#•| muse || lt |•

[polymusepotion]

caroline:

her moodiness has long since earned her a reputation around the halls of this school. and, suffice to say, the state of her appearance today combined with the waves of moodiness rolling off of her have people giving her a wide berth. so when he drops down across from her at lunch, the demon-spawn asleep in it’s carrier, she jumps slightly, fork pausing just before she gives another violent stab at her salad.  he seems to be doing okay — a little worn, but who wouldn’t be? after being charged with the world’s best advertisement for birth control?  ❝ well i fell asleep in history and alaric asked me if i was sick because i looked ‘a little off.’ and then my math teacher got pissed because i didn’t do the homework and i had to explain that i did do it — my robot demon baby just spit up on it and ruined it. but she didn’t buy it. ❞ the salad earns another harsh jab of her fork before she chews, expression softening as she looks at lowell.  ❝ how about you? ❞ her gaze is more studious now as she looks him over, brow furrowing in concern.  ❝ you haven’t murdered it yet, have you? ❞

"she's sleeping," he says with a wave of his hand. "and before that makes you angry, and i know it will, she screamed through most of my first class, slept through my second, and got incredibly fussy in the third. i burped her after i gave her her bottle. heated for thirteen seconds, just as you said. so far, she hasn't spit it back up. but i'll undoubtedly be changing a truly horrifying mess of a diaper later."

despite all of this, there's still that curl to his lips, letting her know he's not too bothered by any of it. but, again, he actually slept some last night. and even if he hadn't, his time would have been spent with his guitar, not trying to hush a screaming baby.

one week of baby duty. and today was only tuesday. it meant they'd have the baby over the weekend (he would insist on keeping it -- her -- as much as possible so they didn't risk caroline actually drowning her in the kitchen sink while giving it a bath.) "home ec--"

"hi lowell," a voice chimed in. a pale blonde girl named liv sidled up to their table. she tucked a strand of her short hair behind her ear and smiled at him, completely ignoring caroline. "i saw how great you are with your baby in first period. you're going to make a really great father someday."

lowell gave her a warm smile in return, but there was none of the affection in his eyes. that was saved for caroline. "major has ours during the day. but i'll have him this evening if you'd like to have a little playdate with the kids in the park this afternoon."

his smile faltered. "thanks for the offer," he said, not unkindly. "but i have a date with my girlfriend this evening. she and i will be watching our daughter together." lowell reached across the table to take caroline's hand. as a show of solidarity? maybe. but more to keep her from stabbing liv in the eye with the fork in her hand. "but you might check on major. he had spit up all over his jersey in third period. and i think changing the diaper made him... uh. return the favor. right onto the baby's face."

liv paled, horror and disgust playing out across her face in equal measures. she nodded once, then darted away. "anyway," lowell said, turning back to caroline. "home economics is next. i'll make sure she has a clean diaper. she's been fed. can you think of anything else we need to do for the check-in with the teacher before our baby gets plugged in and reset for another night of torture?"

caroline:

her moodiness has long since earned her a reputation around the halls of this school. and, suffice to say, the state of her appearance today combined with the waves of moodiness rolling off of her have people giving her a wide berth. so when he drops down across from her at lunch, the demon-spawn asleep in it’s carrier, she jumps slightly, fork pausing just before she gives another violent stab at her salad.  he seems to be doing okay — a little worn, but who wouldn’t be? after being charged with the world’s best advertisement for birth control?  ❝ well i fell asleep in history and alaric asked me if i was sick because i looked ‘a little off.’ and then my math teacher got pissed because i didn’t do the homework and i had to explain that i did do it — my robot demon baby just spit up on it and ruined it. but she didn’t buy it. ❞ the salad earns another harsh jab of her fork before she chews, expression softening as she looks at lowell.  ❝ how about you? ❞ her gaze is more studious now as she looks him over, brow furrowing in concern.  ❝ you haven’t murdered it yet, have you? ❞

"she's sleeping," he says with a wave of his hand. "and before that makes you angry, and i know it will, she screamed through most of my first class, slept through my second, and got incredibly fussy in the third. i burped her after i gave her her bottle. heated for thirteen seconds, just as you said. so far, she hasn't spit it back up. but i'll undoubtedly be changing a truly horrifying mess of a diaper later."

