#( breaking down what keeps us apart | verse )

[heiresea]

@girlmisfit sent: “did you do something different with your hair?”

it SHOULDN’T feel like an accusation -  yet it does. instinctive fingers rise, brushing a small curtain of braids over the slope of her shoulder. uma suppresses a shiver as the hair tickles any patch of exposed skin it finds, the style far shorter than her usual. now the strands bounce in the hint of curls, ends making a pattern of swirls & coils against her collarbone. 

the ( implied ) scrutiny inspires a quick once - over of her own, uma’s gaze taking in the blue - haired princess with critical precision. ❝ yeah - got it done on my last trip to the isle. ❞ she answers, elusive. ❝ and no, it wasn’t dizzy this time. ❞

[occamstfs]

Ramadan Recitations

Here's a Arab/Muslim Cultural TF, figured I may as well throw it up for Eid! May not be for everyone, but may those who enjoy have at it! Happy Eid! -Occam

It’s the end of March and Allen’s roommate has been listening to the Quran out loud for the length of Ramadan. He’s out of town for the weekend and Allen is uncomfortable sitting alone in the silence of their apartment. Now that he hasn’t heard the consistent background melodies of a recitation in a couple days he realizes what delight they brought him. He goes to find the playlist that Mo had been using. Suddenly feeling the golden cross that hangs from his neck everyday he briefly reconsiders before deciding to put on the recitation anyway. Jesus is in the Quran right? It’s not like there’s any harm to appreciating someone else’s culture.

Assuming Mo wouldn’t mind Allen using his speakers he throws on the Tilawa, Mo would be playing it now himself anyway. Allen starts to work as the reciter begins his melodic reading. He almost tunes it out as he starts reading and responding to emails in their shared living room. His body sits at ease as the rhythm of the man’s speaking reverberates through him.

Allen doesn’t speak a word of Arabic, but as he continues to type up droll responses to even duller emails he finds himself paying more attention to the verses than work that he needs to get done. As his distraction rises he tabs away from work and decides to take a break and see what exactly the verses that he’s so fond of are saying. He scans a translation but his eyes glaze over as he remembers Mohammad telling him that to really understand the words of the prophet one must read in his tongue. 

Instead Allen just decides to just close his eyes and listen to the deep melodies of the mother tongue. The patterns and unfamiliar tonality provide him a comfort he doesn’t understand. He listens and the song only grows sweeter to his ears, he lies back against the couch as he begins to hum along uncertainly to the music. Allen harmonizes better by the second as he feels some sense of understanding over the distinctively not western scales, however he doesn’t notice as the chain of his necklace breaks, falling to the floor. He doesn’t hear the cross hit the floor instead remaining focused on his serene enjoyment of the man singing scripture to him.

Continuing to hum along, Allen notices that despite trying to keep a steady note, his tone seems to be getting deeper. He clears his throat and finds it’s not only his humming but his voice entire that has lowered in pitch. He rises from his serene reverie to go and find some medicine worried now that he is coming down with the flu. Standing he also notices that the temperature seems as if it’s rising in the apartment as well. Allen goes to grab some medicine, under his breath saying “inshallah I’m not sick eh?” Mo had been teaching him Arabic for some time now, but he always avoiding using it, Inshallah in particular since so many kids who certainly don’t appreciate Arabic culture are throwing it around. At this moment though Allen says it as if it’s an instinct, as if he has been using the language for some time. 

Walking to a medicine cabinet Allen doesn’t notice as the volume increases on the speakers to still reach his ears. Words continue to steadily flow into his mind, standing in front of the cabinet he finds alongside the still increasing warmth there is a soreness starting to appear through the whole of his body. He groans in his deeper voice, feeling his Adam’s apple rest strangely on his throat as he tries to stretch out his soreness. It’s like he hit the gym this morning, though he certainly has not. He takes deep slow breaths as he bends down to work out the pain in his legs and torso, unaware as his body begins to lengthen in height. He feels the aircon blow up his shirt as his midriff is now exposed, he pulls it down in vain before reaching to grab medicine, accidentally overshooting thanks to his added height.

Allen makes his way back to the living room, dry swallowing his flu medicine before sitting back down to enjoy his repose. This time not only does he have an instinctual understanding of the melody and rhythm, but he finds himself knowing what words are to come next in the verses. Surely he hasn’t heard recitations that much right? He doesn’t even speak the language how could he possibly, nevertheless he starts whispering under his breath the words he feels should be next and finds himself right on the money. His whispering slowly grows in volume as he finds himself beginning to sing along with the tapes, “Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim…” he continues on with the verse, singing as if classically trained.

He shoves his hand over his mouth in shock and finds another surprise awaiting him on his face. He is perpetually clean-shaven for work and yet all of a sudden there is stubble growing on his face. Allen rushes to the restroom to inspect his face and finally finds something impossible happening to him. He sees the roots of his hair growing darker, pushing thicker out from his head. Not only has he suddenly grown stubble but the scruff on his face is rapidly approaching a full beard. As he clutches at his hair and beard in inspection he finds that the changes are not isolated to his face.

He sees his arms stretch further from his shirt than they did this morning and feels the awkward gaps on his waist and ankles, and feels the air blow against the dark hairs beginning to spread up his stomach and legs. He sees hair thicker than his pubes begin to grow on his wrists spreading indeterminably up his arms. The reciter’s voice grows stronger as Allen inspects himself, his eyes racing from one part of his body to another seeking any sign of normality. He feels an itch in his pits and on his chest as the song rises in pitch and volume. There is a drive in his chest to continue singing along but as he makes eye-contact with himself in the mirror, seeing the blue eyes he’s always loved swiftly staining themselves the color of coffee before darkening even further he knows that there can be no explanation for this other than that man’s voice.

He clenches his jaw to keep himself quiet as he races through the living room to shut off the speakers. His longer legs trip over themselves as each frantic breath he takes begins to expand his chest. Beyond the physical changes to his body he feels a change begin to take root in his mind. Allin feels he must be big, he must be strong. It is as Allah wills it. He stumbles in front of the speakers as he finds himself torn on what to do. He sees his arms darken under the still growing forest of hair on his arms, his biceps tearing his sleeves as they tan. Growing chest hair tickling his shirt he feels muscle surge from his chest as he raises his hand to yank the speakers from the wall. 

The voice of the man singing grows to a din as it is joined by a chorus of other voices within Alin’s head. Thousands of recitations, of songs, the Quran and countless Hadith surge into his mind in a horrible cacophony. He yanks the power cord from the wall and the dissonant symphony within his mind vacates. And Alin is once more left alone with himself, his ears ringing and his vision blotchy. Slowly recovering and laying on the floor he begins to hear himself groan through the tinnitus. Even his moaning sounds changed as the man begins to lose his English vocabulary to learn the only tongue that shall truly matter to him now, that of the sacred book.

