behind me awkwardly.

He looks down at me and leans his hand back to scratch his neck sheepishly. "I saw what happened so.. I uh.. I wanted to help."

I look up at him now, feeling comforted by his presence. His posture, his voice, and everything else about him. He was familiar, but I couldn't place a finger on it.

I can't help but wonder how many other people he's helped like this. It's hard to believe that someone so extraordinary could exist in real life.

Now I just needed to figure out how I was going to get home.

[serenaisavillain]

The Veiled Serenade

Summary: Prince Aemond and his brother Aegon traverse amidst the murky depths of Flea Bottom, where darkness reigns supreme. A web of intrigue is woven, fraught with forbidden desires and veiled intentions. As alliances shift and secrets unravel, the stage is set for an ardent tale of power, betrayal, and illicit love affairs in the heart of King's Landing.

Warnings: Contains sensitive themes, including imagery of graphic violence, as well as depictions of sexual assault and harassment. The story contains explicit language and mature themes, including substance abuse and addiction. Authors Note: I'd love to hear your thoughts on the fic. Word Count: 1.2k Series: II

Aemond One-Eye.

HE COULD HEAR the hushed voices all around him. The prying eyes. The second son of Viserys and Alicent sat staring down into his piss-yellow chalice of ale. His brother Aegon had whispered into his ear at supper that they should get up to some mischief, and Aemond knowing better than to let him go alone, indulged him. There they sat in the belly of Flea Bottom, in the dim light of a tavern surrounded by cretin.

Flies buzzed around sloppily made pies on dingy round tables.

His eye gazed upon the filthy wooden floor covered in spilt ale, retch, piss, and gods knew what else.

Aemond's garments stuck to his sweat-slicked skin, making them practically translucent, and his flowing hair was reduced to damp waves. He was exposed.

The jabbering was incessant and the young prince's ears ached.

"Are you not happy that we found this place?" Aegon slurred. His wrist twisted as he spoke, his ale throwing itself over the rim of the chalice and onto the table.

Aemond cleared his throat and cast his eye towards the small stage in the centre of the room.

A musician with a mandolin stood there plucking a solemn tune.

And there he saw her. A girl no older than him of nine and one, glided in behind the instrumentalist.

Her tawny skin glistened like a bronze coin in the vicious heat of King's Landing. She was statuesque, her frame draped in a thin, silk frock. Her hair sat above her head, a crown of leaves, their branches reaching up and out.

He observed her closer, his chest rising and falling.

Her heart-shaped face accessorized by her dark eyes and long eyelashes. Her broad nose cast shadows on her cheeks in the candlelight, and her plump lips appeared shining as though they were drenched in honey.

"As wind grows cold this winters eve

The babe will cry

The thief will steal

For hunger robs them both of joy

Their empty bellies whine and roar..."

The prince's eye twitched.

Her voice was silvery, each word she chanted clawing itself into his mind.

His heart clenched.

"Excuse me dear brother," Aemond muttered.

Aegon smirked at him.

"Like what you see eh?" He taunted.

"I just need to take a piss," the one-eyed boy huffed and walked off.

The moon was pregnant in the sky, its halo casting a glow over the white-haired prince.

He inhaled.

Slightly chilled air filled his aching lungs.

He could only imagine the night on dragon-back. How the heavens would part for him and Vhagar. The wind whirling through his mane.

"I take it you did not like my song my prince?" He heard a honeyed voice.

The prince swallowed.

"I feel indifferent towards your serenading" He said refusing to turn around and meet her eyes.

She chuckled.

The girl smoothed out her garment and took a step towards him.

"I do not wish to hear such slanders," He turned facing her, eyebrows raised, eyes widened and nostrils flared.

He saw the glimmer of mischief in her amber eyes before she opened her mouth.

"Slanders must be false to be slanders my prince..." she retorted with a smirk on her shimmering lips.

The young man rolled his eyes.

"That's not a very royal gesture," she gasped, placing her soft fingers on her plump cheek.

"Forgive me Lady..."

"Waters," she curtsied.

"Ah... it makes sense now."

The young woman arched her eyebrow.

"And what exactly makes sense?" She mocked.

"You're a bastard."

She slapped him.

Her soft palm licked his face as quick as lightning struck.

His eyes darkened and a smile crept on his face before he caught her wrist.

"I must behest you... do not do that again." He said lowly.

The girl laughed dryly.

"It is a good thing I am not your servant." She spat before boxing him again.

The prince grunted behind bared teeth. Taking her other hand and pushing her smaller body into the shadowy side of the stone tavern.

Her breath was ragged as she struggled against him.

He smelled the perfume of her hair; peach, summer fruits, and white flowers. He inhaled the oil of her skin, a voluptuous bunch of spices, and allowed himself to let his eye flutter close for less than a minute.

The doors of the tavern burst open and out poured two men in search of someone.

Their footsteps furious against the moist dirt below them.

"Y/N?!" A man hollered. Aemond recognized him as the musician on stage earlier with the mandolin.

He was tall and hulking, his face covered by a full beard and his hair black and of neck length.

"Aemond." his brother slurred, before swaying into the direction of his white-haired kin.

He was laughing.

"You filthy dog. I knew you saw something you liked... perhaps we can both..." He rasped.

"Fin!" the girl whined in protest.

"Get off of her!" the musician yelled.

Aegon laughed so hard he thought he might fall over.

"First come first serve. My brother spotted her first. Maybe you'll get your turn after we've finished." he spat, itching at his sword.

Aemond loosened his grip on the girl's clothes.

"I am not a whore!" She cried attempting to shuffle past.

Aegon laughed again.

"No, no. Of course not... what do you prefer to be called these days?" He raised his eyebrows.

The other man's fist tightened.

"Whether you wear a crown or not matters little. You owe her an apology, else you'll find your guts spilled from belly to balls." The tall figure grumbled.

Aemond grabbed his brother pulling him as he walked.

"Did you hear what he-"

"Shut up! you've had too much to drink." The sober brother responded.

AEMOND PACED AROUND HIS CHAMBERS.

Y/N... he thought.

The wind was cold tonight, blowing past the Dornish silk curtains and against his pale skin.

Perhaps he was too harsh with her.

He rubbed his forehead.

And his brother Aegon... he had made a fool of himself once again. His subjects were never fond of him, but now their family was surely falling out of the common folk's favour.

The boy lay back on the menagerie of pillows that sat atop the stack of goose-feather mattresses he called his bed, picturing Y/N's tear-stained face.

He had never stooped so low as to put his hands on a woman.

How in the seven hells would he make this right?

He had no idea.

The banging on his door startled him, and he rushed to clothe himself after stumbling to his feet.

Behind the heavy Valerian steel door loomed his mother, all five foot five of her.

