#polyfacetious

[sublightsleeper]

Tagged by the lovely @itookyoudown

LAST SONG:

Holiday by Lil Nas X

CURRENTLY WATCHING:

Delicious in Dungeon, Somebody Feed Phil, Fantasy High Junior Year

THREE SHIPS:

Ambrollins (Dean Ambrose/Seth Rollins, feeling old school)

Geraskier (Geralt/Jaskier)

Adam Copeland/Christian Cage

FAVORITE COLOR(S):

Silver. Yellow. Teal.

CURRENTLY READING:

Out There Screaming, a short story collection of horror by black authors, curated by Jordan Peele. For Small Creatures Such as We by Sasha Sagan.

CURRENTLY CONSUMING:

Just finished a rootbeer float.

FIRST SHIP:

Goku/Vegeta. Toonami was a part of my formative teenage years.

PLACE OF BIRTH:

Oklahoma

CURRENT LOCATION:

Oklahoma

RELATIONSHIP STATUS:

Married 18 years this July.

LAST MOVIE:

I am struggling to remember the last movie I watched. Haunted Mansion, maybe?

CURRENTLY WORKING ON:

Justified fic exchange. Justified Shining AU. Chorange grindr fic. Just trying to write, period.

i'll tag @wildglitterwolf @smoking-ace @matriaya @polyfacetious

[talentedliarloki]

peter: that’s it, we’re getting you XXXL ice cream tubs from Costco

"What have I done.”

[diffcall]

‘ we’re hip. we’re in the know. ’ Peter B Parker

FAMJAM! // accepting

                  wait, wait, wait – are you implying…

        that they’re OLD?

            clint frowns, a dramatized thing with deep pulling lines, and flaps his pizza in peter’s direction. a pepperoni is lost to the cause. ripperoni.

  “weren’t we always?” an eyebrow joins the look. lucky joins the cause of pizza - pressing up close to peter’s leg until his full, soft head sits upon his thigh. clint watches the activation of Ultimate Please I Want It Give Me Pizza (UPIWIGMP if you’re brave enough to pronounce it) look in real time. truly a frightening thing to witness. lucky’s usually a pretty easy going dog - happy lazy dog smiles with awe-worthy huff panting of content. but shit can get dark quick with this dog. really, it all comes down to the fact that lucky knows peter is weak.

                        clint loves him.

                     “i know things.” he wiggles his head, scrunches his nose; tosses his eyeballs wayward in a whatever look. “i used yeet yesterday.” a pause. “granted i used it unironically and kate laughed at me but i still used it appropriately.” and ok, so - clint tells himself that kate laughed at the presentation and not at him because you kn – you fucking know what? saying i’m gonna yeet myself off this roof and then actually doing it!!! is hilarious. can’t tell him otherwise. comedic. GOLD. 

                                          and he listens to old town road because he enjoys it.

[pleadingoneword]

goodbye — have a sad/awkward goodbye hug from an angel in a trenchcoat

i’ll always take hugs from an angel in a trenchcoat tbh

A lot of Sam’s existence has been cast in the light of headlights and streetlights.

Castiel stands, illuminated by both, looking to all the world a normal man. Sam’s guts twist - he doesn’t like seeing Castiel in the same light as the likes of him, something fallible and breakable and impure. Though sometimes he’s brought low, Castiel is still an angel. 

Something must show on Sam’s face; the anxiety of existence or potential finality, he doesn’t know. But Cas steps out of the light and into the shadow, face immediately less harsh for it, and Sam inhales. 

A lifetime ago, he would have flown without an inkling of remorse. He would have left between breaths, leaving Sam stuttering in the wake of unexpected absence. For a while, they changed, not Castiel - he and Dean grew used to it, learned to expect the sudden departures with little hurt towards their egos. Now, Cas feels compassion in his own way, and it shows in little touches, in a glance, in the way he lingers. 

When he steps forward, shoulders back like he’s ready to beat invisible wings, Sam’s overcome with the absurd urge to lean forward and grab at his coat, ask him to stay. We need you, you gotta see that, lingers on the tip of his tongue. Don’t leave me. 

Castiel has always surprised him. 

His arms raise like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like a puppet whose elbows are held aloft. Sam stiffens, then leans forward, wanting to hold his gaze but too afraid, ashamed, cowed. He watches his ear instead, as he steps into his space, back into the light. 