He whines to himself switching between eloquent Arabic vulgarities and English more accented by the second, he sees a cross necklace next to him, calling out quite loudly, “Madha? What is this?” Must be a prank from Mo, ach he needs to work on his material eh. Sitting alone in the living room Alin tries to think of what to do to distract himself, both from the silence surrounding him and from the flood of information storming in his head. Suddenly everything becomes simpler when he decides to just do what he always does, turning to the East Alin sees Mo’s prayer rug, always lying out for convenience’s sake. Alin grimaces and briefly considers phoning Mo for his lack of dedication, but upon seeing the skintight outfit he is wearing to pray he reconsiders. He should focus on correcting himself before fretting over even his friend.

Alin closes his eyes once more, languishing in the quiet for one moment before he begins his own, his deep voice ringing out as he sings verse in praise, “Ah, Allahu Akbar.” His chest growing to hold more breath and his pecs begin to surge large enough to honor Allah with his body. He hugs his stomach as he continues “Subhanakal-lahumma wabihamdika-” He feels his biceps pull against his massive chest and almost smirks as he thinks about them, he feels an urge, a desire to flex the them before clicking his tongue at himself to stay on task.

“Subhanna rabbeeyal adheem-” he bends down, feeling his thighs and ass push out behind him, ripping large tears into his pants At the same time Alin sees the bulge in his pants grow larger, popping his zipper and escaping from his pants. He sharply inhales as he feels everything is suddenly more intense. He feels his body grow beyond the limits of his clothes. He feels his already larger cock begin to grow erect and Alin, continues to sing “Rabbana walakal hamd-”

Finally he prepares to do his favorite part of Rakats, he gets to his knees before fully prostrating himself. Continuing the prayer as he feels his beard grow heavier on his face. His forehead touches the floor and he smiles, feeling a warm itch in his crotch as his briefs strain to contain him, pubes spilling out every way, “Subhanna rabbeeyal ‘alaa”

He rises back to seating, the motion creating an intense pang of pleasure throughout his body as he struggles to maintain control of his senses. He ekes out, “Rabbigh-fir lee…” becores cumming in his briefs. He finishes the Rakat in his solid pants before promptly leaving to regain his dignity and change into actual prayer appropriate attire, changing into a thobe and doing two Rak’a ending with a Tashahhud as one is to do.

Ali smiles as he sits in reflection having finally quieted the chaos within his mind. He feels his strong body hidden under the thobe and comforted in his time spent worshiping. His final thoughts before he decides to do another round of Rak’a is a conviction to thank Mo for sending him that playlist of Quranic Recitations. He does not know who he would be without it. Inshallah he shall get the chance to bring his light to others. He rubs his hands down his powerful body as he stands. Wallah, they don't know what they’re missing.

[heiresea]

the silence that stretches between them hovers in the air for so long, it goes somewhere beyond awkward. the half-empty tumbler of wine in her hand is grounding, yet far too full for the turn that this conversation has taken. uma's tongue presses hard against a cage of teeth, gaze flicking quickly over the features of the fae's face. surely, there's a tactful way approach this conversation.

shame she's never cared much for tact.

❝ ... are you for real ? ❞

@heiresea liked for a small starter !

❝ Uma, I know we're not exactly on the best of terms, but...it would mean a lot to me if you were a part of my wedding. So...would you do me the honor of being one of my bridesmaids ? ❞ Mal said, offering a small, warm smile.

[officialundertakersmoocher]

may i pls request a scenario with violet and afab reader where he’s drawing them nude and then smut ensues?

An Artistic Craving

yall i am so sorry for the extended break, and I hope this meets your expectations 😭

Warnings: NSFW, Nudity, +18, Slightly OOC

• • •

"Stay still, okay?"

"But, Vi, it's so embarrassing..." You attempt to cover your assets which have been shamefully exposed to his eyes in the dimly lit study room.

"Don't think of it that way... It's just a study." You tried not to ask many questions, after all, he was more versed in the arts than you were.

It was lucky that you two happened to catch this moment alone, unchaperoned. Vi, actually very uncharacteristically, was the one to insist that he needed you as a model to finish this study to complete a project he was working on for his upcoming art exam.

After all, you two had been seeing each other for a long time now and were not only comfortable enough to do such a thing, but you also just happened to owe him a favor.

This is how you ended up in such a position for your lover, spewn on a dark purple couch in a private study room near the Purple House dorms. You knew that Gregory was too shy to say so, but there are many books on campus filled with similar references free for his use. He just wanted to spend time with you in an intimate setting such as this one.

You caught him stealing glances at you every once in a while, and he could sense your growing discomfort from staying still for so long.

He left his sketchbook behind momentarily to kneel down beside you and suddenly the room felt more quiet. Your eyes locked as he gently adjusts the position of your hand, placing it under your head in a graceful fashion.

He tilts his head and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face as if to get a better view.

He tried to back away to retreat to his seat, but was caught by your hand pulling him back. He sat confused for a moment but could tell your eyes were asking him to stay.

You move yourself upwards to face him and pull him into a kiss. His lips are soft and welcoming and he eventually moves to grab your waist.

You slowly move him onto the couch with you, straddling his waist. He begins to become shy from this now suddenly risqué moment and pulls away from your lips.

"Love, I don't know if we should..." You could feel the deep heat resonating from his cheeks, so you asked him softly, "Would you like me to stop...?"

"Please no..."

You just barely hear him mutter this, but his hot breath on your neck shows you how desperate he has become.

Before you know it, there are clothes being dragged away and thrown about the room, never finding the motivation to tear your lips apart from one another. You both are stuck in an agonizing dance, waiting for the moment that you both can be as close as you desire.

The room has reached a stillness as the dim candlelight bounces off of skin, and hot breath stills in the air. You are both frozen in time, taking in the moment for the first time now, and as you do, you notice that you've never really seen your lover in such a passionate way as this.

In this position, he's kneeling his body over yours and bowing his head in a shy manor. From the silence you hear him speak softly, asking, "Is this what you want, for sure?" And you have seemingly been too caught up in your own thoughts to notice the lingering question prodding in-between your thighs. You suddenly feel a harsh flush invading your cheeks and a needy wetness in the very same place that he finds his attention.

You turn your head to avoid the embarrassment of facing him as you answer his looming question.

Your voice shakes more than you intended it to, more out of anticipation than anything else. "Yes, of course, p-please keep going, my love-"

However, he catches you off guard by lowing his head down to your thighs. His proximity meant you could feel his breath tickle your skin and it invigorated you.

He softly grazed your folds with his fingers, and slowly exploring your body until he reached the most sensitive parts of you. The moment he grazed your clit, you couldn't help but let out a soft moan, which is exactly what pushed him to continue despite feeling his own uncertainty.

He follows the sounds of your sweet moans, touching you and exploring your body in ways that neither of you have experienced before. Before long you find yourself growing more in need of his touch, pulling his hands and guiding him to kiss you. You both are grasping for each others touch and cursing into the silence of this empty room when the tension reaches an all-time high. You find yourself guiding his cock lower as a sign that you are ready (or maybe as a sign that you can't wait much longer now).

