#[god this is such a wreck of a writing]

[stealingyourbones]

Out of all of the people The Ghost King Phantom expected to relate to, it definitely wasn’t the scrawny red headed photographer of the Daily Planet. Jimmy Olsen has gotten so many temporary superpowers over his time being Superman’s friend. Hell, he once gained a 4th dimensional being’s reality warping abilities when he was given said dimensional being’s powers during a fight. Sure there’s a dozen or so heroes with the same amount of powers he has, but none as suddenly granted to them as a all powerful god that can relate to a teenager.

[llondonfog]

OK so Baul and Lilias friendship lives in my mind rent free, so I think that a few days after silver gets sick for the first time and mama and papa zigvolt manage to teach lilia the proper way to care for a sick infant after he comes over to their house tembling with poorly restrained panic, Baul goes over with v little persuasion from his daughter to check up on them.

What he sees is a happy and healthy Silver just quietly smiling up at him from Lilias arms while Lilia is passed out in his rocking chair fevered and red from catching baby's first cold.

Baul immediately assigns himself caretaker duties, doesn't even bother trying to move Silver from Lilias arms and instead just picks them both up to deposit them both in Lilias bed for a proper nap before checking the fridge for tomato soup ingredients.

When he first heard from his daughter that Lilia— Lilia Vanrouge, the once General of the Right, feared commander of the fae armies and scourge of humankind— had adopted a human child and had been caring for it for several months now, Baul had roared with laughter so hard that he split a scale wide open on his cheek.

It was certainly a poor excuse for a joke, the very kind of rumor that the castle fae still bitter over Lilia's persistent existence four hundred years later might spread. The very idea that Lilia, Lilia Vanrouge, would debase himself to care for a human child not of his blood, to stoop so low as to toil over its screeching and wailing demands when he had bathed in the screams of its own kind with a mad vengeance after the tragedy of Lady Meleanor . . . not even four hundred years of honeyed peace was enough to sweeten that wound.

Time, it seemed, had forgotten what was so cruelly emblazoned in the very depths of Baul's mind, in Lilia's own memories, and the nightmares of all those surviving fae who stalked the forests during those blood-soaked nights. Those born in kinder years had never known the horror of human avarice, and even his own daughter had taken up residence with one of their kind despite her father's immense displeasure, simpering, soft-hearted fool that her husband was.

At least, to Baul's proud credit, their lineage rippled strong and true through his grandchildren— and with his daughter due any day under the weight of a third, he's only too certain for another healthy, bouncing, scaled Zigvolt.

So when she had simply stared back at him with crossed arms and an arched brow while he had laughed and laughed and laughed, a sinking kind of horror began to creep into his heart— surely . . . she wasn't serious?

Months— hardly the blink of an eye for faekind, but everything to humans. Months, Lilia had kept a child for several months, and not once had tried to rid himself of it? Not once tried to deposit it upon the stoop of a human village and wipe his hands clean of the responsibility of child-rearing? He had been taking advice from Baul's daughter and her wisp of a husband on how to pacify and coddle it? He had barged into their home, fretful beyond measure with a colicky babe clutched in his arms, and all but demanded them to cure the child?

("Or what?" Baul found himself asking, utterly bewildered and needing to find some kernel of normalcy in the fact that surely Lilia had menaced his daughter's husband some into obeying his whims.

"Or nothing, Father," she said, the taunting ghost of a knowing smile playing about her lips. "In all the years that I've known him, I've never seen him quite so distraught. He stayed by the crib all night, frozen— we had to tell him it was alright to breathe and to hold Silver's hand if he wanted, it was as if he was afraid to hurt him.")

Silver? Lilia, afraid? Holding the hand of some human child?

It simply couldn't be true.

It couldn't be, this had to be some elaborate, poorly executed prank.

He clung to that belief even as his daughter shoved a bundle of medicine, food, and knitted blankets into his arms with the stern instruction to deliver them to Lilia's home (Home! He had never heard the forest cottage to be described in such terms! The place was a hovel, a storage shed for Lilia to dump his treasures before venturing off to the next location, how could it be considered a home?).