despite all of this, there's still that curl to his lips, letting her know he's not too bothered by any of it. but, again, he actually slept some last night. and even if he hadn't, his time would have been spent with his guitar, not trying to hush a screaming baby.

one week of baby duty. and today was only tuesday. it meant they'd have the baby over the weekend (he would insist on keeping it -- her -- as much as possible so they didn't risk caroline actually drowning her in the kitchen sink while giving it a bath.) "home ec--"

"hi lowell," a voice chimed in. a pale blonde girl named liv sidled up to their table. she tucked a strand of her short hair behind her ear and smiled at him, completely ignoring caroline. "i saw how great you are with your baby in first period. you're going to make a really great father someday."

lowell gave her a warm smile in return, but there was none of the affection in his eyes. that was saved for caroline. "major has ours during the day. but i'll have him this evening if you'd like to have a little playdate with the kids in the park this afternoon."

his smile faltered. "thanks for the offer," he said, not unkindly. "but i have a date with my girlfriend this evening. she and i will be watching our daughter together." lowell reached across the table to take caroline's hand. as a show of solidarity? maybe. but more to keep her from stabbing liv in the eye with the fork in her hand. "but you might check on major. he had spit up all over his jersey in third period. and i think changing the diaper made him... uh. return the favor. right onto the baby's face."

liv paled, horror and disgust playing out across her face in equal measures. she nodded once, then darted away. "anyway," lowell said, turning back to caroline. "home economics is next. i'll make sure she has a clean diaper. she's been fed. can you think of anything else we need to do for the check-in with the teacher before our baby gets plugged in and reset for another night of torture?"

[ducktracy]

was recently taking the time to admire the animation in this scene and watching it with muted sound (which i couldn’t bring myself to do for the sake of animation analysis here because, come on) and in all my frenzied rewatches of this cartoon, i never caught the rich acting decisions to have Daffy genuinely struggle to maintain eye contact—he’s that kind of storyteller that stares you dead in the eye and immediately draws you into the story with no room for escape, and has that kind of amiability that makes a point to include everyone into the conversation… but is pretty hard to do when you can’t decide who to keep eye contact with. it’s more than just “oh he’s making eye contact!” but the FRENETICISM in which he suddenly jerks his head without warning back and forth; it’s this REALLY convincingly manic, fragmented energy that harkens back to some of his earliest roots. (please take due note of the copious amounts of sugar he is also putting into the coffee—rest assured he still finds it too bitter seconds after)

[my-t4t-romance]

so my mom was taking pictures of me in dance/theater class and. well yknow that new iphone feature where it can automatically find the subject of a photo and make the background transparent

funky little stroll (feat. my best attempt at fixing my omitted right arm)

the gays are leaving (transparent Data pic courtesy of @space-robot-named-data2)

[of-elitiism]

Consider this an inbox call for all muses~

[hexsrealityarchived2]

Actual visual footage of the Ghost’s and Wanda’s relationship. (Ft. @lt-ghxst )

[fleurladari-a]

But now I always seem to FREEZE the things I LOVE the most

They'll last a LITTLE LONGER when they're covered in FROST

The muffins on the counter always get gobbled up

And they go STALE .

[virulent-spark]

Name: Agent Havok Home: Mauville, Hoenn Role: Rhythm Guitar and vocalist

Agent Havok is an Unovian army veteran, who's seen combat and takes a pretty huge stance against war of any kind. His military service had him on the front lines, using his skills as an engineer to keep Unovan tech working. He works as a mechanic now, working on motorcycles is his day job. There's rumours that he used to work for Silph Co. and subsequently Team Rocket, especially when it came to very specific experiments pertaining to a very specific Pokémon. His regrets spur him to action, standing for Pokémon rights, hoping that he can fight to save them abuse and subjugation. He often rescues Pokémon from abusive humans and rehomes them.

[prettytm]

When you ride the dick, Imma choke you out Hit it from the back, blow the vocals out That's the type of shit we on - Vic Menca - Eastside Girl

[vihrago-a]

∗ 16﹕ a  flirtatious  text

[ sms ] —> EL FANTASMA : you were right when you said you weren’t ugly beneath the mask.

