#which there's nothing technically wrong with

[bravehyde]

Love your Tenna anatomy posts! If you could, could you explain what kind of circumstance would cause the classic 'bars of bright colors' sort of malfunction in a TV vs a screen full of static?

Of course! The easy answer is that neither of these are malfunctions, although we tend to think of them as such, and instead kind of like the "default" states of television. I'll do their purpose in general and then how we see them with Tenna.

Static (aka digital snow or white noise) is the shortest and easiest to explain. Your television gives this to you because whatever channel you picked doesn't have anything on it, but there is *something* being transmitted anyway that it can't make sense of. After all, not just television uses electromagnetic waves. So since there's no station playing something on the specific signal you tuned to, it's taking random signals from background radiation and trying its best to show it. This won't make a logical picture, though, so we get this random pattern of pixels and electronic noise.

Next, we have SMPTE Color Bars, or...just color bars. We don't need to say that it's the pattern standardized by the Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers every time, after all. This was developed as a form of calibration for analog screens like Tenna, and nowadays is used to calibrate external monitors that we connect to cameras so multiple people can look at what's being recorded (such as the director and producers) without crowding around the camera operator. Every bar is a main color at 100% intensity, ordered in a specific way that makes sense if you go through every way to calibrate a screen and that is a lot to go over which I don't think is needed info, but you want it, looking for SMPTE calibration will get you where you're going. It also plays a really annoying sound that you may know as the censor noise, because you'll KNOW if it's too loud and adjust accordingly.

Also quick fun fact, the "technical difficulties" screen that Tenna flashes by is based on the old, black-and-white version of that. When we say technical difficulties with the color bars now, it's probably because your television is fine, but there's something wrong on the end of the people transmitting. If you're not calibrating the television and the colors pop up, it's an issue with the source signal.

Now, let's look at when this happens with Tenna. I found one major place where he has static, and one major place he has color bars.

In Tenna's final boss fight, he gets the static every time you select a minigame and he's using his own head as a transition to it. You could say that he's initially getting static because he's between channels, since that happens sometimes as little "blips" as you're changing them. It could also be that the signal he's turning to doesn't have anything broadcasted on it until he decides so by teleporting the gang into that area. I'm more of a fan of the latter, since that means that he has direct control over electronic signals, not just the ones he listens to, and that better explains how he transports the gang into the minigames: he transforms them into information that he decodes on his screen.

And of course, we have the prime example of him using the color bars...when he dies. I'd like to note that the stuff coming out of his arms looks a lot like static, although I don't have any reason for saying it other than I think it looks cool. So, this is often used as a modern "technical difficulties" screen, and it can easily just be that. It can also be Tenna trying to recalibrate himself. He realizes there's a problem and is running diagnostics instinctively. Obviously, there is nothing that checking color values can do for losing your arms, so this doesn't do anything to help him.

If he is theoretically both the receiver and transmitter of his own signal, this could also be him showing that he lost his source. Maybe his source signal is whatever keeps him alive as a Darkner, analogous to how we are kept alive by our hearts beating and electric activity in our brains? If he is making his own signal, that can also be how he physically moves the gang to the channel he broadcasts the minigames in, and him experiencing a large amount of pain/damage would be reason to conserve energy and not do it anymore.

[weemssapphic]

Witch reader who has the gift of seeing ghosts. Some spirits whoa re particularly stubborn dont pass on like theyre supposed to. Most of the time she ignores them becuse they're still freaking out over dying and... Well dealing with hysterical people all day would be awful. She starts her new job at nevermore (teacher or soemthing idk) and while meeting the new principle in her office she sees the old one. Leant agaisnt the desk rolling her eyes and commenting on everything the new lady is doing wrong. She accidentily laughs a few times and manages to play it off, unfortunatley Larissa is sure that reader can see her and takes it upon herself to annoy her until she acknowlages her.

Oh god hello, bet you don't even remember sending this request 😅 but I really loved it and wanted to write it even if it has been a while so here you go, and I really hope you enjoy it!

Falling Behind

Words: ~2.1k | ao3 link in title Tags/warnings: Larissa is dead/a ghost but it's a silly little fic I promise, also lots of flirting

Knock, knock. 

You rap your hand twice against the smooth oak of the door to the principal’s office. A ball of nerves tangles in your belly but you do your best to ignore it — you got the job, after all, and you’ve already technically ‘met’ the principal a few times via phone call. You’re just here to go over some of the details of the job before your official start date on Monday — standard procedure, nothing to be anxious about. You hear footsteps on the other side of the door and you try, subtly, to wipe the sweat from your palms on the back of your coat, which is already damp from the rain outside.

“Ah, hello, come in, come in. Welcome to Nevermore,” Principal Porter says as she swings the door open, giving you an easy smile and reaching out to shake your hand before stepping back and allowing you to step into the office. “Let me take your coat — it’s pouring outside, I hope the drive up here wasn’t too difficult. Would you like some tea?”

You smile gratefully as you step into the office and shrug off your coat. “Uh, no, thank you though.”

Your attention is momentarily diverted by a tall, blonde woman in a modest, cream-colored dress and kitten heels, perched at the edge of the principal’s desk. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s frowning at your feet. “What’s the use in oiling the floors if everyone is just going to track mud throughout the school?” She seems to be talking more to herself than to you, but you glance at your feet and find that, indeed, you’ve got a trail of dirt behind you, likely from walking up Nevermore’s gravelly drive. Your face grows hot with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” you squeak out, glancing pleadingly at the blonde as you subtly shuffle around, as if that will help. 

“Sorry for what, dear?” Principal Porter asks — you frown in confusion. She’s smiling at you kindly, paying absolutely no mind to the woman perched on her desk, as if she hadn’t even heard her at all. 

“For, uh… for tracking all this dirt in.” You glance sheepishly at the blonde, who looks absolutely perplexed as she stares at you.

“Nonsense, dear, it’ll be easy to clean.” Principal Porter waves away your apology. “Please, have a seat at my desk. Excuse the mess, as you might remember from our calls this is my first semester here as well and I’m still getting sorted.”

You nod politely, shooting a furtive glance at the other woman, whose presence is all but ignored by Principal Porter. You remember what you’d read about the school’s former principal — the first one in Nevermore’s long and fascinating history to be murdered on school grounds. Apparently, finding a replacement after that incident had been rather difficult. 

The office is indeed still somewhat bare, the walls lined with half-unpacked boxes of paintings, trinkets, office supplies. The only furniture in the room is a rather modern looking desk with a glass top, a grey, ergonomic office chair on one side and a rather plain chair on the other side, and a somewhat uncomfortable-looking chaise longue in front of the fireplace. There’s a white filing cabinet behind the desk which has definitely seen better days. Principal Porter reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a manila folder, before taking a seat and gesturing for you to do the same.

Rummaging around in your bag, you prepare yourself by pulling out some signed paperwork that you’d been sent. 

“Oh, thank you,” Principal Porter says as you hand her the paperwork, taking a moment to leaf through it. “Now… where was that form regarding staff housing…” she mumbles — the woman perched beside her rolls her eyes and lets out a huff. 

“You’ve flicked past it twice,” she deadpans, clearly annoyed, and you suppress a chuckle. But Principal Porter doesn’t react and your suppressed smile turns into a frown. Who the fuck is this woman and why is Principal Porter acting like she’s not - oh. It finally dawns on you, and you can’t believe it’s taken you this long to piece it together.