He follows your lead, pushing himself slowly across your folds, letting out a sigh as he feels the warmth of your pussy against his skin. He has one hand behind your head as a comforting act as he slowly guides himself between your thighs. He watches your expression change to a grimace of pain, almost stopping himself, but instead he caresses your face in an attempt to sooth your pain. You start to adjust yourself and whisper for him to keep going, and after a few moments the pain starts to replace itself with great pleasure.

You can't help the moans that escape your lips as you grasp onto him, likely leaving scratch marks on his upper back.

However, he doesn't mind this one bit. He can only focus on this heavenly feeling that seemed to blur his vision and tingle at his senses. The pleasure became overwhelming before you could comprehend it and it feels like heaven.

The sounds that filled the room should have alerted the others of the acts you both were sharing tonight, and maybe, just maybe, you should have been more worried, but neither of you could have the gut to care. Not tonight, not when it just feels so good and your vision had started bleeding white as your bodies worked in tandem with one another. 

It felt like hours before you had found yourselves cuddling under a stray blanket, skin-to-skin and feeling on top of the world. There was peace settled in the air and you held each other and shared this perfect moment.

"Did you enjoy it?" Violet asked timidly while he stroked stray pieces of hair out of your face.

"Oh course, Darling. I've never felt closer to you than how we were tonight." You looked at him so softly and left a soft peck on his lips.

"Well, thats good, because... I didn't really get to finish my painting. We may have to do this again tomorrow night..." He wouldn't meet your eyes, but you knew that if you could see them, they would have a glint of excitement in them that you only see when he looks at you.

"Well, I suppose we would have to then- For your studies, of course."

• Epilogue • Tea Time •

"So, It couldn't have been just me who heard some oddly bizarre noises coming from the art studio on the west end last night..." Edgar mused to the other prefects as he took a mischievous sip.

"Oh, how I wonder what that could have possibly been coming from..." The sound of a breaking pencil could be heard only if he listened so intently.

"Oh, I heard it, alright." Greenhill pipped in, sounding more than mildly annoyed as he completed his afternoon stretch. "Some people really need to be more considerate of the fact that some of us need to study at such late hours."

"Well, maybe some people should consider that not everyone wants to hear the sound of your 2 hour long training routine at 12am either..." Bluewer rolled his eyes, obviously not knowing what the others were exactly referring to.

"Well, In just thinking that maybe when the professors discover a certain pair of undergarments left in said art studio on the west end, they may have to cancel class this morning. If you know what I mean..." Edgar takes an extended sip of his tea and watched as Gregory excuses himself, dropping his sketchbook and seemingly headed towards the west end.

"Well, that answers that." Edgar mutters with a smirk.

[01zfan]

understanding my faith pt. 3 | l. at

church boy!anton x reader | 2.3k words

contains: soft dom anton, car sex, mentioning church, references to bible verses

umf: part one | part two | part three

sacrilegious masterlist

anton understood his faith a long time ago. it came to him like a breath of fresh air or a beam of light shining directly on his heart. it came to anton in the form of you, sprawled out on the bed for him every night. 

the bible verses about faith—how it is the confidence in what we hope for and the assurance of what we do not see—made more sense when he was with you. anton could not see your heart, or hear your thoughts, but he developed the confidence that you were thinking of him the same way he thought of you. although his body by the end of the night was sweaty, he felt cleansed by having you under him. anton would get excited to pray, putting together the same hands he used to pry open your thighs the night before. he would look up to the statue of god and not falter like he use to, he would look up to it and smile. he had found the path to righteousness, the one only he knew about.

finding his faith breathed a new vigor in anton. he became motivated by his faith. he became more involved in the church. he went above and beyond in the choir, to the point that he began composing music for that had been lost or misplaced overtime. after you became the lead vocalist on the choir it gave you two a reason to be together. 

his love for you could be articulated, but he found you to be driven by action more than words. if his faith was not paired with action, it was null and void. so he began sitting next to you in mass, using what all the authority he had in the choir to help you be heard. anton wanted to selfishly keep your voice to himself. no one deserved to hear you, he barely believe he had the right to hear you. you spent you whole day assuring him that he deserved it, and at night you proved it to him.

although you were driven more by actions than words in public, anton quickly discovered it was the opposite in bed. anton found you clenching around him harder when he talked to you more than when he would fuck you roughly. he remembers you coming apart underneath him as he walked you through what he was doing to you. 

he found both to be comforting. hearing the bed springs creak underneath the force of your two bodies was beautiful to anton. it built anticipation for him, the same way you could hear everyone stand from the pews in unison before joining in prayer. how could anton not understand faith after linking every aspect of you to the church? he finally had something in common with people in his church. they all had someone they got down on their knees for, something they worshipped endlessly. 

when he told you how he felt you got hot in the face and squirmed next to him in the pew. he leaned over to whisper to you even while the pastor was talking. he enjoyed seeing you nervous, the same way you used to have him nervous. anton didn’t stop leaning his large frame over yours as he whispered to you until he was shushed by an elder. anton didn’t understand why you were squirming until you dragged him into a room during a break and put his hand underneath your skirt. he felt your faith seeping through your panties, making his fingers smell like you. anton fingered you in that room, with a hand over your mouth as you quietly whined into his hand. you two barely made it back to mass in time, with your panties neatly folded and tucked into anton’s dress pants. 

you two had developed a schedule for sneaking around. anton had gotten good at lying to his parents. it wasn’t hard, after he specified anything was church related he suddenly had approval from them. they were ecstatic to find out their son had developed such devotion to the church. your dad was the same, happy that you weren’t turning out like your mother.

on days like these you and anton worked on music waiting for everyone to leave. once the church was empty you helped anton lock down the church. people in the congregation used you two as a shining example of what values kids nowadays should have. what no one knew was that you and anton were fooling around, sinning like normal teenagers do.

you were in the back of anton’s car, hand pressed to the fogging window. anton was so large it was hard for him to bend his body, but he found a way, just like he always did. you were giving like you always were, bending your legs with a foot perched on the center console to give anton as much room as possible. anton loved the acoustics of his car. it amplified your voice in the tiny space as he fingered you, pretty moans blessing his ears.

“i love hearing you.” anton whispered. 

you ground your hips against anton’s hand, trying to urge him to go faster. anton never understood how so many people succumbed to greed until he met you. he was greedy with the pleasure he gave you, he wanted to prolong touching you, going at grueling paces just to make you last. it was really bad when he was in a mood to get you to come over and over again. he couldn’t stop pulling prayer after prayer out of you, until you were a crying mess underneath him. he found comfort in the fact that you were the same way. some nights you had anton praying to god for relief.

but anton let his greed take over tonight. he placed a hand on your lower stomach, adding just enough strength to overpower you. you were at his mercy as he continued scissoring his fingers inside of you. you held onto his bicep tightly as you moaned at his display of strength.