The hug is soft, and Sam brings his arms around Cas’ middle, pulling him in as close as he dares, chin hooked over his shoulder. Warmth at his back is an illusion, wings cocooning him from the lights and the perils of the world. 

The next breath Sam takes sounds eerily like a sob. 

[multiitis]

@polyfacetious​

“I remember when they used clones,” could lash but instead it’s said with the emptiness of a flat joke: nothing personal. A toneless smile accompanies it in the name of neutral ground but her body language speaks of openness, further proved when she reaches out a hand for his. 

Her gaze drops to his Daemon. Common knowledge sits in the back of everybody’s head that storm troopers had dog Daemons. Whispers in the universe follow the same outline, like notes passed under booths and cupped around ears lest anybody ears. ‘That’s why they take kids,’ came words on the wind. ‘So when they Settle, there’s total control.’ As if in response to the turn of thought, Anzor’s tail brushes against her neck as he adjusts himself, anxious to it.

‘A fox.’ He notes in his tiny voice, solely for her. Jyn’s chin tucks in the faintest nod, and wonders in the same way she wonders upon meeting anybody what Finn’s Daemon is like. Do they speak to other Daemon’s? What about their counter parts? Maybe like Anzor, who speaks to no one but her (granted, save for... someone now), who likes to wait quietly in the tuck of her shoulder and happily stay dormant?

"We haven’t had the chance to meet yet,” she says conversationally; behind them, the atmosphere is whirlwind: people pass by, places to go and people to see, and maybe standing in the middle of a hall is not the best place to catch somebody’s attention. “I’m Jyn Erso.” It’s hard to imply the you might have heard of him tone to her voice whenever she says it, historic in the books of Rebels. 

[normaltothemax]

@polyfacetious​ another starter i’ve owed forever

They’d been talking for several minutes, Max had held her tongue for several minutes now, because, apparently, it wasn’t polite to comment on how someone smelled right upon meeting them. But now that they’d gotten to know each other a bit---she knew his name was Gar, and she hadn’t even commented on how that was a weird name---she could ask, right?

She was gonna ask.

“So, what are you? And don’t say human, because you don’t smell human.”

[wemultitudinous]

A RANDOM OOC DASH GAME/MEME THING

NICKNAMES. bec, becs, becca, pretty much any variation on that theme

ZODIAC. libra

HEIGHT. 5′4 (or 5′3 and 3/4 if you’re being pedantic)

TIMEZONE. GMT

SEXUALITY. just queer as hell babey

FAVOURITE BANDS / ARTIST. uhhh i go through phases but right now? clipping

SONG STUCK IN MY HEAD.  say the name, clipping

LAST MOVIE I SAW.  an english haunting. god it was bad. it was so bad.

LAST THING I GOOGLED. 'irish archaeology listserv’ yes i am supposed to be working what of it

DO I GET ASKS. bitch

FOLLOWING. 72

FOLLOWERS. 103

WHAT I’M WEARING. denim dungarees. stripy sweater. cap that says ‘SOUNDS GAY I’M IN’. it’s A Look.

DREAM JOB. at this point i’m convinced i could come to hate any job so just something that pays well for minimum effort frankly

FAVOURITE FOOD. bread? bread-based foods

FAVOURITE ANIMAL. all of ‘em

PLAY ANY INSTRUMENTS. clarinet & piano once upon a time, but i don’t own either now because i am not rich like my parents

EYE COLOUR. grey-blue/blue-green it depends

HAIR COLOUR. sorta mousy. boring as hell

LANGUAGES YOU SPEAK. english, ancient greek but not like, well

RANDOM FACT. i’ve had foot & mouth, swine flu, AND covid. but i never get like, colds.

tagged by: @magicalled

tagging: @bornbreathless @kingofdirtandnothing @polyfacetious @fasciinating @aviophobic @likescything @bloodofthefates & whoever the hell else wants to do it idk man

[feralmerit]

where  do  you  hold  your  love  ?

on your shoulders

you hold your love on your shoulders; a weight to bear but one you're not crumbling under. love for you is heavy, big- it makes up everything, the world is comprised entirely of love and you know it. this can make you feel smaller than you'd like to, like you have an obligation to be a part of it, or maybe an obligation to create a love so massive it marks itself as different- greater, a task to take upon yourself. but doesn't all love feel different? and isn't all love great?

tagged by: no one but @polyfacetious​ and @kingofdirtandnothing​ did it and here i am

tagging: @allpurposebogeyman​

[talentedliarloki]

polyfacetious​:

@talentedliarloki​ from (x)

“Oh, Gods, I’m terribly sorry, I must have the wrong—” 

Jaskier’s heartfelt apology upon finding a handsome, green eyed phantom in the midst of a bath is ruined by some rather insulting name calling, which leaves him stuttering with reasonable offense.