The woman perched at the edge of the principal’s desk isn’t ‘real’ in the most accepted sense of the word — she’s a ghost. As a child, you learned early on that your special ability was seeing and communicating with the dearly departed. A week after your grandfather’s funeral, your mother found you, then only five years old, sitting at the kitchen table talking to yourself about something you’d drawn — though you recall your grandfather sitting beside you clear as day. 

It wasn’t until you got older that you were able to tell ghosts apart from their living counterparts more clearly, though on rare occasions you still found it a bit tricky as they appeared to you as solid, corporeal beings. It was usually the more stubborn spirits that got stuck in the mortal world, unable to fully pass on into the afterlife, and (as the mortal world was a sort of hell for most spirits) those who did get stuck here were usually in a full-blown panic. Easy to identify.

Unless you were actively involved in helping a spirit pass on, you tended to ignore them as you went about your day — it was easier that way because, usually, as soon as they realized you could see them, they would not leave you alone. And this one — the tall, statuesque blonde leant over Principal Porter’s head — has clearly realized that not only can you see and hear her, but you also seem to find her a bit funny, and she’s eyeing you with great interest.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way the woman’s eyes burn into your skull.

“Ah, here it is!” Principal Porter exclaims, abruptly bringing your attention back to the meeting as she stuffs your forms into the back of the envelope, pulls out another piece of paper and slides it towards you. “I’ve already sent this to your email last week but just in case, here’s a copy of your class schedule for this semester. You’ve got two planning periods, here,” she points to a space on Wednesday morning, “and here,” she points to a space on Thursday afternoon — the woman perched on her desk interrupts her.

“I’m sure the woman is old enough to read,” she snarks, and you let out a little snort.

“Pardon?” Principal Porter’s brows knit together in confusion. “Is something the matter?”

You frown. Your eyes dart to the other woman, but you quickly look away and shake your head, missing the smirk that forms on her face. “No, I’m sorry, everything’s alright.”

Unfazed, the principal continues with a shrug, explaining to you how office hours work at Nevermore, and you nod along politely. 

You find it hard to keep your eyes off the blonde, especially when she seems to get bored of Principal Porter droning on about your classes and decides to stand up and pace the length of the office, her heels loud against the hardwood floors.

Click. Click. Click. Click. 

“We have a small but reliable pool of substitute teachers, so if you–”

Click. Click. Click. Click. 

It’s damn near impossible to focus on a word that’s being said, almost all of your attention is on the rhythmic clicks of the woman’s kitten heels, and you’re starting to wonder if she’s trying to distract you on purpose. You can feel her presence behind you, the back and forth, the way the air stirs with her every step, all unbeknownst to your new boss.

“I’m afraid we’ve had to up the class sizes for our sorcery class this year, and you’ll have 35 students–”

You don’t catch the rest of the principal’s statement because the other woman has let out a loud sigh and started to complain. “Why don’t you tell her why–”

“... due to a shortage of staff…”

“Due to complete and utter mismanagement by the school board!” The woman rounds the desk again, coming into view.

Something about her irritation is endearing to you and your cheeks twitch as you hold back a smirk — rather unsuccessfully, as you can feel her eyes on you again.

“So you can see me,” she says, and you know without looking at her that she’s talking to you — you open your mouth to answer, then snap it shut again when you remember that, though you can see and hear her, the principal can’t. 

“You should tell Principal Porter,” the woman starts, the title spilling from her lips as though it's poison, “that her administrative skills leave as much to be desired as her taste in interior design.”

You let out a shocked laugh and Principal Porter wrinkles her nose. “Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

You nod, stutter out another apology, and spend the rest of the meeting trying to tune out the woman’s comments.

After what feels like hours but is probably only about half an hour, you finally leave Principal Porter’s office with the keys to your new quarters in hand, insisting you’re fine to go check them out by yourself. You navigate the halls of the school, following the instructions your new boss had given you to get to the staff wing, and let yourself into your new living space for the school year. 

Your quarters are spacious but homey, and beautifully quiet after the last half hour of splitting your attention between two people, and you lean back against the door after closing it behind you, shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Welcome to Nevermore,” an oddly familiar voice purrs, and your eyes snap open as your heart leaps into your throat. 

“Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You don’t miss the way the blonde’s lips curl into a smirk at your statement. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

She ignores your question. “Your application didn’t say that necromancy is your specialty.” Her voice is smooth like velvet and she’s batting her lashes at you, her eyes raking down your form. She’s incredibly alluring — even in death. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a necromancer on staff, it’s a pity, really, such a useful ability, don’t you think?”

“It’s a bit annoying, actually,” you retort with a frown, trying to piece together who the fuck this woman is. ‘We’ve’ never had a necromancer on staff…?

“I’ve been called many things but I think this may be the first time I’ve been called ‘annoying’, my dear.” She doesn’t sound upset about it, her voice is still sweet as honey and she takes a step towards you, towering over you.

“You’re… who are you?”

“Forgive me, it seems I haven’t formally introduced myself.” She stretches a hand out towards you — pale skin, perfectly manicured red fingernails adorning long, slender fingers, a heavy gold bracelet around her delicate wrist. “Larissa Weems.”

Larissa Weems. Weems…

Ah. It finally clicks for you, you’ve read that name before.

“You’re Nevermore’s former principal. The one who…” Your voice trails off, you feel a bit insensitive, but Larissa doesn’t seem bothered. She smirks.

“Died? Yes.”

You shake her hand. It’s cold, but it’s solid.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You say it because you feel like you should, because you don’t know what else to say.

“The pleasure is all mine.” The way she says pleasure makes your mouth go dry.

“I couldn’t help but look over your resume,” she continues. “Quite an impressive background. I would have hired you, too.” Her voice drops an octave and her gaze travels down your body and your stomach does a backflip.

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling your face grow warm in spite of yourself.

“I heard your voice during one of your interviews, the phone was on speaker. I thought you’d be beautiful, but it seems my expectations have been exceeded.” 

“Are you flirting with me?”

Larissa chuckles, her smirk widening. “Would that be so bad?” You can’t tell if she’s mocking you or not.

“You’re dead.” 

“And so bored, darling,” she drawls, making her way along the perimeter of your room, trailing her fingertips along the dresser against the wall, perching at the edge of the bed once she reaches it. She crosses her legs, those long legs, her skirt riding up a little, and gives you another once-over that sends a spark up your spine. “I have to admit it’s been a bit lonely these past few months… you’re the first person who’s been able to see me, you know.”

She’s dead. A ghost. She’s not ‘real’. You try to tell yourself that, but the trouble is that to you, she is real. She’s as real as anyone else and she’s sitting on your bed, giving you a look that makes you want to bury your head between her thighs. 

“Am I?” you ask, your heart in your throat as you take a step towards her — you can’t help yourself, she’s magnetic. She nods and blinks slowly, as if she has you right where she wants you, and maybe this is wrong but you don’t quite have it in you to care. 

She’s as real to you as anyone else, dead or alive, it’s all the same to you.

You cross the room to her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69  @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen Join my taglist here!

[re-freaks]

café worker!reader x vampire!manager part 1 𖥔 part 2 𖥔 part 3

the incubus is back.

technically, he's not doing anything wrong. just leaning on the counter like it's his personal sofa, sipping his extra-hot demon roast and flashing teeth that definitely aren't up to food safety code.

he tips well. he smiles like he invented the expression. he smells like smoke and sandalwood and your poor, overworked hormones haven't fully recovered from the last time he winked at you and said something about your "aura tasting like affogato."

which, frankly, was a lot to deal with before noon.

tonight, he's got on baggy jeans, gold piercings, and the kind of smirk that should be licensed and locked in a vault. and, like the absolute menace he is, he beckons you over with a crooked finger.

