#what an obscure web weave

[texaschainsawmascara]

Boardwalk Empire / oh_de_laval on ig / Rhythm 10, 1973 - Marina Abramović / American Tradition - Nicole Dollanganger

[battle-subway-ghost]

🎙️ how much would you say you share with paris

(ask game)

// I don't like to just come forward and say things when it comes to writing paris IC, he's a very closed off person.

But, I Will say that pretty much everything that gets posted is for good reason! Question everything he does and says, a lot of it can and will lead to things in the future.

[m0onlustre]

You always belonged with me. - Sylus x reader

ᯓPairing: Sylus x female reader (afab)

ᯓGenre: pure filth, slight yan!sylus if you squint really hard, oc plot mentions, angst

ᯓ tags - WARNINGS: mdni, reader isn’t the lnds!mc, explicit sexual content, ooc Sylus (how his myth could be in my head), toxic relationship,  b/egging, f!receiving oral, p in v, unprotected sex, non-sexual choking, spanking, creampies, use of pet names (kitten, sweetie, angel), dirty talking, sylus refers to reader's pussy as "she"

ᯓExtra Warning: This story contains altered religious themes and biblical references that may lead me to hell. If you are religious or uncomfortable with the prospect of such writing, please, for your own sake, do not proceed with this story. Consider yourself warned.

ᯓWord Count: 4,6k

Centuries ago, you were banned from stepping foot in the place you once called home. You would do anything to return, and tonight was your chance to try your last resort: the man who had damned you to this position in the first place.

It wasn’t the first time you felt the unsettling sensation of being followed while navigating the N109 Zone. This place was notorious for its shadows—every corner seemed to harbor someone lurking, ready to pry into the lives of others.

You had grown accustomed to this unease; after all, this had been your home for years, both before and after the catastrophe that left the area hollow and desolate. In the aftermath, people became harsher, their kindness stripped away by the events that reshaped the lives of everyone in the zone.

Your feet carried you into one of the bars at the far end of town. You couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle at the absurdity of a security guard standing at the door. Everyone knew this wasn’t a typical nightclub—not that anything here could be considered “normal.” This establishment had a reputation as a bloodbath. The guards weren’t there to ensure anyone's safety of course, except for one man: The leader of Onychinus.

Onychinus was a mysterious faction entrenched in the N109 Zone. Unlike other shady groups, they were omnipresent, weaving a vast web of corruption that controlled every illegal activity within the area.

Sylus was not just the head of this dangerous organization; he was regarded as the ruler of the entire underworld. Whispers of his cruelty and insatiable thirst for power circulated like a broken record, echoing through the streets.

People were terrified of him, yet he intrigued many. Tales circulated about his almost supernatural presence—more than just a human leader, he was said to command the night with his sinfully crafted horns and shadowy wings that cast an ominous veil over the town, keeping it cloaked in darkness twenty-four hours a day.

Imagination was a double-edged sword; it could inspire or deceive. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes every time you overheard whispers about Sylus—tales that veered more towards horror folklore than reality.

The guard fixed his gaze on you, waiting for your entry pass to the club—or, more accurately, the colosseum that lay hidden beneath it. You brushed aside the blonde locks of your wig, letting the brooch of the zone glimmer against your dress, perched just above your chest.

His scrutinizing look was intense, and you could almost sense the gears turning in his mind. “How come I haven’t seen you here before?”

You maintained an expressionless facade, keeping your tone steady under his interrogation. You hoped that the extensive alterations to your appearance—from the wig and colored contacts to your evol that allowed you to adopt features from those you encountered—would obscure any resemblance to the posters plastered throughout the N109 Zone. The bounty on your head had sent ripples of tension through the underworld, but you felt surprisingly calm.

“I usually don’t have to watch business unfold, but tonight is special. You know what I mean.”

His eyes widened in surprise at the implication of your words, and without another word, he stepped aside to grant you entry. As you passed him, a sigh of relief escaped your lips. You silently thanked whatever entity governed fate that your deception had gone unnoticed. It was all too easy to make someone believe in your power when you wore the brooch of Onychinus and spoke the right lingo about their underground dealings.

Technically, you didn’t own the brooch; it was stolen. Yet, perched on your chest, it pretty much seemed yours now. You needed access to the inner workings of the N109 Zone, and now you had it—thanks to a clever ruse involving a brief fainting spell in Luke’s arms, where you knew he kept his brooch tucked beneath the leather of his uniform.

As you navigated through the thrumming crowd, the same unsettling sensation crept over you—the feeling of being watched. The intensity of the gaze made you squirm, though you weren’t afraid. Still, you weren’t naive enough to believe that things couldn’t escalate quickly in this dangerous territory, especially while carrying a stolen item belonging to one of the leader’s henchmen.

Scanning your surroundings, you located the secret passage that led downstairs, directly to the imposing double doors of the hidden colosseum. This was a place where fights occurred every night—not just any fights, but brutal spectacles centered around bets on altered and modified wanderers.

Once, this arena served as a testing ground for a wanderer’s limits, but it had devolved into chaos when the underworld began modifying protocores. They injected these enhancements into creatures, unleashing them to tear each other apart in front of a bloodthirsty audience.

The spectators were all too aware that most wanderers were not contained within the arena. For many, death was an inevitable risk they accepted when they chose to witness these horrific displays. People entered with a significant chance of never leaving.

Those who did survive not only walked away richer, based on the wanderers they had bet on, but so did the modifiers. Yet, the one truly profiting from these nights was Sylus. He monopolized the protocores, wielding an unparalleled influence over the creatures, ensuring they possessed the strength necessary to dominate any other fighters.

He was never present during the fights, always lurking in the shadows. You needed to draw him out, for he possessed something you desperately wanted—something you needed.

So, here you sat at the front, betting everything you had on a wanderer from a mysterious modifier who remained anonymous. The bet managers had eyed you curiously when you placed such a substantial amount of gold on a creature that wasn’t one of Sylus’s creations, especially from someone unknown.

You forced yourself to relax your shoulders and crossed your legs as the announcement echoed through the arena, signaling that the fight was about to commence. The massive bars on the left side creaked open first, revealing a wanderer from Onychinus. It emerged like a beast from the depths of hell, its massive form glowing a menacing red beneath its bark-like exterior.

Then, the bars on your side opened, and the arena fell into a tense silence, punctuated only by a few gasps. From the darkness stepped a lone human. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the imminent clash as you waited for the wanderer to attack your chosen fighter.

Snickers rippled through the crowd when the human not only failed to evade the incoming assault but instead stumbled back, his head slamming against the ground with a dull thud.

The impact caused the injected formula to rupture, and in that moment, the modified essence surged through him, transforming his body into a near-giant, nearly matching the size of the opposing wanderer. Veins on his bare skin glowed a fierce red, and his pupils elongated into slits reminiscent of a cat's, radiating an intensity that resembled molten lava.

Showtime.

It didn’t take long for Onychinus’s creation to be shredded to pieces, your chosen fighter standing triumphantly atop the remnants of what had once been a formidable wanderer.

A tense silence enveloped the crowd, and no one dared to breathe as you rose from your seat and made your way toward the exit. Just before stepping out, you turned to lock eyes with the victor in the arena, whispering softly yet confidently, knowing he could hear you clearly.

"Such a good job.”

The night air was brisk against your bare back, your dress clinging to your figure and leaving little to the imagination as you walked down the narrow alleys of the town. You could almost feel the moment the atmosphere shifted, a new energy surrounding you.

A smirk crept onto your lips as you heard the steady, heavy footsteps approaching from behind.

You turned your head slightly, speaking over your shoulder to give him only a glimpse of your profile and your back.

“At last, we meet again.”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, his broad shoulders shaking with amusement as his gaze roamed over your form. You could alter your appearance as much as you wished, but he would never forget the sound of your voice. Yet, he seemed to struggle with the reality of facing you after all this time.

“Let me see you, sweetie,” he said, his voice deeper than you remembered, yet still carrying that velvety, sultry tone.

You turned to face him fully, crossing your arms over your chest. With a slight tilt of your head, you took in his figure. He had changed significantly over the centuries. He stood taller, with broader shoulders, and his muscles strained against the dress shirt he wore. His white hair, once reaching his waist, was now cut close to his scalp, with only the front strands long enough to fall messily over his forehead.

Sylus clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. “The real you.”

“I’ve changed,” you replied, your tone clipped and resolute.

He took measured steps toward you, closing the distance until you found yourself craning your neck to meet his gaze. His eyes lingered on your face, absorbing every detail. “I haven’t seen you in forever…” he whispered, his voice calm yet filled with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

Before you could react, his hand shot out, grasping your wig and yanking it away, allowing your natural hair to cascade down your back. “Don’t mistake our time apart as a reason for me to forget every single detail about you, kitten.”

You tried to steady your breathing, striving to appear unaffected by his words. Not once did you break eye contact with him as you allowed the energy of your evol to envelop you, restoring your true features and washing away the alterations that felt like long-forgotten memories.

Sylus’s eyes darkened slightly as he took you in, his hand rising to brush his knuckles against your jaw with a featherlight touch. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.” His gaze shifted to the brooch resting on your dress.

“So do you,” you replied, your words drawing his attention away from the stolen item on your chest. His brows furrowed into a small frown as he struggled to comprehend your statement.

Something clicked in his mind then, and he seized your hand, forcefully lifting it to inspect your wrist. There it was—the one symbol he himself wore, deeply carved into your skin. It glowed an angry carmine, signaling your fall from grace.

A huff escaped his lips as he locked eyes with you again. “Is this the reason you pulled that little stunt back there? You thought I wouldn’t find out about you being the mysterious modifier you placed a bet on?”

“This—” you seethed, leaning closer to him, your frustration palpable, “is your fault. I need to get back, Sylus. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.”

“Oh?” His smirk turned diabolical as he pressed his chest against yours, his face inches from yours. “And where exactly are you supposed to be, sweetie? By his side?”

Your patience wore thin. “Yes.”

A deep chuckle erupted from his throat, devoid of any humor. “His little angel. Tell me, did you think of him, too, when you were clenching around my cock, as if you couldn’t live without me?”

Your gasp shattered the silence of the night, followed by the sharp crack of your slap against his cheek. “That was a mistake. You were a mistake, Sylus.”

His eyes shifted, the warm carmine hue darkening to an abyssal black, all warmth evaporating from his gaze. “I was?”

You didn’t respond to him immediately, taking a step back to regain some semblance of control over the situation. You struggled to keep your voice steady. “I need to get back, and you’re going to help me, Sylus. What we—what I did was a mistake, and I can’t let it keep me away from home.”

Sylus turned his head away, closing his eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as amusement wrinkled the skin at the edges of his gaze. “Was it really your home, sweetie?”

“It was. Just as it was yours, once upon a—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” In an instant, he was back in front of you, his hand tightening around your throat. The burning symbol on his wrist glowed vividly, exposed by the way his cuff had ridden up during the movement. “That place was never my home. He never wanted me there; He only wanted to control me.”

“You’re wrong.” Your voice came out strained under the pressure of his grip, yet you didn’t flinch or attempt to remove his hand. “He loves you.”

“Is that why he banished me, hmm? Because he loves me?” His tone turned harsh, slicing through the air like a blade. “Does he love you as well? Is his love for you what sent you falling right after me?”

Your breathing grew erratic, each word he spoke igniting a fire on your own wrist. The more you allowed his words to penetrate your defenses, the more intense the burning sensation became. “We defied him, Sylus. You betrayed him most of all; you are the only reason you’ve fallen.”

His grip on your throat tightened to the point where you had to part your lips to draw in a breath. “Is this what you really believe, sweetie? The fallen angel, scorched by his own sins, sealing his fate away from his brother’s home.”

His eyes narrowed into slits, and you instinctively reached up to wrap your fingers around his wrist, struggling against the pressure crushing your windpipe. “I didn’t think you’d be as naive as them.”

“Sylus…” It was difficult to speak now; tears threatened to spill from your eyes. As if he had just realized the extent of the pressure he was applying, he relaxed his grip slightly, allowing you a precious gulp of air. “He can still forgive you. You just never sought him out.”

“You shouldn’t either, angel.” His thumb crept slowly toward your bottom lip, caressing it with a tenderness that felt foreign to his nature. “Do you forget all the times you sought me out? You've always known where your true home lies—by my side. You were always meant to fall with me. Fall for me.”

“No!” You struggled to squirm away from his grasp, desperate to create some space between you. Nothing was ever easy with him. All he needed to do was utter the right words, the incantation that could undamn you, granting you entry back into Heaven without the mark of eternal sin burning your skin.

He seemed almost pleased to see you after all those centuries apart, still trapped down here, far from the place you both once called home. You had foolishly fallen into his sinful embrace, and in doing so, had condemned yourself. He had welcomed you into his own home, promising you a place beside him on his throne, where you would truly belong—with him.

“Speak the words, damn it!” Your voice was nearly a plea as you struggled against him, but he was growing stronger by the second, and he had no intention of letting you go again.

“You don’t belong with him, sweetie. Don’t you see?” His breathing was calm, almost effortless, as he kept you trapped in his grip. “I would never abandon you like he did.”

“I sinned,” you breathed out, feeling yourself pressed completely against his body as he maneuvered you, forcing your back against the cold surface of the alley wall.

His taut form pressed against yours in all the right ways, his head dipping down to find your pulse point, nibbling at the sensitive skin there. Your breath hitched, and you closed your eyes, overwhelmed by a mix of shame and desire.

“Is this a sin, angel?” His teeth grazed your neck, and you instinctively placed your hands on his chest, attempting to push him away. “Your body was made to provide you with pleasure, so tell me… Why is this a sin?”

A whimper escaped your lips as he emphasized his question by sucking on your skin, his hips pressing forward to brush against your abdomen with his slowly hardening erection. The symbol on your wrist felt like it was igniting, the heat intensifying with every movement he made. “Sylus—”

“Shh… You’ve talked enough.” In an instant, his lips were on yours, a surprised gasp escaping you. He seized the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, his hands finding their way to the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

As you surrendered to the moment, you sensed a shift in your peripheral vision. When you tried to pull away to catch your breath, your eyes widened in awe at the sight transforming before you, your mouth falling open. 

Sylus’s carmine eyes began to glow, a tearing sound echoing through the alley as massive black wings unfurled from his back, their feathers cascading down to the ground beside his shoes. Your heart swelled with a mix of awe and longing, unable to recall the last time you had seen him like this.

Your pupils dilated, drinking in the striking transformation. His wings, once the purest of whites, had morphed into a dark, charcoal hue, contrasting sharply with his blood-red eyes. Despite the sharp edges of his new form, he remained what everyone described him as; the most beautiful angel of all.