He clung to it even as he emerged from the woods to the path that led up to the cottage's door, casting unnerved glances to the strange and new abundance of woodland creatures skulking about the thatched roof and scampering along the thick tree trunk supporting the cottage like a lean-to, soft little animals that would have darted away in fright from Lilia's presence before Baul's own.

He clung to it until he could no more, when he threw open the cottage door with an odd tightness in his chest to see his oldest friend collapsed on a worn and lumpy armchair with a honest-to-goodness human baby snuggled safely within his arms and sucking happily on a stray piece of ruby-stained hair. Beyond them, a soothing glow flickered in the fireplace where a kettle of milk quietly steamed, and the scattered presence of cloth toys littered the living room floor along with (Baul shuddered) well-thumbed pamphlets, their covers illustrated with the cheerful faces of frolicking human children.

What had this child done to Lilia Vanrouge?

[cum-a-calla]

roman on a busy train/elevator/something and doing things to you whilst everybody else is stood around, maybe you don’t even know him

Of course, he sits next to you.

It’s a long bus ride, considering. There’s probably another.. what? 20 minutes til your stop? And it’s surprisingly light; only a handful of bodies. This is when you like it best, stepping onto the bus and having your pick of empty seats, of empty rows. Just worrying about looking out the window with some headphones, nobody needing to sit next to you. In a pleasant turn of events, the entire back of the bus is bare - you choose a window seat back there, surrounded by emptiness; at least, you were.

He’s in a suit, hair slicked back. He looks vaguely familiar, but that’s a dime a dozen in New York. There are important people everywhere, recognizable faces. The single relief of not watching the news much is not recognizing any of them, not giving a shit. He has little more than a small briefcase, eyes flickering to you as he boards, the hint of a smirk on his lips. You look away and out the window, trying to shrink from his attentions. He’s kind of handsome, actually. Sharp features, deep-set, sleepy eyes. Long, gorgeous nose. He isn’t the worst seat-mate in the world, just… didn’t need to be one at all.

He settles himself without much incident, barely speaking a word or a sparing a glance before pulling his phone out and ignoring you.

Not so bad.

It takes a while, and truly, it’s by mistake - by happenstance, you glance over and catch the screen of his phone. It’s angled at your thighs, your legs in your skirt. His camera app. In one hand he surreptitiously takes a picture. His other hand is down on his own thigh, petting the head of his erect cock in his slacks, tight in that trapped fabric. The gasp that leaves your throat can’t be that loud, especially with the way you snap your attention back to the window, eyes wide, holding your breath, now. You freeze up - there are creeps on the bus, you get it. It happens. It’s not the first, last, or worse thing you’ve seen in New York in public or on public transport. But this is… this is a lot. Of course, you could yell, you could confront him and stand up and cause a scene. You know the driver would kick his ass off. You know you could. You can. Every second that ticks by is wasted, but… for some reason, you don’t. Your cheeks flush and your fingers tremble as you smooth your skirt self-consciously over your thighs, wondering if it’s making things worse.

When he tucks his phone away, you glance again out of habit, his movements drawing your eye. All you can discern is a smug little smirk on his lips as he tucks it into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. His cheekbones slice an attractive curve down into his jawline, a barely-there dusting of five-o’clock shadow.

It must be minutes - right? Seconds? Time warps in your panic, and it takes effort to release the tension in your muscles.

That’s when it happens. His pinky, stroking against the side of your thigh. He’s not even subtle about it; he pets his pinky finger there and then it’s more, his fingers crawling, slowly but surely. Hand on your thigh, and then edging between them, his gaze held calm, facing forward, your cheeks burning as you stare out the window.

Emboldened by your silence, the man’s fingers slide over the tender inside of your thigh, undeterred by the way you press them together just a little tighter.

You turn sharply to look at him, steeling yourself, and you even get as far as opening your mouth before he matches your gaze. He furrows his brow, dark eyes glittering as he fixes his face into the perfect mask of confusion, polite concern. He waits, fingers tickling deeper between them. He lifts those eyebrows, expectant. Bored. Annoyed by your silence, the way you need to remember how to breathe.