"hey, sweetness," he says, voice low and warm and made entirely of sin. "i couldn't help but notice you look a little tense."

you are, in fact, incredibly tense. but that's because he's looking at you like he'd like to kiss a wish to your spine.

"just, uh," you stammer, adjusting your apron, "busy morning. banshee wedding party. lots of confetti. and screaming."

he grins. "poor thing. i could help you relax, y'know. real hands-on customer service."

you make a noise that isn't a word. it's somewhere between a hiccup and a squeak. your brain is rapidly replacing all useful information with static and phrases like oh no he's flirting and punching customers isn't professional.

you laugh nervously. "hah! haha. hands! yes. those are.. a thing."

the incubus tilts his head, clearly enjoying himself. "just saying, if you ever want to blow off steam—"

"—she's on break."

the voice comes from behind you. calm. smooth. carved from velvet and dusk and something deeper.

you whirl, nearly elbowing the espresso machine.

your manager stands at your shoulder, tall and pale and so composed it makes you feel like you're melting. his sleeves are rolled again. of course they are. it's a war crime.

he doesn't look at you. he doesn't have to.

he's watching the incubus with the air of someone discussing pest control.

the incubus chuckles, low and unbothered. "wasn't aware café policy came with chaperones."

"only when necessary," your manager replies, tone pleasant and cool as winter air.

you are slowly disintegrating into your own shoes.

"relax. just complimenting the staff."

your manager hums. "so i heard."

the incubus gives you a wink on his way out. "offer stands, sweetheart."

you don't know what to do with your face. or your hands. or your life.

when he's gone, you stare at the floor like it's the most interesting thing you've ever seen.

"so," you croak, heart in your throat. "that was.. fine. totally normal customer interaction. no one's aura got licked."

your manager turns to you, finally.

"you're flushed," he remarks.

"flustered," you correct weakly. "i mean—flushed, yes. but not because of the incubus. or you. obviously. it's just hot.. in here. and i'm wearing a shirt—not that i wouldn't be wearing a shirt, i mean—"

he steps closer. your brain detaches from your spine and begins floating away.

"if he makes you uncomfortable, you're not required to entertain him."

"oh! no. i mean, yes. but—i didn't want to be rude, and he wasn't—i didn't think—"

he gives you a long, unreadable look.

then he steps closer.

not dramatically, not predatorily. just enough that you can smell the faintest trace of coffee and something darker, something older, clinging to his collar. just enough that the heat rises back to your face and your lungs forget how to inhale.

"do you like it?" he asks.

you blink. "i—uh. what?"

"that kind of attention," he murmurs. "forward. unsubtle."

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

he looks at your lips, then your collarbone. then his eyes trail to your throat.

his voice dips lower, almost thoughtful. "would you blush at me if i told you the curve of your neck reminds me of a prayer? that the heat in your skin is more tempting than fresh blood?"

you stare at him, dumbfounded.

then hiccup. loudly.

traitorous bastard of a reflex.

the moment breaks like a plate dropped on tile.

he draws back. smooth again. polite. professional.

"..you're still on break."

you're halfway to combusting.

"right," you stammer, backing away with all the grace of a crab in platform heels. "cool. great. i'll go.. sit. in the freezer. or something."

he nods once, not quite smiling. "very good."

you make it three steps before your apron snags on a hook. you jerk. spin. slam into the doorframe. make eye contact with a gargoyle sitting near the window and briefly consider switching careers.

you wince, hand flying to your nose, and pull it back to find blood smeared across your fingertips.

fantastic. perfect. the cherry on top of your mortifying sundae.

and behind you, you hear it—his voice, low and amused.

"..affogato."

you stop. and turn.

he offers you a tissue, sleeves still rolled, clipboard in hand.

calm as death.

elegant as sin.

his smile is polite.

but for a moment, you swear his eyes flicker red.

[stillalivebydemand893]

That night,That Lie,That fucking kiss

Part 2

(so sorry my loves for the delay this degree is humping my ass)

A road trip with Erik you'll never forget

18+ very romantic i was in my feels

You were both left breathless on the kitchen floor,half-naked, half what the actual fuck just happened.

Erik was still buried inside you, still cockwarming you like you were the last warmth on Earth. His grip on your waist tightened, like if you moved even an inch, he might combust,or worse, feel too much.

“Did we just fuck everything up?” you whispered, hand brushing his cheek, fingers trembling.

You’d prayed for this moment more times than you could count,fantasized about it like a goddamn sinner. You’d imagined what it’d feel like to finally have your best friend between your thighs, moaning your name like it meant something. And now?

It didn’t feel wrong. Not even a little.

Which made the spiral even worse.

Every cell in your body was screaming SHAME like you were the village whore in a medieval drama. Somewhere in the back of your brain, there was a nun with a bell shouting, “SHAME! TO THE ONES WHO STARVE FOR DICK!”

You were losing your goddamn mind.

Erik bit your collarbone, hard.

Your gasp punched straight through the fog.

“Okay, technically yeah, we definitely fucked” he said, smirking like the devil reincarnated. “But hey,60% of accidents happen in the kitchen. We just made the best out of it.”

“You made that shit up,” you laughed, swatting his arm.

It felt insane. Hysterical. Like you hadn’t just been screaming at each other two hours ago. Like he hadn’t ripped you apart and then kissed you back together.

“You’re still dripping on my dick, Peach,” he said, like it was a compliment, like it was a fact.

Then he took your breast in his tattooed hand and sucked your nipple into his hot mouth like he was trying to undo you all over again.

You moaned,because of course you did. Like you’d just woken the devil from a nap and he was starving.

“Can we move to the couch?” you panted, tugging his hair. “My knees are fucked and I’d like to avoid arthritis before I turn 30.”

His mouth stayed where it was, hands still reverent on your chest like your tits were the eighth and ninth wonders of the world.

“I need those knees working, Sweets. You ride me like I owe you rent.”

He kissed your neck, dragging his teeth just enough to make your legs twitch.

You groaned. “Come on, stupid.”

You both stood,instantly missing the feeling of being tangled together.

You lasted maybe five seconds before your knees buckled again.

Erik caught you around the waist like he knew it was coming.

“Jesus, Peach, give a guy a warning. We’re gonna end up crippled and unfucked at this rate.”

He swept you into his arms like you weighed nothing and started walking toward your bedroom.

“We’ll get Alzheimer’s one day and think we’re having sex for the first time every week,” you muttered against his chest.

“What a fucking blessing,” he smirked.

You didn’t say it, but the thought of growing old with him,of getting old and still doing this messy dance with him,settled in your chest like comfort.

Like home.

You collapsed onto the bed side by side, skin still humming, bodies wrecked in that perfect way.

“Remember two years ago?” he said suddenly, voice a little hoarse. “When we said we’d just drive around the States? Like Thelma and Louise, but hotter and with less felony murder?”

You turned your head toward him, snorting. “We had the playlist ready. Crime podcasts saved. Snacks planned. But someone-” you jabbed his bicep, hard “-decided to stick his tongue down her throat and settle down .”

“Ow,” he winced. “Unnecessary violence.”

“Say her name and I’ll commit actual violence.”