[rainbowchaox]

OKOKOKOKOK ANOTHER AU FOR ADOPTION:

Space Romance Au

Pretty much Earth sends out people on missions to research alien flora and fauna. They arrive on a distant planet and live in like a portable housing/research station. The station has good housing quarters and labs filled with the best equipment. Also each station has a food replicator. Usually these stations are only manned by one human. Mostly everything is automatic. And Missa is part of this project and is currently manned on the recently found planet coined Vita Viridis.

Vita Viridis is an oxygen rich planet whose natural flora experience gigantism. It’s heavily forested with flora reaching almost unnatural proportions. It tends to be a mild climate but does have typical seasons. It’s tends to rain often and it’s common for bodies of water to dot the surface. So often in fact that Missa usually goes around by boat.

The station Missa resides in is on an island in a middle of a swamp which the roots of the massive trees delve into. It’s the only dry land he saw when he landed so he had to make do. And also why he takes full advantage of the water to explore Vita Viridis.

But the fact is Missa soon realizes he is not alone. Introducing the humanoid insectoid species of Vita Viridis. (Thank you @changeling-ash for all of these)

Class: Suprainsecta (Above Insect)

Order: Sapenoptera (Wise Winged)

Family: Elytronidae (Covering [wing])

Genus: Sapien Vitari (Wise Vitari)

The common name is Vitari. Named after the planet as it’s the dominant species. And one Vitari is very attached to Missa. A Vitari named Phil. Missa saved him from a giant spider web and he now wants to court the pretty human. And does make himself known often to Missa. He is fully sentient but unable to speak human languages.

Vitari communicate by complicated vocalizations including clicks, chirps, trills, rattles and buzzing. Though they can eventually be taught human languages. Vitari also use wing vibrations to communicate as well.

Missa at first was terrified of Phil because he has common sense and healthy sense of what is dangerous. But it wasn’t long until he found out Phil was pretty harmless and mostly curious (Though it does take him a bit longer to realize that Phil wants to court him)

Vitari have elytra that can make them able to fly. Silver or black are the most common colorings. They also have a stinger of sorts that puts venom into whatever they are hunting. They have black sclera with strange pupils. Their elytra is very fast. Their skin is mostly cartilage but can be numerous shades. They tend to wear basic like robes made from spider silk though some Vitari tribes have ways to dye the silk. And some Vitari communities have made full blown cities deep in the forest. Though it’s more common for Vitari to live isolated lives from the rest of their species.

Anyways Phil is courting human missa. This includes serenades. Mainly flapping his wings to create vibrations (not like actually singing). Phil also does elaborate dances and show off with his flying. Also just in general fly close to him (For example in real life male flies would fly close to female flies for attention). Another big thing is the nuzzles. Phil loves to nuzzle into missa hair or shoulder. Also loves to bump foreheads together. Another thing common in real life is insects prepare a meal for females. So Phil keeps trying to feed Missa with strange creatures he hunted. He eventually learns Missa prefers alien fruits and therefore gathers that for him instead. (Yes Missa falls victim to puppy eyes on his alien love interest and goes against all his common sense and eats the fruit. It’s delicious)

Missa has to contact the crew on earth with new findings and just in general checking he is fine and healthy. And they make fun of him so much for going against basic scientific principles and eating foods he doesn’t know how it would affect his human body. Missa too enamored by sweet alien to not accept his gifts. If he gets poisoned he gets poisoned.

Vitari live in hidden treehouses in the canopy. It tends to use whatever is around them to make it though they make the floor soft with fur and moss to sleep on. And they tend to hoard materials for either expanding their nest of sorts or stock food items. They also make simple tools to help them with their day to day. Vitari are pretty smart.

I personally like to imagine during the period Missa didn’t realize Phil has a crush on him and is courting him the Vitari way is when he had to contact the base on earth about his findings and research and Phil just climbed into his lap for cuddles and nuzzles. As he buzzes and chirps happily. His higher ups are concerned at first that he somehow got the dominant species to want to court him. But he is still doing excellent work so it’s fine with them.

[wthtorke]

Coffee

Asa Emory (The Collector) x Gender-neutral Reader (because I just had to write another one lmao)

Warning for homicidal thoughts - Seen earlier on P4tre0n

At first, it was a game. Asa didn’t think he’d get so invested in the house ‘playhouse’ thing. It also started as a personal challenge. Jokes and jabs were made at him by work colleagues who were only temporarily safe from his wrath for being too close to his…civilian form.

“Emory is going to die bitter and alone.” “Not even the spiders will handle such an old grouch.” “Professors party is next month Emory, no date to take yet? Did you ever have one?”

He decided to end things. He couldn’t end their lives just yet, but he could stop the rumors. Stop the pestering buzzing of flies that mocked him just outside his web. He’d get them in time.

But still, in order not to feel so pressured into doing it, Asa challenged himself. Could he fully morph into one of them briefly? Could he achieve the perfect disguise? His daytime mask wasn’t perfect, and he knew that.

Entomology wasn’t the most normal job out there. And while his house looked pleasant and well cared for on the outside, he still couldn’t hold off his deeper interests in the inside decor. He had flaws. Maybe this would stretch his ‘normal person’ muscles. Who knew?

And then he met you. Or well. He chose you. Old habits die hard.

He planned to keep things shallow and neutral. He didn’t want you coming over more than necessary, nor did he have any interest in going to your place that often. Too much effort.

What he didn’t plan, however, was that you would respect his privacy. And while Asa Emory, Ph.D. in entomology, hadn’t had many close, normal, lasting relationship experiences– He was pretty sure that’s not how things usually went. He also had not planned that whenever you did come to his place, you would be pleasant to be around.

Asa hated questions, especially from people he despised and especially from stupid people. Odd, given his job- but it was just how things were. Anything to keep appearances.

So he tightened his jaw the second you pointed your finger at his Five-Horned Rhinoceros beetle diorama. “Did you preserve that one yourself?”

He almost shifts on his feet, almost. Good question. “I didn’t. It was gifted to me by my college professor.” He hadn’t thought about him in months, even if the diorama was one of his favorites.

You smile, “Oh, that’s adorable.” Nothing about him was adorable other than the fact he liked to be adored. Like a God.

He thinks about killing you after that. Especially after you’ve had sex, especially now that you’re laying right beside him, dead asleep. Vulnerable.

You shift awake, and he doesn’t try to look away from you. He’s too focused to pretend right now. Still, you blink a couple of times and scoot closer to him. His hand twitches under the covers.

“Can’t sleep?” You ask. His eyes shift to your lips as you speak before coming back up. You smile, and whatever is going through your head right now definitely isn’t the same as his. But you still run your hand up his arm. It's almost like asking permission. Asa doesn’t like to be touched, but you learned that if he lets you touch up his arm, the rest should also be okay.