[ sms ] —> EL FANTASMA : think it would look even better in other places too :)

@lt-ghxst

[filthiedwords]

ghost ⠀& ⠀graves ⠀: ⠀NSFW ⠀ from ⠀here, ⠀(⠀@lt-ghxst ⠀).

as much as he hates to admit it, and therefore never will, this is not the first time he’s been pressed against a armoured truck. in the exact way that ghost is now, expect the last time it had happened, he was much younger, and if he could recall correctly, still went by phillip shepherd. though, in this moment he tries not to think too much about that. instead, he opts to focus on the way his cheek is pressed into the window. the coolness of it, making him unable to just zone out and just be overwhelmed by pleasure. instead, he is very aware of the teasing that’s gone on for the past half an hour. if it was any other time of day, graves would bark beg for the man to hurry up, least they be caught. however, the only men out at this time are the ones on patrol, and they will venture no where near the two. even the light only illuminates them a little, anyone would have to squint to be able to see what the two were doing. though, if ghost keeps teasing him, he wonders if anyone will come across them. that thought is swiftly interrupted by ghost finally giving the man what he wants — a slow thrust, and he’s finally inside him. he can’t help but moan, press back against him. there’s no skin on skin, something he finds himself liking but would never dare to ask ghost for. instead, there’s the feeling of leather on his neck as the other holds him in place. ghost speaks, and with their closeness, he is hyper aware of the breathe tingling on the back of his head, blowing through strands of blonde hair. be quiet, he can do that. yet, when thrusts inside him, he all but whines, even when he bites down on his lip to muffle it, it still hangs in the air. the pleasure is overwhelming, in the best of ways, and graves had to squeeze his eyes closed, let his head hang, as he tried to control himself. even if ghost had been the one to tell him to keep quiet, he feels as if the man is trying to challenge him, from the way he talks, to the names he calls him. it’s like the man knows what drives him crazy and purposely does it. then, his piercing is catching on him — and graves back arches, lips parting with a sinful, low moan, as his own gloved hand curls up. so much for being quiet.

[sebastian-morey]

Sebastian Morey Statistical Character Matches:

Haymitch Abernathy (The Hunger Games) Stevie Budd (Schitt's Creek) Lip Gallagher (Shameless) Berta (Two and Half Men) Ray Arnold (Jurassic Park) Stanley Hudson (The Office) Alex Karev (Grey's Anatomy) Will Hunting (Good Will Hunting) Dan Taylor (Forrest Gump)

[my-t4t-romance]

just watched Thine Own Self (star trek tng) and. I am going to be SICK this is SUCH an episode (/positive but also AAUGH)

[artsmuklermd]

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ART SMUKLER, MD, author and psychiatrist?

Sorry all. I'm a little rusty. The last blog, my first in almost a year, was a bit flawed. Here's the new and corrected version...

Sorry all. I’m a little rusty. The last blog, my first in almost a year, was a bit flawed. Here’s the new and corrected version… You asking about that doc who retired six years ago? The psychiatrist? Is that the one you’re talking about? Yep. He’s the one. So what’s he doing? From his picture at the bottom of the page, he looks happy. I just checked with him and he fully agreed. That grin is…

[ofstarfleet]

❝ it was suggested that I spend some time on the station to learn more about what it means to be human. in particular, I have been considering visiting that establishment over there with the Ferengi bartender. I hear there are . . . games to be played and a holodeck suite. considering you spend most of your time here . . . is that a wise choice? ❞

@colnerys -> starter call.

[peachesofteal]

Simon Riley / female reader Secret baby trope / 18+ Inspo musing

It’s your eyes.

He notices them first.

They glance over from across the room, incredibly brief. You touch on everyone seated along the worn wood, cataloguing, categorizing, before turning your attention back to your friend, who seems to be in the middle of a story.

Like Johnny is.

“LT, ye even listenin’ to me?” Simon nods, but he’s still watching you. Tracing your spine, staring at the exposed skin on your neck. He imagines you smell like lavender, or citrus. Something spritely and soft. He conjures up the image of his thumb pressing into your bottom lip, and he wonders how plush it is.