Before you could fully process the shift in the air, his lips were on you again, his hands roaming down your body with an urgency that took your breath away. You had half a mind to pull away, but the heat radiating from your skin was intoxicating. One of his palms settled against the back of your thigh, lifting it until it wrapped around his waist, granting him access to grind against your clothed cunt.

A deep groan rumbled from his throat, and you swallowed it into the kiss, your own moan echoing softly into the night. His head dipped lower, his mouth closing around your breast, the fabric of your dress quickly becoming damp with his saliva. He seemed ravenous, impatience evident in his every movement as he nipped at the fabric, sending jolts of pleasure through you that made your back arch, pushing your breasts further into his eager mouth.

“Sylus…” you moaned, your voice almost breathless, the night taking a turn you hadn’t anticipated when you first stepped into that colosseum.

“I can feel you soaking through my pants, angel,” he grunted into your chest, his hips driving into you once more. “You came here to ask me to deliver you back to him, yet you’re dripping all over me.”

His tone was possessive and almost feral as he threaded his fingers to the neckline of your dress, pushing it down until it rested beneath your breasts, exposing your skin to his eager lips. He began to lap his tongue over your nipple, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you.

Impatience bubbled within you, your body writhing and squirming against him and the wall as you struggled to make a decision. This was a mistake you had made before, one that had cost you your place in Heaven, yet you couldn't bring yourself to ask him to stop when your entire being buzzed with the pleasure only he could provide.

His white locks brushed against your collarbone, a teasing sensation that made you shiver. You seized the opportunity to tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer even as you tried to push him away, the conflicting desires overwhelming you.

“Don’t deny me.” Sylus’s voice dripped with lust as he locked his glowing eyes onto yours, then fell to his knees, lifting your leg over his shoulder. He positioned himself perfectly in front of your clothed cunt, his presence filling the narrow alley. “Embrace me."

“I—” You were breathless, your legs trembling as you took in the sight of him, the way his eyes glowed like embers in the darkness and how his wings loomed large behind him, dominating the space. It was impossible to resist him, yet a flicker of resolve still burned within you. “I can’t, Sylus. He—”

Before you could finish your sentence, he growled, his tongue darting out to tease your panties, and you buckled, a scream tearing from your throat as pleasure shot through you, leaving you gasping.

He glided his fingers along your damp underwear, the soft fabric clinging to you as he brought them up to show you how much they glistened with your arousal. “How dare you speak his name when she’s crying for me?”

You felt as if you were burning, heat radiating from every inch of your body as he tore the fabric with one powerful tug, leaving you bare before him. “Let me remind you what it felt like, sweetie.”

His mouth was on your cunt before you could catch your breath, his tongue lapping eagerly at your folds, devouring you like a man starved. “Such a sweet pussy, angel.”

You mewled and moaned in a symphony of pleasure, your senses overlapping until all that existed was the way his teeth grazed your clit and how his mouth enveloped you completely. The warmth of his breath against your skin sent shivers down your spine as you ground your hips against his face, seeking the delicious friction of his nose against your sensitive bud while he pushed his tongue deep into your welcoming heat.

“Sylus, please…” You didn’t even know what you were begging for, but he did. With a swift motion, he brought one hand up, slipping a finger inside you alongside his tongue. “Ah—Oh my God!”

Just as quickly as his mouth and finger were there, they vanished, and when you tried to protest, a yelp escaped your throat as a sudden stinging heat greeted your pussy. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth when he slapped you again, the sound echoing in the dimly lit alley, your body doubling over as you nearly lost your balance. It was only his wings that moved toward you, enveloping you in a soft, feathery sanctuary, steadying you against the cool, rough wall behind.

The tone of his voice was a stark contrast to the gentle caress of his wings as he spoke, a low growl rumbling from deep within. “Calling out his name when you’re begging for me?”

Your eyes widened in shock as the realization of what you’d done washed over you, and your hands instinctively tangled in Sylus’s silken white locks, guiding his face toward where you craved him most once again. “I’m sorry, Sylus, ‘m so sorry…”

Another sharp slap echoed in the air, and you felt an almost overwhelming wave of pleasure surge through you, making you believe you could reach your peak from that sensation alone.

Your frustration simmered as you watched him rise from the ground, his full height towering over you, but relief flooded you when you saw him begin to tug at his belt, loosening his pants around his hips, though they remained on.

Without thinking, your hands rushed to the fabric, desperate to rid him of it, but Sylus only smacked your hand away. His mouth found your neck once more, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered, “Do you want me to take you, sweetie?”

“Please—”

“Do you want me to corrupt you like I did back then?” His teeth grazed your delicate skin, igniting a mix of pain and pleasure that made you cry out. “You came to my altar once, and now you can’t seem to get enough, can you?”

You hadn’t realized the tears streaming down your cheeks, a blend of overwhelming emotions and bliss, until Sylus’s tongue lapped beneath your eyes, capturing each drop. With a swift motion, he freed his cock from the confines of his pants, rubbing it against your entrance. “You can trick your foolish heart into believing you hate me. That you want to go back, but deep down, you know I am your home.”

He finished his sentence with one sharp thrust, his cock fully seated inside you. A loud moan escaped your lips, and you could swear someone would come searching the alley, finding you pressed against the wall, Sylus’s cock shattering any remaining sense of sanity you had left.

He set a relentless pace, barely allowing you time to adjust as you felt your walls clench around him, as if he were your lifeline and you were desperate to pull him inside you forever. 

“Shit…” His groans came freely, raw and unrestricted, as he continued to fuck you against the wall. “I’ve missed you so much, angel.” He peppered your face with open-mouthed kisses, and your head tilted back, eyes crossing from the overwhelming pleasure.

“I—missed you too, Sy—” You struggled to form coherent words, your thoughts a jumbled mess of moans and whines, until the sound of approaching footsteps jolted you out of your blissful trance. You froze in Sylus’s arms, but your body reacted instinctively, clenching around him in a way that made his rhythm stutter for a moment.

He looked at you with a frown, but as he heard the footsteps, his smirk returned, and he picked up his pace. You gasped when you realized how close someone was, mere steps away from where Sylus was fucking you against the wall. His thrusts grew harder, his wings flaring out and slapping against the ground with the force of his movements.

“Sylus! Someone—” You tried to stifle your moans, but he was so deep that you could feel him pressing against your cervix, his hands gripping your hips with a force that would surely leave marks. “S-someone’s coming-”

No matter how alarming your voice sounded, there was no mistaking the way your walls squeezed his cock with each syllable. His eyes rolled back as he pressed a passionate kiss to your lips, whispering against them,

“You’re squeezing me dry, sweetie.” He breathed harder, his hand slipping down to play with your clit, drawing a cry from your lips that you couldn’t contain. “Does it excite you? The thought of someone coming along and seeing you like this?”

Your brain turned to mush under his double assault—his cock filling you completely and his finger teasing your pulsating clit. You struggled to hold onto yourself, but every brush against that sweet spot inside you sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you quivering.

“Do you want someone to catch you bouncing on my cock, angel? A sweet little creature making a mess on the Fallen Angel?” His thrusts became more animalistic, and in the haze of pleasure, you didn’t even notice that no one was nearing your hiding place anymore. Sylus kept pushing your sanity. “If only they knew that my cock was the reason you lost your own wings in the first place."

Your orgasm hit you like a bolt of lightning, your vision going white as you felt your pussy flutter and clench impossibly hard around Sylus’s cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned, losing control as his hips retracted slightly before plunging back in, chasing his own sweet release. “Just like that, sweetie, give it all to me.”

Your thighs trembled around him, your body on the brink of surrender as you felt his last vestiges of control shatter.

Ropes of thick come filled you, coating your walls while his wings enveloped your body, sheltering you from anyone who might intrude and keeping you impossibly close. He continued until you were overflowing with his seed, leaking down your joined bodies, creating a mess on both of you, your moans echoing in the silence.

“You feel like Heaven, sweetie. Too bad you won’t be making it back.”

[neosatsuma]

hey gang. reader of Posts here.

you see how the ALT button obscures the text? This is what every post with this setup looks like on mobile; on desktop, the button is more see-through until you hover over it, but not so on phone! While you can tap to open the image, it's an extra step (and then the image has to load...) and it's frustrating to do for, say, every single image in a web weaving post. What you as the post author can do instead...

BAM! Now the text is legible from the get-go, and still has ALT text for accessibility. All I did was added a little white space in the bottom left corner. and it only took about 2 minutes on my phone! I am. gently begging people to do this

[Image ID: two screenshots of tags that read, "#and I'd rather be doing something I enjoy than giving myself a repetitive stress injury scrubbing the shower". In the first image, the alt button largely obscures the words "than" and "scrubbing." In the second image, the text is the same, but the alt button now sits below it, so the entire passage is legible. /end ID]

[maskedemerald]

Weaving Webs CH1

It is time for @invisobang ! I wrote a fic and the wonderful @pricklenettle did some fantastic art that you'll see embedded through out the fic!

You can check out the fic here or on AO3!

If you like this consider dropping us both a follow!

Warnings: Body horror, manipulation, Spectra is her own content warning, Burns, Spider - for like 2 chapters then it goes away.

The Fenton parents were there when the accident happened, they saw Danny die in an act of sabotage. Now they’re just trying to go on with the strange ghost that is all that's left of Danny. While their old college friend is wondering where the subjects of his revenge are.

[Next]

Chapter One - The Accident

The metal panel came free with a few plinks of screws onto the floor making Danny cringe. He knew he’d be the one scrounging around on the floor looking for them later. His Dad grinned not at all phased by the extra work he was creating. Danny leaned over to look and was fairly certain on catching sight of the tangled mess of cables that this was his Dad’s work.

“Alright Danno, I need you to get your small hands in there. Diagnostics say some of the wires didn’t get plugged in right,” he explained with a little chuckle at his own mistake, “I’d fix it but now the paneling’s on I don’t fit.”

“Got it, know which ones?” Danny asked, eyeing the mess.

“Nope, some of the red ones? Some of the greens too. Just give them all a little extra push!” His Dad said before bounding off out of the portal frame to work on some other part of it.

Danny sighed and rolled his eyes, typical Dad. He used a finger to pull aside a bunch of wires to see the circuit board behind but the wires pulled others and obscured it. He huffed a little, the visor of his white hazmat suit fogging up a little before it faded. He was going to have to fix the cable management if he was going to make any progress.

As Danny picked his way through the tangled chaos of unlabeled cables he couldn’t help but be reminded of a spider web. Every few moves of his hand he had to untangle himself Just to get another wire out of the tangle and neatly with the others of its colour. He had to hope that the colours had some kind of system. Even if they didn’t at least they’d be able to see the board.

“Jack? Did you change this setting?” he heard from out in the lab.

“Um nope, well maybe,” he could almost hear his Dad’s awkward shrug.

There was the clacking of keys, “that’s a bit odd.”

“Huummm, maybe if we change that bit. That should get it, right?”

A spark darted from the connected wire as he disconnected it from the board and he swiftly pulled back his hands. Even with the hazmat he wasn't going to risk it. It might not be the vibrant colours of his parents’ ones but that didn’t mean it was more professionally made. His Dad made each of them by hand. Said they needed a bit more oomph to deal with ectoplasm. He wasn’t sure how effective it would really be.

“Mom? The powers on!” He called out to them.

It wasn't meant to be. His dad had said it was off. Either he forgot, not impossible. Or something was wrong with the power system. If that was the case they'd have to shut it all down. It would be months more work before they'd be ready. Danny couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed at that thought. He didn’t believe it would really work but he wanted it to. Wanted it for his parents. Wanted it for the hours he'd poured in as a way to learn engineering.

“What? No it’s not,” his Mom replied confused, “none of the systems are reporting that.”

“I unplugged it, I definitely unplugged it. Where’s that cable?” His Dad insisted.

“What the… Danny! Move now!” His Mom yelled.

Danny startled and backed away from the panel. There was a high pitched whine building behind him. He scrambled forward, his heavy bulky hazmat boots catching on themselves and every cable. There was a loud hiss and the safety shield started to descend. The power wasn’t just on, the portal was activating.

“Shit, no, not yet,” his Mom cursed, her hands practically slamming across the keys, “Jack pull the emergency breaker!”

“On it!”

He stumbled trying to crouch enough to pass under the descending shield. His head bounced in the helmet as he hit the floor. He winced and his head spun. It took a moment too long for him to get his bearings and start moving. He crawled as fast as he could, racing against the descending shield. He pulled back his hand just as the shield descended, the tips of his glove caught between reinforced glass and the metal tiled floor. He pulled it free with some effort, the fingers tearing.

“Breaker’s not stopping it Mads!”

Danny pulled himself up leaning against the glass. He flinched back as his Dad slammed the Fenton Anti Creep Stick into the reinforced glass with an echoing bang. His Mom was at the console frantically trying to get control of the machine.

He could feel a tingle as the charge in the air increased, his hair standing on end. An ominous warning that the Hazmat was no longer sealed. Electric sparks darted from metal surface to metal surface. The growing green glow that was building behind him reflected in the safety glass that trapped him there. The air grew a strange hot cold. There was a crackle like lightning and then he was engulfed in burning cold green.

[Next]

[annikin-annotates]

Lady of the Lake

Hi y’all! I’m so glad to be writing this for my dear kindred spirit for her 1,000 followers celebration! I hope you all enjoy the One Shot I’ve created using Hozier's Butchered Tongues as my base. Congratulations my dear @arcielee, you deserve all the love you receive, I hope this lives up to your expectations!. 

Let me know if you would like to be added to my taglists!

Happy reading.

Pairing: Aemond x Siren!Reader

Word Count: 3,069 (Nice)

Warnings; Blood, mentions of death, thoughts of ripping Aemond limb from limb. Minors DNI 18+

Chosen lyrics; They are buried without scalp in the shattered bedrock of our home.

The lake had been covered in misty fog, its eerie tendrils dancing just above the surface of the water, if one looked close enough they could see water sprites at work. Humans believed that magic was gone from the world, but if they only looked a little closer they would see that it was still here, barely; like the final embers on a candle wick. 

She lived beneath the surface of a pond, a safe haven under the ever changing waters of the stream that flows into it. It was always quiet in her small pond, the blue gills and catfish her only company. Though she would not say that it was entirely awful, it may be secluded and quiet but it was always safe, and being safe meant staying alive. 

Trees twisted and wrapped their way around one another, strangling one another for a chance at seeing the sun, oh how she longed for the sun’s warmth. The dense dark green thickets surrounding the edge of the lake, pointed thorns dipping into the water, another reminder of the cage she had put herself in. 