“let me do everything. just keep taking it.” anton said.

you nodded and moaned in protest, but your hips stayed still. anton easily added in another feeling and you started clenching around him. his hand that was holding you down went to your boob, holding it the same way he held the offerings he gave to god.

the squelching sound of you filled up his car. you bit your lip and used your hand to cover your eyes. if you looked down at anton for too long you would burn even hotter than you already were. sometimes you felt like you would explode underneath his gaze and his touches.

“don’t be shy. you have a gift from god.” anton said.

he praised you until you could no longer take it. you came around his fingers, making a hand imprint on the foggy glass of anton’s window.

he pulled out his fingers and tasted you, a sight that always made you dizzy. you contemplated on what to do next. you wanted to give anton head, to give him an ounce of the pleasure he just gave you. but the space in the car and anton’s large size made that impossible. you decided to relinquish all your command to him, letting him do whatever he wanted. anton wanted you in his lap. he pulled you from your spot on the car and guided you with sticky hands on top of him. he puts his hands behind his head and looked you up and down.

“do your thing.” he said, relaxing into the seat.

anton watched as you lined him up with your entrance an sank down on him. without stopping, you sank all the way down on him. 

“it’s not too much?” anton asked in astonishment.

“i can take it.” you said. 

your words came out nearly incoherant, too busy on trying to adjust. anton understood your struggle, kissing your shoulder as he let you adjust.

“good girl.” anton said. “take your time.” 

when you were done adjusting, you planted both your feet on either side of anton. you used the leverage to bring yourself up and down on him. anton let out a deep sigh, both of his hands clasped over his chest as he watched you ride him. his eyes were filled with devotion, you could see yourself reflected in his blown out eyes.

“you’re lovely. doing so good for me.” anton said.

you wanted to keep going, but your thighs started to burn from the position. as soon as anton noticed your speed slow down and your bounces falter, his hands went to your hips. he held you in place when you were at his tip, about to sink down on him again.

“want me to do all the work?” anton asked looking up at you.

when you nodded your head, anton started showing his strength. he held you in place while he fucked up into you. you let out something like a gasp and a moan, reaching for anything to keep you on earth. your hand found purchase in the interior door handle and anton’s bicep. his balls would occasionally slap your skin and you moaned out his named each time. you had little control over his speed and his strength, but you took it all in stride.

you became insanely aware of anton’s strength and stamina. you seriously believe that god gave him the power to fuck you, and he was in your life to bring you pleasure. god’s intentions were always up for debate, but there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that anton was intended to be here with you, right now in this moment. that had to have been the only explanation for why everything felt so good. anton’s pace started picking up and you hand to move a hand to the ceiling of his car. you saw anton turn his head, as if he was scoping out the parking lot to make sure no one else was there.

“should i give you a baby in the parking lot of this church?” anton said. he was sure the car was rocking back and forth from the force, and your moans could easily be heard by anyone passing by. this only fueled him. “do you think god would bless our baby?” 

“yes. and he’d be beautiful just like you.” you said.

anton looked up at you through sweaty bangs. his hair was surely sticking to his forehead now, from the stuffiness of the car and the exertion of fucking up into you. your boobs moved in tandem with your thrusts, and you had your hand pressed against the roof of his car to stabilize yourself. your eyes were closed in pure bliss as you bit your lip to unsuccessfully hold back your moans. anton wondered what the image behind your eyelids were, if it was the pearly gates or the fiery pits of hell. anton grabbed your other hand, holding it tight as he continued to buck his hips upwards.

“you wanna give me a boy?” anton asked.

he wanted to give you a son more than anything, one that was made in god’s image.

“i wanna give you everything. anything,” you moaned. “just please don’t stop.”

anton was sure that your grip on him would draw blood soon. if he were to bleed, he wanted it to be over his whole body. maybe then he would be worthy to be in your presence.

“i don’t if i can stop.” anton said. “you’re so tight.”

he was speaking the truth, he didn’t know if he could stop his hips from snapping into you. if he could stop himself from hitting that spot deep inside of you. he knew he was greedy, that it was selfish but he can’t resist when it came to you. he was only human after all, a human that was close to meeting god. anton gently pulled you down to him, like the selfish mortal he was. everything about you was divine, anton still struggled with the fact that you weren’t an angel. that didn’t stop him as he pressed his face against your ear, licking the skin underneath.

“my little angel.” anton whispered. 

the way you responded to anton undid the countless conversations you had with him to tell him you were human. anton fucked you hard and slow now. he watched as your mouth opened silently. you moved your hands to anton’s shoulder and kissed whatever part of his body you could reach.

“i’m so close anton.” you whimpered.

“cum for me.” anton whispered into your ear. 

that’s all you needed to hear. it was like anton knew about all of your ticks, what made you go crazy. anton knew how to stoke the fire inside of you and he knew exactly what to say to get you to see white. you came around him, holding onto him like the poor soul you were. your faith in anton was strengthened everyday. the way he made you feel made you see life differently. all you saw right now was him and the way he continued to fuck into you. sweat beaded from his hair and got all over his car as an effect. everything was filled with anton as you froze above him. this didn’t stop the thrusts, or anton’s mouth as he continued to whisper things to you.

“keep going. feels so good right?” he said.

anton didn’t let himself finish inside of you until your orgasm was done. you were a babbling mess when he came inside of you. you felt him deep inside of you, white and a twitching mess. you continued to clamp around him. you felt every throbbing vein and heard anton whimper into your neck, kissing the flesh in the crook. you leaned into him and he wrapped his arms around you caging you in against him. anton’s his face contorted from the pleasure as he kept cumming inside of you. he looked like the paintings, suffering from the anguish of overstimulation. you took him into your arms too, chest to chest as your two kissed passionately.

your bodies cooled down by the time you two separated. the passionate make out turned to chaste kisses, and you could feel evidence of the night seep out of you. anton lifted you off of him to put you in his lap. you settled into the gentle kisses and heavy breaths. the same way you guys reached the peak together you came down together as well.

anton pulled apart from your lips to scan over your whole face. he kisses your nose and you kissed his. after kissing your forehead he brought you into him, resting his head on top of yours. he traced patterns on your back as you listened to his rapid heartbeats.

after holding one another you guys got dressed, and fell into your normal routine. anton drove you home holding your hand the whole time. he dropped you off at home, and you went to your room thinking of him. anton drove himself home grateful that he met you and that you helped him understand his faith.

sacrilegious series masterlist

[featguler]

a home in your mind ────── academic pressure. you are crying. arda tries calming you down.

♡ ────── pairing : arda güler x reader ♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. reader is a university student stressed out over some assignment!!! hurt-comfort. jude mentioned!!! ♡ ────── wordcount : 812 ♡ ────── notes : struggling doing my thesis proposal... here's some arda lol i so desperately need a study date with him!!!!! title is from on the drive home by niki, but it's not based on the song ♡ masterlist.

“Baby…”

Contrary to popular belief, a lot of footballers are actually not meatheads. Arda knows that it seems easy to equate physical advantage to a generally empty head, but football requires the same amount of mental exertion as it does physical. And, including him, not a small number of his football friends were overachievers when it comes to academic validation.