You look like a perfect little treat.

And he’s in need of one.

“She’s bonnie.” Johnny sips his beer, eyebrow raised. “Like what ye see?” He shrugs. He hasn’t taken a woman to bed in years. It always ends up feeling wrong somehow, stale. Unease twists in his gut when clothes start to come off, anxiety trembles in the swell of his blood, and his scars begin to feel fresh. Torn open.

Sex makes him feel torn apart. Ripped to shreds.

But he’s not opposed to having another go at it. Not if you're the one taking his cock like a good girl.

There's something about you. You’re bright, like a little jewel, sparkling in the sun. A piece of something precious. Too golden to be tarnished, too sunny to be sullied by darkness.

He nearly swallows his tongue when you appear at the end of the bar, opposite of Johnny. You’re waiting to order another beer, he assumes, but you look over at him for too long, a second or two, and it tells him all he needs to know.

It’s in your eyes.

“Hi.” Your lips curve upwards at each side, a secretive smile, imparted only on him. His heart flutters like a school boy, young and naive all over again. His skin is hot, prickled under his clothes, hair on the back of his neck standing straight up.

Fuck, you're so pretty. You're perfect.

He's staring at your lips, memorizing the pert Cupid's bow, the soft color that shines when your tongue darts out to lick them.

Johnny clears his throat. Simon's brain catches up to his body. "Hey-"

An oversized brute jostles you, his shoulder nearly pushing you into Johnny. You blink, doe eyed, and then step back from the bar, allowing him to take up the space where you just occupied.

Simon grits his teeth, vision tunneling red.

Kitten doesn't have any claws.

That's okay, he thinks. You wouldn't need them, if you had him.

He wonders if violence scares you. If he beats this ogre to a bloody pulp, would you run from him? He takes in the confused crinkle in your brow, wide, shy eyes, and decides on a different tactic.

"C'mere love." He husks, extending his hand, pushing Johnny's stool over with the heel of his foot, carving out a space for you to sidle in between them.

You press against his thigh as you take your spot, leaning forward to talk to the bartender, and when you look over your shoulder at him, small smile tugging at your lips, he presses his palm to the small of your back.

"And... two shots of whiskey, please."

You're... everything.

Naked, laid out on your bed with your legs spread, eyes still wide and sweet, and he can barely get his mouth to work as he looks at you.

"Simon," you whimper in the dark, hands reaching, searching, and he kisses each finger like they're a decadent treat, one he'll never have enough of, "please."

Moonlight illuminates your face, shines across the curves of your body, and he has to blink multiple times to steady himself, to keep himself grounded.

Your fingers don't feel like razors. Your mouth isn't torture. Every soft word you give him is like a balm. You're everything.

And he's going to show you, he's going to make sure you know- you're everything.

He's going to fuck you face to face.

But first, he needs-

Your hand wraps around his wrist. "I'm on the pill." you whisper, desperate. "I want to feel you... I'm clean, if you-" The trust you're implying is a foreign concept, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he worries. You're going to let him fuck you raw? You're going to let him feel the clutch of your pussy, without any protection?

You're out of your mind.

But so is he.

"I haven't been with anyone in years." His accent is a rasp, heavy with desire. "And 've got a clean bill of heath."

It's a mutual agreement. And it doesn't take any convincing.

"You want me to fuck this pretty little pussy raw, sweet girl? Is that it?" His mouth covers yours, and then trails down to your neck, nips across the tops of your breasts. "Want me to fill you up?"

"Yeah," his fingers slide through your folds, teasing from top to bottom, swirling around your clit, "fuck, yeah, I want-"

"I've got a lot of cum for you, honey. You sure you can take it?" You clench around the finger he's slipped inside, and moan.

"Oh my god," Your spine arches, and he holds your hips, aligning himself before pushing into your body, melding the two of together almost perfectly.

Almost, because you're so bloody tight, it's like you're strangling him. He's not going to last.

"Relax," He murmurs, kissing your jaw, rubbing a slow circle around your clit. "There you go, that's my girl." It slips out, but you don't seem to care. Neither does he. Tonight, you're his. You and your body and your heart and your soul, belong to him. He'll mark you like you’re his. A fantasy, a wish, a far cry from reality.