You learned fast. Maybe that's why you were still alive. He was still deciding if he was thankful for that or not. “Come here, then. It’s too late for staring.” You open your arms and use your hands to bring his shoulders closer to you. Closer to your chest.

He goes.

He scratches the thought of killing you after that.

While Asa was not one for getting unfocused- he did blink twice when the professor’s party email popped up in his inbox. And while you had been bringing coffee over, you sure felt concerned for whatever got Asa to blank so hard. You came to learn that 2 seconds was too long without a response from your entomologist. “Asa? Asa-?”

“I forgot about the Professor’s gathering.” He says. You slowly nod in understanding, “Ohhh…Were you obliged to do something for it?” You ask. He then remembers his coffee mug in your waiting hand. “No,” he takes the mug, “we just have to go.”

Your eyebrows do a little jump. “We?”

At this, he turns at you. “You’ve seen them before.” You nod, “Well, yeah- but only when we had a date after your shift- or when we had lunch together.”

“That’s what people in a relationship do.” He says, not trying to make you feel stupid, but almost like he was reassuring himself. You let out a soft laugh, “Yes, but I mean-. Look, I know you like your space, and your things- you don’t have to take me to a formal event because people think its the right thing-”

“But it is.” He counters. You grimace a little, taking a seat beside him at the kitchen table. “Depends-, do you want to go?” You ask him. He frowns.

He considers.

“No.”

You nod. “Then we don’t have to go.” You say, putting your hand over his on his leg. “How about we stay home and do something else? Or we can go somewhere else, or you could use that night to-”

“Stop.”

You freeze, swallowing your words as you retreat your hand from his. “Oh- sorry.” You look up again when he sets his mug on the table, barely having time to react when Asa’s hands cup your face and his lips close in on yours.

You lower your mug more and more as he continues to kiss you. Kissing him was always something different. Different doses of desire, roughness, and dominance. Different amounts of tenderness and care, and sometimes you swore you could feel something else. Only sometimes.

This was one of those times.

You blindly try to set your own mug on the table until his hand guides yours. His hand wraps around your arm and pulls you closer. And closer, and closer. Until you’re getting up from your chair and moving toward him.

Your chest touches his when you straddle his legs. His hand goes up in your hair while the other caresses your face. He breaks the kiss to look at you for a second. His eyes always had that power over you. The power to make you feel bare. Vulnerable.

Your breathing is strained from the kiss. His is from restraint.

He kisses your cheek and moves to your neck. The way he breathes close to your ear in between them makes your legs shake the tiniest bit.

When his hands hook under your thighs, your arms lock around his neck. He lifts you up, and you know what’s next. What you didn’t expect to hear was the small, barely audible “Thank you.” He whispered as he carried you upstairs.

Asa Emory had played himself.

He almost fell for it when your hand touched his in the kitchen. When you looked at him with all the honesty in the world over something so stupid. So willing to mold yourself to him.

But the feeling didn’t go away. Not after the sex, not after the sleep. Not for anything.

He wakes up, and you’re not there. The sheets are cold.

He gets dressed and goes downstairs. The smell of breakfast hits him like a train. Not many times did you both eat like this. At least not in the morning. And if you did, Asa made it. He always woke up first, made breakfast, and left it for you. He always left for work before you woke up. But this time it was different.

He didn't ask for it.

But Asa never had these small gestures of affection towards him. He always had to do shit alone. Always. He almost can’t believe his very eyes. And he definitely cannot believe he’s not -very- angry right now.

He’s standing at the kitchen entrance watching you making breakfast for you both when he realizes that he's in deeper than he thought.

When did you outsmart him? When did he let his guard down?

When did he start liking you this much?

Still, he should have known himself, his soft spot. You.

You were his soft spot. But still, he didn’t imagine it’d go so far. Had he always longed for this intimacy? Deep down? Maybe he did. Maybe the scared little boy did. But he had it now, hadn’t he?

"Alright, all done! And would you look at that, you actually have time to eat before going out! I-...Asa?"

Asa blinks when he hears his name, coming back to reality, "Hm?"

You smile. A soft, fond laugh escapes you as you shake your head. "Come on Mr. Emory, let's get some coffee in you".  You grab his hand, pulling him towards the table where everything is set.

He goes. Gladly.

[histoireettralala]

Victor Hugo on Talleyrand's death

For @empirearchives who was interested, here's a translation of Victor Hugo's text about Talleyrand's death. My thanks to @microcosme11 for her help <33

Choses Vues, Victor Hugo

1838

Talleyrand

19th of May

In the Rue St-Florentin, there is a palace and a sewer.

The palace, with its noble, rich, and dull architecture, was long called "Hôtel de l'Infuntado"; today, we read on its front door: Hôtel Talleyrand. During the fourty years he lived on this street, the last host of this palace might never have set eyes on this sewer.

He was a stranged, feared, and considerable character: his name was Charles-Maurice de Périgord; he was noble as Machiavel, a priest like Gondi, defrocked like Fouché, witty as Voltaire, and lame as the devil. One could say that everything limped with him: the nobility which he had put to the service of the republic, the priesthood he had dragged on the Champ-de-Mars then threw down the drain, the marriage he had broken by twenty scandals and by a voluntary separation, the wit he dishonoured through vileness. This man, nevertheless, had grandeur.

The splendours of both regimes were mixed together inside of him: he was prince of the old kingdom of France, and prince of the French Empire.

For thirty years, from the depth of his palace, from the depth of his mind, he had just about led Europe. He had let the revolution call him "tu", and had smiled at it, ironically of course; but it had not noticed. He had approached, known, observed, pierced, stirred, upturned, delved into, mocked, intellectually fertilized all the men of his era, all the ideas of his century, and there had been a few minutes in his life when, holding in his hand the four or five fearsome threads that moved the civilized universe, he had had for a puppet Napoleon the First, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation. Such was the game this man played.

After the Revolution of July, that old race, whose grand chambellan he was, having fallen, he found himself standing on one foot and told the people of 1830, sitting, bare-armed, on a pile of cobbles: Make me your ambassador.

He had received Mirabeau's last confession and Thiers' first confidence. He had said himself he was a great poet and had made a trilogy in three dynasties: Act I, Buonaparte's Empire; Act 2, The House of Bourbon; Act 3, The House of Orleans.

He had done all of this in his palace, and, in this palace, like a spider in its web, he had attracted into it and taken successively heroes, thinkers, great men, conquerors, kings, princes, emperors, Bonaparte, Sieyès, Mme de Staël, Chateaubriand, Benjamin Constant, Alexander of Russia, Wilhelm of Prussia, Francis of Austria, Louis XVIII, Louis-Philippe, all the golden, shiny flies who buzzed in the history of those last fourty years. The whole sparkling swarm, fascinated by this man's deep eye, had successively passed under the dark door that bore, written on its architrave: Hôtel Talleyrand.