You ran a hand over your face like that would erase the memory. The image of them kissing in the studio burned behind your eyelids like an old scar that wouldn’t fade.

Erik turned to you, serious now.

“She came by when I was leaving,” he said quietly. “Started crying. Kissed me out of nowhere. I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t want it. There’s nothing between us, Peach. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

He exhaled like he was praying you’d believe him.

But your brain was a locked room, and belief didn’t come easy.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said, getting up and reaching for his pants on the kitchen chair. “Just pack your bags.”

“What?” You blinked, confused. “Where the fuck are you going?”

He looked at you, half-dressed and completely serious.

“We’re doing it. The roadtrip.”

“Erik. You’re not making any sense.Where would we even go?”

“Twilight. Twin Peaks. Buttfuck Nowhere. I don’t care. Just us. We’ll figure it out.”

He came back over, dropped a kiss to your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

He walked out the door, tossing an “I love you” like it was something he’d been saying every day for a hundred years.

Your heart hit the floor.

“Love you too,” you whispered, dazed.

Then, louder:

“Asshole.”

You stared at the window.

Maybe if you jumped out, he’d catch you.

A good trust exercise for whatever the hell this relationship was now.

Whatever it was becoming.

You threw four pairs of underwear, one hoodie, and a bottle of dry shampoo into your duffel like that counted as packing.

You yanked on your sluttiest tank top ,the one that made your boobs look like a renaissance painting and your shoulders scream “I have secrets and bad decisions to offer” and stared at yourself like you were suiting up for war.

Because you were.

War with your brain.

With your thighs.

With Erik and the cursed magic of his dick.

And with the highway of consequences which, unlike Erik, was reliable.

Fifteen minutes later, a black Jeep honked outside .

You opened the door.

Erik was there, leaning against the driver’s side he was auditioning to play “Emotionally Damaged Yet Inexplicably Hot Roadtrip Love Interest” in the A24 version of your breakdown.

Sunglasses.

Sweatshirt sleeve pushed up just enough to show off that one tattoo you used to trace with your fingers like it was braille for "Please make out with me."

Music blasting , something aggressive, chaotic, definitely featured in a trailer for a movie where someone robs a bank shirtless.

“You’re late,” he said, without looking.

“You left me post-sex and emotionally obliterated with no warning.”

He turned. Smirked. That fuckboy smirk. The one that made you wanna throw your panties in one direction and your pride in the other.

“So... on time, then.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in another dimension.

“Where are we going,Kiki?”

He shrugged. “South? East? Hell?”

You tossed your duffel in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat.

“Perfect. I’ve always wanted to get fingered in Satan’s backyard.”

He choked on his Red Bull.

"Driver’s Seat" by Sniff 'n' the Tears was blasting through the speakers, and for a second, you and Erik felt like you were eighteen again. Back when he first got his license and you’d spent days driving aimlessly through LA, just the two of you, windows down, singing like your hearts didn’t already belong to each other.

“She always smiled for the people she’d meet,” Erik sang in a gloriously off-key tone.

“On trouble and strife,” you joined in, tone equally chaotic.

“She had another way of looking at life-” you both finished in perfect sync before disolving into laughter, giggling like you weren’t two people stitched together by unresolved trauma and explosive chemistry.

He reached over, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles so softly it made something in your chest break open. Like you were made of sugar.

You melted right there in the passenger seat.

“I love you too,” you murmured , barely audible. But he heard it. His smile said everything.

He kissed your palm this time, slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Then he turned the music down with a smirk that should be illegal in three states.

“Come on, Peach. Be more romantic. Pick a song. Show me how much you love me,” he teased, voice low and cocky.

“Oh don’t try me, Campbell,” you shot back, already grabbing your phone.

He leaned back in his seat like he was watching a show.

And then the playlist appeared on the Jeep’s touchscreen.

“how can I stop loving you without fucking this up”

Erik blinked. His smirk grew.

“Peach…” he said slowly, dragging the word out like he was tasting it. “Do you have a playlist for me?”

“Not for you,” you muttered, already turning red. “About you.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Even better. Show me what you got, Sweets.”

You hit play.

And then:

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you…

His face changed.

That song.

That song.

You didn’t have to look to know he recognized it. Wicked Game. The first one he ever played for you in that beat-up Corolla with the broken aux cord, his hand resting on your thigh like it meant nothing,when it meant everything.

You started singing along. Soft. A little shaky.

It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do…

You glanced at him, embarrassed, it felt like you were cracking your chest open and pouring your whole stupid, lovesick soul into the car.

Because that’s what this playlist was. This wasn’t just a collection of songs , it was every moment you’d spent together. Every late night. Every “fuck, I think I love him” thought you pretended wasn’t real.

And this song? This one made you feel like you had memories in a life you hadn’t lived. Like you were someone else’s heartbreak. Someone’s wife in New Orleans. A forest witch with Erik’s name carved into a tree. Like you’d loved him in every lifetime and failed every time.

You felt a tear slide down your cheek before you could stop it.

Erik didn’t say a word. Just pulled into a gas station, parked, and didn’t turn the song off. He let it play , the hum of the guitar bleeding into the quiet night, just the two of you in the soft glow of fluorescent lights, your soul spilling into his passenger seat.

He reached out and gently swept the tear from your face with his thumb.

His voice was hoarse.

“I already fell in love with you, Peach.”

That was it.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and landed in his lap, knees on either side of him. Your mouth was already on his before he could finish breathing.

And god, the kiss.

It was everything ,soft and hungry and hot and heartbreaking. Your moans caught in his mouth like confessions. Your tears mixed with his breath. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, closer, like he couldn’t bear one more inch of space between you.

You ground down on his lap, and he groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he was seconds away from losing his mind.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You’re gonna make me come in the front seat of my own car.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you panted. “Maybe I like ruining you in small spaces.”

“You have ruined me,” he growled, pressing kisses along your jaw, your throat. “I can’t even think straight when you’re on top of me like this.”

“Good,” you whispered, hips rolling slow and deliberate against his hard length beneath his jeans. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before ghosting the girl who made you a goddamn playlist.”

He cursed under his breath, dragging his hands under your hoodie, fingertips brushing skin, making you shiver.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he rasped.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you said, grinding down harder.

You kissed again ,deeper, wetter, like your bodies were trying to say everything your words couldn’t.

The song played on.

No, I don’t wanna fall in love… with you…

Too late.

You were already in freefall.

And this time?

You weren’t falling alone.

You were still in his lap.

Still breathing like you’d just been kissed back to life.

Wicked Game faded into silence, and Erik was staring at you like you were made of constellations and he had just memorized every single one.

Your hands rested on his chest. His heart was pounding.

You didn’t know if it was from the kiss or the fact that you’d just emotionally roundhouse kicked each other in a gas station parking lot with a Chris Isaak song.

Maybe both.

You reached up, touched his cheek with your thumb, and whispered:

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t dodge like he usually did when shit got too real.

He just nodded,slow. Like he knew. Like he felt it too. Like he’d already tried.

“I don’t think I want you to,” he said.

Your throat burned.

“Erik…”

“I know, Peach,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours. “I know.”

You stayed like that for a long moment,just holding each other in a car that smelled like gas station coffee, bad decisions, and the start of something holy.

You shifted your hips a little and felt him still hard underneath you.

“God,” you whispered, smirking. “Still?”

He gave you a look that could’ve set the dashboard on fire.

