#not progressed from there yet

[ridleyytheriddler]

🩵🤎🖤❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ 🩷🩵🤎🖤🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡 🤍🩷🩵🤎🖤💛💛💛💛💛💛 🤍🩷🩵🤎🖤💚💚💚💚💚💚 🩷🩵🤎🖤💙💙💙💙💙💙💙 🩵🤎🖤💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

[beebfreeb]

Incoherence detected! Degraded visual profile.

[chiropteracupola]

"Are you finished with my portrait yet? Show me!" "Cipacton, I can't draw you if you keep moving!"

[whatlovelybones-if]

ragged breaths pour out of you as you scrub your hands clean of the crimson liquid which stains your hands and your very soul. it was brutal and beautiful—the colour and how the red strands swirled around as it united before falling down the sink pipe.

you blink and clench your hands. the very hands which so effortlessly carved up the heart from inside the man laying on your rough ‘operating table’. you are terrible, yes. there was no other word to describe you. a vigilante, maybe? but did it even matter when there is a part of you which feels the thrill of the killings and torture that you so cunningly come up with no mercy?

no, actually, there are other words to describe you. heartless, being one of them. the irony of that when you quite literally removed someone’s heart recently is not lost on you.

rotten. sadistic. torturous. depraved. murderer.

it was how you revelled in the pain you caused others; how you can’t stop the excitement spreading across your body when you see the utter terror in their eyes; how you sometimes let them have a moment of freedom, just to tear it all away at once and see as hopelessness encompasses every cell of their body. the scalpel that you used in carving the man’s heart probably possessed more sympathy than you did.

you are not the same, the voice taunts you. you are not the same person who cried over the dead raven for night’s on end. you can’t even recognise yourself. you are twisted and depraved and oh-so sick in the head. you are broken in ways you don’t even know.

you try to deny it at first, try to resist with every shaky breath that you do this for the greater good. but you know, deep down, you know that this is what you are: a monster masquerading as a human. you have as much heart as the corpse on your operating table with the empty chest.

you try to find some semblance of yourself on the broken pieces of the vanity mirror scattered around you. but you can truly see your twisted visage on the abnormal reflections. it was as if a sculptor had chipped away at you to add all the cruelty of the world and none of its gentleness.

you were made of jagged edges and sharp thorns. made to admire, not to love.

[votive-candle]

boys i am tired again

[wyvernity]

wip posting just to get something out there, and it's def a mixed bag!! the only thing more inconsistent than my posting schedule is my art style RIP

[hillerskaroyals]

good things come in threes

[stuckinapril]

I’m happy for the little life I built for myself

[mortuarywriting]

I needed to get this out 'cause I've been chewing on it for a few days now but couldn't word so hot.

So have a snippet of the self indulgent project

You looked down at the man sitting on your couch, "d'you want me to bring this up now or when your friends leave?"

His brow furrows, "what's it about?"

"You told me if you forgot to-"

"Oh fuckin hell-"

"- do the one thing you had on your to-do list before you left for me to badger you."

A long, begrudging sigh, "yes."

"And did you do it."

"No."

"Okay. Do you want to do this now or later?"

He leaned back, putting his drink down and crossing his arms, "do your worst."

You nod, nudging a leg so he stopped manspreading enough for you to sit just on the edge of his knees, ignoring how his brow raised as you put your hands on his shoulders, "you acknowledge that if you stand up to try to walk away from this I'll fall and crack my head open on the coffee table, yes? Making a giant mess you'd have to clean up? If not hide a body," he gives a grunt you take for assent, "good. Do you accept the terms and conditions?"

"'M waitin' doll."

"Alright, as you wish," you move one hand from his shoulder to cup his cheek, making direct eye contact as you begin, "you have value beyond what you can do for other people or your country, people legitimately enjoy being around you."

You watch in glee as his eyes widen, realizing what exactly he just let himself get roped into, "wait-"

You don't let the mirth show on your face as you continue with a matter-of-fact tone, "you have more patience than you let people think and that's a commendable skill- no it is not just a work requirement do not try that excuse with me. That's better. You listen well- no not just to orders close your mouth there's no deflecting from this- you actually listen not just hearing. You listen to me ramble about the dumbest shit. You have excellent suggestions and a good perspective when someone needs to take a step back. Despite what you may think, if you didn't have redeeming qualities outside of your job the FC wouldn't like you. They love you- don't even try to deny it- they're all excited for you to bring Fish back around. You're funny and I love exchanging the worst jokes known to man and several known only to dolphin with you. Need I say more?"