She slipped below the surface once more, sinking to the mossy floor, her head resting on a mossy rock, staring up at the underside of the lily pads. She spent the rest of her day hunting catfish and playing with the small water spiders that skimmed across the surface of the water.

She spent her night curled up in a patch of Hydrilla, its green tips making a space in the water. She stared up into the inky expanse and wondered what it was like above the surface. She wondered if perhaps one day, she too could walk amongst them. She had walked on land before, some centuries ago when she was only a girl.

Back when humans knew and respected the creatures that dwell out of sight, the rulers of nature. For a time they had lived in peace, silently walking amongst them, helping when needed, fighting in wars that were not ours, and aiding the sick with cures and magic long forgotten by mankind.

Somewhere along the path, we had become a threat, a danger to humans, they began to push them back into the woods and lakes, away from civilisations. Her mother was forced from her job as a maid in a keep not far from where she dwelled, it was not long after that, they began to cull them. All her family were snuffed out within a night, now all of them laid at the bottom of the God’s Eye.

All except her. 

She shook the thoughts from her head, she couldn’t bear to think about it any more. She reached a webbed hand toward the starry sky, the rippled surface obscuring the true beauty of it. Her arm came to rest by her side, disturbing the sediment as she sighed, an air pocket travelling all the way to the surface.  

Shimmering sunlight awoke her from her slumber, she sat up and stretched her arms and leant forward to stretch her back, the dorsal fin waying with the current. Perhaps today she would sun herself on the boulder in her lake, enjoy the sound of birdsong and they trickling water. The warmth of the flat rock warmed her cold flesh, her tail swishing in the clear water beneath her. 

The sun had just begun to beam down into her pond, refracting different colours like light onto a thousand precious gems. She spent time braiding her hair down the length of her back, small river flowers delicately weaved into it. She hummed the melody of a song her mother used to sing to her when she was young, the same one she would use to lure men to their watery graves. 

The sound of approaching hooves sent her beneath the water again, resurfacing in the safety of the water reeds. Directly across from her was a lithe man knelt by the running water of the stream, drinking handfuls of water. He was marvellous to look at, his deep green clothes and gold trimmed armour and his hair that looked like spun silver fluttering in the gentle wind. 

A familiar primal feeling came over her, it was stronger than she had ever felt before: have him, have him, devour him, feast upon his bones, it chanted. It frightened her, but she followed the feeling, diving below the water once more only to look at him from between the reeds. She could see all the features of his face now, a strong chin and pronounced nose and eyes that glittered like amethysts in the sun. He was handsome, but she could taste the sadness permeating from him, the wish to be anywhere other than where he was, she empathised with him. 

‘Come and find me,’ she whispered, edging him closer and closer to the water ‘Let me free you from your burdens,’ she cooed, watching him fall deeper and deeper under her spell. 

He was within her grasp, she surfaced from beneath the water, scaled chest glimmering in the sunlight, a webbed hand extended for him to take. Their fingers ghosted one another, his hands were soft and warm while hers were cold and slippery, ‘Come to me, my sweet,’ she hummed melodically. She could practically feel her teeth sinking into his flesh, tearing him limb from limb, the thought sent her milky eyes rolling back into her head. 

A woman with long dark hair grasped his shoulder, pulling him from her carefully laid trance, “You mustn’t venture too close to the water, my Prince,” she said firmly. By the time he had flicked his eyes towards the other woman and back to the water, she was gone. 

“Why?” she heard him ask, standing from the waters edge, his eyes hadn’t yet left the spot where he saw her. 

“Dark creatures lurk below the surface of these waters,” the woman replied, though the conversation had become less clear the further they ventured from the water. 

The woman in the water haunted him for days after returning to Harrenhal, the word she spoke to him ringing in his ears, ‘Let me free you from your burdens,’ she had said. She was slowly consuming him, mind, body and soul, and he had no desire to break free from her hold. He would never forget the feeling of being lured by her, both horrifying and euphoric. 

He saw flashes of her everywhere, peeking around corners, the melody of birdsong and in his dark haired lover. He saw her in the pursuit of his own high, chasing her from the recesses of his mind, Alys’ face slowly morphing into the face he saw below the water. Aemond could almost feel her talons ghosting along his skin, leaving rippling heat in its wake.

The feeling of fangs pressing against the column of his throat sent him into a frenzy of thrusts, his large hands guiding the body above him. The melodic song he had heard from her, guiding him like a boat through a tempest, had driven him over the edge. ‘Aemond,’ Alys moaned, though he heard only the melodic voice of the woman in the water. 

He didn’t dare look up at her, instead he slipped from beneath her, choosing to stand at the windowsill, looking over the God’s Eye, wondering about her. Slender fingers and soft lips trailed over his shoulder and down his arm, and yet it did not stoke the fire that burned deep within him as it usually did. 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Alys asked her nose softly nudging the nape of his neck, her hands never leaving him.

Aemond thought for a moment, “Yes,” he replied, a cold edge to his voice. 

Alys pulled away from him, recoiling from the coldness of the  response “I see,” she said, clearing her throat. “I shall leave you be, my Prince,” she continued, making her way to where her clothes lay. She dressed silently and left through the servants corridor, to remain unseen. 

—

Muffled dragon cries woke her abruptly from her slumber, she broke the surface of the water, a panicked gasp tearing from her as she looked helplessly at the sky. She looked around her, as flickering embers and ash fell from the sky, she couldn’t stay here. Today would be the day where she would face her fears and leave the safety of her pond.

She heaved herself up through the bramble that surrounded her pond, thorns pricking and scratching her tender skin, half blind from the sun. Her legs wobbled as she took a few steps before breaking out into a stumbling run, similar to that of a newborn foal. She cried out in pain as she began to run, nothing good could come from two dragons warring above, she needed to clear out of the pond, she could return when it was safe. 

The pain in her legs and feet was extraordinary, each log she cleared felt as though she was stepping on shards of glass when she landed. It was so loud, the overlapping shouts of soldiers, the clanking of armour and screeching of metal on metal, it was cacophonous; it reeked of self assured destruction. Every bone inside her wanted to turn around and leap back into the safety of her pond, but now wasn’t the time for hiding, it was the time for running. 

She veered deeper into the forest, but something made her stop to look up at the sky, to the dragons wrapping themselves around one another. She turned away once more, determined to find some other body of water to bide her time, when an ear piercing screech sent her to a screeching halt. Her breath heaved in her chest, her lungs working overtime ‘He needs you,’ a pleading voice whispered.

It was enough to send her careening towards the waters of the God’s Eye. 

The larger of the dragons was falling towards the lake, its throat had been ripped open, flames escaping the wound. If its rider was to stand any chance of living she would need to rescue him, humans didn’t live long once they entered her domain. She threw herself head first into its frigid waters, disappearing into its depths untraced. Her eyes only needed a minute to adjust to her surroundings once more, the world around her becoming a little clearer, and it would be any moment before that scaled beast would hit the water.

The crash was unimaginable, sediment and rocks flew past her as she braced herself by a sunken boulder, she could hear the sound of the heart drumming in his chest. It was now a race to find him before The Stranger did, she at the very least could follow his heart beat. She had no idea why she was putting herself in danger for a human who was supposed to be her next meal, she was designed to consume them - not save them. 

She dove deeper and deeper into the lake, the sunlight filtering away, total blackness enveloping her. Though she could not see very well above the water in the sunlight, she could see perfectly in the dark. She did not dare look at the bedrock of the lake, in fear of discovering corpses she did not wish to see. She could see the roiling bubbles ascending to the surface and the immense heat emanating from directly beneath her, she wasted no time in diving again. 

She very quickly discovered the corpse of the beast, resting peacefully in the bedrock, her rider still saddled. She stopped directly in front of him, watching his hands shake as he struggled with the chains. Malicious thoughts slithered into her head; she could feast for ages on both dragon and rider, she would have no need to think about the surface for a long time. It would be so easy, all she had to do was wait for him to drown.

No. He didn’t deserve this, at the very least she could unbind him and send him to the surface, what happened to him beyond that was not her problem. Against her better judgement, she rushed him, shoving his hands away from the ropes around his waist and ripping them away with her nails. He struggled and thrashed in her grip, using all his might to get away from her.

‘Stop struggling! I’m trying to help you!’ She hissed. He ceased his struggling immediately, having become sluggish and slow, the lack of oxygen finally taking its toll on him, leaving him weak and defenceless. Everything in her screamed at her to devour him, to gut him like a fish and swallow him whole.

A helpless groan left her as she threw his arm around her broad shoulders, heaving him up towards the rippling light of the surface. They wouldn’t be looking for his body yet, but she didn’t have long before they would be descending upon them, she’d be damned if she would die for a human. With one final forceful push of her tail, she was able to push his lithe body halfway up on to a secluded bank, her heartbeat thundering in her chest.

He wasn’t breathing. Gods, he wasn’t breathing!

With the last of her strength she threw herself up onto the bank, kneeling beside him; his heartbeat was there, but faint, she needed to work quickly if he was to survive the day. His body felt as though it was made of lead as she dragged him away from the water, the further away they were from the water, the less temptation there was. 

He had taken water into his lungs, which meant she needed to get it out as soon as possible. She opened his mouth, placing her own on his, pulling the water from his lungs mouthful after mouthful, spitting it onto the lush grass. He had other wounds, cuts and scrapes but it was nothing she couldn’t use her magic to heal. With a final mouthful of water, air rushed into his lungs, sending him bolt upright coughing and hacking. 

The movement sent her toppling over into the grass, where he descended upon her, blade against her throat. Her slender taloned fingers spread out across his face, daring to take his other eye. 

“I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? By slitting my throat?” she asked, half daring him to do it, maybe then she would get some peace. His face seemed to shift in that moment, furrowed brows relaxed his clenched jaw loosening. 

“You are right, I am sorry,” He replied, taking the blade from her throat.

The woman in front of him was full of contradictions, she was both dark and light, sharp edges and softness, terrifying and beautiful. She had almost lured him to his death one day and then saved him the very next. She held no fear in her eyes, even as he had held the blade to her throat, her beautiful, supple throat, he shook the thoughts from his head. 

“Stop looking at me like you wish to swallow me whole, and let me heal you,” she bit at him, a gentle push sending him into the plush grass. She struggled with taking his chest plate, the leather straps far too finicky for her liking she took a sharp talon to the supple leather, slicing into it. 

“No, leave me here,” he told her, trying to force her hands away. 

“You will die if I don’t tend to your wounds!” she said through gritted teeth, pulling the chest plate away and straddling him, pinning his arms underneath her legs. Her hand hovered over the gaping wound in his shoulder, a calming blue light emanating from her palm. She watched the wound pull the deep red ichor back into his body, skin stitching itself shut, leaving no trace that there was ever a wound there. 

I’d like to see his witch heal him in such a manner. 

—

They took shelter in a cave deep in the woods outside Harrenhal, out of the sight of prying eyes and away from hands that would do them harm. In the time they had spent in the cave, she had learnt that the Prince's name was Aemond and that he was not one for conversation. 

“I wish I could leave all of this behind,” Aemond whispered, his voice laced with pain and exhaustion. She sat cross legged across from him, a pleasant prickling feeling crawling up her legs from sitting in one place. 

She tilted her head to the side slightly “Why can’t you?” she asked, her brows furrowed.

“I have a duty to my family, it's a matter of honour,” was the silver haired Prince's response, his jaw twitching as his arms came to rest across his broad chest. The dim embers illuminating the way his lip twitched upward as she leant forward, to press him further.

“Your family would rather send you to die than allow you to leave?” She responded, her voice laced with disbelief, she shook her head. It slowly became clear to her about what happened just hours ago, when he demanded she leave him to die. He had wanted that fate, he would have preferred death to failure. 

Aemond pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice taking on an edge “It is about honour, as I said,” his response did not invite any further conversation between them. And for a while there was nothing but the crackle of logs on a fire and the sound of their breaths. 

“Run away with me, it's not safe for either of us here. We can board a ship tonight and be gone by morning,” she offered, they could board a ship for Essos or Yi-Ti and never be found again. She would forsake the waters of her home for him, if it meant that he could live the life he desired. 

“No,” was Aemond's immediate response, face contorting into a scowl. She was beginning to break down the barrier of duty and honour he had surrounded himself with, for without those virtues, what would he become? 

She stood from her perch on a boulder, allowing the silk shoulder cape Aemond had given her to cover herself to slip away. Exposing the mounds and valleys of her body, the scales on her legs and cheekbones catching the firelight. “Come, My Darling. Please just give me your hand,” she cooed into his ear, running her delicate fingers over his shoulder and up the column of his throat, stopping to stroke his jaw. 

And so he did. 

Thank you to my darling @sylasthegrim for beta reading this! And creating the wonderful header/moodboard!

Please reblog my work if you enjoy it! it helps keep fan fiction alive <3

[sergeifyodorov]

im realllyyyy new to hockey do u have any post of yours you recommend i check out to get into it? :)

hellloooooo and WELCOME ok let's see what i can offer you -- most of these posts are just "ones i've rb'ed" and not ones that are like. my original content. there is some in there also but i am not the be-all end all etc etc (also the second section could be a LOT fuller but i don't want to overwhelm you LOL). both sections are arranged roughly less -> more obscure to brand new fans, so i'd recommend reading through them in that order (but all are good!!!)

strict lore:

captains by the numbers

2015 draft class - this is my original work and it's LONG

marner and matthews primer and its this-season companion

the boy king - sidney crosby primer (also LONG)

flight - the story of evgeni malkin's escape from russia

the green unit - five russian players at the turn of the cold war <- personal favourite

that's mine boy - a history of jewish players in the nhl

web weaves:

nazareth + antigonick

history rhymes

quinn hughes is not his mother's favourite <- personal favourite

what i got

blue, white, white, blue

theory of playoffs (do not weep, maiden, for war is kind) <- personal favourite

regarding the pain of others

[mcytblraufest]

Holiday Exchange: General Rules and FAQ

TIMELINE:  Sign-ups open, Discord Opens: 18 October Sign-ups close, everyone must have joined the Discord: 15 November Assignments sent out: 23 November - 26 November Check-in: 9 December - 10 December  Posting Week: Sunday 24th December through Monday 1 January.