“You need something…?” he asks, voice clipped. Irritated. Impatient.

Impossibly, you shake your head, turning back toward the window, and his fingers continue to crawl to push and seek until he’s stroking up under that skirt, against your underwear. A thin, damp scrap of fabric separates your flesh from his fingertips as he rubs. It’s barely a moment after he reaches that soft, plush place that he’s pushing underneath the elastic, reaching your sensitive, shamefully wet cunt. He pokes between the lips, rubs around, finding his way idly like it’s a scenic journey he’s taking, no real goal but to feel, test, push against the bouncy, plaint flesh there.

As he makes his home in the slippery confines of your cunt, pushing one and then two fingers slowly inside, he takes your hand. You don’t need to turn and watch to know where it’s going - he pushes it against the line of his twitching, impossibly hard cock, guiding the way you rub him through his slacks. Slow. Controlled. You can feel the curve of his head, fat, the tender ridge there near the tip. He slides his fingers in, out, before settling into a rhythm that makes you gasp. He curls them, fully cupping your cunt and snickering to himself in a low, derisive way as you spread your thighs a little - just enough to allow him proper access, focusing so hard on staring out the window. His middle and ring finger nudge and grind and thrust against that sweet spot inside of you, like there aren’t other people, like you know him. Like you want it. The way he grinds his palm against you puts a solid pressure against your clit. He moves your hand a little faster against his own dick, sighing as he reaches to undo his zipper.

And then… his cock. Fat, thick, leaking. He wraps your fingers around it and guides your rhythm just the way he likes, all that rippling, firm muscle, the slickness at the tip of his cock helping wet it. He makes a soft noise in his throat and disguises it as a groan.

Despite yourself, you rock your hips - just a little. Just a little, because - oh, fuck - are you really this turned on? Really this fucking desperate for some entitled stranger to finger-fuck you on the bus, wrist flicking as he fucks his fingers into you just a little harder? His cock makes an obscenely wet noise as he drips over your knuckles, and suddenly he’s not guiding you at all - it’s you, all you, rolling your hips subtly and stroking his cock, thumbing the slit as he leans his head back in your peripheral vision, shuddering. He hums, almost a whine in his throat, and your cheeks are so fucking red they burn.

“That’s real fuckin’ cute,” he whispers. So low, so quiet you think you may have imagined it, except he laughs again - a breath. A stab. And oh - that can’t be you, tightening up on his fingers and squeezing your thighs together, closing your eyes and leaning your head back as he manipulates your poor cunt into squeezing around his knuckles, and all that pillowy, plush, molten heat around him has him fucking into your harder, faster. Milking you clean of it, your shivery little gasps. In your grip, his cock engorges and he yanks his fingers out of your cunt to reach swiftly behind your head, tangling his wet fingers into your hair as he guides you. “Down you go - just fucking do it.”

He shoves you down over his cock, and can’t you just resist, can’t you just push off of him, slap him, scream? Can’t you? He rolls his hips up and a deep, rolling grunt issues up from his chest, subdued, his cock pulsing over your tongue. He shoots into the back of your throat as he forces you there, choking, drooling over his balls, over the open fly of his expensive slacks. He keeps his fingers in your hair with a grip that stings, that makes you whine softly as you try to swallow around him. After a few last, emptying twitches, he allows you to pop off, catching your breath and wiping your wet eyelashes, your mouth.

The bus comes to a stop moments after, and he rises up from his seat, all put away and smirking. He makes sure to catch your eye, lifting his eyebrows as he brings his fingers to his nose, winking. “Thanks for the ride,” he mumbles.

[repressionmd]

hi.. wilson sickfic has been posted ... :) enjoy <3

[cherrygummybears]

waking up and checking the scarnash tag this morning

[lil-vibes]

Hi! Sorry for notification spamming you but wanted to tell you that your TROD tags made me lol, I LOVE your art so much and I’m interested in your AU too. Anyway, love your blog!