“Jest—I beg your p—I am a bard, sir! And had you let me finish my apology, as I intended, then we would be happily out of each other’s hair by now.” 

Loki might have been content to watch this fellow stumble over his words all day had he not been uniquely caught first by the implication that this man had erroneously walked into Loki’s room and second by the correction of just what he was.

A bard.

“Very well then,” He leans back in the tub, subtle smile widening; gaining an edge. “Your apology —from the top. But then,” He flicks the unbandaged wrist and the door behind Jaskier swings closed. “You stay here and keep me company, bard.”

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: “i promise i’ll be good.”

No bad pornos here: (Accepting)

There’s blood everywhere. Splattered up on the walls in an easily identifiable pattern, because Raylan’s only been out of Glynco a couple of months, and even that’s not enough time to forget all the shit they taught him. 

It’s fanned out white against the stucco wall. The shooter was on the floor. Shot upwards. One right through the chin and out the top of his skull, painting the ceiling with bits of brain and bone. 

Raylan adjusts the knocked over chair on the floor, nudging it with the toe of his boot. Bumfucked Arkansas is not where Raylan pictured himself with a star on his hip, but he was riding the rap from taking Inspector Mullin’s daughter to bed. 

Not that it mattered now. What mattered now was making sure that his story lined up with all the evidence. He’s got a goose egg on the back of his head from the scuffle earlier, that’ll help. 

He lowers himself to the floor, digging the heel of his boot in so that it leaves a scuff. Raylan makes a gun with his fingers and shimmies his shoulders against the tile floor until it lines up with the spray. He makes the sound with his mouth. Pew. 

Outside, he can hear the sirens in the distance. West Memphis wasn’t a big town, and there wasn’t much the townies would be doing, especially in the middle of the afternoon. 

Raylan sits down on a felled log next to a kid who couldn’t be a day over seventeen, shoulders hunched up. “You drunk?” He doesn’t even know where the kid got the flask in his hands, but Raylan can smell it coming off of his skin. 

“I was headin’ that direction.” He’s all local, cotton mouthed vowels and the kind of combativeness that comes with years of being told you’ll never amount to anything. Raylan holds a hand out for the flask, and it’s handed over sullenly. He only takes a nip from it before he hands it back. 

“My daddy used to say that if you can’t fight ‘em drunk, don’t fight ‘em at all.” The bluest eyes Raylan has ever seen track up to the house. Where Timothy Gutterson Senior was cooling on the kitchen floor with a new exhaust port in the back of his head. 

“When they come to ask you questions, you tell them that your daddy knocked me down. That he pulled, and I fired.” Now those saucer sized blue eyes were back on him. Raylan’s shrug is all slow, rolling ease. “You got your whole life ahead of you, Tim. And I’ll get a slap on the wrist at most.”

Because Timothy Gutterson Senior was number eight on Arkansas’ most wanted list on account of forging prescriptions and writing hot checks. Raylan thinks maybe being a shitty father should be on that list too, but it’s always been a sore subject for him. 

Tim’s watching him like he’s something special, and all Raylan can think is that thirty years old is too damn young to feel this damn old. And that the setting Arkansas sun was looking like a halo straight from heaven where it sat behind Tim’s blonde head. 

“Listen-” Raylan pats his jacket pocket and finds the burner phone he’s been using since he got here, more amused that people still used flip phones than anything. He types a number in, and saves it. He holds the phone out to Tim on his upturned palm. 

“If you find yourself in trouble, any kind...You can call me. I’ll drop whatever I’m doing and I will come for you.”

Little Rock to West Memphis was just under two hours. In a tight spot, Raylan could do it closer to one. Tim takes the phone from him, hesitant like he thinks it’s gonna bite, and Raylan pats his knee before he stands.