Well, the day before yesterday, 17 March, 1838, that man died. Doctors came and embalmed the corpse. For this, like the Egyptians, they first withdrew the bowels from the belly and the brain from the skull. Once done, after they had transformed the prince de Talleyrand into a mummy, and nailed this mummy in a white satin-lined coffin, they withdrew, leaving upon a table the brain, that brain which thought so many things, inspired so many men, built so many edifices, led two revolutions, fooled twenty kings, contained the world.

Once the doctors were gone, a valet entered, he saw what they had left. Hold on! they forgot this. What to do ? He remembered that there was a sewer in the street, he went there, and threw that brain into this sewer.

Finis rerum.

[scotianostra]

On July 7th 1814, Waverley, Walter Scott’s Scott’s first novel, was published.

The authorship of the Waverley Novels was a mystery until 1827, when Sir Walter Scott was revealed as the writer behind them. They were some of the most popular and widely read books in Europe, and reinforced Scott’s reputation as a literary superstar. The first novel, Waverley, sold its first edition of 1, 000 copies in two days and went on to sell more than all the novels published in 1814 put together. It depicts the 1745 Jacobite rising and is regarded as the first work of historical fiction.

It’s probable that Scott kept his authorship of Waverley a secret because his switch from writing poetry to historical prose fiction was such a personal experiment. It’s also likely that the buzz surrounding the mystery of the author was good for book sales, and perversely enjoyable for Scott. Such was the success of Waverley that the subsequent novels were simply ascribed to ‘the Author of Waverley’.

Scott had told only a handful of friends about the book, and they spent years trying to convince him to reveal himself.

His cover was finally blown at the Edinburgh Theatrical Fund dinner at the Assembly Rooms by judge Lord Meadowbank in front of three hundred fellow guests, who all burst out cheering.

The Waverley series was originally published by Archibald Constable and Co., Edinburgh but has been reprinted many times since.

'Waverley' is named after its hero, Edward Waverley, a young Englishman who arrives in Scotland just before the 1745 Jacobite Rising.

Set all over Britain, from London to the Highlands, the book brings to life characters on both sides of the 1745 Rising.

The quotation from Shakespeare's 'Henry IV' Part II on the title page hints at the divided loyalties of the hero and his choice between King George III and Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Dissatisfied with his original draft of the opening of this chapter, which takes Edward Waverley and other leading characters to Bonnie Prince Charlie's court at Edinburgh, Scott tore out the section and rewrote it

After hearing the 'unfavourable opinion' of a 'critical friend' about the first seven chapters of the novel, Scott put the manuscript aside in a writing desk which ended up in an attic at Abbotsford. He only rediscovered it by accident while looking in the desk for fishing lines and flies.

The novel was published on 7 July 1814. 1000 copies were printed, and it sold for £1.1.0 (one pound and one shilling). Scott's publisher, Archibald Constable, wrote confidently that 'the demand for the book will be instantaneous & great'.

Scott's fascinating storytelling style and his romantic depiction of the Scottish Highlands caused a sensation. Constable's prediction that the book would be popular was proved true: more than 8,000 copies were produced in the following few years.

In the first year of its publication Waverley sold more copies than all other novels issued in the UK that year in total.

Periodically the original manuscript and the first edition of the book featured in the display about Walter Scott's Waverley at the National Library of Scotland on George IV Bridge in Edinburgh.

In 2014, to celbrate the bi-centenary of the books Waverly train station, named after the novels, was decorated with quotes from Sir Walter's writings. It's the only train station in the world named after a novel. Quotes from Sir Walter have been written across the floors and walkways of Waverley Station, including the famous line: "O what a tangled web we weave / When first we practise to deceive." If you ever have time wander round the station and search out the quotes.

Scott also penned the classics Rob Roy, The Heart of Midlothian and Ivanhoe among others. More on the author early next month on his birth date.

Pics are of Sir Walter Scott, a first edition of Waverley held by the National Library and adverts, the first from January telling of the future books, the second stating todays date in 1814.

It is interesting to note that the title is spelled 'Waverly', although Scott consistently used 'Waverley'. His printer, James Ballantyne, used both spellings in his letters to the author.

On 27th January, the advert announced:

'In the press, and speedily will be published, in three volumes, Waverly; or "'Tis sixty years since." A novel. Printed for J Ballantyne and co for Archibald Constable and Co, Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, London.'

The advert on 7th July reads:

'This day was published, handsomely printed in 3 volumes, price £1 1s boards, Waverly; or, "'Tis sixy years since." A novel. "Under what king? — Bezonian, speak, or die." Printed by J Ballantyne and co for Archibald Constable and Co, Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, London.'

These adverts have featured in displays about Walter Scott's 'Waverley' at the National Library.

[small-sinclair]

Just something—

@crumb, I did a thing.

Lester x Vampire!reader

Tw: blood, mention of death, biting, chocking, obsessive reader

“I love you.”

Lester staggered away from your blood soaked shirt and crazed eyes. Fear struck him as he tired to grasp for his Bowie, but it was already dug into the eye socket of the woman at your feet. “Y/n,” his voice cracked. “This ain’t you—!“

“I think you’re the most important person ever,” you went on saying. As you walked, your hips swayed. His eyes couldn’t look away as he gripped his keys tightly. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t run. He’s stuck in your web like a fly to a spider. “Bo’s cute, but he has an ego.” His back was against the side of his truck. “Vincent is talented, but he is too shy for me.” You stopped in front of him and hung your arms around his neck. His body stiffened at your touch. “But, you, Lester Sinclair,” slowly, fangs formed from your teeth as a smile crept, “you’re just right.”

The bullfrogs hummed too loud tonight. The crickets buzzed and chirped as if it was their first time alive. No fire flies burned in the darkness. The full moon lit your face up with a devilish smile. Lester leaned back on the side of his truck farther from you. He closed his eyes as your nails drew hearts around his throat.

“Don’t kill me,” he begged pathetically. “Please, don’t—“

“Shh, shh,” you cooed, caressing his cheeks. “I’m not going to kill you, sweetness.” You leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his cheek. A whimper escaped as he felt his body freeze up. “You’re too cute to kill,” you whispered in his ear. “But,” you giggled shamelessly, “this’ll hurt.”

“No—“

He should’ve known better than to beg to a false angel.