Arda understands it all too well—the gripping feeling before a test, the anxiety coursing through your veins increasing as the clock ticks by. He understands staying up late before an important presentation, and he understands trying to absorb verses and information into your brain like a sponge, only for it to dry out when left unattended for too long.

“...how can I help?”

He likes to think that his presence will somehow ease your head—that’s what you do to him, anyway. Knowing that you are watching his every move on the field, whether in person or on a screen, eases him. It graces him with confidence, filling him with a sense of force only a romantic would recognise.

But he doesn’t know if you would feel the same thing.

Doing an essay is, after all, different from trying to score a goal.

It’s different from racing past opponent players, it’s different from scanning the entire field for an opening. Football uses your brain more than any other part of your body, yes, but the adrenaline would more often than not make it feel like he is running on autopilot.

He sits next to you, trying not to take in the way your shaky fingers hover above your laptop’s keyboard; trying not to see that even as you are regulating your breath, some quivering sobs would sliver out between your lips.

“I’m fine,” you try brushing his concerns off, and though your eyes are welling up with water, you still insist on reading the same paragraph you’ve been reading for the past ten minutes.

“‘lright,” he mutters, leaning forward to take a look at your face before slipping his hand in one of yours, pulling it to his lips. You don’t resist.

“I just,” you begin after a sigh, “y’know, like none of this is making sense.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, pressing the back of your hand against his cheek, fully facing you.

“This guy says one thing,” you gesture at the screen of your laptop, “and then says a completely different thing three paragraphs later. I mean” — you cut yourself off with another sigh.

Arda rubs his thumb against your hand.

— “I know he’s probably making sense, this paper’s in the syllabus for a reason, but, shit. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just stupid.”

Arda makes a disgruntled noise, frowning as he kisses your knuckle again. “Hey, don’t say that,” he murmurs, using his other hand to trace his fingers on the high of your cheeks, “you’re just frustrated, right? Don’t say cruel things to yourself.”

The moment he makes contact with your skin, the tear that you have been holding back spills over your cheeks.

“God,” you blow a shaky breath, looking away for a moment, embarrassed at your vulnerability. “I don’t know, I’m just stupid.”

“Come on,” he encourages, keeping his knuckles against your face. “You’re just frustrated. We’ve been at this for so long now, I think it’s time for a break.”

The sun has set hours ago, and Arda’s been there in your apartment since it hadn’t even risen yet. His chest is beginning to feel heavy from being cooped up in your room, but also from seeing you so defeated.

He leans in to press a small peck to your cheeks before standing up, gently tugging on your hand, trying to get you to stand too.

“Let’s get something sweet from the coffeeshop down the street.”

“People are gonna see me cry,” you whine, tugging your hand back to yourself. “And people are gonna think we had an argument.”

Arda laughs, letting go of your hand and then cupping your face in both of his, leaning down as he presses his nose against yours. “What? Who’s gonna say that?”

“I don’t know,” you sniffle, also giggling with him. “Some gossip accounts on TikTok. Remember what they said about Bellingham?”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “No one’s gonna say anything about us. We’re basically perfect.”

“Huh,” you close your eyes. “The perfect couple—a Real Madrid football player and a loser who can’t read.”

“Baby,” it’s his turn to whine. “You’re just tired, I swear. I’ll get you a cake, and you’ll feel better in no time. Come on.”

He stands, tugging you along with him, and you weakly go along. “Fine,” you murmur, “but you’re paying.”

Arda rubs both his thumb under each of your eyes. He leans a kiss on your lips for a moment and let your arms drape over his body.

"Anything for my baby, right?”

[heiresea]

only allie would find the idea of being hit by lighting fun. exasperation ( fond, despite it all, ) leaves her in a sigh, one hand raising to block the downpour from her gaze - the raindrops are heavy, clinging to her hair & eyelashes. but the rush of each cool trail left behind over her cheeks is strangely … soothing. a pleasant after effect, compensation for the dark & booming skies, perhaps.  ❝ castle walls, i can climb. trees ? ❞ uma places her palm against the hard bark, thumb flicking over the rough-soaked wood. she can clearly trace the path allie used in her ascension, but that’s only partially confidence bolstering. ❝ not quite as likely, sweetness. you’ll have to enjoy this adventure without me. ❞

“ heiresea. ”

        even in the chaos & the wind, uma’s eyes never once leave the fae’s form as she ascends, watching carefully to ensure the branches of the tree are sturdy, supportive. the forest may be allie’s element, but it is an unknown to uma, a terrain with which she is undoubtedly at a disadvantage. even to lightning. ❝ can’t say i have. mom says it hurts like a bitch though, ❞ she answers, any mirth in her smile slightly strained, as though the very mention of ursula could further darken the clouds. the sheer power of the storm is as thunderingly loud as her heartbeat in her ears. ❝ and no offense, but i’m not looking to give it a shot myself. ❞

                atop  the  tree,  embraced  by  its  branches,  allie  frowns.    “  hurts?  do  you  think  it’ll  hurt?  it  sounds  so  fun,  though!  why  would  it  hurt?  ”    she  wishes  uma  would  come  up  and  join  her,  the  trees  are  so  lovely  in  the  rain!  they  dance  with  the  storm,  and  they  grow  with  the  water  that  falls.  it’s  an  irreplaceable  feeling,  being  able  to  watch  something  grow  and  flourish.    “  please,  uma?  pretty  please?  i’m  so  lonely  up  here!  i,  like,  can’t  even  see  you!  ”    which  isn’t  all  of  the  way  true,  but  it  certainly  could  be,  if  she  went  any  higher.  baby  blue  doe  eyes  look  down  at  uma,  large  and  pleading.    “  please?  ”

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

How about something for a verse we havent had in a while (if you want to of course, otherwise something for Erik?) Uhhhh maybe something for secret!reader jason verse?? Or whatever you have inspiration for :)

This is what I can see in my head so... here we go.

You knew the dance. The steps were simple. They move forward and you move back. If you toe the line and keep your head down, no one looks at you. If you can keep from being perceived, you're safe.

But you see everything.

As soon as you touch an object, you can know what has happened to it or will happen to it. Gloves help. Sleeves help.

But... it's a crime family. They use you to touch things. To know if the glass will break. If a gun will misfire. If a guy will rat them out to the cops.

Keeping your arms around yourself is safest. Rubbing the patches on your denim jacket. The ones you stole laughing with your friends, the sun shining on your face as you ran up the sidewalk. It's not real, the pictures- and as long as you don't look forward; to know what else happens it's okay.

Because what happens later- that... well. If you look too far forward you're dead.

___________________

Pages turned to ash in the flames curling like rose petals. And you fed more pages into the grate one by one, ignoring the brooding man behind you and the smell of cigar smoke.

"You good, kid?"

"Just cleaning house," you answer, not turning. Ignoring the feel of the flames as you picked up the notebooks to tear them apart. Behind you, you could hear him take a seat and rolled your eyes.