“You take care now, Tim.”

[talentedliarloki]

👀 + can you get brain freeze? (from Peter)

Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty.

He swears he’s been asked this before.

"No,” And it’s the truth though there’s an added caveat. “To be fair, just because I’ve not had one does not mean it isn’t possible.”

He hopes against hope that Peter leaves it at that.

[diffcall]

‘ shut up. i’m n-not s-s-scared. ’ (from peter parker?)

FAMJAM! // accepting

                  awe, peter, no.

     that’s just sad. he can’t keep a handsomely controlled expression when faced with the utter awfulness of an uneasy peter. it’s like kicking a dog. you just don’t do that shit, and definitely don’t allow it. “buck up, kid.” soft, warm tones. you don’t wanna overdo it and sound too patronizing; peter - in all his essence - is of course a teenager but also a very mutated powerful one. hell, he’s got chops over clint! it’d feel just tooooo wrong to go around telling him what to do, how to feel, especially when he’s been doing sidegigs before tony ever found him.

                  “it’ll be like a walk in the park.” ah. aren’t those famous last words? as clint says it he thinks on it, and feels the uhhh is that right? look come across his face; marring down his eyebrows and twisting his mouth inward. it’s not attractive. yikes. but as quick as a flashbang arrow… poof! it’s gone, and he’s schooled once more. gotta put up a front. play the part of a brave man and not just be one because he knows in the reflexive bones of his body how to be brave. it’s standard. wired in his blood. to explain it isn’t easy - but showing has always been a favored method by the masses. 

                                       “if you’re real stuck, you can stay by me.” a thumb ascends to point out clint’s perch: in the distance, a roar bellows through the downtown core. over the tops of buildings, clint can see wanda’s red wisps rise and flicker off. not super encouraging but not dis, either.  “we’ll be close enough you can swing around it’s back - stay out of its line of sight.”

[pleadingoneword]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY I JUST FOUND OUT I HOPE YOU HAD AN AWESOME DAY

THANK YOU LOVE MY DAY WAS. OKAY. NOT BAD BUT NOT NOT GREAT! I AM HOPING TODAY WILL BE BETTER!

[normaltothemax]

DARK CORE PERSONALITY TEST

EGOISM  ( 53% )   :  excessive concern with one’s own pleasure or advantage at the expense of community well-being.

MACHIAVELLIANISM  ( 37% )   :  manipulativeness, callous affect, and a strategic, calculating orientation.

MORAL DISENGAGEMENT  ( 27% )   :  a generalized cognitive orientation that differentiates one’s thinking towards unethical behavior.

NARCISSISM  ( 50% )   :  an all-consuming drive towards ego-reinforcement and an egotistical interest in, or admiration of, one’s self.

ENTITLEMENT  ( 53% )   :  a stable and pervasive sense that one deserves and is entitled to more than others.

PSYCHOPATHY  ( 50% )   :  deficits in affect and self-control (i.e. callousness and impulsivity), as well as a lack of remorse, antisocial behavior, and volatility.

SADISM  ( 37% )   :  a tendency to humiliate others via cruel or demeaning behavior, or the propensity to intentionally inflict physical, sexual, or psychological pain on others in order to assert power or for pleasure and enjoyment.

SELF INTEREST  ( 50% )   :  the unprincipled pursuit of gains in socially valued domains, such as material goods, social status, recognition, achievement, and success.

SPITEFULNESS  ( 60% )   :  a tendency to engage in behavior that would harm others but would also entail harm to oneself.

TOTAL DARK CORE  ( 46%, 0.89% lighter than the average person. )   :  your total Dark Core factor. higher scores indicate a darker personality.

TAGGED   :  @likeprotege TAGGING  :  @unveiledmasks​, @for-remembrxnce​, @schwarzerengeltm​, @batteredoptimist​, @sunsymbols​, @polyfacetious​, @celerem​

[talentedliarloki]

polyfacetious​:

for @talentedliarloki​ from (x)

So, Peter didn’t think this through. But he’s on Loki’s floor, and there are splishy-splashy noises coming out of the bathroom, and he remembers something Thor told him in confidence at some party that makes him barrel in without thinking.

To find a very naked Loki sitting in a whole lot of bubbles.