"Rather you didn't."

"For that I'm adding you have beautiful eyes and a wonderful ass," and on that note you patted his cheek and slid off his lap to stand up, "anyway per your request it's still on your list, I did run out and pick up more of your bodywash and got you a new shampoo and conditioner. They're all separate this time it's great you should try it. While you figure out how that works I'm gonna toss your biohazard of a mission outfit into the wash. If I'm not back in 10 send for a priest they probably gained sentience and ate me. I expect you to avenge me if that's the case."

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Daughter's Gift: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

You never told me where the rose came from. You simply handed it to me among the Christmas gift-giving, a spot of summer in that mid-winter storm. I was too delighted to question it. It seemed another miracle in that miraculous day, all those gifts filling our little kitchen the way they’d filled our parlor in the days of plenty. We all believed your story, that the ship had come home laden with treasures, and that you’d been able to buy us everything we’d asked for and more. Even miraculous flowers that lasted through snowstorms.

When you said you were leaving after New Year’s, no one questioned that, either. Now that we were prosperous, there would be more business to attend to, more money to handle in businesses that didn’t exist in this little country town. No doubt you’d be engaging us a real house again, and we’d be back in the city before Easter.

But then you didn’t return. And didn’t return. The eldest of your sons traveled to the city and found that you’d never arrived. None of the inns had seen you pass by. It was as if you’d disappeared from the world the moment your wagon left our sight. By now there were no signs in the snow, no body to find. You had vanished, and there was nothing for us to grieve.

A year passed, two. We thought you dead, knew you dead, but did not want to believe you dead. And so we searched, and lifted our heads in hope every time there was word of a stranger in town. I wandered into the forest on every snowy day, hoping to find the mysterious something that could have diverted you from your path.

After three years, I found it. I traveled on my normal route through the woods, but I suddenly found myself in an open meadow full of springtime flowers, an arm’s-length away from the Beast.

I capitalize it, because you know, and I know, that there is only one who fits that name. The creature with the fur and head and claws of a wolf that stands and speaks like a misshapen man.

Its voice rumbled like thunder. “You are the thief’s daughter.”

I protested at that—faced with such a lie, I could contradict any monster. “My father is an honest man.”

“And a thief,” it said.

With those words, the rose—your final gift to me—appeared in my hand. I had memorized—could recognize—its every petal and thorn. It had remained fresh through all these long years, and I had questioned that, but not too closely—I did not like to think that my gift had brought about your ruin.

“This is mine,” I said. “My father gave it to me.”

“And he stole it from me,” the Beast said. “The price was his freedom.”

My heart went to my throat. “You have him prisoner?”

“It was his choice. My justice.”

I swallowed. “What...what was the other choice?”

“To send you.”

I cried at that. To know that you’d sacrificed yourself to save me.

How was I to repay such love? There was only one way.

By sacrificing myself for you.

I beg you, do not be angry with me. Just as you couldn't bear to send me in your place, so I couldn't bear to leave you as a monster’s prisoner. Not when I had the power to save you.

The Beast promises I shall be treated as a guest. This palace contains marvels I have barely begun to explore. I shall be safe and happy here, if I know you are safe and happy at home.

Do not search for me. Do not weep for me. Accept my gift as I accepted yours--with love and gratitude--and know that I would give much more for the sake of such a father.

I know well the price of love. I pay it gladly.

Know that, wherever I am, I will always love you all.

[cor-lapis]

I usually don't do world quest chain summaries but I have never been as incensed by an NPC as tirzad

[billdenbrough]

@naturecalls111 prompted me kevaaron + procrastination and was like ‘post grad’, meaning they’re not undergrads if it’s canonverse, & something abt the phrasing latched into my brain so we ended up with this vaguely professor au w/ the flimsiest excuse for a TA-adjacent situation ever instead. idk. as ever this was just for her texts & i’m coming off a 30hr migraine so pls forgive me LMAO <3

“I can see right through you,” Kevin murmurs.

“Oh, yeah?” Aaron challenges. God, he’s close.

“Mm,” Kevin says. “You just don’t want to mark the test.”