"Gettin' late-"

"Figured if I did this earlier Jubilee and Kitty would be down here tryin' to make s'mores on it," you snort. "Didn't really want to have to explain THAT."

"Fair enough," Logan said.

You could feel him sizing you up. And you knew he had... questions. How a professor that was in the same class as Scott and Jean know how to pick locks and hotwire cars? Why's Charles seem to defer to you when it came to things that were 'criminal' in nature? And how the living hell did you become a teacher with a rap sheet? But you don't know if you have the patience to answer right now.

Writing was supposed to be theraputic. To give you a place to get it all out. Storm told you to just write it all out but... it felt too much like having a written confession. Like it was just all laid out for the cops and waiting.

So you fed the last of the pages to the flames and watched them catch. And that was... Somehow more satisfying.

"Love notes?" Logan scoffed, teasing.

"Sure," you shrug, carefully scooping up scraps of paper from the spirals and the metal that wouldn't burn into the wastebasket.

"It's either that or bad poetry-"

"Not really a poem kind of girl, Logan," you tell him, getting to your feet. "Tequilla is good or it isn't- why do I need to 60 words to say it?"

Logan took a drag on his cigar and regarded you, smirking, "Sometimes it's really fucking good tequila."

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hello, I'm looking for an alpha/omega verse fic. From what I remember Stiles was married to Jackson, but Jackson cheated on him with Lydia because Stiles wasn't getting pregnant and Lydia was his mate, I think. Stiles took Jackson's credit card and bought a bunch of stuff for him and his dad and also used it to hire an alpha escort to help him with his heat. The escort was Peter. Jackson sued him and Peter who turned out to be a powerful lawyer saved him cause Stiles was his mate

Hi @bluemink85! @disastermychild and @scorbunnysblog say it's this one.

When It All Falls Apart by Peter Hale (RyloKen)

(1/1 I 8,359 I Mature I Steter)

Stiles doesn't know what to do.

He's on the verge of losing everything in the divorce, on the verge of breaking down. He hates himself, hates what he is, what he's not. He has no husband, no alpha, no mate. He's about to lose his mind, and he has no hope.

His mother used to tell him; when you've hit rock bottom, the only way out is up. But what's the point in trying to climb out of Hell, when the Devil's waiting for you with an army of lawyers?

And with his heat just around the corner, Stiles doesn't think he has anything left to give. He needs a miracle.

He just didn't figure his miracle would wear Alexander Amosu and fight his battles with a smirk that could kick-start the apocalypse.

OR

@imperfectly-corrupted suggests this one!

Nature Scented Aphrodisiac by XAnima_Bellax

(7/7 I 35,260 I Explicit I Sterek)

Jackson is a really shitty boyfriend. Stiles knew this before they started dating. He also keeps breaking up with him for it… And because make-up sex is awesome.

[resident-quilt]

Shrue’s descent into radicalism and what the Silt Verses says about our world today

(also, regarding the giant poem that the episode titles make) ITS A TUMBLR ESSAY BABYYYYYYYYY

Kill your gods. Starve them out, topple their statues, forsake their comfort— Kill the stories that gave birth to them. Tear away your flesh that bears their marks.  Adjudicator Shrue, Ep. 43

The Silt Verses is a story born of its time, to a 21st century world which is slowly decaying—and everyone in it is doing their part to help it decay just a little bit faster. It speaks of capitalism, of corruption, of power and belief and environmental destruction and the rift between generations. When Charles tells Val he can’t really stand behind the idea of a family (“You wonder about what kind of world we’re bringing children into, y’know?”) I had to pause and gather myself; it’s something we hear from so many Gen Z’ers today.

But then Shrue’s speech came, and it made no sense.

Shrue calls for an end in any form it can be given. They call for the loss of all faith and love and community in the world; they call for us to kill the stories of our history, to kill the figures we believe in and the ones that give us hope. Anything, everything, all we can give to stop the decay and degradation of the world. They demand us to defeat the corrupt system we have built by trading our lives to do so.

If our words and stories sustain them, let us fall silent. If our communities rely on them, let us drift apart and die, lonely, in the polluted wilds amongst the howling winds of long forgotten deities.

It made no sense because TSV, most simplistically, embodies “no ethical consumption under capitalism”—and this solidly did not fit. So I cast about for an answer to what it all meant, because TSV had grown to be more than the “folks, look where capitalism got us” which I thought it to be. And Shrue's “we can’t do anything to escape the system but die” was just too flat a conclusion. 

Then I fell upon the poem compiled from each episode’s title.

It begins with the start of humanity: a story of things that have happened, things people have believed, things which have roamed the land from then til now. 

Let me speak first of revelations, and next of dark deceit. Then I’ll speak of champions, of lovers, gods and beasts.

And so the poem continues in a description of this story, until it eventually twists to become entirely self-destructive around Chapters 18-24. It's a reference to how everything in the TSV universe seems to eat itself: their system of gods, sacrifices, even the characters themselves.

If I could trace with bloodless fingers, if my hands could shape the flow, I’d bear this song to the precipice and rend us both to dust below.  We’d both go plunging downwards, one final fall from grace— I’d howl, I’d scream, in victory, and we’d be gone without a trace. 

At Chapter 25, we get a respite from the story. We get a short poetic break which concludes that yes, we’re doomed to die—but we continue as we are despite it, and write our story even if it’ll be lost in the end. It’s a classic conclusion that a lot of literature and poetry fall to, because it’s so very human. It’s a cliche, and it’s a cliche for a reason. 

But we’ll never be rid of each other, my song, my sorrow, and I,  So I’ll bear it trembling onwards: to drift on, to dream, to die.

With that, the poem progresses forward until it starts addressing our end and what happens when we face that. It screams of last-ditch efforts keep on believing, even as we plunge down and down and the world just gets worse and worse. Shrue’s speech takes place in “One Last Song of Revelations” (the title is so fitting!), where they vocalize their realization that their pacifist attitude isn’t doing shit to change anything. 

But when they switch towards radicalism because it’s, evidently, the only way anything will ever get done—the only way anything will get the exposure to maybe make an impact—they speak of the destruction of society as a whole. Not the eradication of capitalism, nor the installation of kinder gods, nor the lowering of sacrifice ceilings. They speak of true destruction. Utter destruction.

Shrue’s speech isn’t some call to action, nor does it embody any concrete ideology which the writers are trying to convey. It’s just an expression of desperation. Nothing is working; no one is listening. 

What this poem sounds like is a story of how our world goes. It's its birth, its self-destruction, its philosophical revelations, its finale.

When we began following Carpenter and Faulkner in the reeds of the White Gull River, we were consuming a commentary on capitalism. Now, it’s more. It’s a commentary, yes, but it’s not only that—it’s an exploration. The Silt Verses is a tragic exploration of our world as it connects to theirs, of how we’ve been driven so far and been corrupted so deeply that only radicalism makes a difference because only radicalism is what gets the notice and attention to spark moderate change. And that same radicalism is going to destroy the society we have left.