“You climbed into my lap singing Wicked Game, cried a little, told me you loved me, and then started grinding like we weren’t in public, Peach. You think I’m made of stone?”

You giggled.

Actually giggled.

Like an idiot.

He pulled you tighter, arms locking around your waist.

“Let’s get outta here,” he murmured. “I wanna take you somewhere where I can love you properly.”

That made your whole chest ache.

“You love me?” you teased, trying to lighten the weight pressing down on your lungs.

He tilted his head, lips brushing yours.

“I love you in every language I don’t speak. In every song I’ve ever skipped because it reminded me of you. In every version of this fucked-up life where I don’t get to kiss you like this.”

You blinked. “You’re making me crazy love.”

He kissed your nose. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“I love you in the dumbass way I don’t say it right, but show it every time I look at you like you hung the fucking moon.”

“Erik-”

“And I love you in the annoying way that means I’ll never be able to let you go without burning something down.”

You swallowed.

Your brain was a blur of what did I do to deserve this, and your heart was crawling into his hoodie like it finally found a place to live.

“Take me somewhere,” you whispered.

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. Just drive. I don’t care. I’ll love you in every zip code.”

His lips twitched into a soft, crooked smile.

“Damn, Peach,” he muttered, kissing your forehead. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You started it.”

He chuckled.

“You ready?”

You kissed him again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like you were making a promise you couldn’t take back.

“Yeah,” you said against his lips. “Let’s go fall in love on the road like two idiots with a death wish.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

You put on another song,this one soft, nostalgic, something that made your eyes sting without knowing why.

Outside, the stars were starting to come out.

Inside, you were glowing.

You leaned your head against the window, hand in his, and whispered:

“If we crash and die tonight, I just want god to know I died horny and in love.”

Erik snorted.

“Romantic and deranged. My dream girl.”

You smiled.

And somewhere between one exit sign and the next town, he looked at you like you were the only destination that mattered.

You didn’t know where Erik was driving. Didn’t care.

The road spilled in front of you like a ribbon made of second chances, and the air felt different - heavier, maybe, or sacred. The way it does right before a storm, or a kiss that’ll change everything.

You were quiet now. Just music humming low through the speakers and Erik’s hand warm on your thigh like he didn’t ever want to let go.

Outside, the sky had darkened into that deep indigo, stars beginning to scatter like someone spilled glitter across the universe.

“You tired?” he asked softly, glancing over.

You shook your head. “No. Just… floating.”

He smirked. “You always get philosophical after orgasms and playlists.”

You elbowed him, but didn’t deny it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled off into a field , open, wide, nothing but grass and sky and the kind of silence that makes you feel like the only two people left in the world.

The engine cut. The stars blinked brighter.

You both got out, and you climbed onto the hood of the car like it was something you’d done a thousand times , because maybe, in some other life, you had.

He joined you. Laid back, arms folded behind his head.

“God,” you whispered. “We’re so fucking cliché.”

“Hot people doing cliché things. It’s allowed,” he said, smirking up at the sky.

You laid next to him. Close. Barely touching.

“I almost told you I loved you,” you murmured. “Last year. Remember that night at the lake? When you fell asleep on my lap after three beers and a panic attack?”

He blinked. Turned to look at you.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“I was gonna say it. You were mumbling in your sleep. Said my name like it hurt.”

He swallowed.

“I remember that too.”

You were silent for a long second.

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to be another thing you had to survive.”

He turned on his side. Eyes locked on yours.

“You’ve never been something I survived, Peach,” he said. “You’re the reason I’m still fucking breathing.”

The air left your lungs.

And then, from the car speakers, a soft Sinatra song started to play. Erik had turned the volume up from his phone.

He held out a hand.

You stared.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” he said. “Get up here and dance with me, Peach.”

“We’re in the middle of a field, Erik.”

“So?”

“No one dances to Sinatra in an open field under a full moon like they’re in a goddamn perfume commercial-”

“I do.”

You snorted, but he was already climbing off the hood, standing under the stars, hand still outstretched like he knew you’d come to him.

You always did.

You hopped down.

“Try anything horny and I’m headbutting you.”

“No promises.”

You slipped your hand into his.

And suddenly, he was pulling you into his chest, one hand on your back, the other twined in your fingers. Your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces that had been aching to fit.

He started to sway. Slowly.

You bit your lip.

“This is so fucking stupid.”

“I know,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours.

“But I love you anyway.”

Your knees went weak.

His grip tightened.

“I love you like it’s ruining me,” he said. “And I don’t even care.”

You closed your eyes. Breathed him in.

“I love you like it’s always been you.”

And you swayed.

There. In the middle of nowhere. With the stars overhead and the world asleep and your entire chest cracked wide open like maybe this time… maybe it was safe to be soft.

He dipped you.

You screamed.

He laughed.

You shoved him back and he caught you around the waist, spun you once, then kissed you like it was the grand finale of a love story no one thought would survive the first chapter.

“Promise me something,” you said, breathless.

“Anything.”

“When this roadtrip ends… don’t stop choosing me.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I never stopped.”

The moment the dance ended, you didn’t even realize who moved first.

Maybe it was you.

Maybe it was him.

But your back hit the car door and Erik’s mouth was on yours, hot and starving, and his hands were everywhere at once , cupping your face, sliding down your waist, gripping your ass like he’d waited years to do it in open air.

You moaned against his mouth, fingers in his hair, dragging him down until his hips pressed to yours and there was no doubt how hard he was.

“This is insane,” you gasped as he kissed down your neck, teeth grazing your throat.

“Then call me fucking crazy,” he growled, fumbling to open the back door with one hand while the other slipped under your shirt, thumbs dragging over bare skin.

The car door opened and you both fell inside, tangled limbs, breathless gasps, the weight of everything crashing down in the form of pure, desperate need.

You landed in the backseat, Erik’s body caging you in, heat radiating off him like he was made of fire.

He kissed you again , deeper now, slower, but with a tension that could snap bones. Tongue against yours, hands everywhere, so much skin and not enough time.

Your shirt was gone first.

Then his hoodie.

Then your bra.

He pulled back, just to look.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re so beautiful it makes me crazy.”

“Then do something about it,” you breathed, hips rolling up into his.

That broke him.

He dove back in, mouth on your chest, licking, sucking, biting , one hand gripping your thigh, the other squeezing your breast like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You dragged your fingers down his stomach, over the trail of hair that led to his waistband, and undid his belt with shaking hands.

He hissed when your palm brushed his cock.

“You gonna tease me again?” you smirked, already knowing the answer.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and wild.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

He yanked your jeans down , impatient, messy , and hooked your legs over his shoulders like he was prepping for battle.

Then , his tongue was on you.

You cried out, back arching into the seat, hands clawing at the upholstery as he devoured you like a man possessed.

“Erik-fuck-”

He moaned into you, like the taste of you wrecked him, tongue curling just right, fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open like this was his purpose.

You were shaking already.

“Please,” you gasped, body strung tight. “I need you -please.”

He pulled back just long enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand and say:

“You want it, Peach? Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you moaned. “Now. Here. I don’t care. Just-now.”

His mouth was back on yours instantly, wet and hot and filthy.

You felt him line up against your entrance, his cock thick and hot, already leaking against your skin.

Then, one deep thrust , and he was inside.

You gasped , loud. Body bowing into him.

He groaned like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he choked out, pulling back and slamming into you again.

The car shook.

Your moan turned into a scream.