You kissed his neck, marking the spot, and dug your fangs deep into his throat. He tried to scream but only tears rolled down. He wanted to pull away and fight, but it felt like rope was tied. Lester chocked on nothing as your nails racked over his skin, scratching and scaring him like acid and fire. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want this. Lester just wants his sweet y/n back, the one with the cute smile and butterflies in third eyes. He felt like the lamb being led into the slaughter house. Lester’s eyes grew heavy and his knees locked but your arms held him up. Just a few more drops…

“Y/n,” he said your name as if he was chocking on venom. “Stop. Please stop.” His breath was caught in his throat before leaning forward into your arms. Slowly, you lowered him to the forest floor while making sure Bo and Vincent were watching behind you. You could still hear Bo pleading to Vincent to get up, and it made you smile.

The hunters have become the hunted.

Gasping, you leaned away from his neck. To you, his blood was the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted. To you, it’s as if you had angel fruit cake, and you just wanted more… but that would be greedy of you. You rested Lester’s head in your shoulder as you brushed his hair gently, leaning back down to kiss his bloody mark. Your mark. Yours. Everyone will know he’s yours. “My sweet baby,” you cooed. “You did so good.”

“No more,” he whimpers l, his eyes barely staying open. “Please? No-no more.”

You moved your lips from his next and kissed his lips. “Anything for you, opossum,” you praised.

Turning your head, you smiled as you watched Bo stumbled to stand with his brother’s knife in his grasp. It’s funny to watch him fall. You looked back down at Lester and gave him a hug. “Promise I’ll be back for more once you’re stronger,” you promised over his lips, sealing it with a kiss.

You lowered his head to the forest floor as gently as you could and stood up. You looked back at Bo as he held the knife at you, hands shaking like a leaf. You laughed at his pathetical act. Like a knife will do anything!

“Oh, Bo,” you sang as you inched to him. “Put that knife down.”

“Stay the fuck away from him!” He shouted, wincing at his leg. “Don’t touch him—“

In a blink, you were standing in front of him. Your hand shot up and threw him over the dead man. He landed in front of his twin and reached for him, but you were faster. You towered over him as you pulled him up and held Im him in the air by his throat. The power that goes through your body and is burning a hole in your heart and chest felt amazing. To be stronger than Bo and to be better than Vincent? It’s like a dream!

You watched as Bo squirmed in your grasp, kicking at nothing, as his hands scratched yours, but they healed in front of his eyes. You filed your head to the side and squeezed tighter, earning a yelp from him until his fighting started to die. At the last moment, you dropped him and watching gasp and suck on air again. You knelt in front of him and lifted his head. Fear stained his eyes as you inches closer. “Don’t stand in my way,” you warned ever so lightly. You learned your head and kissed his head. “Don’t try to stop me.”

Then you stood and looked into the forest. You’ll be back for more. Besides, Lester is the best thing you’ve had in years, so why let good food go to waste?

You pushed Bo’s face into the mud and stood. As if you were on air, you glided over the blood and grass, stopping to look over your shoulder. Vincent held Bo up in his arms to help him get air, but you only smiled. You’ll be back soon.

Turning, you disappeared into the woods.

[eyeballsoup7310]

In my mind Rachel was kind of like Jane prentiss. She could always feel the buzzing, the itching, the crawling in the shadows. When she would walk home she fought off the urge to stray from the path, to dive into the bayou, to let the trees swallow her. The spider web in the corner of her room grew steadily larger as she stared blearily at it at night. Both her nightmares and her dreams were filled with softly spoken webs, with loneliness despite the millions that surrounded her. She could see cities fall under the feet of restless children on the playground and not-quite-literally felt their pain as her friends dragged her away. She saw the ants get crushed under dominoes during family game night. Her brother and his friends found a dead animal in the woods behind the house once, they brought her with them to check it out. It was covered in maggots, in rot and decay and countless flies. She wanted to stay by them and watch those others eat, but her mom waved her home so she left them alone to feast on the rotted flesh.

She did so good, she thought, of staying away from the bayou. Of avoiding the call of the corrupted. But one day she was left alone — an accident, her parents would later tell the police — and there was no one to drag her away. The call lead her outside, out to the bayou. Where no one would see her, and certainly no one would search for her, and the insects could perch on her waterlogged corpse easily. Rachel Rand never left the bayou once she stepped in. After all, nobody was there to pull her out.

[asteroidtroglodyte]

A God of Small Things

Sunrise: An annelid worm, fat and pink, weaves through blades of dewey grass. A spider shakes the dewdrops off its web. Indigo Bachelor’s Buttons attract the crepuscular moths. A tall Clover, fat red flower spike a foot in the air, shakes. Once. Twice. It vanishes underground with cartoonish speed. Quietly, the munching of a gopher can be heard.

High Sun: Orange Poppies lay open luxuriously in the direct sun, long silky petals faintly iridescent in the hues of the carotenes. Tiny honey bees buzz busily around the abundant, tiny, fragrant, lavender flowers of the Lacey Phacelia. Rocky Mountain Garlands call to the birds in hues of pink and salmon. A mammoth megachilid bee, 5 times the mass of the lesser bees, bumbles loudly around in the sugary cups of Fivespot.

Sundown: Tiny flies dart chaotically in the setting sunbeams like living snow. Spiders in awnings and tall grass bundle the day’s catch for later provision. Distantly, the sound of children yelling can be heard as they chase balls and throw sticks. A blackberry blossom is visited by a late working bee. Isopods appear and disappear, innumerable, between blades of grass and on retaining stones. A leafhopper adjusts its perch on a tall blade of grass, bobbing in the hot wind.

[tango-of-webs]

mentally I'm holding a tiny microphone to you. are you silly? or are you just a homo?

can't I be both? just silly, no homo here!

[living-lucid-dream]

Blind Pico AU (part nine; aka: The Storm)

Part One

Previous

Next

We begin with a glimpse of a text conversation between Nene and Otis:

N: heey kiddo!

N: sending u a file

N: need u to tell me where tf it came from

O: What the hell is this?

O: Is that Pico? Is he OK?

N: hes fine lol

N: just need to know if u can trace dis

O: Where did you even get this?

N: from the dark web ~_^

O: Then there’s probably no way to figure out where it came from.

N: aww shit

N: cant u tell me anything abt it

O: I’ll see if I can find anything that might be useful.

N: omg tysm!

Darnell meets up with Nene. Nene asks if he slept at all last night because he looks like crap. He tells her that no, he didn’t sleep much. Too excited. She asks him if he has the address and he says he does. They go the address Darnell found; it’s an old building in an area of town that is well along the steady slide to slumsville. There is no doorman; the main entrance has a buzz-in feature but it seems to be broken as Darnell just pushes the door open and goes in. The elevator is either broken or so slow it might as well be. They take the stairs to the fourth floor and knock on the door.

O: So I tore into the file. It had a weird little bit of code on it, like a signature.

O: Turns out it was a watermark.

N: lol i have no idea abt any of that

N: but sounds like its a good thing

O: Yeah. It’s a watermark that only shows up in music videos from a specific record label.