P.S. maybe I missed it but you said somewhere that your Narinder was pretty messed up for a few years post revival. Could you give some more details on that? Did he try to hurt them? Who had to take care of him, the lamb? What’s been the downstream effects? Basically, how is this cat still messed up lol.

dont be! everytime i get a notification i go yuppiee!!! im glad you enjoy my art :DD

okay okay its prime yap time under the cut oof i love my fucked up cat sm

Lambert, mainly, took care of him! They made sure that every comfort he needed was provided and were worried out of their mind the entire time. Their disciples helped watch over Narinder when he was unconscious, just so he wouldn't bolt the moment he awoke, and Witness Allocer stitched some of his wound and prepared a special painkiller blend for him. (in my au the high priests, aka the mini bosses, and the witnesses were very close to the bishops! Allocer made the same painkillers for Shamura as well.)

Okay so obviously his wrists and ankles were pretty fucked up from being chained for a thousand years and he's got a lot of internal damage as well bc some of the chains went through him (og Stychu hc that I adopted bc it's so good). Also just general wounds from the final fight and the unfathomable pain of shrinking down from his godly form.

Upon being spared, he did attack them in a post battle adrenaline and hate fueled delirium, right on the indoctrination stone and not only broke his arm (bc he put too much weight on it), but probably gave himself a heavy concussions by slamming his head on said stone seconds after the break happened lmao. After waking up in,,, just a Haze of agony he tried to get up and run away bc he was scared that the lamb would just keep him existing in this special Purgatory and shattered his opposite calf so there's that as well. Unlucky tbh

He bleeds like,,, constantly. All of the time, for literal years on end. From his eyes mostly, but also nose and ears and he throws up ichor a lot in the beginning as well bc his body is adjusting rapidly to being smaller and there's just No Space for the ichor to go, other than out. He’s constantly exhausted and spends a lot of time sleeping, and is very frail physically, if snapping two bones by simply putting weight on them didn't make it obvious enough lol

All and all not a great shape to be in, but! His wounds aren't actually what caused him to be bedridden for so long. It was the fact that he no longer saw himself as a god while still being one and suffering injuries befitting of one!

His body/the Red Crown isn't healing him as much as it’s literally regenerating parts of itself while he suffers everything that comes with that, alongside being out of the Veil/Gateway for the first time in forever and emotionally dealing with the deaths of his acolytes and the supposed betrayal of the one he allowed himself to trust after his family. In fact, Narinder barely heals at all for a while bc he was just mentally stopping the process. And also unconscious for a lot of it.

The other big reason is that god hearts are a great power source, but his heart has been in Lambert's chest since Silk Cradle. So he is Struggling ™ but he’d actually rather die than take his heart back he’s a simp like that smh

After he inevitably breaks and he and Lambert finally talk, he gradually starts seeing himself as a person again and his healing process gets easier. He still has chronic pain for his joints but eventually everything else heals alright :3

On a side note, his siblings bleed excessively and are disoriented for the first couple of days but are ultimately fine within the week. They are kind of horrified to learn that their brother is STILL struggling with the side effects of his imprisonment

[nenoname]

the stan twins both having giant egos juxtaposed with their crippling self worth and shame being a huge part of their lives...

[signsofsam]

How the Kingdom Lights Shine on You and Me

Look who's back and it only took like two years to get here.

Most times these days, being Evan Buckley’s publicist is pretty easy.

Back then, especially through Buck’s sleep-around stage after Buck and Abby’s break-up, there were a lot of rough patches and media strategies to plan.

But now? Now it’s pretty easy and mundane. Buck did damn near every interview she sent his way, went to events she put in front of him, knew his way around promotional events without too much direction needed, had learned how to utilize his social media accounts without posting things that could get him into trouble. He’s grown to keep his private life private (finally), and it helped that having Eddie seemed to mellow him out and want to have a more normal, low key private life. After Abby, she wasn’t sure she’d ever pull him out of Buck 2.0 only to be front row to the most sickeningly sweet love story that has ever existed.

But not today. Today, she wondered if maybe she should start her day with wine.

Read the rest on AO3.

[sundrykitsch]

just because! just because!