“I’m not looking!” He’s not. He’s very clearly looking at the ceiling. “Just came in here to check that you haven’t chosen suicide by melting because—…” 

This is sounding more and more stupid by the second. And Peter is realizing with startling clarity that he may have been had. But! Too late to back up now.

“—well, because you’re an icy guy, and that’s…that looks like a very hot bath, friend.”

Might as well come right out with the whole thing. Peter covers his eyes with his hoodie—looking up is giving him a crick in his neck.

“And also your brother may or may not have told me you don’t do well in high temperatures. So.”

It may or may not be why Peter’s been messing with Loki’s thermostat to keep his floor ridiculously cold.

In fairness, when he’d heard the frantic, encroaching steps he’d assumed that Peter had simply forgotten his earphones or his metro card or his wallet. It wasn't until the door was very nearly being thrown off its hinges that Loki realized Peter was rushing in to...

Save him from an untimely, watery demise?

This poor, gullible soul. And poor Thor for expecting Loki not to capitalize on this opportunity.

Loki seized the sides of the tub abruptly, dragged a choking breath into rigid lungs, and looked sightless up at the ceiling, eyes wide as a muscle in his jaw twitched. Magic diffused across the surface of the water and green vapor rose and mingled with the steam, filling the room. He convulsed convincingly once, twice, and then slumped backward in the tub, limp. But just as he's certain he's about to give the poor kid a heart attack, he straightens up, nonchalant, and fixes the other with a level look.

"What else has Thor told you, Parker?"

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: “harder.”

No bad pornos here: (Accepting)

Tim isn’t talking to him. 

Technically, Tim is talking to the wall behind the vet bar, blonde head bowed and hands pressed flat against brick, red flannel near to falling off of a pale shoulder as he pushes back insistently. 

But even still, Tim isn’t talking to Raylan. He’s talking to the mocha skinned soldier who mans the door of the place, whose sweat is catching the streetlight like diamonds, and who is trying to nuzzle Tim’s neck and tell him easy, baby, we’ll get there. 

It would be cliche to say Raylan sees red. But it would be the truth, also. He catches the soldier by the back of his shirt and yanks, tossing him back onto the concrete. By the time that indignant ‘what the hell’ hits the air, the soldier is staring down the barrel of Raylan’s firearm. 

He hears that quiet shit from Tim too, jeans still around his ankles and pale ass shining like the moon. “You. Get the hell out of here. I won’t ask twice. And you-” This one is aimed at Deputy Gutterson. “You stay right where you are.”

It’s a heady goddamn thrill that Gutterson does as he’s told, holding position against the wall. It’s quiet enough now that the third wheel has gone that Raylan can hear the second shit to leave those lips. But this one comes as breathy punctuation to Raylan yanking his zipper down. 

“You come here. In my shirt no less-” Raylan grabs a fistful of his purloined red shirt, but it doesn’t too much, as loose as it’s sitting on Tim’s slim shoulders. “To let some other man fuck you.” 

Raylan spits down into his free palm, and it doesn’t take more than a few strokes to have himself standing at attention. “Whatever it is I did to piss you off, consider me punished.” He’s pretty sure it has less to do with running Oxy through the area, and more to do with Tim’s crisis of conscience. But Tim is a hard read. He could be completely wrong. 

Not that he’s wrong about this. 

Tim’s hole is slick and soft and Raylan is only gentle in guiding himself in up to the head. After that, he snaps his hips home, feeling pleasure hit him like buckshot. He keeps his hold on flannel, and presses himself flush against Tim’s back, so he can speak right into his ear as he fucks him. 

“I was generous this time. The next time you get the wild hair to fuck somebody in Harlan, I’ll put a bullet in them.” Fingers grip tight against Tim’s hip, making the skin go white beneath the pressure. 

This isn’t a marathon. It’s a sprint. 

“You need that itch scratched, you scratch it in Lexington. Because every goddamn soul in Harlan County is gonna know you belong to me.” Raylan’s breaths are starting to come short and fast, and Tim’s dick is jumping in the precome slick ring of Raylan’s fingers. 

“Or...” He draws the word out, hips snapping hard enough that his knuckles are scraping brick from Tim’s body being jolted. “You come to me. And when you say harder, I’ll be happy to oblige.”