N: wat record label is it

O: Coast2Coast in Phili.

N: are u sure

O: Yeah, definitely.

O: So is Pico going to be in a music video or something?

O: Nene?

O: Bye to you too then….

After a few minutes, the door opens as far as the safety chain will allow. Tyler asks them what they want. Nene smiles and sweetly asks him if they can come in for a chat. Tyler tells them not a chance in hell and starts to close the door, but Nene jams her foot in, not letting him close it all the way. She tells him, “You should really just let us in. It might help us avoid any…unpleasantness.”

Tyler tells her to fuck off and tries to slam the door against her foot. Nene sighs and nods at the door. “Darnell?”

Darnell kicks the door hard enough to snap the safety chain. The door flies open, smacking Tyler in the face. He stumbles back in surprise and by the time he recovers, Nene and Darnell have gotten inside and locked the door behind them.

Tyler backs away from them, asks them again what they want, and threatens to call the police. Darnell holds up his hands and says, “Look, man, we just want to talk to you. If you cooperate with us, we’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”

Nene spins a knife and cheerfully adds, “And if you don’t, we’ll see how fast I can chop off your balls! My record is three minutes.”

Tyler goes pale and looks like he might faint. Darnell tells him to sit down and he plops onto a worn-out couch. Once he’s sure Tyler isn’t about to pass out, he says, “We hear you’re quite the Mearest fan.”

Tyler asks them “what’s it to you.” Darnell shrugs and says, “Nothing, really. She’s fine if you’re into pop music.”

“Fine?” Tyler snips back. “She’s the best!”

Nene rolls her eyes and says. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Tyler asks them if they broke into his home for a reason other than to insult his taste in music. Nene says they heard he had a meet and greet with Mearest backstage after her inaugural concert a few weeks ago. Tyler tells them he did.

“You do anything other than that meet and greet while you were back there?” Darnell asks.

Tyler gets shifty and asks them why they want to know. Darnell tells him they have a good friend—a man with red hair who almost ended up dead that night after drinking a drugged beer. He asks Tyler if that rings any bells.

Tyler gets even more antsy and quickly blurts out that he has no idea what Darnell is talking about. Darnell takes out his lighter and starts casually flicking the flame on and off as he says, “Huh. That’s weird. See, our friend, he remembered a few things about the guy that gave him that beer.”

Tyler looks like he is on the verge of wetting himself as he croaks, “Is that so?”

With a shark-like grin, Nene says, “Yep! And the funny thing is, he told us it was a guy with your height, your build, your hair, and—” she lunges forward, snatching his wrist so the tattoo of a Zen labyrinth is clearly visible “—a tattoo just like this one here.”

Nene continues to restrain Tyler as Darnell closes the distance between them. Holding his lighter inches away from Tyler’s nose, he asks, “So, Tyler, what do you have to say about that?”

Tyler tries to duck back, away from the lighter. Nene presses the edge of her knife against his cheek with a playful “Ah-ah-ah! Five seconds to answer the question. Then I get to see if I can break my record.”

Nene starts to count. Tyler doesn’t make it past three before he squeals, “I only did it because she told me to!”

Nene and Darnell exchange a look. “She?”

“Mearest!” Darnell and Nene ask him to clarify. He sobs, “She said I could go to the afterparty if I slipped him a drugged beer. She said it would be funny! I thought it was a joke!”

They back away from Tyler. Darnell thanks Tyler for being so helpful and Nene admonishes the sobbing man “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Once outside the apartment, Nene tells Darnell about the information she received from Otis: that the “Carrot Top” video was made at Coast2Coast Records, the label that manages Mearest. Darnell’s eyes go wide and he says, “Oh, FUCK! The record label!”

Nene gives him a weird look and says, “Uh, sure. Fuck the record label for working with Mearest.”

Darnell shakes his head. “No; I mean we need to get over to the record label NOW!” He explains that Pico and Boyfriend are heading there today for an “exclusive contract signing party” with Dearest. If Mearest was involved with the attack on Pico, then they could be in serious trouble….

Meanwhile, Girlfriend is at home, unable to find her cell phone. She doesn’t want to be late to the signing party, but she also doesn't want to leave without her phone. She comes across Mearest’s phone and decides to try calling her phone to make it ring.

She dials her phone. It rings and rings, but Girlfriend can’t hear it anywhere. She is about set Mearest’s phone aside when she notices that the photos app is open. Seeing that there are pictures from Mearest’s performances (and that Boyfriend is featured in several of the photos), she begins to scroll through the album. She sees short video clips of Mearest as she takes the stage, Mearest singing one of her biggest hits, Boyfriend taking a bow and giving the crowd “finger guns” and peace signs…then she comes across a video that doesn’t seem to fit with the flashy concert clips.

This video clip is much darker than the others and appears to be set in an abandoned building. It begins with Mearest in-frame, standing over something on the ground. Girlfriend’s guts freeze when she realizes that it isn’t something, but someone—Pico. It’s Pico, lying supine with his wrists and ankles bound and clearly very, very drugged.

She watches, disbelieving as Mearest addresses the camera to say, “Since you can’t seem to clean up your messes, I suppose I’ll have to do it for you.” Mearest brandishes a jug of drain cleaner (from Cyril’s Squeaky Clean Shoppe). She turns to one of her backup dancers and asks him to “Be a dear and hold his eyes open for me.” Then, she proceeds to slowly pour the entire contents of the jug into Pico’s eyes.

Pico doesn’t move or scream (he can’t move or scream), but Girlfriend can hear him moaning and whimpering with pain. Girlfriend wants to look away, but some part of her wants to believe that Mearest will stop and proclaim: “Just kidding! None of this is real!” Instead, Mearest tosses the now-empty jug aside, looks at the camera and coos, “Love you, honey!”

One of the backup dancers asks her what they should do with Pico now. She laughs and says, “Do whatever you want. And when you’re done, throw him in the trash with all the other garbage.”

Girlfriend feels tears running down her cheeks. Then, from behind her, Mearest says, “Oh, sweetie. I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

Girlfriend whispers, “It was you. All this time, you…you pretended to care…you pretended to help us! Why would you do this—what did Pico even do to you?”

Mearest sighs and explains that it wasn’t so much what Pico did as what he didn’t do. Pico’s refusal to remove Boyfriend from the backstage area when he had the chance was the entire reason Boyfriend ended up being her opening act that night.

Girlfriend shakes her head. “It wasn’t him. It was me. It was my idea. I’m the reason he went onstage.” Mearest takes a step closer to Girlfriend, but Girlfriend’s eyes begin to glow red as she snaps “DON’T!” Mearest stops in her tracks. Girlfriend growls, “You almost killed him. You blinded him! Do you have any idea how much you hurt me when you hurt him like that?”