It's an accusation, but there’s no censure in his voice. He's amused, mostly; fond too, despite himself. It’s not exactly behaviour he should be encouraging, but—

Aaron huffs. “I never want to mark a test,” he points out. “Undergrads are fucking stupid. Or these ones are, anyway.”

“You were an undergrad once,” Kevin says. He very determinedly keeps his hands steady on the bench. Maybe he’s gripping the edge so he stays in place; so what? That's between him and whatever God Renee believes in enough for the both of them.

“These ones,” Aaron repeats, scoffing. “Anyway, I'd never have taken a history paper. Get real.”

Kevin can’t help the frown there. “History is fascinating,” he argues. Aaron scoffs at him again, but the way he watches Kevin runs counter to that. Like he’s listening to whatever Kevin says, regardless. “It is,” Kevin insists again, clearing his throat.

Aaron's gaze tracks the movement, eyes following the motion of his throat, and Kevin kind of wants to clench the counter edge hard enough to crack the formica. Jesus Christ.

“You like research,” Kevin says. He keeps his eyes on Aaron, watches as he steps in closer again. “History is an endless study of every mistake we’ve ever made—”

“—So we don’t repeat our forefathers’ mistakes?” Aaron asks wryly. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s a non-starter.”

“No,” Kevin says, shaking his head. “We’re bad at learning. Mostly, we don’t even see the patterns for decades, if not centuries.”

Aaron cocks his head. “Doesn’t that frustrate you?” he asks. “I've seen you watch sports. You get mad if people make the same fuck-up within, like, three minutes.”

An image floats in Kevin’s head, unbidden: the two of them at the sports bar, late one night after they finally convinced Jeremy to go the fuck home because the college wasn’t paying him enough to sleep at his desk to reply to nineteen year olds’ panicked emails at 11:17pm before a midnight deadline. Kevin had been unbelievably put-out by the Astros’ scoreline; Aaron hadn’t cared so much, but had seemed to find great entertainment in prodding at Kevin to express his opinion to a bar full of patrons who strongly disagreed with him.

Do you even care about baseball? Kevin had asked in the end, exasperated. He’d unknotted his tie and slipped off his jacket, heated by his opinions and the game and the alcohol and the way Aaron had sat there, head tilted, that clever mouth of his quirked up to the side like a smirk, like a secret.

Not really, Aaron had said, shrugging. He swished his beer a little. I played hockey at school myself. Before Kevin could get too excited about that—a sport! An actual goddamn sport! that wasn’t only worth watching European leagues for, cough cough Jeremy and Jean and fucking football—Aaron added, I like seeing how much you care about it, though, and knocked Kevin right on his ass, metaphorically-speaking.

That night had ended in a blur: Kevin’s flushed cheeks as he lectured the bar at large about heliocentrism after finishing his grumbling about the baseball, Aaron’s quiet snort and eyes that laughed more than his mouth did, alcohol-sticky wood beneath his feet as he made his way to the bathroom, the taste of Aaron’s beer on his lips, Aaron’s cool fingers a balm against his cheek, his mouth a searing heat burning all the way through Kevin.

Then when Kevin’s TA dropped out because of ‘unmanageable stress’ (which was not Kevin’s fault, no matter what Dan says, she and Matt can fuck off) and he had to scramble to figure out what to do, Abby had offered one of her tutors—but only for marking, Kevin, he has no base in history. He’s just smart enough to use a rubric and willing to help. Between this and Jean’s long-suffering offer to lead the tutorial that didn’t clash with his meetings with his advisor, and even Neil’s unlikely assistance in the form of helping restructure the syllabus, it all seemed pretty manageable. (The history department had quietly come to the conclusion that this was not, strictly speaking, acceptable by university standards, but elected to ignore this information until the conclusion of the semester. As far as Kevin’s been able to tell in his years in academia, this is how things tend to work.)

When Abby showed up at his office with Aaron, though, Kevin's cheeks had gone hot enough that she’d asked him if he was sure he wasn’t coming down with a stress fever. Aaron's face had stayed blank, but his eyes were – amused.

It was one thing when Aaron had been the regular third person in the staff room late at night alongside Jeremy and Kevin, rubbing his eyes as he scowled at whatever it was he was looking at. (Anatomy exams, Kevin found out later.) He’d been mostly quiet, but sharply funny when he’d ended up interacting with them, mostly starting with indelicate snorts at whatever madcap thing Jeremy was saying, then incredulous stares at Kevin’s rebuttal, and finally muttered jabs as he worked the coffee machine and Jeremy laughed delightedly and Kevin stared at him with disbelief and a slow-building warmth in the base of his stomach.