But it’s all the same in the end, because society's collapse was going to happen anyways. So at least someone had it in them to fight for something.

GAHHHH I LOVE THIS SHOW

[heiresea]

( sms: gil 💫  ): Teal. 

( sms: gil 💫  ): Wait 

( sms: gil 💫  ): What flavor is the red one???

﹙  ✉  ➝  ooooma  ﹚   aye aye

﹙  ✉  ➝  ooooma  ﹚  do u want the teal one for the vibes or the red one for flavor??

﹙  ✉  ➝  ooooma  ﹚  thats an important question

[briebysabs]

Vnc OP 1 - Sora to Utsuro

We are here again! I’ll be taking the time to talk of VnC’s first opening and breaking down the lyrics. Specifically in regards to what I will refer to as the dream loop theory. If you don’t know what I mean by that, the base summary is that the VnC universe is a story. Noé is the narrator, the character, the archiver and the creator. Noé is writing the memoires to manifest his memories. Let’s call it a memory world. He does this either to escape his regret-filled reality or to save Vanitas. However, when he “loops”, he doesn’t remember why he’s there so everything plays out the way it was written in the memoires.

Then Noé will live on, write the memoires again, and the cycle continues. And because he’s done this countless times, the memoirs gradually stray away from the original story. I’ll elaborate further when talking about OP 1. Right about now!

This was the main translation I could find for the full song (not including English covers but I could reach the same conclusions for those as well) If anyone has other translations for the whole thing, I’d love to see it. https://youtu.be/G_bJwB1YePw?si=xPVlV3_Fd57S-Bo1

/You’re pondering the simple things, pretty much human emotions and love/

/I hope one day you’ll understand/

/Too many wounds have left you patched together, a miserable sight/

/That doesn’t even know the definition of alive/

It is confirmed that this opening is from Noe’s POV. But keep in mind for the rest of this thread, it’s future Noé speaking. There are two main readings for the song; for the most part it’s Noé talking to or about Vanitas. And then there’s Noé talking to himself. This part has both interpretations.

Noé to Vanitas: Vanitas does struggle to understand his emotions throughout the story, that includes love. Vanitas is a broken individual, has too many wounds/trauma Noé cannot ignore and for a long time, was fueled by getting his “revenge”. Thus he’s forgotten what it means to live. You can also read into “doesn’t know the definition of alive” in a meta sense, from the beginning of the story he’s already dead.

And the very name ‘Vanitas’ is surrounded with the imagery of death, futility and mortality. So yes, Vanitas as a concept doesn’t know what ‘alive’ is.

Noé to himself: Noé as well is trying to figure out human emotions. This is a case study of a human after all. The memoirs follow Noe’s journey in understanding Vanitas’ thinking. And we’ve had Noé blatantly ask Vanitas what love means. But we can read this as Noé , sort of telling his past self that one day he will understand and feel this pain. Take note of “many wounds have left you patched together”. As I said, he could be talking about how “fragile” Vanitas is but what if this is about himself?

/No need to say “just the two of us” or anything/

/I have a feeling we can understand each other/

/And that’s fine for now/

This is calling to the Catacombs Arc, where Vanitas repeats Noe’s line of being able to do anything together. Interesting enough, it’s that arc where we see a bit of Vanitas’ backstory and it ends with the two sitting against each other. An understanding has been reached. Of course we all know that’s what VnC is about but of course he adds the ‘for now’ because what would this show be without its looming doom.

/I love this world and the light only you give me/

/Makes the world I see through these fractured eyes/

/Look gleaming and bright/

It’s these verses that made me want to spend more time on this. First of all, ‘I love this world’, a little weird right? I can only hope this translation is the most accurate but we’re saying ‘this’ instead of ‘the world’. Makes it sound like “I like this one. I prefer this one.” And ‘the light only you give me’ is very odd if we’re saying this is from Noe’s POV. Emphasis on ONLY.

Another reason why I believe it’s future Noé singing because why would present Noé say Vanitas is the only light he has? Vanitas is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Vanitas being the sole reason Noé loves the world…doesn’t line up with the Noé we’re seeing now. Now it could be Vanitas is a “special” light. But that kinda raises more alarms because Vanitas is very admired in this song guys. And present Noé I feel wouldn’t be so sure in proclaiming this. The world being seen through fractured eyes could be multiple things. We know Noé sustained an injury on his left eye when Teacher bought him.

This could feed into a theory that has been speculated over the years that Noe’s vision was permanently altered and he sees things from that eye differently. Of course, it could refer to future Noe’s perception of life being broken due to the events of the series. Thus why Vanitas is the one thing that makes it gleaming and bright. You could then ask “But Vanitas is gone in the future so how is that possible?” In comes my theory. It’s interesting how Noé is often associated with light, the sun etc. but here we see him give those characteristics to Vanitas’ presence.

/There’s no such thing as a sure thing/

/But you can see me can’t you?/

Things get a little fuzzy here. Obviously, nothing is sure, nothing lasts forever. This period of happiness will pass. But “you can see me”. Assuming this world is a memory, this could be Noé being elated from seeing Vanitas. That his plan has worked. But you can also interpret this, I forgot who pointed it out but ty whoever you are, that this is the one moment Vanitas interjects in the song. Essentially saying, “you can see me, so this is not real.” As if trying to wake Noé up. And if you look at the OP itself, for most of it Vanitas is following or lagging behind Noé like a ghost. There’s even a part where Noé is looking at a drawing of a view instead a real one, Vanitas is yelling at him, trying to get his attention and Noé ignores him completely. Not to mention the OP starts and ends with Noé sleeping, Vanitas nor his belongings ever in the room almost as if it was all a dream hmmm.

You can see this also as Noé acknowledging the world he has created is only temporary. Noé knows this isn’t real, isn’t a sure thing. But then Vanitas comes in to be like “you can see me, can’t you. So is it that bad?”

/I’m pondering the simple things, pretty much emptiness and frigidity/

/One by one lies have increased/

/Playing with a simple puppet/

/My rusted head is shaking/

We’ve contrasted “human emotions and love” with “emptiness and frigidity” here. Frigid here means the bitter cold, stiff, lacking in warmth. The opposite of what Noé says this world gives him so safe guess, he’s talking about the reality he is escaping. Where Vanitas is dead as well as a lot of his friends. The lies have built upon each other, adding to my theory where the numerous times Noé has done this has created layers upon layers of worlds. And each one has more inaccuracies than the last. This is his story, a play, he is the writer and the puppeteer of everyone’s roles. When they appear, what they say and do is decided by what Noé writes in the memoires. But by all the loops he’s made himself a puppet too. His head being rusted could hint at many, many years passing since everything happened. What’s even more interesting is remember, Vanitas is the one usually associated with cold and emptiness. So why is Noé assigning those things to his thoughts? It really shows how future Noé has come to view Vanitas vs himself. Because ignoring any theories or whatever for a second, future Noé is clearly burdened with regrets and hate towards himself.