RULES FOR PARTICIPATING:  - Must join our Discord for communication - Must tag your recipient in the eventual post  - Must tag this blog in your post so we can keep track of gifts - DM a mod ASAP if you don’t think you’ll get your gift out on time or at all, or you want to withdraw - Must check in at the half-way mark to make sure everything is on-track. -Must request and offer to create around a minimum of three characters. -Any under-18 persons found requesting or offering NSFW content will be banned from this and all future iterations of the exchange. -Because of Tumblr, Ao3 and Discord TOS, you must be 13 to participate.

RULES FOR CREATING:  - Make a good-faith effort to respect creator boundaries - Your gift doesn’t have to contain only requested characters, but it does have to centre on at least one requested character.  - Any shipping must be kept to PG-13 levels or below unless your recipient specifically requested NSFW. Any non-requested NSFW is grounds for a ban from this and all future iterations of the exchange.  -Respect your giftee's DNW. Any gift found to be in violation of a reasonable DNW is grounds for a ban from future iterations of the exchange. - Dark or Violent themes must be tagged appropriately -No AI-created content.

DISCORD LINK - Discord: [here]

CREATING RESOURCES:  - How to add your fic to an Ao3 Collection. [link]  - The Ao3 Collection. [link]  - How to image-describe your art. [link1] [link2]

MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS:  - Art (1 drawing, created to a standard you would normally post as “finished”)  - Writing (1k+ words)  - Playlist (2 hour-long playlists)  - Moodboard (2 boards, at least 9 elements each, for a total of at minimum 18 elements between both boards. Speak to mods if that really doesn't work for your designs)  - Web Weaving (1 board of at least 10 elements)

MISC:  - Tag this blog as well, so we can reblog you!  - You will not necessarily be matched with someone who matches your ‘willing to create about’ exactly. The goal is to have multiple matches, but in cases of more obscure requests you might be matched with someone who only has one commonality between your ‘willing to create’ and their wish list. In that case at least you know what to make your gift around pretty quickly. :D  - Please send asks if you need information. If it is something you do not feel comfortable sending in an ask, you can message the head mod at @antimony-medusa​ - If you ask us a question about something that has been already outlined in this post we will not answer!

FAQ:

-I changed my mind about my gift list, I want to add something, what do I do? You can re-do your entry and we will delete the earlier version of any duplicate entries, or you send us an ask (off anon if you want an answer back) to change something (only minor changes using this method, please).

-Is there an Ao3 collection? I want to add my fic to it. There will be! It will be released once assignments are sent out.

-I added my fic to the Ao3 collection, but I can’t see it? The collection is currently set to ‘unrevealed’, so works can be added but won’t be visible before reveal day, so it’s all a surprise.

-I need to contact my recipient, but they have anon off! What do I do? Talk to us, we’ll contact them for you.

- I didn’t save my assignment message and now I’ve forgotten my assignment, what now? Get in contact with us, we’ll resend it. 

-I can’t finish my gift by the deadline, what do I do? You have two options. Option one is to consider if you can still finish it by a couple days or a week or so later, and ask the mods if you can get an extension. We will check with your recipient to see if it’s okay to extend your deadline. Option two is to drop entirely, in which case you tell a mod, and we will assign your gift to a pinch-hitter so your recipient still gets something. In both cases, the important thing is that you get in contact with a mod ( @antimony-medusa is head mod) as soon as possible to figure out a plan.

-If I want to make more than one gift, can I? You can make as many gifts as you'd like! If you really enjoy making gifts, we suggest signing up as a Pinch Hitter in the discord

-I don't celebrate Christmas, can I sign up? This exchange welcomes all holidays (even a complete lack of holidays), and people will have an opportunity to opt in to what events they want represented in their gift, whether that's real-world holidays, imaginary minecraft events, or no holidays at all.

-I'm only a fan of a small server, can I sign up? You are very welcome to sign up even if your fandom doesn't have the most active tag, this is a broad MCYT exchange. We will do our best to match you with someone else who also likes your block people. If your fandom has less than a thousand fics on the archive, we recommend that you try and recruit friends into the exchange too, so you know that there are people who like the same characters as you in the matching pool. We can't absolutely promise to match on smaller characters, but we have run this exchange twice and we haven't had anyone be entirely unmatchable yet, so fingers crossed that continues.

-Is RPF allowed? While MCYT is in a fuzzy space while we're often close to RPF and many of our older works are still tagged with Video Blogging RPF, this is a character-focused exchange. You will not be able to request or offer direct RPF for this exchange.

-Is shipping allowed? Yes. For the comfort of the greatest number of participants, we ask that participants make a good-faith effort to ensure that any shipping is boundary-respecting, but because there is no broad fandom-wide consensus about how that is defined in specific cases (whether it's okay to write beeduo as /r or /p is an obvious case) or between specific fandoms (lifesteal approach to shipping is different from HBG is different from DSMP), the mods will not be policing any specific understanding of boundaries across the event. The event will operate on Don't Like Don't Read, in that everyone will have the chance to opt in for themselves as to if they are comfortable with shipping or NSFW for each specific character they want to work with, and mods will match based on that.

-Is NSFW allowed? Yes, NSFW is permitted as long as it respects creator boundaries, and both sides of the gift exchange are 18+. People will only be matched to others who specifically requested NSFW work. For the comfort of the greatest number of people in the exchange and the mod team, nothing that would warrant the tags Underage, Rape/Noncon, Dubcon, Adult/Minor, or Incest is permitted.

-My person requested characters I don't want to write, and one of them is a ship I don't like. What do I do? You are only expected to create a gift for the characters you matched on. If you offered to create for Grian (shipping allowed), Good times with Scar (shipping allowed) and Docm77 (only gen), and you matched to someone requesting Grian (shipping allowed), Docm77 (shipping allowed) and Keralis (only gen), you are only expected to make a gift with the characters and relationships you matched on, in this case, Grian. If you are entirely uncomfortable with your match, you can tell a mod, and we can take it off your hands and get it pinch-hit. You will still receive a gift.

-If noncon isn't permitted, is non-consentual touching (platonic) allowed? As technically a punch in the face counts as non-consensual touching, and pvp is a classic part of most MCYT canons, we find banning all nonconsensual contact to be unnecessarily restrictive. As long as nonconsensual contact is not sexual in nature, it is permitted, however, it must be tagged for adequately along with any other potentially triggering content.

-Do you allow dark or violent content? Yes. The lore of many mcyt servers includes death games, abuse, cannibalism, murder-for-hire, and other dark or violent themes. However, all potentially triggering content must be tagged for so readers and giftees can make an informed choice to get infolved or not. We would recommend that you not include particularly dark topics unless requested to by your giftee.

-What is a Pinch Hitter? A pinch hitter is a person who saves the day and steps in when the original creator is unable to deliver their work for whatever reason, making a new work on an accelerated timeline. You can sign up to be a Pinch Hitter in the discord.

-What is a DNW? All participants will have the opportunity to fill out a DNW, which stands for Do Not Want. This is anything that has the potential to ruin a gift for you. DNWs must be phrased politely, (so no "No foster aus because they suck and you suck if you like them"), and they must be reasonable, (so no attempting to box someone into a specific gift, i.e. "DNW anything that isn't a space au where Tommy is a dinosaur-hybrid and Tubbo is a ghost bee and they rampage through the living ship named Las Nevadas"), but they can be as petty (disliking specific art styles) or as broad-reaching (no modern aus, no specific ships, no crossovers with specific servers) as you like. Deliberately breaking someone's DNW is grounds for a ban from the exchange.

-When do I have to join the discord? You have the option to join the dicord and hang out as soon as signup starts on October 18, and you must join the discord so we can communicate with you by November 15. Anyone not in the discord once we start matching will have their sign-ups deleted.

-Is the discord a social server? Can I expect game nights? The discord is primarily an event server, we are not going to be hosting events. We will have a directory of other social servers, if you want to take a conversation started in the discord into a more convivial space.

-What's a check-in and how do they work? Check-ins are there to make sure everyone is on track to finish their piece in time, and to communicate any issues with the mods! If you know that you won’t be able to check in on a specific date (lack of internet, etc), please contact the mods in advance.

-What if I need to drop out? It is your responsibility to communicate with us if you need to drop out of the event for any reason, and we do need that communication. We know that life is no respecter of fic and art deadlines, so no hard feelings if something happens. However, we would hate for anyone to end up having no gift, so please think about this if you are thinking of dropping out close to reveals. Please inform us in advance if you must drop out or think you will not be able to complete your gift on time. Dropping out after the last check-in without informing the mods will result in not being permitted to take part in further events run by this mod team.

I have a question not answered here? Send us an ask on tumblr, contact @antimony-medusa on tumblr or discord!

[spdrvyn]

Hello, dear. I hope you are doing well. Might I make a Miguel x fem!reader request?

So, for context.

I had this idea today when I was sketching out someone's spidersona to practice anatomy and I couldn't find any good references for the poses I wanted to do. I just so happen to also be an aerialist so I immediately changed into some work out clothes and hung up my aerial silks onto my rig.

I was able to film myself doing the exact poses I wanted to draw on the silks to use as a reference.

This all kinda made me realize how similar aerial silks is to web swinging. And it gave me this juicy idea.

Scenario where the reader is the charismatic, flirtatious, and quippy owner of a popular, high-class nightclub in universe 2099. She is a bit more hands on than normal owners because she actually performs at her own club. The theme for the night is "superhero nite". She is the final performer of the night and is in a skin tight feminized outfit of Miguel's spiderman costume. She gives a sultry aerial silks performance on stage that includes both aerial silks and interacting with the audience (think Jessica Rabbit). Taking photos, walking across tables, giving men a run for their money. Paired with displays of extreme strength and flexibility as she weaves between the fabric silks effortlessly and gracefully.

It also just so happens that Miguel himself is there for that performance either scouting out the location or tracing a lead on a series of crimes that seem to center around this night club. So he gets to personally witness this hedonistic performance in his image. Idk I just think his reaction to it all would be juicy 🤣. Especially if the reader spots him in the crowd mid performance or after the fact and decides to approach and make a spectacle out of it.

Thank you for your time! You're really good at keeping Miguel in character and I really appreciate it.

sacred silk — MIGUEL O'HARA

☆ you're a quaint little owner on your own little stage, unfortunately your club has drawn some attention from nueva york's #1 vigilante.

tension packed. romantic. miguel is miguel. i loved this request sm! i added my own little spin to it so i hope that's okay ^_^ dividers by @/cafekitsune

Kingpin's lackeys have been scattered all around the city, not much of a problem for Miguel. The only issue being that they're planted in the most densely packed areas, markets, malls, sometimes churches when you thought he couldn't get any worse. It caused Miguel's frustrations to deepen with every single case.

At least, there was some sort of pattern in the locations of these agents. All up until this very night where Miguel found himself crouching over the glass roof of a tranquil night club.

His sharp eyes wandered over what he could find. The crowd looked young, nobody over the age of 27 in sight, there was a bartender hastily serving drinks, but the most eyecatching of them all was a rather suspicious looking old man enjoying himself a martini.

It looked... almost pathetic at this rate, however his suspicioums grew higher. This was too easy for a catch, there had to be something that he was missing in this.

"Lyla," Miguel muttered, holding his watch up close to his mouth. "What is this place exactly?"

"Can't find any records on it, I don't think that it's a registered establishment. How fun!"

Not fun. Not fun at all! The small crowd, the shady guy sitting alone at that table, the fact that this building wasn't even registered in the first place?! Crime bells were ringing in Miguel's ears.

He skittered along the edges of the roof, making sure that he isn't noticeable despite the dim lights. Soon enough, he's able to find an open panel to slip into. He digs his talons into one of the ceiling beams, which what even is the point of having a glass roof if the view is going to be obscured by these things anyway.

Miguel keeps his weight steady atop the structure, his gaze locks onto the creepy gentleman before he's blinded by the sudden flicker of the stage lights. What in the world?

When he thought that events couldn't get any weirder, you come flying down from a secret compartment in the ceiling, silk stringing your body up as you manuever and fly across the stage and club. The crowd cheers and livens up, raising their hands to which you respond by high fiving as many people as you can.

That's when he noticed something familiar about what you were wearing. The sharp geometric shapes carefully stitched into your suit, that recognizable navy blue, that straining bright red. You were wearing his colors, designed in his suit.

It's only when your feet hit the floor of stage with a resounding thud does Miguel remember why he's here in the first place, he's gotten used to seeing his face (well, his masked one) on all different kinds of merchandise. From regular to disgusting, but he's never seen something of this caliber before. He couldn't deny that he wasn't at all intrigued by your display of talent and costume.

"Thank you all for coming tonight," the breathlessness in your voice is prominent, a sign of your draining yet enamoring performance. "Do any of you want to guess who I'm dressed as?"

The crowd rallies and cheers.

"Spider-Man! Obviously!"

"Is there anyone stupid enough to not get it?"

"It's Spider-Man!"

Miguel rolls his eyes, don't get him wrong, he does want to appreciate the praise but everyone sounds like an overenthusiatic toddler. Depsite that, you feed into their firey spirits. Not before shushing them with a slight raise of your hand.

"I know you're all thinking why I decided to dress up as our beloved spider tonight," you reach for one of the silks hanging from the ceiling, resting your body atop it as you're slowly lifted from the stage again.

"Well, it's simple really. He's the hero of our city, the face of crime fighting, the face of justice." the crowd's heads follow your hanging body, your arm droops down to brush against the many hands that wish to touch yours. "He's made so many sacrifices for us, the least we could do is put on a show. All for him."

Miguel freezes for the nearly the entire duration of your heartfelt speech, he's overheard a lot of those whether it's a drunkard's rambling as he's swinging back home or on a podium and recited by a government official.

From the corner of his eye, the man that he was slowly inching towards rises from his seat and begins to slyly move through the crowd, bumping and slipping past people. When he enters through the backstage doors, all kinds of red flags are waving through the air.

The sudden blast of music nearly deafens him, but gives him a good distraction as he crawls with more fervor across the ceiling beam. He notices the small crevice to an entrance in the ceiling, presumably the one that you entered through.

It's dark and a little dusty, Miguel has to fight back a sneeze before finding yet another latch to enter through and behold, he's successfully infiltrated the backstage area!

"Lyla," he huffs. "Scan."

Bright yellow lights emerge in his vision, behind each room there's a bountiful amount of props and some people chatting with a drink in hand, it seemed like you weren't the only performer in this establishment. The thermal energy spikes when he catches sight of a man hunched behind one of the doors, supposedly with a crowbar in hand. Miguel rolls his eyes, "How dumb does he think I am?"

"Want me to run an IQ test?"

"I was being— ugh, nevermind."

Miguel shies over right next to the door, the blades hidden in his suit release with an audible shing. It cuts into the drywall without a struggle, Miguel can hear the man fall back onto the floor with a thud and a scream. He kicks his way into the room, before pouncing onto him and knocking him out cold.