He set a brutal rhythm , hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the tiny space, the windows fogging so fast it looked like a scene out of a horror movie ,except this was the most alive you’d ever felt.

You clawed at his back, his shoulders, dragged your nails down his spine just to feel him shiver.

“Erik, I—oh my god—”

“I know,” he panted, biting down on your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling just right.

You lost it.

Your whole body clenched, legs tightening around him, scream caught in your throat as you came hard, the kind of orgasm that wrecked memory and rewrote religion.

He cursed, hips stuttering.

“Gonna cum,” he growled. “Where do you-”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Inside. I need it.”

That’s all it took.

He buried himself deep, let out a broken moan, and came with a shudder so intense it felt like an earthquake inside your chest.

You stayed like that, panting, tangled, skin slick and burning, his face pressed into your neck, breath ghosting over your skin like an apology.

You were both trembling.

Both ruined.

And still - he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just whispered into your skin:

“You’re my home, Peach. Always have been.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, still catching your breath.

“And you’re the disaster I’d choose every time.”

THE NEXT MORNING:

You woke up with your leg over the center console, your face smushed into Erik’s bare chest, and a single french fry stuck to your arm like it had gone to war with you.

The car windows were fogged.

Erik was dead asleep under the hoodie you both fought over. His mouth was slightly open, hair a complete mess, and he looked like an angel who’d gotten in a bar fight with a raccoon.

You shifted, winced, and whispered:

“Oh my God… my spine’s filing for divorce.”

“Same,” Erik muttered without opening his eyes. “Pretty sure I left one of my vertebrae under your ass.”

You sat up. Everything hurt. Everything smelled like… regret, sex, and possibly Funyuns.

“I think I gave you a hickey the size of Rhode Island.”

He smirked, eyes still closed.

“You think?”

You shoved him gently, and the car creaked in protest like it too had seen some shit last night.

ONE HOUR LATER: SMALL TOWN DINER, BIG TIME SHAME

You stumbled into a local diner looking like two feral raccoons who’d just discovered what love and backseat sex felt like.

Erik’s hoodie was stretched out in weird places. Your shorts were inside out,and Erik’s neck looked like it had been claimed by a vampire with emotional issues.

The waitress didn’t even blink.

“Booth or bar?”

“Booth,” you both croaked in unison like cursed dolls.

You slid into the booth, hissing as your thighs met the cold leather.

“God, I am fucking wrecked.”

“Same,” Erik muttered, flopping in across from you. “Pretty sure I dislocated a hip.”

You both opened your menus in silence.

Then a sweet old woman from the next booth leaned over and, with the voice of someone who had absolutely zero boundaries, said:

“Well. Someone had fun last night.”

You froze.

Erik blinked.

“Sorry?” you said, attempting politeness but radiating shame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, sipping her black coffee. “I know that walk. And those bruises.”

You reached for your ice water like it might help you evaporate.

Erik, of course, grinned like a feral golden retriever.

“Ma’am, if I could high-five you for that, I would.”

She did high-five him.

You nearly died on the spot.

“I’m Shirley,” she added. “Used to be a gymnast. Your form looked impressive.”

“Shirley. Please.”

Erik was beaming. “Shirley, you’re a legend.”

“I still got it,” she winked at him. “But you got it more, sweetheart.”

You slammed your menu down. “I will walk into oncoming traffic.”

After Shirley left (but not before sliding Erik a handwritten note that may or may not have been her number), you finally got your coffee, your pancakes, and a moment of peace.

Erik looked across the table, eyes softer now.

“You ever think about what this would be like every day?” he asked.

You blinked, halfway through drowning your plate in syrup.

“What, sex in a car and old women heckling us?”

“No. I mean-” he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly shy, “us. Waking up together. Mornings. Diners. Fighting over who used the last of the toothpaste.”

Your heart did something horrible and fluttery.

You tried to play it cool.

“Nah,” you said, sipping your coffee. “I’m just in it for the hickeys and public humiliation.”

He reached across the table and stole your bacon with zero remorse.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m in it for your ass in my hoodie and your voice when you sing ‘Wicked Game’ at midnight.”

You blushed.

He smiled.

And that was it.

You were screwed.

Like, emotionally.

Later, back in the car:

You climbed into the passenger seat, pulled down the mirror, and caught sight of your hair.

“Jesus. I look like I got into a fight with a leaf blower and lost.”

Erik leaned over and kissed your cheek.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you looked hot doing it.”

You groaned, leaned your head back, and muttered:

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, starting the car. “You love me.”

You didn’t answer.

Just reached over, laced your fingers through his, and whispered,

“Yeah. I really fucking do.”

And as the Jeep pulled back onto the road, Shirley waved at you from the diner parking lot.

Winked at Erik.

Blew him a kiss.

You screamed into the hoodie.

He laughed until he almost ran a stop sign.

[sulumuns-dootah]

Can u do Satan and maybe even some of the Niflheim demons with an MC who suffers with depression please?

WHB demons w/ depressed reader

⟡ Masterlist ⟡

A/N: Not to be the one self-advertising, buut... Some time back I posted this comfort post w even more (and some of these) characters! ^^ So you can technically read that as part 2 of this :3

Characters: Satan, Belphegor, Beleth, Gusion, Agares

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Satan, having depressions himself, knows exactly how to approach you and what to do when you need some

Though, if you both happen to have an episode at the same time, the country as if stops

So all Gehenna nobles kinda always try to keep both of you happy so neither of you have to feel bad

This will probably work only about half of the time, but it's the thought that counts

Oh and Satan enstates a mandatory therapy hour at the end of each day where you talk, fight, scream or whatever else you need to do to be okay

       ༺☆༻

As much asleep as Belphie is, he will actually be the first one from his nobles to notice something's off when you're having an episode

For his nobles it is natural that they get tired thanks to his energy, but with you, he feels like it's something else

So he'll actually force himself to stay awake to talk to you

He can't really help much, but if you're having nightmares while staying the night with him, he'll use his powers to change them into nice dreams

Also it's safe to say that his bed is available for you to escape reality at anytime

       ༺☆༻

After Belphie notices, Beleth takes little to no time to catch on too

He'll let you stay in his king's bed, but hell also tend to you like he does to his king

(Actually, I wrote about this in that comfort post ^^)

You might think that he would be a bit annoyed to now have double the work load, but it's the opposite, actually

I hc Beleth's love language to be acts of service so this is something that makes him fullfilled to the max

Also there's this kinda dark pleasure from having you be fully reliant on him during that time

       ༺☆༻

Good boy Gusion tries to solve everything like a math problem

So he'll bury himself in psychology books to figure out what is wrong with your brain until he's found the answer

And he won't take on any other task until he's sure you're okay, which in turn makes other demons wonder whether he is okay

I don't really think they would medicate mental illnesses, so sadly, Gus Gus will have to go to the human world to get some antidepressives for you

And there will most likely be some demons who would question his decision

Once he's back, he'll probably learn that your episode is over and that his trip was for nothing, but hey, at least he has them for the next time

       ༺☆༻

(Might be ooc bc I missed his event due to school T.T)

Agares won't really notice

To him, your change in behavior is you simply getting used to the boredom of your place next to him

It's okay, that's nromal when you have everything you've ever wished for

And if there's really something going on, Vassago is your servant for a reson

When your episode is over, he will notice how you bounced back to yourself, but won't really ask

[land-of-frogs-and-dragons]

Y'know what this still lives in my head rent free so some more rambling from Yours Truly under the cut

@phoenixdellaverita ping for you in case you still wanna talk about this bad boi

I was thinking about all of The Shenanigans And Tomfoolery Danny could get up to whilst under the care of The Princesses and realized that, BECAUSE he is Their Ward (for now) this TECHNICALLY makes him a prince, especially because he's a liddol bebe alicorn. Therefore:

Danny thinking the guards assigned to him are just, Vibing, and not actually assigned to him for more than "pls help the bebe not be lost thanks"

Luna and Celestia BOTH being asked which of them sired Danny (I'm kinda tossing him getting his age lowered for The Funny but also bc DC x DP fics where that happens slap) and they both go "my sister did :3"

Danny being confused when regular ponies bow to him like No Please Don't He's Just A Liddol Guy,,,,, Bowing Is For Squares,,,,, pLeasE

On that note, Celestia and Luna both teaching him how to be More Royal: how to say nothing of value or committing to things without insulting other nations diplomats, how to read between the lines for the problems that aren't spoken aloud, how to manage a spy network, ECT.