[insomaniacat]

ROUND SIX ABSOLUTELY EMOTIONALLY WRECKED ME WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT WHAT THE FUCK WHAT DID I JUST WATCH WHAT

[withclawandvine]

the interview was years ago, and this particular snippet had been edited out of the final cut. the agency had forked over a lot of money for it, too. but every once in a while, an illegally recorded cellphone video would resurface, doing numbers on twitter and tiktok. a grainy image of a younger dynamight, sitting at a disrespectful angle in one of those talk show chairs. even with the low quality, and the shaky cameraship, it was obvious he was scowling. then, the interviewer asked about you—the mysterious figure he was so rarely seen with, always shielded and angled away from prying eyes and camera flashes. and dynamight’s scowl became much more intentional. his silence nearly ominous. but he was still young and inexperienced with press, so it didn’t take much needling from the host to end up where they did: a leading question about protecting the relationship. wondering aloud if he was also trying to protect you. if he worried about you capturing the interest of a villain, who might see you as dynamight’s achilles heel. and finally, striking just the right nerve with the implication that he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to protect you. dynamight wasn’t afraid of anything. katsuki, on the other hand…

but all the audience saw at that afternoon taping was a murderous glower, and a death-promise to any villain that might make such an attempt. brazen and protective, a little bit arrogant. not particularly heroic, at least not in the usual way. classic dynamight, really. his manager didn’t see it that way. she saw it “how villains are going to see it: as a challenge.” so she and her team have continued to do their best to scrub any traces of it off the internet for years. as soon as a repost goes viral, it’s removed and the poster’s account is often suspended.

the video is as forgotten as it will ever be when finally, after three years and an engagement ring, you are targeted.

[nuks]

Taking a wee break from commissions to ponder the oc orb… kinda wanting to make just. The most mean lady ever… let’s be real we all need more mean girls who are just morally bad LMAOO waiter waiter, more villainous women!!! inspired by bubblegum bitch by marina and cheerleader by ashnikko

[it-begins-with-rain]

Halloween Recommendation: Stephen King's Rose Red

** This one can be tricky to find. It was originally released as a 3 night mini-series in 2002, but then re-released as a motion picture. Apparently Hulu has it?

In 1906, oil barron John Rimbauer built a veritable palace overlooking Seattle. It was his young bride, Ellen, who would give the house it's name: Rose Red.

First blood was drawn before the foundation was even laid. A foreman, murdered over a simple argument. Bizarre deaths and mysterious disappearances plagued Rose Red, swallowing up the Rimbauer family, their servants, friends, and anyone who dared enter.

Eventually, the grand estate fell into disrepair. Paranormal investigators descended upon the property, but none were ever able to solve the mystery, nor stop the deaths.

Now, more than 90 years after the first deaths at Rose Red, Steven Rimbauer, the last living descendant of John and Ellen Rimbauer, has been offered massive sums of money to sell Rose Red. It will be totally leveled, the land used for condos.

Before the house is destroyed, Steven agrees to let Dr. Joyce Reardon and a cobbled-together team of psychics, mediums, and other paranormal investigators do one final sweep of the house.

What evil lurks within Rose Red?

What horrors did John and Ellen Rimbauer summon in their palatial estate- or were they victims themselves?

Why does Rose Red kill the men, but swallow the souls of the women and force them to haunt it's halls?

How many of Dr. Joyce Reardon's team can escape with their lives?

*** Stephen King wrote the screenplay for this story, but there is no novel. Instead, as part of the publicity and hype leading up to the miniseries premiere, "The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer" was published, serving as a prequel. You can buy the novel on Kindle.

[vivipuri]

[pocket-watcher]

Okay, y’all asked for it. Here is a very BAD Hypno scene I wrote some point between ages 13-15. I lightly edited this so that it’s not AS confusing but it’s still pretty confusing ngl 😘

(Brief context, this is from a story about a magical school built on top of a mine where crystals within it give you magical powers and no idk what the fuck I was on about either)

Al moved between Jake and I.

“Nicky, Nicky, Nicky.” I hated that nickname. “You are so oblivious, aren’t you? The reason Jake doesn’t like me is obviously because you prefer me over him.” Al chuckled, putting his arm around me.