"That was fast," Lyla chimes, illuminating the darkness. Miguel digs through the pockets of his coat, there's no sign of an ID, but he was carrying a shiv and a small revolver. How was this guy let in?

Miguel ties him up and makes a swift exit, before anyone could notice. This mission felt a little too easy for his liking, like a twist was going to sneak up on him at any minute now, but he wasn't going to complain about having an easy target this time.

His never ending train of thought brings him towards a building's edge later on, even deeper into the night. Waiting, thinking, contemplating. Miguel had no such thing as a spider sense, but he did have a gut and it was practically screaming at him that something was wrong.

He doesn't get any more time to let that thought marinate any further when his ears pick up on the latch of the door to the roof clicking, his head turns immediately he thinks he might strain it until he sees—

You.

Just you.

Though, you weren't wearing the same get-up when you had your show. No, you were in simply nightwear along with a flimsy pair of slippers and fuzzy socks to complete the look. That nonchalant attitude that you held during the show faded for a split second, before a small smile creeps onto your features as you raise a brow.

"Spider-Man? On my roofdeck?"

"I'll leave–"

"No!" you say it a little too loudly, reaching a hand out to him but never actually touching. You scold yourself internally for being too abrupt, before clearing your throat. "No, it's okay. Please stay."

Miguel sighs, as usual, he's going to make a decision that's going to kick him in the ass later. He gives in and decides to indulge your need for company, but the look on his face tells you to keep a distance.

You slowly walk over to the ledge that he's sitting on, leaning your body on the railing but still far enough to be comfortable.

Silence stretches out the distance between the two of you, that for once Miguel feels compelled to say something.

"There was someone suspicious at your club," he explains bluntly. "I took them out. You're welcome."

"Ah, yeah, I could tell from the webs and you know..."

"Oh."

Now, it's back to silence.

Miguel normally isn't disturbed by it, but this just made him uncomfortable. He thought that maybe you'd carry some bravado even outside your profession as a stage performer, he couldn't imagine that he'd end up talking that was so timid.

"I liked your performance," it's soft-spoken, his words fast and deliberate. "Your costume, too. It was... nice."

Even if the praise sounds like a 5th grader complimenting a painting, you found your face red and heart beating fast. Your grin returned with a "thank you". It's hard to tell exactly what Miguel's thinking under that mask, you can't even read his facial expression, but you hope that now it's less awkward.

It falls to silence again, the only difference being that there's no obligation for conversation. You and Miguel stare at the overhead view of the city from your penthouse, it gets so quiet that you swear you can hear him breathing.

He has to leave soon enough, he wished he could've stayed with you for longer because believe it or not, that's the only taste of peace he's had in a while. Your goodbyes are bittersweet, you don't know if you'll ever see him again.

When you're back on the stage again a few days later, hopping off of the platform and holding onto your silks, you're more than happy to that faint red glow coming from the glass panes on your roof.

[kyberphilosopher]

Tenebrous

Tenebrous/Tenebroum : shut off from the light : dark, murky. tenebrous depths... hard to understand : obscure. Word Count: 2362 NO WARNINGS Shadowhearts' mind is a weathering storm, but a storm is no match for one simple flower. A/N: Will be slowly returning to writing. I've been out of it for at least a year so my quality may not be what it used to, but I don't think it's that bad really. It's sorta proof read this time (not really)! Yayyyy.

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

There are many changes in life that could be considered… unwelcome. Life in itself has a tendency to be such a complicated journey, weaving and webbing and entrapping all that it can; much like Lolth’s loyal, spindling spiders. Such arachnids, for example, shed their skin to allow for their growth. Flowers bloom up and down, all around, before they die. Even a body of water might change its height, day by day. None of these things, of course, possess a conscience. Only a human might possess that, and humans, miserably, are more often ticking time bombs than not. 

Shadowhearts' change was difficult to pinpoint. She’d shed her skin and dawned a better, holier mantle, and yet she did not shine anew. Her skin did not glimmer or reflect- only absorbed and denied. Her hair was black like loneliness, her eyes mossy shadows. The young woman, though previously punished and whipped, now rewarded with understanding. She understood how she’d come to choose the name Shadowheart for herself, and now she understood how she’d finally earned it. She was a living weapon. An envoy for The Dark Lady’s will. A Dark Justiciar. Shadowheart should’ve felt on top of the world for such a feat. 

You… well, all of you could still very clearly remember the look on Nightsong’s face when she was slain. Shock. Shock, surprise, fear. Shadowhearts' arm was heavy with muscle and willpower. There was no hesitation in her sage orbs as she brought down her Spear of Night. Then the Nightsong sang no more. 

“I did what had to be done,” the half elf had spoken about it after. “No point in fretting over it, is there?”

You watched her. Not always- not while she slept like a creep. A sneaking glance or two was all you needed. Shadowheart was a (somewhat) kind hearted, devout, and intimate woman who displayed a deep interest in bleeding something to dry as well as tenderly curing it. Few things seemed to matter as much to her as her faith- when there was a sky full of stars and constellations, an open emerald field dappled with lavender, a lost temple- she was always there, praying. Praying to her mother, who she did not know. Who she had no memory of. Who rarely answered her when Shadowheart thought up a question. Praying to the Lady of Loss. That never changed. 

You watched her. The morning light rose over the horizon, then the deep maroon leaves circling overtop the camp. Although Shadowheart had prayed this morning- early- she had not stopped. The young halfbreed sat with bent knees and clasped hands since before the sun had risen. Her peach-y pink lips muttered repeatedly to herself again and again, only pausing when she looked… pained? Or perhaps deep in thought?

She opens them. 

Your gaze turns to the gauntlets you fit around your arms. They are heavy, though not as heavy as Shadowhearts' eyes. When you glance over upon her once more, she pushes herself to her feet and then locks eyes with the ground for a long time. 

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

There was much of Faerun that you had neglected to see, as you came to find out. There were lands covered in blankets of deep shadow and physical fear, bogs that would take the appearance of groves simply to trick all those who enter. There were tears in the sky that melted every night, according to Lae’zel. Astarion had described the many gothic manors and mansions that he had visited and admired. Gale of Waterdeep took no joy in restraining himself from speaking of his many accomplishments- most of which involved seeing something so beautiful, so rare- that he risked the Gods smite. 

Your boots were from Baldurs Gate, and they were not necessarily made for the mud that you trekked through. They were scratchy and tight, but the laces were coming loose. If you ever saw the city again, you swore you’d get a new pair. What an ‘if’ that was. But you were no complainer. You swallowed dryly, shouldered your bow and sword and continued onward silently. 

“Need something, friend?” a voice called from beside you. A smile creeps over your lips at the voice. 

“Do you, Astarion?” you look at the elf now walking close on your left. He’s taller than yourself- mostly due to his long and prodding neck. You supposed he used such a feature for snooping and being nosey. 

Astarion scoffs out a chuckle, before his tone turns to defeat. “Oh, you caught me. I must admit, friend, I’ve grown quite bored.”

“Look at my shoes,” you sigh. “I’d rather be bored than inadequately dressed.”

“Mmm. Yes, how unfortunate. You know, I must say I would’ve thought you smart enough to get your own well fitting shoes by now. This little adventure hasn’t exactly been…”

“I know,” you tell him. “Say, what did we do with those boots from the Underdark? The red ones, with the little black and silver designs.”

Astarion is briefly silent in thought, though it’s not him that breaks it. 

“I’ve them.”

You and your elven companion turn your heads over your shoulders. Shadowhearts' face is solemn and gaunt- nothing out of the ordinary. Still, a certain regret lingered in her deep, dark eyes. Her beauty was matched only by the background behind her, which was nothing but darkness. Hair, long and inky, fell over her shoulder lazily. 

“Ah,” Astarion smiled wide, showing off his pointy canines. “I was just wondering when you would join our conversation. So tell us, what is it you’ve done with the things?”

Shadowheart stayed silent. Her pace quickened, her own greaves and boots were metal and solid in the mud- built for it. On your right, she materialized like a dream, though she did not turn to look at you. 

“I took the boots,” Shadowheart explains matter-of-factly. “They grant the wearer intense bouts of speed and pursuit- hardly a trophy to simply leave behind. I might loan them to you… should you require them.”

You blink, trying to find your words. “Might?” you settle on. 

One step, two step, three and four. The upward hill you battle to hike reaches its peak, slanting downwards once more. From up here, you can see only a bit more than you might’ve thought. The lands your party currently crossed through were completely devoid of light and life, and so although you could confirm the sight of a large lake, you (nor any other member of the party) was able to register the important details of the environment before you. You all continued walking downhill without skipping a beat, unbothered at the thought of imminent death. 

It happens in an instant. Your armored knuckles brush against the metal of Shadowhearts' own hand. No, not a brush- a touch. It reverberates up your fingers and straight to your brain, where it’s stored deep in your memory without you even realizing it. It even produces a soft, but undeniable noise. 

Your eyes snap to hers, wide and alert. “Apologies, my lady,” you urge quickly. “I did not mean-”

Shadowheart stops suddenly. She stands in front of you, Astarion and Wyll wandering onward seemingly unaware- or perhaps simply uncaring. Now shorter than you at the incline, the young woman looks up at you with her piercing orbs. 

“You need not worry on it,” Shadowheart tells you, and for some reason it seems, at this moment, that she is only ever talking to you. Your lips part, looking back at her. The Justiciar’s own light green gaze is flitting between your own eyes, and you can’t help but feel yourself growing distracted off her face alone. 

The woman’s face was porcelain pale, delicate but well put together. Her cheekbones were high and soft, dappled with freckles that Shadowheart hoped no one would notice. Her lashes were generous and thick- just the same with her eyebrows. Her lips were shaped like a heart. Gods, her lips. They were tantalizing, even chapped and chewed on like now. Not even the scar cutting across her cheek and nose was enough to deter from her otherworldly beauty. How were you supposed to resist such a temptation so close by?

You cared too much for the young woman to trample in on her faith. You had traveled with Shadowheart long enough to see it was one of the few things that she cared for. Shar this and Shar that… You were no Shar. What pain could you possibly alleviate of Shadowhearts’? What void could you introduce her to? The answer was simple: none. You were no match for the Dark Justiciar, and even if you were, she would not allow you to be. 

“I apologize again, my lady,” you tell her, a firm whisper. 

Shadowhearts' eyes shift between your own for another moment longer, brief and fleeting. “You might wish for some healing, if it is to be a while before we see those boots again.” She slips a glove from her lithe hand- you catch a glimpse of the plum wound buried in the center- and says, “May I?”

You swallow dryly again. Water, your brain wishes. Instantly, your prayers are answered as saliva flushes your mouth. 

Shadowheart presses the palm of her hand to the base of your neck, where your armor leaves a sliver of your skin exposed. Her hand is cold, colder than anything you’ve ever felt. Yet, your body warms as her lips begin to chant.

You can feel the blood rush to your feet. Blisters that have lined your heels and toes and soles for weeks diminish in seconds, leaving your feet to settle more comfortably in your wear. The two sore heaps previously referred to as your legs alleviate themselves instantaneously. Even the sweat, stinking and insidious, brewing beneath your armpits slips away silently to the wind. 

Eyes could not be torn from the half elf in front of you if they were taken straight from your head. Your gaze is locked and fixed on Shadowheart, though you cannot find the words. Shall you thank her? Ask for her hand? Attempt to engage in a heart to heart conversation? No, control yourself. You bite down on your lip, hard, but with Shadowhearts’ healing hand lingering over your sternum, the blood does not stay for long. You watch her finish her prayer. 

“There,” Shadowheart looks up at you once more through her dark lashes. “You just seemed a little… parched.”

The Dark Justiciar holds your eye for a few seconds longer. Then she steps away. 

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

Before Selune blessed the Earth with the light of the sun, there was nothing. Faerun, and everywhere else, was well a part of Shar’s domain of darkness. When her ethereal twin betrayed her by inventing life sustaining fire, the change was instant and could not be ignored. 

Shadowhearts story seemed the opposite. She had been close to the light once, she supposed- closer. She’d resented herself for it at the time; so, Shadowheart chose to bring herself closer to the dark. She chose to be as close as she could. She wanted to sit side by side with her mother, spear in hand, and quench her thirst on the blood of moonmaidens. Though, no such feat had come to pass. Shadowheart was not foolish. She understood it was a change that would take time to see such accomplishment. But had she not made it clear that there was no doubt? Shadowheart would slaughter a thousand nightsongs if it meant being Shar’s chosen. 

And yet, she felt more unhappy with herself than she had before. She resented herself. 

In the mornings when she’d wake early, Shar’s voice might whisper instructions in Shadowhearts’ pointed ear. 

“You are to suffer,” the low voice would guide. “To hate until you are released to loss, child.”

Shadowheart obeyed. 

In the nights when Shar’s power rose strong, her Justiciar would feel Shar’s thoughts as if her own. 

“You are to breathe in the darkness,” the low voice would guide. “To ponder on your wrongdoings until you might see clearly.”

Shadowheart obeyed. 

It was what she had wanted. But now that she was alone, Shadowheart was lonely, and not even herself was reliable for comfort any longer. 

Luckily, there is always you. 

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

“Shadowheart!” you cry, lurching forward. “Wait!”

Alarmed, the cleric whips her head to yours. Shadowheart had not sensed anything more out there besides vague harm- certainly nothing close enough to warrant such urgency out of you. You need to catch up with the two boys, lest you end up hunting monster and monster hunter simultaneously. But your face shows no such concern for those things. Your eyes lower slowly from Shadowheart to the ground by her feet. 

Yes, there, beneath the greaves spattered in blood and leather soles reeking of death, was a flower. 

The thing was light, almost glowing, and a beautiful wisteria shade. It grew somewhat tall, with sharp leaves and petals like bells that only grew more midnight and lilac colored the deeper they went. Shadowheart let a small gasp slip from her lips. 

Slowly, as if you were dealing with a skittish, stray cat, you bend down into the dirt. As you pluck the flower from its stem, the smell of vanilla and musk swells the air. You stand eye level with the young woman in front of you, whose stare flits between the flower to your armor. 

“A night orchid,” you say. Shadowhearts’ favorite. “May I?”

The holy warrior looks at you sharply. 

You press it, holding her gaze with a soft and warming smile, to her palm. You can feel her heartbeat through her skin, excitedly in time with your own. Finally. 

“I…” she begins, but you turn your head to the side, waving her off. 

“It’s nothing,” you insist as you step away. “Wouldn’t want you to step on your favorite flower. I’m sure your Goddess would understand.”