It was yet another thing when Aaron had been the guy he bundled up Jeremy with, the guy he got drunk with for hours in a sports bar, the guy who laughed at him and offered him buffalo wings so spicy that they made Aaron’s cheeks red and Kevin’s lips feel like they were on fire, until Aaron kissed him, tipsy outside the bar, the warmth spreading through Kevin overtaking both the chilly night air and the spice-stained echoes on Kevin’s mouth.

But it was another thing entirely for Aaron to be Aaron, meaning Abby's favourite postgrad and the guy who diligently read Kevin’s syllabus on top of his own work just to better understand the marking rubric and hater of psych majors everywhere. Aaron, with his tired eyes and quiet laugh and complete inability to answer a phone call from his brother in a normal way. (At one point, Kevin had been half-concerned he was ordering a hit—less about the morality or legality of the situation, more in a if you get arrested, I’m screwed again type way—until Neil had shown up half an hour later with lunch for Aaron and Aaron had gone, ugh and Neil had rolled his eyes, spotted Kevin, and turned to Aaron to say, you’re one to talk. Aaron had flushed a little, then scowled and flipped Neil off, and said fuck off, to which Neil said, gladly, then see you at dinner? And Aaron had waved his hand. If you eat your fucking vegetables, to which Neil had laughed, and flipped him off, and walked out. Kevin had stared at Aaron, nonplussed, but Aaron had ignored him, focusing instead on the test he was marking while he ate the sandwich Neil had brought.) Aaron, with his unbelievably rude opinions about Kevin’s lack of video game knowledge, and the genuinely unreasonable amount of sour gummies he can put away in an hour, and the unbearably soft look he gets on his face when he’s sleepy and huffy and Kevin has gently dragged away whichever test he’s marking or article he’s reading that’s made him so grumpy late at night.

Aaron, who Kevin actually knows now. And likes even more for it, which is inconvenient and inopportune and probably inevitable.

Kevin clears his throat. “People are meant to try and win in sports,” he says. “History is about things that have already happened. It’s a different ballpark.” There’s a moment, and then, “They’ve already lost the battle. I'm not rooting for anything else there.”

Something flares up in Aaron's eyes at that, and he snakes his hand forward, tugging on Kevin's tie. Kevin, hands still holding onto the bench, allows it.

“But sports are about victory?” Aaron asks. 

He’s not even subtle about procrastinating, Kevin thinks. He wants to laugh. He swallows a sigh instead, and says, a little warningly, “Aaron…”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop Aaron, doesn’t do anything to stop him. Maybe leans in a little, even.

“Yeah,” Kevin says after a long moment. “History, you live or you die. Sports, you’re the best or you’re not.”

“That's a reductive way of looking at the world,” Aaron says, but it’s that tone he gets sometimes, the one where Kevin doesn’t know if he believes it or if he just wants to poke at Kevin a little. Kevin hates that he likes it as much as he does; that he lets it stoke him up, bites at the bit every time.

“You are not subtle,” Kevin murmurs. The tests are sitting on the table behind Aaron, staring up at the ceiling. Aaron's coffee is abandoned, probably cold.

You are not subtle, Kevin says, and means it, but Aaron’s cocked his eyebrow at him, and there’s something a little taunting in his eyes, and he’s still holding onto Kevin’s tie, and something in Kevin loosens. He sighs, and lets go of the bench, tucking his fingers into Aaron's belt loops instead and pulling him forward.

“Is this a sport?” Aaron asks, because he’s a dick and facetious and he knows just how to make Kevin want to shut him up.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Kevin scolds, and then leans forward to kiss the rebuttal out of Aaron's mouth.

[raiiny-bay]

squeezing both of them

[redladydeath]

You know, I've seen a couple "what if Vox and Alastor were alive at the same time and met" AUs, but no "what if Vox and Valentino were alive at the same time and met" AUs.

I feel like you could do something pretty interesting with it since it'd be kind of a cool role reversal; Vox as this middle-aged man, throughly established and powerful in his field, and Val as this 19-year-old gang member/part-time hooker who's only just beginning his street career. Their relationship is purely transactional at first, but as time goes on, Vox finds himself more and more fixated on the younger man, while Val starts learning exactly how to pull Vox's strings.