BUT ALSO Teaching him how to make space to relax while having The Whole Nation Depending On You, how to still be true to yourself while presenting a public facing mask, how to make sure your advisors are good and not trying to backstab you

Also, the sisters get to learn how to have fun again: Celestia with pulling Harmless Shenanigans For Fun and Luna with telling stories and things

Also I think all of the above and ALSO think that they pull Cadence in within a few weeks for Danny under their care bc both princesses gotta be present for a meeting so they call her in bc "she babysat Twilight and Twi was already like that, surely nothing can go wrong here"

Cadence introduced to Danny and Danny's wary of her until he gets a FULL breakdown of how her magic works. Poor Cadence expecting Spoiled Colt instead gets the PTSD Trauma Response Colt (they make a series of code words so that if either Is Sus of mind control or something, they use it to confirm that the other is clear and ok. This is what makes Danny sus of Future Chrysalis!Cadence)

Idk I want to do more with Discord so I feel like, in his season finale when he gets re statued, Danny somehow gets him out without fucking up the statue? So now he gets a Pocket Sized Chaos going around places with him

Me, rambling about my fanfic idea that I've not had the chance to really delve into the writing and planning and thus am rambling about my blorbos during lunch? It's more likely than you'd think.

Fic idea under the cut, it's the dp x MLP crossover I talked about a good while back

SO I've had time to Noodle On This (God bless the person that sent me fanart of this, you saved this AU from never leaving my brain I'm saving it in my asks to Never Forgor) and I think the crossover would happen like this:

In Equestria, one of the Finale Events is ongoing. I'm partial to the first time Discord gets un-statued but that's me loving that blorbos tbh

That plotline proceeds as usual until close to the end

AT THE SAME TIME, the realms has finally had peace and Danny's been properly crowned king of the realms.

Danny, who doesn't want to be king

Danny, who wants to live his life and only become king when he dies fully or when 100 years pass from his not-death

Danny, whose death happens a few years earlier than canon and everything happens with a younger ghost kid

The GIW aren't gone but they are properly handled, his parents are chill with him, things are looking up

And then (if it's Discord) my mans Does A Thing

This thing wouldn't have done anything if it were Pariah or another ghost adult on the throne.

Unfortunately it's Danny, the Baby Ghost, who Has A Regent So He Can Live Life Still, still Chirps when Ghost Grandpa Gives Him Cookies

Baby Ghost Danny wandering the realms with some ghost friends during summer break under adult supervision getting sucked into a surprise portal in the realms

Discord: Whose Sassy Small Child Is This

Danny: Fuck You You Colossal Snakey Bastard, I'll Bite You

Discord, suddenly pleased: Ah Yes, My Child Now

Now the girls NOT ONLY have to re-stone Discord, they have to ""save the baby""

Only to find that The Baby needs Discord to send him home (they did not like the suggestion of "guess I'll die then")

ALSO only to find that Danny is a young Alicorn by de facto of being royalty (since that's the only time we see alicorns really)

Danny runs away, shifts forms, and finds that he has a lil coat on his alive form to hide the wings (along with a note from Clockwork saying all is as it should be, Big Sigh from our tired boi)

Sneaks back to Discords statue to try and break the guy out so he can go home only to get caught by one of the princesses (haven't decided which yet) who are understandably Less Than Pleased that this random child is trying to bust out the bad guy of the year to start the mess over again

Noone but Pinkie Pie recognizes that Alive Danny is also Dead Danny

Noone but Pinkie Pie (and, if homie gets to get a nap in, Luna who sneaks into the dreams) believes it's him if he admits it

Pinkie, *somehow,* bullies the princesses into taking care of the child because "finders keepers and you found him" or something

Now Danny has to learn advanced pony magitech in order to go home while a) keeping it from the nosy new guardians, and b) not get so attached that he hits a point where he doesn't want to go home. Also c) not get caught trying (and succeeding) in busting discord out again to get his help in going home

[gabagools]

ingrid derian they could never make me hate you. like god forbid a woman keep her coworkers on their toes!

[telesodalite]

Thinking about KrokFire...

Thinking about them sparring in the cargohold, because it's a long trip, and cabin fever is setting in, and Misfire is gonna pop a gasket if he doesn't do something about it soon, since flying in open space gets real boring real fast, and it's making everyone a little nervous, but Krok has time to kill, and maybe, quietly, he's also two steps away from doing something stupid just to feel alive again after cruising around pointlessly, mindlessly, endlessly, for so so long... (It's barely been a month)

And sure, Misfire is a terrible sparring partner. He has no technique, no concept of proper balance, or an inkling of how to use the weight of his own frame. He rushes headfirst like he's more bull than fighter jet, he talks too much, he spits, he bites, and he can't stand losing. But, in a roundabout way, it almost makes him the perfect partner in Krok's eyes.

Crankcase won't spar, "can't" he claims flatly, gesturing at the gaping hole in his helm, but Krok can respect his want for distance. That occasional flash of fear and frozen unease in Crankcase's visor in close combat doesn't go over his head. He knows that look. He gets it. He won't push.

Fulcrum... well, a streetlight might be a tougher fight, or at least it would stay up longer and complain less. So much for a once respectable officer of the empire. What was Deathsaurus' command thinking promoting anyone without any actual combat training? It would almost be pathetic if Fulcrum didn't find a way to put the vitriol of thrown fists into his words instead. Now there was some swears Krok hadn't heard in a couple millennia, it would be inspiring if it wasn't his own spark Fulcrum had been damning to the pits and back through a bloody nose.

Spinister? Now Spinister was a good fighter, a better fighter, Krok wasn't so prideful to deny that truth. He'd tasted the dust of the cargohold floor enough to know it was a definitive fact. But Spinister held back, he was careful, he matched Krok's pace, his movements, he held himself defensively, any attack was quick, simple, and merely restraining. It was less a fight, and more a waiting game until Krok finally gave up, and that... well, that did sting a bit.

But Misfire? Misfire was a different beast all together. Sure Krok could dance circles around the flier all day, but it wasn't totally effortless work, he had to stay sharp, Misfire was so predictably unpredictable, he kept him thinking, moving, on his toes, and maybe it felt good to sidestep another stupid headfirst charge, easily grabbing and swinging Misfire around by his arm, so unbalanced all Krok had to do was let him go, and the weight of his own frame would send him careening into the crates stacked around them.