Shadowhearts’ green eyes dance, though not with any emotion you’ve seen before within her. 

You smile again. “Let’s get you to Baldurs Gate.”

The young woman watches intently as you continue down the hill, clutching the purple flower tight in her hand. 

[bombusbombus]

There's something about his writing.

Bruce pours over those articles when they grace the paper, trying to figure out the mind behind the prose. It's so much different from how Superman speaks.

It's so much different from how Superman fights.

Today's setup is simple, a smuggling ring busted. The facts in the police report, the words from the police chief's mouth. Last week's news.

But new information comes in, subtle and innocuous like the swish of a cape or squeak of a boot under the hum of a city—the charges allege that the accused parties were in possession of illegal weapons. That's news, the public didn't know what they were in for before.

Tactfully, quietly, the little reporter behind the scenes brings little pieces of news to light, weaving a web of interest but not quite suspicion.

And then like a projectile out of the shadows, the first point hits the reader across the face. The weapons are no longer in police custody. Where are they?

Anyone attempting to flee will notice convenient facts and testimony blocking the way. A carefully laid trap. And swooping in from the left, a new piece of evidence, smacking the reader clean across the face—a lexcorp employee escorted to the evidence room (as seen by an anonymous source).

It's a one-two punch: A van with a plastered over lexcorp logo was loaded full of large boxes behind the department, according to some kids on the street and an old woman in her apartment.

The journalist blocks incoming accusations of unreliable witnesses, pivots, uses the reader's weight against them when pointing out the MetropolisPD security camera facing the area whose footage could be used to deny the allegations.

And then he's in the home stretch; he's bringing it in, tying it up, looking into the darkness to see if the proper officials are coming or if he has to do this himself. Do we know the source of the weapons? Do we know anything about them? Is it really ethical to jail those arrested for the smuggling ring if there's no evidence? How do we know the ones arrested were actually the ones responsible?

Can we really trust Metropolis PD after the corruption allegations of the past decade?

And then, with nothing more than a byline, he's off into the shadows of obscurity once more. Just another meek reporter. Just another guy.

"Good article this morning," Batman will tell Superman when they next see each other, and Superman will laugh his big laugh and stand up straight in those bright colours and say, "well, that's my job."

But Bruce recognises deception and subtlety. And Clark knows he does. So they share a quiet smile and a knowing glance before leaping together into the night.

[pandorasword]

Chaeri as the 8th and youngest member of BTS.

Chaeri's Masterlist

❒ warnings: weight loss; unrequested comments about weight

Web article

Mid-2021

The whirlwind of K-pop sensations has always had a crowned jewel, none other than Chaeri from BTS, the siren who has the world wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger. Mesmerizing with her ethereal beauty, breathtaking talent, and performances that ignite the stage, Chaeri's spotlight rarely flickers. But as the years have danced by, a new kind of spotlight shines on her - one that highlights her drastic weight loss, triggering the rumor mill into overdrive.

Gossipy tongues wag furiously as whispers of "why" and "how" reverberate throughout the fandom. Was it the grueling schedule, those taxing training sessions, or a concoction of industry demands that turned Chaeri's physique into a puzzle? The chatter continues to escalate as fans and insiders alike chime in, each weaving their own narrative of her transformation.

The glow of fame is known to cast shadows, and Chaeri's weight loss is now a shadow that casts doubt. Speculations linger like a tantalizing secret: Did she take on a new fitness regimen, or was there a personal twist in the story? It's hard not to wonder whether Chaeri's glimmering success comes at the cost of her well-being.

Chaeri's enigmatic silence only fuels the fire of conjecture. With every dance move she executes flawlessly, and every note she belts out with a voice that seems to touch the stars, the mystery deepens. Is this weight loss a declaration of control, or does it hint at a struggle? The truth remains obscured, like a tantalizing chord left unresolved.

Twitter: Search results on #Chaeri

💭 It's clear that she is struggling with mental and physical health issues, why won't she just admit it and take time for herself?

💭 Chaeri is such a hard-working idol, I'm sure she's doing everything she can to maintain her health. We shouldn't judge her based on her weight

💭 As long as she is happy and healthy, that's all that matters. What she weighs or looks like should be no one's business except her own

💭 Chaeri needs to retire or take a break, she clearly can't handle the stress of being an idol anymore

💭 I can't believe how many people continue to support Chaeri, when her weight loss sets such a dangerous and unhealthy example for young fans. It's irresponsible and shameful

💭 As Chaeri's fans, we should focus on supporting her and helping her maintain a positive and healthy mindset. Let's not contribute to the negative pressure she may be feeling

💭 Chaeri's weight loss shows how desperate she is to remain relevant and how willing she is to conform to unrealistic beauty standards. It's pathetic and sad to see

💭 I hope that she's getting the support and help she needs

💭 It's embarrassing to see how obsessed people are with Chaeri's weight and appearance. It's such a superficial and pointless thing to focus on

💭 Can't people see how harmful this obsession with weight and appearance is? We should all be supporting bodily authenticity and diversity

💭 Her weight loss has made her so unattractive and off-putting

💭 The fact that I used to weigh as much as she does now, and how I constantly felt unwell during that time

💭 I guess it's okay if she's happier, but still...

💭 Her body isn’t your discussion topic.

💭 "fans" now say they are worried about Chaeri's weight are the same ones that bashed her for not being skinny enough in their opinion

Baggy clothes era at Incheon Airport

Mid-2021 to early 2022

taglist: @alixnsuperstxr | @bts-dream | @enchantingbrowneyedgirl | @ycuvi | @cosmicwintr

[sophiegoose]

Giant!Miguel Character/AU notes

Howdy.

I return to the Spiderverse G/t tag with my other Big(tm) Miguel/AU.

I've workshopped this guy and the world he comes from quite a bit. I plan on writing a multi-part reader x fanfic about him at some point down the line, so he's gotten a lot of fleshing out and Lore(tm).

This will be closer to an actual character profile with some lore and storyline beats mixed in compared to my previous Sizeshifter!Miguel post.

Hope y'all enjoy. :>

Name: Miguel

Pronouns: He/Him or It/Its

Species: Giant

Age: 810 (roughly 30-35 in human years)

Height: 150 feet/45 meters (head and shoulders taller than most other giants)

Occupation: Alchemist and tapestry weaver. Previously an armorer, weaponsmith, and warlord.

Associated magical sphere: Spiders

Appearance: Miguel is a looming figure  with tan skin, which is covered from head to toe in scars. These scars range in size, shape, and depth, suggesting combat with a variety of beings over the course of his lifetime. He has a very buff body type, with broad shoulders and pronounced musculature.

He has sharp cheekbones and a square jaw, and piercing red eyes that glow with an eerie, dim light in the dark. Several more pinpricks of glowing red are arranged under each of his eyes, appearing to be additional eyes/light-sensing organs. These lack pupils and eyelids. His jaws are lined with sharp teeth, with elongated incisors. His toes and fingers have long, tapering claws, which have a straight edge and cannot be sheathed. He has medium length black hair, which is slightly curled and has interwoven hints of grey.

He wears a black shawl, consisting of numerous layers of sheer black fabric. This is woven over his body in several layers, creating a skintight bodysuit that covers his body at its innermost layer. The outer layers are woven into a black cloak that obscures most of his body and face from view.

This outfit is magical, and freely responds to Miguel's will. It wraps and unwraps, weaving and unweaving from his body, transforming into any garment he may need. It also acts as an extension of his personage:  any damage done to it felt by him. It can be unfurled into a large web that can entangle and snare foes, or weave around him tightly, forming a cocoon for protection, and anywhere in between.

Most days, Miguel wears this outfit in the form mourner's cloak, with a bodysuit wrapped around him underneath. He rarely lifts the hood of his cloak to show his face, with only his glowing eyes visible within. The fabric has a faint iridescent sheen.

Backstory:

Miguel is a giant, one of many magical creatures that call his world home. Giant society is somewhat separated from the rest of the world: most of their villages and cities are built atop banks of clouds, high above the world below.

Due to their lofty home and intimdiating size, giants tend not to mingle with other species, but there have been times where giant society has meddled with the lives of those below, for better or for worse.

Miguel was once a famed weaponsmith and warlord, waging battle under the sigil and banner of the Spider. He took part in a massive conflict that spanned centuries and multiple kingdoms, involving numerous species and innumerable casualties.

While the war initially broke out between small local factions for land and resources after a devastating natural disaster, it quickly devolved. It turned into a clash of kingdoms, political causes, and warring economies. As kings, feudal lords, rebels and outside warlords joined the fray, things got ever more tangled,  complicated, and bloody. As these groups forged alliances and lost their comrades one by one, they began to lose track of what it was the war had been started for and what they were fighting for other than vengeance. The carnage spanned across entire generations for some of the species involved, with humans bearing the brunt of casualties.

Things came to a head when the toll of war hit too close to home: Miguel's daughter was captured by a rival kingdom. The human ruler of said kingdom called for her execution in retaliation for Miguel's direct destruction of a town on the outskirts of their territory.

Miguel arrived just in time to see the life fade from his daughter's eyes.

Overcome with the pain of his daughter's death and wracked with guilt for having lost himself so deeply in the bloodlust of war, Miguel lost the will to fight. He retired from the warfront and became a shut-in.

He spends most of his days alone, now.

Residing in his secluded home on the outskirts of a floating city, he neighbors several other giants who once fought under his command. He doesn't socialize with them often, instead spending his time pursuing what little remains of joy in his life.

He weaves tapestries and clothing, creating elaborate pieces in an attempt to express his emotions, and making pieces in tribute to his daughter. Occasionally he'll take up commission work, creating decorative armor pieces or aid in repairing older pieces of his. He dislikes when people brings weapons into his home of any kind.

Many long centuries have passed since the war ended, and while to humans and other beings in the world below it is merely a legend, relegated to a footnote in history...

To Miguel it is still a crushing weight upon his life that is slowly suffocating him alive.

And so he weaves his tapestries, much as a spider would weave its web, and seeks penance and peace amongst the ruins of his life.

Personality:

Miguel is stern, well-spoken, and regal...but make no mistake, he is NOT as level-headed as he seems.

Neither his smooth voice nor flowery language can hide his animalistic tendencies, deeply held trauma, and barely-contained temper. He is quick to anger, jumpy at even the smallest of sounds, and filled with a deeply jaded rage towards the world, himself, and, most intensely, humans.

He has a deep contempt and hatred for humans, viewing them as lowly, vile creatures whose intelligence and craftiness is only ever used for personal gain and trickery. He once freely allied with and fought alongside humans, but  now views them as monsters, despite the obvious hypocrisy and misdirected rage of this sentiment. Should he ever find a human in his home there's no telling what he'd do...

That being said, he doesn't extend such violence and disdain to everyone.

He has maintained relationships with many of his former comrades, as well as friends and relatives...although his increasingly reclusive behavior worries them. He's fiercely loyal to those close to him, betraying a softer side he prefers to keep hidden, concerned for their safety and worried he may lose another person he holds close. He rarely admits to or shows this vulnerability: he doesn't want to appear weak, nor have others take advantage of that weakness. He can't take any more pain than what is already upon his shoulders. Not again.

As such, he remains focused on his work and the solitude of his home, rarely letting anyone in, both physically and emotionally.

Powers/Abilities:

-Sphere of the Spider:

Giants are inherently magical beings. Their massive forms exist thanks to the powerful magic that flows in their veins, and they're more susceptible to magical attacks and spells than most other species. Deeply intuned with the flow of magical energy that moves through all things, giants take on a sphere/focus of interest to better hone and utilize their magical aptitude.

Some choose a particular profession, such as farming, smithing, book-binding and so on and apply their inherent magical skill to these pursuits. Other times, a sphere of magic will chose a giant to take it on.

Miguel was approached by the spirit of spiders herself, who granted him great power in exchange for spreading her sigil far and wide. He accepted...

But her blessing was a double-edged sword.

While she greatly sharpened his senses, gave him immense strength and agility, and honed his already exceptional skills in alchemy and weaving to a fine edge, he suffered many side-effects. While the growth of his extra eyes, his fangs, his claws, and the sharp increase in his senses were tolerable, other changes were not so easy to adapt to.

Extremely sensitive to light and vibration, Miguel is uncomfortable in direct sunlight and dislikes loud noise and music. He has also developed a visceral dislike for birds, and motifs for them are associated with death in his artistic works.

He is most active at night, something that clashes with the sunshine-loving norm of giant society, and his animalistic nature does startle even his fellow giants at times. Miguel is, however, overall grateful for his connection to this particular sphere of magic. He feels it suits him.

-Weaving/Alchemy:

While Miguel does not produce his own silk, his arachnid powers do lend well to the art of weaving and alchemy.

Miguel can weave with traditional materials, such as cloth, string, and rope, but he is also able to magically weave with other materials. He can change the alchemical properties of any material he touches, allowing him to spool it out into thread that he then weave into the item he's working on.

For example, Miguel's weaponsmithing process is different than any other in the world. He starts with the materials he intends to use for a piece, then thinly spools them out into thread, tempering the metal with alchemy. He then weaves these metallic threads into intricate patterns as he slowly but surely assembles a weapon of immense durability and sharpness, one strand at a time.

His weapons are renowned for their sturdiness and unique aesthetics, with a very distinct organic, woven style that makes them easy to spot. His textiles are also in high demand, as they are easily enchanted and are resistant to fraying or tearing. His tapestries are said to glisten with threads made from traditionally unheard-of materials, with strands made of alchemically-altered diamond, platinum, stone, wood, and more.

His pieces are highly sought after, but his clientele know that he's not easy to hunt down and get a commission slot. He is a grumpy, morose recluse, and that doesn't seem like it'll be changing any time soon.

Additional notes/info:

-Miguel is pansexual, panromantic, and polyamorous (though he's not been active in the dating scene for quite some time). He currently has no partners.

-Miguel's home is a looming, brutalist structure formed from stone. Inside there are several support pillars and rafter-like beams that he freely leaps between and crawls along. Any visitor better be ready to climb to reach most of the rooms inside.

-His home has a garden at its center, with a ceiling of enchanted glass that captures and casts down sunlight in glimmering colors. It is filled with plants from both the surface world and giant lands, with tangles of fruit trees and grape vines growing in the gaps between the shadows of massive trees native to giant lands. The entire garden is encircled and criss-crossed by an artificial spring, which is filled with rainwater from the bank of clouds Miguel's home is built on. He often harvests fruit from his garden for his meals.