Now it’s Mearest’s turn to become angry. “You’re not the only one who’s hurting, darling. Do you have any idea how much sharing the stage with that little blue haired rat has hurt me? People have been coming to my show just to see him—and then they're leaving before I even take the stage! He actually asked if he could do an encore! An opening act doing an encore! And then that absolute travesty of an interview the other day—the crowd couldn’t get enough of him and they treated me like a smelly old sock! Me! Well, let me tell you, nobody gets away with stealing my spotlight. Your father’s seeing to that right now!”

Girlfriend gasps and demands to know what Mearest is talking about. Mearest’s tone becomes softer as she tells Girlfriend not to worry; that Boyfriend was never good enough for her and that she’ll thank her and Dearest once he’s gone—him and his disloyal little red-haired friend.

“Not if I stop him first,” says Girlfriend. She shoulders past Mearest, heading for the front door.

Mearest follows her and says, “It’s already done, darling. Your father has already taken the limo; you’ll never get there fast enough.”

Girlfriend’s skin begins to turn purple. Her horns grow and her eyes turn completely red. Her voice is a distorted, demonic growl as she says, “Then I guess I’ll just have to fly!”

Mearest tells her that if she walks through that door that she shouldn’t bother coming back. Girlfriend doesn’t hesitate. She runs out the door and takes flight.

Meanwhile, Boyfriend and Pico are approaching the record label (Coast2Coast Records). Boyfriend mentions that he’s gotten a few texts from Girlfriend, saying she’s already inside with Dearest and encouraging them both to hurry in because they have a “big surprise” for him. They go inside only to be ambushed by a mob of the Dearest’s henchmen. Boyfriend knocks a few of them out, but they easily restrain Pico and knock his gun away. One of them punches Pico in his still-healing ribs, making him yelp. It’s enough to distract Boyfriend and they’re on him in an instant.

Once Boyfriend and Pico are both immobilized, Dearest steps into the lobby, giving them both a mocking slow-clap. He asks them if they are ready for the “big surprise” before brandishing Girlfriend’s cell phone and saying, “It’s just you and me, boys.”

~

Well, all the cards are on the table now. There is only a little more left and it should all be covered in the next post. Until then, have a great evening!

[rotom-catalogue]

[Video: A livestream of Sootopolis’s contest hall. The lights are focused on a man making his entrance.]

[Keigan is dressed in a black leather vest with a Klawf’s claw embroidered on the back. His hair is a spiky mess behind him. Around his wrists and neck, jewelry made of gold and glass catches the spotlight and sends tiny rainbows scattering around him. He takes a deep breath. The stage is completely silent.]

[Klawf is released from it’s ball. Keigan crouches down to give it a reassuring pat on the head as his Rotom Phone flies out of his pocket, stopping in midair to snap a picture before landing in his hand with a familiar trill.]

[“Alright, Klawf. Just like we practiced. Power Gem!”]

[On command, Klawf raises it’s claws, summoning six glowing crystals from the ground with a powerful cry. Beams of energy form between them, creating a border around the team that spins and rapidly expands as it lowers to the ground.]

[Keigan smiles, then tosses his phone into the air. “Electric Terrain!”]

[Six streaks of lightning fan out, crashing into the gems and forming a web of electricity with Rotom at the top. The phone is abandoned, falling safely back into Keigan's hand as Rotom assumes its basic form. Now encased in a cage of gems and lightning, Keigan raises his hand in the air, looks to Klawf with a grin, and then closes his fist.]

[A sandstorm kicks up, obscuring the trio in mere moments. From the bottom, ghostly blue flames start to rise, soon enveloping the sandstorm in the shape of a flower bud.]

[“Metal Claw! Thunderbolt!”]

[The flaming bud opens, and lighting peals out with a resounding crack. The light of Power Gem streaks out in six glowing beams, whirling around before finally settling down between the flaming petals. Keigan’s voice is barely audible through the chaos.]

[The dust settles, and the light begins to fade. In the center of the stage is Keigan, crouched down with his fist to the floor, with Klawf striking the same pose next to him. Klawf’s claw is encased in shining metal, sparking with the blue electricity of a Rotom. Around them, what remains of the sand drifts slowly to the floor, revealing a spiraling bloom made of glass surrounding them.]

[Tempered by fire and illuminated by crystals, it’s a breathtaking sight, but the routine isn’t over yet. Keigan stands up, opening one hand to the sky and looking at Rotom with a smile.]

[“Sunny Day.”]

[Rotom flies into the air. A bright light from the heavens surrounds him, beaming down upon the glass.]

[The sunlight casts millions of tiny refractions through the glass spiral and across the room, bathing it in multicolored light. In the center of it all, Keigan stands breathing heavily, grinning like he’d never felt so alive. Klawf proudly raises its claws as Rotom descends, both cheering and buzzing excitedly around Keigan. The camera zooms in as looks up to scan the audience, spotting someone and blowing a kiss into the crowd. The video ends as the camera backs up to show his glass blossom in all its glory.]

safe to say it went pretty well

[worshippin]

It’s not unusual for her to watch him as he flies away– always away–, into the dark storm and dodging lightning. A bright purple strike of a lightning bolt cuts the sky, then the air and land beneath.

She feels it all, the static, the buzzing of electricity. But he’s too far away to touch. He’s too far away to hear her prayers; and far too focused on his task to realize she can feel him flying, through every raindrop, every breeze.

Keyleth usually wakes up abruptly, with black feathers under her pillows and sharp thuds on the window. This time, however, he flies around and then floats closer as he suddenly turns from a murder of ravens into a pale-skinned half-elf, a curious look of recognition on his face.

Her chest aches and she gasps as she’s caught there, reaching for him with her whole soul just as he reached for her through the decades, sending her flocks of black birds (well, mostly ravens) to simultaneously haunt and brighten her every waking moment.

“Vax?” She calls out, her voice hoarse like the echoes she hears are different versions of herself screaming and singing  his name.

He doesn’t answer, though he stays there, unmoving, the puzzled expression never leaving his face.

“Vax, can you hear me?”

She holds a hand against her chest, realizing her own heavy breathing. The storm gets heavier. 

“I hope you can hear me,” she adds in a hushed tone. Her face is wet, but she holds onto the fire she carries inside to keep talking, keep seeing him. “I hope you remember… I still haven’t forgotten. You promised me Zephrah. ”

There’s a spark of something for a brief moment, a glint in his eye for a fraction of a second and Keyleth’s entire body fills with hope. But then it flickers, and a mask covers Vax’ildan’s beautiful face, inky dark mist spilling from the slits where the eyes sit as it turns white.

It’s not his voice she hears when the figure speaks. [[MORE]]

“It is not yet your time, child.” 