In another life, maybe he'd have you forever. For real.

But in this life, he'll take what he can get, and you let him. You let him take and take and take all night long, on your back, face bared to him like he's the brightest star and not the darkness haunting dreams. You kiss him like it's real, and when he comes inside you once, and then twice, you let him stay there, locked tight, staring down into your eyes. He rubs your cheek with his thumb, and you smile. He presses his forehead against yours, and your cup the back of his head, gingerly kissing him, carefully, like you know. Like you can see him.

You say his name. You moan it. You scream it. It's never sounded so good, and he wonders if this is what it's like- to have and to hold.

In the morning, before the sun rises, he stands at the foot of your bed, watching you sleep. He wishes you'd wake, wants you to open your eyes and ask him to stay, hopes you'll roll over and realize he's not there and call his name-

It's all a fantasy. Something that could never be more than what it was in that moment, in the moonlight, a secret held between two strangers, the first breath in the dawn.

He brushes his lips across your forehead one last time, and then disappears down the hall.

Out the door.

Out of your life.

[shotmrmiller]

Valentine's day with Pathetic!Simon

You should've known Johnny had been serious when he talked to you that morning.

"LT's never had anyone to gift fer Valentine's. Just...let him give ye the flowers 'n accept the chocolates, aye?"

Simon stood in front of you, pinning you in place with his beady gaze, a bouquet of red roses in his clenched fist.

The ends of them look torn. You really hope he didn't just rip these off of someone's front yard.

He interrupts your inner musings by forcefully presenting them to you— velvet petals brushing your lips, causing you to jerk your head back slightly.

Allllrighty then.

Tenderly, you raise your hands and grab them— encircling the base of the rose just above his hold.

"Thank you for these, Simon. They're very beautiful," you croon. His delivery might be awkward, but you truly are grateful for them. Every individual rose is pristine, colours vibrant, stems strong and firm— not a brown petal nor wilted leaf in sight.

They're perfect.

Until your fingers are pricked by something pointed.

What?

You let go quickly and turn your hands up to inspect them. Sure enough, there's blood beading up on some of your fingertips, and the soft flesh of your palms.

And you grab Simon's wrist to lift the bouquet to eye level.

Thorns.

They're everywhere, and Simon's knuckles are white from how tight he's holding the roses.

"Jesus! Simon! You've got to be kidding me! Put them down!" As you let him go, you quickly spin around to fetch your first aid kit, but a forceful grip on your shoulder stops you in your tracks and spins you right back around.

"Just get a vase for them," he rumbles.

In disbelief, you protest, "What? No! You need—" but he swiftly interrupts you, his grip on your shoulder tightening marginally.

"What I need is f'you to get a vase." His firm response is resolute.

"O-okay, I...I er, got a few under the sink." With a silent stride, Simon stays close behind you, his hand that had touched your shoulder now curling around the back of your neck— only letting go when you reach for the sink base.

Placing it on the countertop, you ask him if he would now put them down.

"No. Fill it with water."

Simon nods when you do as he says, then drops them inside the vase— and you can't look away as red furls inside the once-clear water, turning it pink.

He clears his throat, catching your attention, and when you turn to face him, Simon's handing you something else.

It's a flattened snickers bar. You can see caramel peeking out from one corner, and the wrapper is streaked with some of his blood.

Delicately, you grab it with your thumb and index by the sticky edges and place it on a paper towel.

"How did you know that snickers are my favorite?" Simon doesn't answer, only looks at you unnervingly expectantly.

Right. Let him give me the flowers and chocolate.

"Thank you so much for all of this, Simon. Happy Valentine's Day."

He lets out a deep sigh (of relief?) and opens long arms. You walk up to him, wrap your arms around his waist— the side of your head flat on his broad chest— and let out an undignified squawk when you feel your spine pop as he returns the hug.

You blatantly ignore the bulge firmly pressing itself into the soft flesh of your lower stomach, and definitely don't think about how large it feels.

"Happy Valentine's Day, pet."

Later, Johnny laughs so hard that he cries when he sees the rust-colored streaks of blood on the Snickers wrapper.

"Simon's an intense man, what can ah say?"