Most days, Misfire would give up by then, pull himself off the pile of overturned cargo with no small amount of burning shame and frustration, as he avoided Krok's optics and stormed off into the bowels of the ship before Krok could say something to ease the sting of losing again and again. Misfire didn't want his apologies though, and even as a pang of guilt ate at him over it, Krok knew he'd be back eventually.

But today, too pent-up and bored to quit now, Misfire pushed himself back onto his feet and charged back in again, and again, and again.

And Krok moved with him again, and again, and again. It was almost repetitive, but lively enough that he could feel the energon pumping through his head, a thrumming beat in his audials that reminds him of deafening battlefields and roaring stadiums, and oh, he'd missed this feeling, the adrenaline, the movement, more so than he thought he did.

Maybe it's the overconfidence that gets him then, or the memories pulling him out of the present, but Misfire's fist suddenly comes slamming down into his mask, and for a moment everything becomes a blur, until he finds himself on the floor, clutching at the shattered metal falling from his face in disbelief.

Faintly he can feel the twinge of broken mesh, of pain pinching dully across scarred flickering sensors, and maybe it's the adrenaline that pulls a suprised and breathy laugh out of him as he stares down at the pieces in his hand.

Maybe it's also the disbelief, the sudden shock at being struck hard enough to break his mask, by Misfire of all mechs. Or maybe he's cracked his helm, finally snapping something important deep in his processor, some vital function that kept him sane all these years.

Either way, an old familiar buzz of heady energy fills his chest, loosening his joints and straightening his struts as he stands back up, brushing off the broken remains of his mask as he stares back at Misfire, barefaced and bleeding and amused as the flier's optics go bright and wide.

And all Misfire can do for a moment is stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, his own adrenaline filled frame and hammering processor still trying to make sense of the broken plating of his knuckles and the energon trickling down Krok's scarred lips.

But connections are made, and it's a panicked realization at first, a cold dread, a 'ohhhhh fuck oh primus I fucked up I'm dead I'm so fucking dead-!' sort of feeling, as Krok's marred face breaks into an energon stained grin. But then there's another feeling, growing somewhere underneath the panic, a sudden curl of heat in his chest, a flush of pride, conviction, a sort of frenzied joy at the sight of broken mesh and fresh energon, and another rush of hot anticipation as Krok began to move again, circling, waiting, an unspoken question in the air as he rolls his shoulders back and flexes his hands.

And Misfire answers eagerly, suprising himself almost as he charges foward again, wanting more of that feeling, wanting to win again.

It's not really sparring past this point, and somewhere in the back of their minds they both know that. Every strike, every kick, every punch, it's all thoughtless instinct, each clash of plating, and bite of denta, and scrape of fingertips, is part of a mad dash for victory in the gladiator pit of scrap and debris they've built around themselves.

Of course, it can't last forever. They're no real gladiators, no phase-sixers, no primes, and movements get sluggish, vents rattle and wheeze as coolant pumps reach their limits, and building condensation slides powerless punches right off of scuffed metal and mesh.

Even like this though, worn out and bleeding from more scrapes than he had half a mind to count, Krok is still better, and Misfire is still predictable, and it's no great feat to sweep his legs out from beneath him, landing him flat on the floor, wings spread out and chestplate heaving.

Overworked joints sharply protest as he goes to pin the flier down bodily, and finally Krok faces the fact he has to consider how to end this, so he might let his own beaten frame finally still for a moment to breathe.

But as Krok catches one flailing arm in his grip, scoffing at the desperation, still goading Misfire on even as he tries to end this, a hand stubbornly catches his throat, but stops before it can truly squeeze.

And once more they're not really moving, just staring, watching, but it's less wired and tense now, rather, its shaky, a little unfocused, as exhaustion filters out in heaving puffs of hot air between their frames.

Someone's plating is rattling, Krok isn't sure if it's his own or Misfire's, but the cost of adrenaline is painfully noticeable now. His grip loosens on Misfire's arms, and the idea of total victory is less sweet as his cables begin to ache throughout his inner-framework.

But Misfire's hand slides up to catch his jaw before he can lean back and relent to a truce, and he's pulling him closer, and Krok starts to push him off, call it quits before either of them breaks something past repair, but a flash of energon on Misfire lips catches his eye, and that hadn't been there a moment ago?

Before he can even begin to ask what that was supposed to mean, Misfire is pulling him down again, angling his helm upwards to feverishly meet his lips half-way.

Although the mesh of Misfire's face was throughly bruised and scuffed, Krok had frustratingly failed to return the favor of a busted lip. So, it had to be his own, smeared across Misfire's face at some point in the scuffle, it shouldn't have been interesting in the slightest, but Krok's processor was hazy, slow, and his optics trailed Misfire's glossa as he licked his lips and made an odd curious sound.

And maybe it was a stupid move to make so impulsively, one he'd regret making probably, but still too caught up in the waning heated high of the fight, Misfire figured he could worry about losing such a hard-earned battle later. Right now, this seemed far better than actually winning, and the taste of Krok's energon felt like a victory and reward nonetheless.

Bracing himself as Misfire wriggled his other hand free to splay out over his thigh, holding him desperately against his frame as he tried pulling him even closer, Krok considered the heat dispersion warnings flickering distractingly in his peripheral, and the very noticeable strain on his back and legs, even his arms.

It's not a great position to be in right now, after all they've done already. He'll regret it, he knows he will, his body will make sure of it, if Spinister doesn't first.

But then Misfire's glossa is sliding against the jagged edges of his teeth, and he's making hoarse little pathetic noises into Krok's mouth that stoke some sort of ego at having the flier so desperate beneath him, and Misfire's hands are warm and heavy over aching plating and seams, and really, on second thought, after weeks of boredom, why the hell not?

They've got nowhere to be.

[fortune-maiden]

Random TGCF AU of two days ago actually but it won’t leave me alone

Beefleaf AU where HX accidentally gets SQX pregnant… and revenge has to be put on hold because Shi Wudu loves his nibling a lot and is doing 90% of the childcare

[girlvinland]

See this is the other problem, I get too many ideas to fit in my brain and not enough time to do them.

[kil9]

theres nothing necessarily wrong about the upcoming minecraft updates but it really does feel like theyre trying to pivot into Full kids game at the expense of their older players -.-

[astracora]

I woke up at 3am because of a nightmare (that I was too conscious during 0/10 experience), but I watched the Raffy birthday trailer. Got hit with EVERY emotion because he's so bloody lovely, and then realised he said LOVE. He said LOVE to MC... I haven't stopped thinking about it.

Also I really hope the whale in the card is the baby one 😭 because that'd be so goddamn cute... ugh!!! This year of birthday cards is gonna break me.

[gobbluthbutagirl]

spent wayyyyy too long doomscrolling reddit(the same website where people act like you are literally going to drop dead immediately if you move to los angeles without a car and $100,000 in your bank account) threads about the current job market in los angeles and it’s uhhhhh not encouraging. but i also didn’t drop dead immediately when i moved to los angeles without a car or $100,000 the first time. so who can never really know

[frankhermann]

consuming so much non-american content frm f1 guys and fans and i can't stop sprinkling shit into my speech. said cheers the other day. i was already using innit. i almost called my friend MATE yesterday

[skyward-floored]

Beautiful weather and technically no reason for me to be even the slightest bit annoyed with the world, and yet

[smile-files]

pros of being introspective:

you know exactly what your problems are and what caused them

cons of being introspective:

you have no idea what to do about them