I froze for a second to register that ridiculous statement.

“What?!”

“Hey!” Jake said defensively. He shoved Al’s shoulder lightly, but before he could Al grabbed his hand.

“I don’t think you quite know what you’re messing with.” He smirked, turning back to me before throwing Jake’s arm back to his side.

I pushed Al off me.

“Nick- come on. You don’t honestly think he’s worth it now do you he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, peeking around from behind me. “We all know you’re the most powerful here. And with that crystal and that brain of yours do you really need petty friends dragging you down.”

He emphasised the word friends and I saw Jake’s teeth clench.

“Why not trade these guys for a handsome prince who is actually brave enough to make a move?”

I turned my head to him.

“That’s enough, Al.” Jake said, pulling me out of the way.

“No, I think she’d prefer to be with someone a little better, don’t you think?” Also pushed, sizing up to him.

“Stop! Who the hell gets to decide what I want. What if I want neither of you! Sometimes you can be both as bad as each other.”

“Wow, Jay, looks like you like them feisty. But I’m pretty sure she’d give you up in a heartbeat.”

“You do not get to decide what I choose! I am my own person!”

“Oh!” He smirked down at me. “I think I can change that…”

Suddenly his hand rose and tilted my chin up to meet his eyes. They flashed gold and…

I feel… a bit….. woozy…

I felt my body drop to the floor. I heard yelling and someone checking my pulse.

“What did you do to her?!” An echoing voice whispered. Or maybe it was yelling? Everything’s so distant… so detached from me…

“Ever heard of the tale of the Princess Amelia? One day Camelious’ army attacked her home, kidnapping her and eventually killing her. So sad…”

I fought against sleep. My emotions jumbled.

“But what if they didn’t kill her?” Al questioned, an excitable tone in his voice. “What if they used a very special type of crystal… a golden on, to entice her into aiding in one final escape from the palace?”

My eyes are so heavy… footsteps flood my ears. Light slowly moving away from me.

“What if he found a very special girl with a very special gift? And used her to mend his own crystal? Well, let’s find out shall we…”

Al made his way over to me and stood me up. I slowly opened my eyes.

It was him. My beloved. My Al. He blessed me with his embrace before looking back to an ally of ours. An ex ally.

“Nicole?” Jake questioned. I looked at him and chuckled.

“Darling, we best be on our way. Just one more thing…”

“Anything.” I said and I meant it. I would do anything for him.

He looked at Jake, who was eyeing us suspiciously. Al brought me closer and pecked me on my lips lightly and slowly, before turning to Jake and winking.

“I’ll kill you.” Jake said, pushing closer. “What the hell did you do to her?!”

“I just persuaded her. It was easy really. I mean, she is the only one without the Gods’ protection. Gods cannot interfere with those of equal power or position. Interesting. I thought it was a ridiculous idea although now I’m quite fond of it.”

I looked at Jake, noticing him reaching for his crystal. I shifted my hand and made the crystal crash out of his pocket, sliding across the floor.

“Oh don’t try anything. I mean, this is a God you’re dealing with.” Al spoke harshly. “Darling I must go. You will kill the boy and then be released from your trance. Don’t worry, I’ll come collect you when you are of use.” He said with a wink.

And with that he left the room.

“Nicky, please! It’s me!” Jake cried. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t have to.” I forced out. N-no! I must follow orders. What am I doing?

Jake backed away, fear in his eyes.

No! I can’t do this.

“Nicole? Come back to me.”

I raised my dagger. I mouthed that I was sorry.

He grabbed his crystal and smashed it against my head, magic electrifying through my body.

I collapsed to the ground once more in excruciating pain. The gold left my eyes.

“Jake..?” Was all I could manage before I drifted into unconsciousness.

[connecting-the-stars]

Okay. So progress, like a dedicated doc for it 11k worth of planning. About 1k is concepts for two continuations, but I’ve got a definite outline and sense for the characters I believe.

Chapter 1 of See You There, in the Storm will be in production soon! (Teen Wolf x Percy Jackson AU)