-Housed in at the center of this garden, resting in its own custom-made pond, is the last remnant Miguel has of his daughter: a goose, crudely carved from gold. This enchanted object was sculpted and brought to life by his daughter through alchemy. Although an amateur work by the standards of most alchemists, it was deeply precious to her. This goose can eat any metal, and will take what it is fed and alchemize it into eggs made of solid gold. This goose is very precious to Miguel, and he pampers it as a pet, spoiling it rotten with hand-carved foliage made of different, high-value metals, and dotes on it daily.

-Whether he admits it or not, he has a soft spot for children, and is often a babysitter for his extended family and group of friends. He's particularly fond of the child of his former battle comrades Peter and MJ, and treats their daughter, Mayday, as if she was his own. He'd kill the very gods for her.

[darknesseddiem]

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: As Arcadia High School diligently readies its senior students for an academic expedition to explore Romania's renowned museums, anticipation crackles in the air. Yet, amidst the buzz of excitement and preparation, Y/n finds herself haunted by a chilling nightmare that lingers like a specter in her mind, casting a shadow over the forthcoming journey.

Meanwhile, across town, the Hawkins police force grapples with a harrowing investigation—the savage and enigmatic murder of a young boy, a crime so brutal it sends shockwaves through the city's core. As detectives delve into the depths of darkness shrouding this heinous act, whispers of malevolent forces and sinister secrets echo through the streets, leaving the community gripped by fear and uncertainty.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: +18, heavy content, dark themes, volence, blood, child death, child torture, gore, witchcraft, disfigurement, murder, nightmares, Reader takes meds to help her sleep, cruelty, allusion to eating disorder.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4,9K

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (open): @ali-r3n @maedesculpaeusoubi @birdysaturne

As your gaze drifted beyond the classroom window, the gentle sway of leaves seemed to beckon you into a world far removed from the monotony of Mrs. Bennet's lecture. Her words, once a beacon of guidance, dissolved into an indistinct cacophony, overshadowed by the enigmatic maelstrom brewing within your troubled psyche.

Lost in the labyrinthine corridors of your mind, you found yourself ensnared by memories of the night prior—fragments of a haunting dream that had invaded your restless slumber like tendrils of darkness creeping into the corners of your consciousness.

It had been an eternity since such macabre visions tormented your sleep, ever since the fateful disappearance of your parents—an event veiled in obscurity that had cast you adrift in a sea of unanswered questions and whispered rumors. The memories of that night haunted you like ghostly apparitions, their specters lurking just beyond the veil of consciousness, waiting to pounce upon your unsuspecting mind.

Prescribed an arsenal of antidepressants and sedatives to assuage the relentless onslaught of nightmares, you had sought refuge in the solace of pharmaceutical oblivion, hoping to drown out the echoes of your past with the numbing embrace of chemically-induced tranquility.

But even the most potent medications could not silence the whispers of your subconscious, nor quell the restless yearning for answers that gnawed at your soul like a ravenous beast. And so, as you sat amidst the dull hum of the classroom, a sense of unease gripped you, the memories of the night prior clawing their way to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged, to be understood.

As the day unfurled its weary hours, a dense fog of uncertainty descended upon you, enveloping your senses like a leaden shroud. Within the mundane fabric of daily life lurked a disquieting sense of foreboding, blurring the lines between what was real and what existed only in the recesses of your troubled mind.

From the moment your eyes blinked open, a suffocating pall of dread hung heavy in the air, casting a long shadow over your every thought and action. It was a sensation that clung to you like a second skin, a haunting reminder of the gaping void left behind by the sudden disappearance of your parents—the day your world fractured irreparably.

Throughout the hours that followed, an unsettling presence loomed on the edge of your consciousness, a phantom specter that seemed to stalk your every movement with unyielding persistence. Its intangible grip tightened with each passing moment, weaving a tangled web of apprehension around your fragile psyche.

As daylight waned and the world bathed in the eerie glow of twilight, the tendrils of unease constricted ever tighter, wrapping around your soul like vipers poised to strike. The atmosphere crackled with unspoken tension, each heartbeat echoing the ominous drumbeat of impending doom.

Were your fears merely the byproduct of a fractured mind, haunted by the ghosts of its past? Or was there a more sinister force at play, lurking in the shadows, waiting to ensnare you in its malevolent embrace? Only time would tell as you stood on the precipice of uncertainty, teetering on the edge of a darkness from which there might be no return.

With each fleeting thought, doubt gnawed at the fringes of your sanity, its whispered tendrils weaving a tapestry of uncertainty within the recesses of your troubled mind. Perhaps you were indeed teetering on the brink of madness, your senses distorted by the relentless trauma of your past. Or perhaps, as the therapist had suggested, your mind had erected formidable defenses against the horrors of your reality—a defense mechanism to shield you from the overwhelming weight of your own memories.

But as the shadows deepened and the night unfurled its ebony cloak, one thing remained certain: the inexplicable sense of being watched, the disconcerting feeling that eyes unseen bore witness to your every move. In the labyrinth of your mind, the line between reality and illusion blurred, leaving you adrift in a sea of uncertainty where truth and fiction intertwined in a tantalizing dance of shadows and secrets. And as you grappled with the enigmatic forces that conspired against you, you couldn't shake the haunting suspicion that the darkest truths were yet to be revealed.

As the rhythmic din of exuberant voices reverberated off the classroom walls, you found yourself reluctantly torn from the labyrinth of your contemplations, abruptly thrust back into the bustling present by the jubilant commotion surrounding you. Tables vibrated beneath the force of pounding fists, jubilant exclamations pierced the air like shards of shattered glass, and the infectious energy of your peers permeated the atmosphere, suffusing the room with an electrifying pulse of excitement. How long had you been ensnared in the enigmatic recesses of your thoughts, oblivious to the jubilation unfolding before you?

"S-silence, please!" Mrs. Bennet's voice, a beacon of authority, cut through the tumult like a blade, commanding attention as she rapped her desk with a ruler.

As the uproar gradually subsided, a heavy silence descended upon the room, punctuated only by the soft shuffling of restless feet and the rustle of papers. All eyes turned expectantly toward the authoritative figure at the front of the classroom, Mrs. Bennet's solemn countenance casting a pall of solemnity over the room. With deliberate grace, she traversed the length of the room to stand before the imposing expanse of the blackboard, where she inscribed a single word in bold, commanding script: "RULES."

The chalk, now depleted of its purpose, returned to its designated holder with a hollow clatter, its echoes reverberating through the stillness of the room like a portentous omen. Mrs. Bennet, her posture rigid with resolve, turned to address the assembled students, her voice a solemn symphony of authority and expectation.

"Rules," she intoned, her words laden with the weight of significance. "Rules that shall delineate the boundaries between aspiration and stagnation, determination and defeat."

A ripple of apprehension swept through the room, the air thick with a sense of foreboding and anticipation. Undeterred by the murmurs of discontent that rippled through the room like the ghostly whispers of unseen phantoms, Mrs. Bennet pressed forward, her gaze piercing through the veil of uncertainty that hung heavy in the air.

"And so, the first decree," she proclaimed, her voice echoing with an unyielding resolve. "Only those who have ascended beyond the confines of mediocrity, those whose grades soar above the threshold of adequacy, shall be deemed worthy of passage on this journey."

The jock's frustration permeated the air like a tangible force, his exasperation evident in the furrow of his brow and the tightness of his jaw. "Man, I hate the way she talks, like some sort of... I don't know," he grumbled, his tone tinged with irritation and disdain.

His companion, mirroring his sentiments, offered a terse nod of agreement. "Stupid bitch," he muttered, his voice a low growl of shared frustration.

A palpable commotion erupted in the wake of Mrs. Bennet's pronouncement, casting a veil of confusion over the classroom as you struggled to decipher the elusive topic of discussion.

"Silence!" The teacher's voice thundered with palpable frustration, commanding the attention of the unruly students.

"Second rule," she continued, her tone firm and unwavering despite the uproar, "those fortunate enough to be chosen shall be entrusted to the care and supervision of the school. Hence, they are obligated to adhere to the established guidelines and regulations, even upon arrival at our destination." Pausing briefly to gather her thoughts, she drew a deep breath before proceeding with her discourse. "And lastly, but by no means least: refrain from engaging in any behavior that may jeopardize our collective integrity. Violators risk immediate repatriation to Hawkins." With a final authoritative sweep of her gaze across the room, she concluded, "The list of selected students shall be posted on the main bulletin board tomorrow. That is all."

The piercing chime of the bell reverberated through the classroom, signaling the cessation of the lesson and prompting a flurry of movement as students scrambled to gather their belongings and vacate the premises.

"Don't forget to inform your parents or legal guardian about the upcoming trip!" Mrs. Bennet's admonition, delivered in a hushed tone, barely penetrated the rush of departing students.

You rose from your seat, methodically collecting your belongings and slinging your backpack over your shoulder before approaching the teacher's desk.

“Um...Mrs. Bennet, may I ask you a question?” Your voice, scarcely above a whisper, carried a note of uncertainty.

“Of course, dear!” Mrs. Bennet's kindly smile lent an air of reassurance to her response.

“I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention, but where exactly is this trip taking us?” The admission of your inattention weighed heavily upon you, a pang of shame tugging at the corners of your conscience.

“We will be journeying to Romania, dear,” came the gentle reply, causing your blood to run cold and a shiver of unease to course down your spine.

“Oh...yes, thank you…” You offered a weak smile of gratitude before hastily exiting the room, the word "Romania" echoing ominously in your mind.

Romania? In Europe? The revelation sent a chill down your spine as you pondered the implications of this unexpected destination.

As you made your way through the bustling halls towards the cafeteria, a whirlwind of thoughts swirled through your mind like leaves caught in a tempest. Recollections of your class's recent selection to deliver an in-depth presentation on Romania and its rich history flitted through your consciousness, casting a faint glimmer of understanding upon the enigmatic decision to embark on this unexpected journey. Perhaps the school board had deemed the excursion a fitting complement to your studies, an opportunity to immerse yourselves in the culture and heritage you had diligently researched.

Yet, despite the logical rationale behind the trip and the ample resources at Arcadia's disposal, an unsettling sense of disquiet gnawed at the fringes of your consciousness. It was a feeling as elusive as mist, shrouded in ambiguity yet impossible to ignore—a silent whisper of unease that prickled at the back of your mind.

Was it the abruptness of the announcement, or the eerie coincidence of your class's recent academic focus? Or perhaps it was the inscrutable aura surrounding the destination itself, veiled in layers of mystery and intrigue. Whatever the reason, a foreboding sense of unease lingered in the air like a thick fog, refusing to dissipate despite your best efforts to dispel it.

With each step forward, the weight of uncertainty bore down upon you like an oppressive burden, casting a shadow over the otherwise mundane surroundings of the school corridors. And as you approached the cafeteria, the bustling chatter of your peers faded into the background, drowned out by the persistent echo of your own apprehension.

Something was undeniably amiss, though you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

As you entered the bustling cafeteria, the familiar sight of your friends, Robin and Steve, caught your eye, their animated discussion drawing you in like a moth to a flame. With a smile playing at your lips, you approached their table, the lively debate over the prowess of Rhea Ripley and Io Shirai serving as a backdrop to their camaraderie.

"Look, you don't understand anything about fighting, you only watch it because you like to see women," Steve retorted with an air of exasperation, his frustration evident in the tousled locks of his brown hair.

"Doesn't matter! Rhea is the best fighter and—" Robin's fervent defense was abruptly cut off as her gaze alighted upon your arrival, a warm smile spreading across her features.

"How's my little bee buzzing around today?" Robin's affectionate greeting enveloped you in a tight embrace, instantly flooding you with a sense of warmth and belonging amidst the bustling ambiance of the cafeteria.

You couldn't help but playfully roll your eyes at the endearing nickname, a remnant of childhood escapades that had evolved into an inseparable part of your identity. The moniker stemmed from a mischievous encounter with a beehive during your younger years—a venture that ended with a painful sting and a memorable trip to the hospital. Initially coined as a teasing jab by your friends, the nickname had since transformed into a cherished term of endearment, emblematic of the bond you shared with Robin and the rest of your inner circle.

"I'm alright, Robs," you replied softly, offering a small smile as you gently extricated yourself from her warm embrace.

Steve's question cut through the air with a hint of concern, his penetrating gaze triggering a twinge of guilt within you. "Did you eat something?" he inquired, his tone carrying a subtle note of accusation.

"Um, yeah, I did," you responded hesitantly, attempting to mask your discomfort with a faint smile as you noticed both Robin and Steve crossing their arms in unison, a silent testament to their shared concern.

Robin interjected, her voice a gentle blend of calm reassurance and genuine worry. "You know it's important to take care of yourself. We don't want a repeat of last time," she reminded you, her words tinged with a poignant reminder of past struggles.

Closing your eyes momentarily, you couldn't help but be transported back to that difficult period, the memory serving as a stark reminder of the delicate balance between health and neglect, and the profound significance of prioritizing self-care.

A subtle tension hung in the air, tangible yet unspoken, as you deftly navigated the delicate balance between reassurance and concealment, acutely aware of the worry etched upon your friends' faces. Each glance exchanged between you carried the weight of unspoken concerns, a silent acknowledgment of the struggles and scars hidden beneath the surface.

"I know, I know, but honestly, I'm fine. Promise," you offered with a bright grin, hoping to alleviate their concerns even as uncertainty gnawed at the edges of your own resolve.

Steve's protective instincts kicked into high gear, his expression shifting into what you affectionately referred to as "mom mode." "What about your meds? You're staying on top of that, right?" he pressed, his concern palpable in the furrow of his brow and the sharpness of his gaze.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you replied with a smirk, "Of course, Steve. I've got it all under control," the familiar banter between friends serving as a welcome respite from the weightier aspects of the conversation.

As Robin chuckled at the playful banter, you found yourself teetering on the edge of whether to broach the topic of your unsettling dream from the night before. Before you could reach a decision, however, Robin jumped in with a question of her own, effectively diverting the conversation.

"So, have you heard the news?" Robin's inquiry snapped you back to the present moment, her tone tinged with curiosity.

"And seriously, who hasn't heard about it, Buckley? But Romania? What the heck are we doing there?" Steve's incredulous gesture mirrored the bafflement echoing in your own thoughts, prompting a shared moment of bemusement among friends.

"Well, I don't think it's going to be some leisurely trip; it's probably more about enriching our curriculum," you murmured softly, casting a fleeting glance downwards as you contemplated the upcoming excursion.

Noticing your subdued demeanor, Steve's tone softened as he probed gently, "Hey, what's on your mind?"