You'd have to be really careful in how you handle it (Val's manipulative nature vs the extreme power imbalance in this scenario vs who he is in the actual show), but I feel like you could wring some super juicy, incredibly toxic drama out of it.

[seaofreverie]

Sparkstember Day 11: Angst In My Pants (The Decline And Fall Of Me)

Album two of two in the series of Sparks' immaculate new wave releases! Iconic in every way imaginable from the music to the artwork to ONE music video. I think it's more musically (and lyrically!) varied and mature in tone (besides... a couple exceptions. Yes, an album called Angst In My Pants) than its predecessor, which is a very good development. These songs will leave you chuckling and bopping along and also pondering the intricacies of human existence. Ok, maybe that's a bit of a stretch, but it can't be denied that behind much of the earnestness and theatricality here, there's lots of quite emotional, introspective and thought-provoking stuff to be found.

Thematically, this album goes everywhere. One moment we are in Sextown U.S.A, the next we're visiting Disneyland, California where we make friends among people and animals. On a more serious note though, I think the biggest emotional whiplash one could experience between different songs on an album is between Mickey Mouse and Sherlock Holmes. And yet there's still a very prominent element of humour, even in those songs that are on the more serious or dramatic end of the scale.

I said a few days ago that I'd try to return to the topic of Sparks' brand of humour and how it works, but I don't feel intelligent enough to analyse that today. And I'm pretty sure that from what I've seen, Other People And The Maels Themselves (Said It Better Than Me). So instead, as a little send-off, please remember: if a mouse can be special, well, SO CAN YOU!!! 🫵

Favourite songs (and other highlights):

Angst In My Pants: literally no other song like this one in this world. I can't tell why that is but it's just. So great

I Predict: I had a weird kind of effect where I heard this song in my early days of Sparking and it felt VEEERY familiar to me. I think it was due to the genre / style here, it reminded me of something specific, at first I thought it was very glam rock but I'm pretty sure that this is not it but something else (and I don't know what to call it in that case!). Anyway, banger song

Tarzan And Jane: whoa wait, am I already skipping to the third-to-last song on the tracklist?? I guess I am. This one's great and one of my early favs too (I wonder how long it will take until I run out of things to say about my fav songs and it all just becomes this list of 'it's very good and I like it a lot. next.')

The Decline And Fall Of Me: it's great!! I like it!! And, of course, "check out my pizzas"

Eaten By The Monster Of Love: personal reasons that lead to a printed and framed mini-comic of my making appearing on my desk, which features some of the lyrics of this song, which caused me to have it permanently stuck in my head for a pretty long period of time. And this way I ended up liking it much much more than I did in the beginning, when it still seemed somehow pretty unremarkable to me

[allatariel]

Margo opened the file and closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before flipping up through the pages as she had earlier that day. The post-it. She had almost convinced herself it had been a dream, a sudden madness, but there it was just as she remembered it and her heart once again skipped a beat. Sergei’s handwritten equation called to her comfortingly like an old friend. 

Careful not to bend or curl it too much, she lifted it from the page and held the equation between her fingers, feeling the grooves of the figures made by the pressure of his hand through the pen. She recalled the gentle yet urgent pressure of those same hands on her face, her neck, her body, and a heated flush climbed out of her memory and up over her chest and neck. Shocked by the intensity of the feeling ten years on and after everything that had passed between, she started, her back straightening as she willed herself back into the moment and to the task at hand.

Replacing the post-it on the page, Margo set about solving for Sergei’s message.

It wasn’t long before she had a time and a location… This is a secret place for you?

Frank’s was adjacent to 11:59, she’d had many a hurried meal there before or after a set over her years with the house band. At least until the club closed up well over a decade prior in the years following the Apollo-Soyuz broadcast. Soyuz-Apollo…

Did he truly want to unearth their meager past? Surely he must have moved on by now?

She had forgiven him years ago. Mourned what might have been. God knew he must have done the same, believing along with everyone that she had died with her colleagues. Wildly she wondered if he had shared a memorial borscht with his family in their honor, in hers? She’d eaten a lot of borscht that first fall in Moscow, learning the true meaning of cold before winter had even officially started. Her nightly memorials did little to warm the chill of grief. She shifted in her chair and swallowed down the old guilt that rose like bile in her throat at thoughts of the bombing.

She had to get up, had to move, shift her weight, her perspective.