Pure fury rises inside her as she answers without thinking, “I made the last being who called me that regret it. Were you not there to catch her soul?”

Suddenly, the mask rushes in her direction and stops inches from her face, triplicating in size, imposing with the rest of its form revealing: the long dark veils, pointy hands, swirls of magical threads.

Vax remains at a distance; untouchable.

“You are trespassing, Tempest,” the Matron says, her voice somehow gentle and echoing. “It is not yet your time.”

Keyleth tries to take a deep breath. The raindrops are now suspended in the air, halfway through falling, and she can no longer smell petrichor. Maybe it’s why she feels repulsion and not hatred: she is a druid, after all, one who not only worships but is the elements and life itself and here is the presence of her antithesis, plain death and no rebirth.

“No, it’s not,” she says, voice cracking. “I know that.”

The masked figure leans down, its massive form still towering over her and still growing, trying to encompass the horizon.

“But here you are nonetheless.”

“I can’t help it. I won’t ever stop dreaming of him.”

There’s a pause.

“Careful, Archdruid. You may yet live for a very long time, but you are not actually immortal. Do not disrespect me.”

Keyleth frowns in confusion.

Vax, still out of reach, takes a step closer. And immediately gets pulled back by an invisible force. He shifts, from raven feathers to floating pools of blood to the sharp sound of knives clashing to cloaked humanoid to naked angelic omen and over and over and over again. 

Keyleth forces herself to see and in her mind’s eye it shows itself: a singular thread of pulsating light pulled taught, more evident than the sea of threads all around him, connecting Vax’ildan to something far beyond. Like a ley line or a bridge rope or a leash .

She breathes in and out. 

So it is not just a dream.

“I respect you, Matron,” she affirms, doing her best to ignore the massive masked head nearly blocking her vision now. She keeps her gaze on Vax in the distance, back to shifting from mist to feathers to person-shaped, moving through time and space, occasionally searching her eyes and faintly grinning. “But I can’t pretend to believe to be beneath you. You were once a mortal too so maybe I understand your loneliness, since the other gods probably have their qualms with you.”

"If you wish to honor me… and him," the Matron interrupts, roiling smoke and loose bright strings more clearly pulsating around her now. "You shall leave this place, Tempest, and seek to never return until fate makes it so."

Keyleth clenches her jaw, her heart beating loud in her chest and something boiling around it, spreading through her body like rage. Her fury has no place in Exandria and all the planes together wouldn't be able to contain it. It's been so long and she's still so goddamn angry , so deeply wounded. How dare– ? How cruel .

She holds her hand to her chest in a fist.

Fate.

The word reverberates inside her heart as she doesn't look away from Vax. Her hand opens like a flower blossoming, reaching for the sun.

Fate…

“No," she says, voice stern and composed, as she feels herself tremble not out of fear but as a testament to her control, to her power and her prowess. "I can't do that. It’s been many long years. He won't stop visiting me. So I won't stop reaching back."

The storm starts over, big raindrops falling and twirling in the harsh wind. It nourishes the soil, sprouts roots and vines and trees, tall as mountains, flowers and fruit luscious and ripe. This is not a dream, yet it flows through Keyleth like anything in nature does.

Vax tries to take a step forward once more, but he’s still so, so far away. Still so beautiful, and frozen in time like her. 

Keyleth feels flames licking up her shoulders, her head, the side of her face, her eyes. At her feet the rich wet earth dries and cracks and a pillar grows to propel her upwards, closer to the deity. She hovers in dissipating fog, under the brightest moonlight of Catha with the red hue of Ruidus on her back. 

"I hope you understand that I really do respect you, goddess," she continues. "But I can only treat you as an equal, because…”

Facing the Matron of Death but watching the lost love of her life, feeling in her element perhaps more than she's ever felt, Keyleth promises:

“Because it’s as an equal that I will take back what you stole.”

[i-love-you-all]

cypher?

So much of how I see him is just to do with his role in Valorant. That, and his relationships with other people. I haven't ever really thought about him as who he is, as sad as that is. I think writing When Will My Blood Turn to Ichor was the only point where I thought about him past his job, and even then, he was very much tied to his work or his relationships with other people. I guess that and chess lol

Idk those are my overall thoughts about him. If anyone has characters they would like me to do this for, feel free to send in an ask! Hope you enjoy :))

5 things they usually see:

Screens. So many of them too. Whether it's a security feed, his own phone, a laptop screen, his actual eyes (which I see as a screen or some sort of display - I mean... they look like fly eyes up close)

Checkered, wooden squares of a chessboard and the finely kept pieces that get placed on the board.

Blueprints, pictures, and the notes he makes for himself. (Physical is best sometimes when it comes to secrets and the not so secret like his little to do list Brimstone assigns him)

Fluorescent lights above his head as he does all his monitoring. This includes the cold wash of light they give everything around him.

Kingdom logos. They're hard to avoid when they're on every window, building, and even the weapons they use. And each time he sees the 'K', he's reminded of how his home is being torn apart for some radianite.

4 things they usually feel:

The steady motion of his tripwire as he spins one around his fingers as he's lost in thought.

The sleek feel of his Ghost. Sometimes it's in his hand, but oftentimes, it's along his chest, easily reached yet out of sight.

The slight resistance of his keyboard as he flies through the web. His typing speed is particularly useful when it comes to the paperwork that comes with his position.

The warm noon heat of a Moroccan sun. Depending on the time of year or where exactly he is, this is sometimes accompanied by the rising humidity of moisture meeting the same temperatures.

3 things they usually hear:

The faint humming of machinery all around him at all hours of the day. Whether it's the clicking of his suit, the clacking of his keyboard, or the buzz of a security feed, he's constantly reminded of what he surrounds himself with.

The voices of all the agents around the base. After all, it is his job to keep track of them. More than once, he's heard something he wishes he didn't (things that are terrifying, disgusting, and embarrassing)

The high pitched laughter of a child. When he desperately looks around for the source, he realizes it was all just a dream. One he still needs to work to attain. (and if he gets there, will it be in time or will he have sacrificed so much that he loses his chance at fulfilling the dream, so by doing his job to secure the future, he ends it?)

2 things they usually smell:

Stale air that hangs around in his office like a slow alarm reminding him that there is life outside his walls and door.

Sweet jasmine candles that he'll light when he's in his room (on the rare occasions he sleeps there). A small reminder of his home. Sometimes, when he smells it in combination with something else, often random and unpredictable, it unlocks memories. Of Nora holding his hand as they walk a long a dim street, of street vendors who shout out to those who pass by, of a room in which he saw someone... Blood was never really meant to smell that sweet.

1 thing they usually taste:

A good green tea with mint, freshly brewed, or just prepared. The sharpness along with the general earthiness of the drink grounds him to what is at stake: his home, and by extension, his family. Refreshing :))