"It's nothing, really. Just... had another one of those strange dreams," you admitted reluctantly, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders as you confided in your friends.

"Tell us about it," Robin urged, her eyes reflecting a blend of curiosity and empathy, inviting you to share the burden of your unease.

With a deep breath, you began to recount the haunting details of your dream, your words painting a vivid picture of mystery and foreboding. As the narrative unfolded, the tight knot of apprehension in your chest gradually unraveled, replaced by a sense of catharsis and relief in the comforting presence of your closest companions.

In the depths of the dream, you found yourself wandering alone through a dark and mist-laden forest, the heavy fog shrouding your surroundings in an impenetrable veil. Above, the moon cast an eerie glow, illuminating the gnarled trees that swayed ominously in the chilling breeze, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers clawing at the night.

As you navigated the shadowy landscape, a sense of unease settled over you like a heavy cloak. It was then that you caught sight of a figure lurking behind a nearby tree, seemingly concealed by the very darkness itself. Before you could even muster a word, another presence emerged—a striking ginger-haired woman, towering before you like a sentinel of the night. Draped in a billowing cape that seemed to dance in the ethereal moonlight, her gaze was fixed upon the hidden figure with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

In a swift and hauntingly graceful motion, the ginger-haired woman darted towards the tree, her silhouette slicing through the dense mist like a specter in the night. With a predatory speed that sent shivers down your spine, she seized the hidden figure by the neck with a vice-like grip, her fingers coiling possessively around his throat.

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest as the reality of the situation unfolded before your eyes. It was a child, no older than ten, his tear-streaked face contorted in terror as he stared helplessly into the eyes of his captor.

In a gut-wrenching moment of horror, the ginger-haired woman pressed her lips to the boy's exposed neck, her fangs elongating into deadly points as they pierced his tender flesh. A strangled cry tore from the boy's throat, his screams reverberating through the eerie silence of the forest like a harrowing echo.

Frozen in terror, you could only watch in stunned disbelief as the woman drained the lifeblood from the child's veins, each desperate gulp sending a chill coursing down your spine. The sickening sight unfolded before you like a nightmare brought to life, leaving you paralyzed with dread as the darkness of the forest enveloped you in its suffocating embrace.

As the boy's limp form crumpled to the forest floor, a chilling transformation swept over the tall woman, her features contorting into a grotesque mask of cruelty. With a disturbing calmness, she descended upon the lifeless body, her movements devoid of remorse or humanity.

With chilling precision, she began to snap the boy's fragile bones, each sickening crack echoing through the stillness of the forest like a macabre symphony of horror. With merciless brutality, she twisted his limbs into grotesque angles, her actions a twisted mockery of tenderness and care.

The sickening sound of bones breaking reverberated through the air, drowning out your desperate cries for mercy. With each agonizing snap, the boy's form contorted under the weight of her relentless assault, his once-fragile body now a twisted canvas of pain and suffering.

Your screams tore from your throat in a raw torrent of anguish, your voice a futile plea for the mercy that would never come. But your cries were lost amidst the cruel cacophony of violence, swallowed by the darkness of the forest and the merciless hands of his assailant.

In the cruel grip of terror, you could only watch helplessly as the boy's fate was sealed by the cruel hands of his assailant, his innocence shattered beneath the weight of her unfathomable cruelty.

In a moment of chilling clarity, the woman's dark gaze pierced through the shadows of the forest, locking onto you with an unsettling intensity. A twisted smile danced upon her lips, a sinister curve that seemed to mock the very fabric of your existence. With an accusatory gesture, she pointed towards the lifeless body at her feet, her voice dripping with venomous accusation.

"Look what you made me do..." Her words hung in the air like a sinister taunt, each syllable laden with malice and contempt. The weight of her accusation bore down upon you like a leaden weight, sending a shiver of terror coursing down your spine as you recoiled in horror.

With a sudden jolt, you snapped awake, your heart pounding in your chest like a thunderous drumbeat. Drenched in a cold sweat, you lay frozen in the darkness, the lingering sensation of dread coiling in the pit of your stomach like a serpent poised to strike. The nightmarish vision that had haunted your sleep refused to release its grip, its tendrils of fear winding around your consciousness with relentless tenacity as you struggled to shake off its suffocating embrace.

The two of them stood frozen in the aftermath of your harrowing account, their faces contorted with a mixture of horror, fear, and disbelief. Steve's voice quivered with concern as he broke the heavy silence, his words laden with genuine worry.

"Oh my God, this... This is horrific. You shouldn't be having these kinds of dreams again, it's like a nightmare!" His voice carried a tremor of unease, reflecting the gravity of the situation.

"I know, but the..." you began, your words trailing off as another voice cut through the tension, interrupting your attempt to explain.

"Y/n... Have you been messing with that stuff again?" Robin's expression was grave, her gaze probing as she referenced the dark history tied to the old diaries of your great-grandmother.

The mention of "that stuff" sent a chill down your spine, evoking memories of the ancient diaries that had once belonged to your great-grandmother—an enigmatic figure shrouded in tales of witchcraft and tragedy. The mere mention of those forbidden tomes dredged up a host of unsettling memories, stirring the murky depths of your family's hidden past.

"What? No! It's all been stored and locked away in the attic since... since my parents disappeared," you explained in a rush, the words tumbling out in a mixture of denial and frustration as you sought to reassure your friends.

Relief washed over Steve and Robin's faces, their expressions softening as the weight of suspicion lifted from their shoulders. Yet, despite their reassurance, a lingering unease lingered in the back of your mind, a nagging sense that there was more to your unsettling dreams than met the eye.

Steve, ever the master of lightening the mood, broke the tense silence with a grin. "Know what sounds like the perfect antidote to our nightmare-induced stress?" he asked, his voice infused with a hint of excitement. "Let's shift gears and head to my place. We'll dive into a marathon of movies, raid the junk food stash, and engage in some lighthearted banter."

"Count me in for the movie marathon and junk food fest!" Robin exclaimed eagerly, her enthusiasm infectious as she swiftly gathered her belongings and trailed after Harrington with a bounce in her step.

"Sure, sounds like just what we need," you agreed with a half-hearted smile, your thoughts still weighed down by the unsettling visions that plagued your sleep.

As your friends exited the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, the lingering sense of disquiet intensified. Despite the facade of normalcy and the promise of distraction, a nagging feeling persisted—a whispered reminder of the deeper mysteries that lurked beneath the surface, waiting to be unraveled.

Meanwhile, across town, the tranquil facade of Hawkins was shattered by the brutal aftermath of a crime, sending shockwaves rippling through the community. Oblivious to the ominous shadows that loomed on the horizon, the police department and residents found themselves thrust into a harrowing ordeal.

Police cruisers dotted the perimeter of the forest, their flashing lights piercing through the darkness like beacons of distress. Amidst the dense canopy of trees, yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed between the trunks, marking off the area like a sinister web woven by unseen hands. Reporters and news vans swarmed at the edges of the containment barrier, their clamor echoing through the stillness of the forest as they vied for a glimpse of the unfolding tragedy and hungered for a sensational scoop.

At the heart of the chaos stood Police Chief Jim Hopper, his rugged features etched with a mixture of shock and apprehension. This was undoubtedly one of the most chilling crimes to have ever befallen the city, and the weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon him. With every passing moment, the mystery deepened, casting a pall of uncertainty over the once-peaceful town of Hawkins.

"Sam Prescot, age 8, last seen taking out the trash last night," one of the officers reported grimly, the weight of the words hanging heavily in the air like a leaden weight.

The man nodded gravely, his tired eyes fixed on the scene before him as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips, the bitter liquid offering little solace amidst the unfolding tragedy. An investigator approached, his expression grave as he delivered a somber report on the grim tableau that lay before them.

"According to reports, the boy was last seen taking out the trash, but none of the neighbors witnessed any commotion or unusual noise," the investigator explained, his voice tinged with a mixture of sorrow and frustration as he led the sheriff towards the boy's lifeless form.

"Some residents mentioned hearing the screams and cries of a child in the vicinity, but none dared to investigate," he continued, his words a sobering reminder of the community's collective fear and reluctance to intervene. The two men came to a halt a few feet from where the boy lay, their hearts heavy with the weight of the unspeakable tragedy that had befallen young Sam Prescot.

As Chief Hopper beheld the harrowing sight before him, a sickening feeling gripped his stomach like a vice, his heart heavy with grief and anger at the senseless tragedy that had befallen young Sam Prescot.

Sam's once-vibrant form lay twisted amidst the shadowy undergrowth, a grotesque tableau of suffering etched upon his contorted features. His limbs, once full of youthful energy, were now bent at unnatural angles, bones jutting out through torn flesh like jagged shards of agony. Wide-eyed in terror, his mouth hung open in a silent scream, a grim rictus of horror frozen upon his pale face—a haunting testament to the unimaginable pain and fear he had endured in his final moments.

Chief Hopper clenched his jaw tightly, his fists trembling with a mixture of sorrow and righteous fury. This was not just a crime scene; it was a desecration of innocence, a betrayal of the very fabric of humanity.

Chief Hopper's heart plummeted as he beheld the gruesome sight before him, his breath catching in his throat at the savage evidence of unspeakable violence inflicted upon young Sam Prescot.

Prescot's once-whole torso now bore the cruel marks of brutality, a gaping wound that cleaved him from neck to pelvis, his shattered ribs protruding like jagged teeth from the torn flesh. The very core of his being lay exposed, his innards strewn about in a macabre display of carnage—a tangled mass of torn flesh and viscera, intermingled with the shattered remnants of vital organs that had once sustained the vibrant life of a young boy.

Yet, amidst the horror and devastation, it was the savage mutilation of the boy's genitalia that elicited a guttural gasp of horror from the seasoned lawman. In a cruel and depraved act of barbarity, the innocence of youth had been violently ripped away, leaving behind a gaping void of despair and revulsion—a desecration of innocence that shook Chief Hopper to his core and ignited a blazing fury within his soul.

As Chief Hopper recoiled in shock, a chilling realization settled over him like a shroud of darkness: this was no ordinary crime scene. It was a stark testament to the depths of human depravity, a grim reminder of the darkness that lurked within the shadows, waiting to consume the innocent and the unsuspecting. And as he stood amidst the twisted wreckage of a young life torn asunder, Chief Hopper knew that this was only the beginning of a nightmare that would haunt him for years to come.

"Sweet Jesus…"

The investigator's voice quivered as he examined Sam's lifeless form. The boy's legs contorted into a twisted "W" shape, the bones crushed so brutally that fragments protruded from his mangled toes, twisted at grotesque angles. Each new detail uncovered seemed to deepen the horror of the scene, adding another layer to the incomprehensible brutality inflicted upon the young victim.

Chief Hopper's jaw clenched tightly, his fists balling at his sides as a wave of revulsion and fury surged through him. This was not just a crime—it was an atrocity, a vile assault on everything decent and good in the world.

"We're still in the dark about what could've done this. Could it have been some kind of animal attack?" The investigator pondered aloud, his gaze fixed on the grim tableau before him.

"Not even the fiercest beast would inflict such brutality," Chief Hopper replied, his tone tinged with a grim certainty born of years of experience. "Cover the body and ensure no one stumbles upon this scene until we have answers."

As Hopper turned to depart, a sense of unease settled over him like a heavy cloak, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with an instinctual warning. It was as if unseen eyes were watching his every move, the oppressive weight of the forest bearing down upon him with an almost tangible presence.

Little did he know, perched high atop a nearby tree, a mysterious figure observed his every action with keen interest, its presence cloaked in shadow as it remained concealed from sight. With a silent and calculating gaze, it watched as Chief Hopper made his way through the underbrush, a harbinger of unseen dangers yet to come.

[cybertron-after-dark]

❤️, 💜, and 🤍 for the tf ask game!

Favorite Autobot changes on a day to day basis but right now it's gotta be tfa prowl. First time I saw him I thought he was a punkass loser. By the last episode I was bawling my fucking eyes out. He was so sweet and I love how much he loved Earth. I genuinely feel like we didn't see enough of him back when he was a draft dodging (based), headstrong jerk bc it would have made every relapse he had hit even harder. Also I'm a little obsessed with his voice. Can't beat Jeff Bennett.

Favorite Decepticon has to be Blitzwing, also tfa. The second he opened his mouth I KNEW he had to be the closest thing transformers had to a Tumblr sexyman (i was right lmao). I adore him, we are both mentally ill and extremely funny about it 💖 We were absolutely ROBBED of the episode What a Tangled Web We Weave, i NEED to see his beef with blackarachnia beyond him dunking on her in the first episode. Tbh I wish we could see more of the tfa Decepticons all together in general, they are all so cringefail 💜🖤💜

I know I already did fave obscure character but I'm gonna do favorite neutral too bc when else am I gonna get the chance to talk about BEAST WARS DINOBOT, MY BELOVED 💖💖💖💖💖 I know he's not TECHNICALLY neutral but he should count the way he switches sides every five minutes. He's so fucking silly, he wants you to think he's a serious warrior sooooo bad but he is not, he's a grumpy shakespeare/history nerd with a sword collection and a vore fetish he does not bother to hide. He is a doofus who revels in any praise ever. And then he had to go and sacrifice himself. Rigged.

Fun fact: I watched beast wars right after tfa to forget the pain of prowl dying, immediately thought dinobot was a starscream knockoff, got attached, genuinely loved him, and then he died too. Because life is pain, apparently.

[obscure-introject-sources]

ℹ️ Info Post ℹ️

This blog is dedicated for systems with introjects from obscure sources who may feel like they can’t request from other blogs due to the fact that they’re obscure! (This does include introjects of Original Characters)

It’s just one system running this blog, so please be kind and patient!

Requests Closed

DNI - FAQ - About Us

How To Request

Because of the nature of this blog, when you request something, please include the introject’s source so we can properly research the character! If requesting for an introject of an OC, please provide us with information on the character so we can do them justice!

Further info below the cut

Will Do -

Pride Flag Edits

Stim boards

Mood boards

Phone Wallpapers

Care kits

Positivity Posts

Web weaves

Maybe other stuff!! This list can be expanded, so feel free to ask for stuff. We’re chill as long as it’s not on the “won’t do” list

Won’t Do -

Shipping Content

Source calls

Playlists

🏷️ Tag System 🏷️

Blabberings and Ramblings - what it says on the tin! Stuff that’s mostly just text, or information posts!

Dialing… - questions from you wonderful folks! Stuff that isn’t a request but that we’re answering because it’s useful

Please Hold! - things we’re working on, stuff that needs clarification

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The Void is Calling! - completed requests

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[Emoji] posting - stuff posted by a specific alter in the system