/Your laughing was reflected by a daydream/

/Without knowing yet we just want to laugh/

/Throw away the answer, whatever you want is fine for now/

We circle back to the dream thing again. What is a daydream? It’s something you fantasize about when you are bored or in need of a distraction. A reflection looks and behaves exactly like you, copies your movements, but is it real? We all know mirrors and reflections play a major role in the story. Whether having mirrors or frames in official art or volume covers. Characters reflecting each other like Vanitas/Astolfo, Domi/Louis, Ruthven/Noé etc. I think the “throw away the answer” is interesting, it could be Noé again knowing what the “right” thing to do is but is desperate to see Vanitas laugh. Feels very much like a “oh forget about all that, what do you wanna do?” Noé putting other people before himself and being selfless to a fault.

/I love this world that lacks everything/

/If the mechanical echoes/

/Everything seems to be laughable/

/I can’t be proud of it/

/But isn’t the burning dream beautiful/

Why would you love a hollow world? This is Noé saying this. How can a world lack everything if it’s meant to be real? Unless it isn’t. Unless it lacks what you truly desire even if you claim to love it regardless. Echoes fall into the same vein as reflections I brought up previously. ‘Mechanical’ implies it’s a machine, tying back to it being empty and hollow. Lacking realness. And it’s funny, Noé says he’s not proud of it. His world, his creation if you will. That it’s laughable even but then goes on to call it beautiful. Think about that for a minute. The dream is burning because Vanitas will always die no matter what Noé does. Everything will go up in flames, it’s only temporary but guess what? To Noé, this fleeting period of happiness is far better than whatever he has left when he wakes up.

/When the sky and the void meet look back because the dreams will come later/

/When the sky and the void meet look back be still in bloom/

/When the sky and the void meet born and die repeatedly/

/The future and lies break and laugh/

We’ll stop here because the song then goes back to the first chorus “I love this world and the light you give me” stuff. This part of the OP I would say is the most vague, you can read this a lot of ways. However you want to interpret it, there is a clear loop going on. We can see “sky and void” as metaphors for Vanitas and Noé. Personally I’d say Noé is the void because of that official art that has Vanitas with a clear sky in the background and Noé is sinking into the darkness. Similar to when he drinks someone’s blood and sees their memories.

But while Vanitas has a few purple butterflies, Noé is given that distinct glowing blue butterfly. Vanitas is Noe’s light. We talk about that art for hours but that's for another day. Plus given how Noé talks in this song, it’s safe to say he sees himself as the void. And once they meet the dreams will come later, to be born and die repeatedly. Meeting could be their actual meeting from chapter one and the cycle/memory world begins from there. It could be wherever fuck they were when Noé failed to grab Vanitas’ hand. The future and lies….what lies? Who my dear readers would be lying to us :000. But eventually that mountain of lies will come tumbling down.

And, no theory just pure delulu I’ve always headcanoned that when Vanitas dies Noé is going to break out laughing. So if that happens the op spoiled it.

[siriusleee]

rebehold the stars

a/n: i spent hours in the bathtub trying to picture this in my head. anyway, thank you to everyone who commented. you guys are great. pairing: ghost x medic!reader (hazy) tags: semi-romantic, religious symbolism and imagery, dying, gunshot wound, blood, lots of cursing, lots of switching between character pov, obvious ptsd

2.4k words part one Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars. - Dante Alighieri, Inferno

Rifle between your shoulder blades, you hit the deck; an alchemist sentenced to the tenth bolgia. A mystic who made false promises to keep a man alive when he's bleeding out before you. 

Men. Not man.

"Wha' the fuck are ya?"

Blood seeps in between the fabric of your shirt - Achilleus in the dirt descending to the second circle. It takes a few moments before you realize the guy screaming at you isn't speaking another language - he's just Scottish.

Scottish.

Not American.

His rifle digs into your shoulder painfully. 

"Soap!"

A second pair of boots enters your vision, you keep your eyes trained on the doorway. The ambulance scream grows fainter in the distance. They're arguing above you, but you're too busy thinking about the rifle cutting into your back to care. 

Zip ties around your wrist and you're hauled to your feet. The neighbors stare through the blinds, unwavering as they watch you get shoved into the back of a black SUV. The man who shoved the rifle in your back takes a shotgun. The youngest who listened to you about the towel takes the seat to your left. 

They don't put a bag over your face as you speed away. 

Fuck.

***

This must be his punishment for his sins - the screaming and blinding lights. Whatever is above him - they aren't angels. His mom used to say that those who repent go to paradise. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. The verse comes back so clearly to him now - Sundays in the pew, hours spent away from home. Baseless hope that things would change. Would get better. Will get better.

Hands tear him apart; his atoms smashing together. A nuclear reaction waiting to implode. A stifled scream around the torture in his throat. 

There are no halos above him now.

Hazy. Her name was Hazy.

***

They leave you in a cold room to let the blood set sticky on you. It takes hours, but a woman walks in - a crisp white shirt mocking you across the table. She slides a file across the table at you - you don't need to look at it to know it's yours. Your name rolls off her tongue, nearly foreign in her clipped speech.

"Call sign Hazy. You did two tours as an Air Force Combat Pararescue member. One of them with the SEALs in a classified mission in the Middle East. Then you quit."

"I did."

"What did you do after that?"

"ER nurse."

"Not anymore?"

No.

No. You couldn't keep doing the death and destruction. Breathing wounds on a Tuesday night. Bodies smashed against the asphalt. Grown men begging for their moms. God's divine punishment on his will-less puppets for a long-forgotten transgression.

"How did you manage to get one of my operates on your table?"

"Kismet."

Maybe God smiles down sometimes.

***

Simon floats between here and there. 

Angels in white veils, bloodstained hands lifting him from the ground to smash him back down moments later. His father stumbling into the kitchen, the ground yawning beneath him to swallow him. His mom shaking hands with the preacher, the same hands that refuse to defend themselves later. 

Johnny in Mexico, Gaz hanging from a helicopter. Price reaching out to pull Laswell up. Angels reaching down to sift through them - divine judgment.  

Our hands get dirty.

Words break through - voices he recognizes cutting through the veil.

-not a coma.

Johnny telling Simon's jokes to someone.

Always a fucking joke thief. 

Warm hands poking and prodding him. Cold air on the tip of his nose. 

The outline of an angel above him - golden halo shining when she reaches down to pull him close to her; away from the hell he's been swimming in.

Hazy.

***

"Why'd they call you Hazy?

"Maybe you should ask my former CO."

"We did. He gave a glowing recommendation. Said you never failed to give it your all to save a man."

Your all.

Tell that to the boys you left behind to rot. To the blood drying on the grout in your kitchen. You're sure they would have something else to say.

Her name's Laswell - CIA. The CIA never did you any favors before, but you ask for one now.

"Can I take a shower?"

She lets you. They're holding you in a hotel, no doubt blacked out on any internet searches, and really just a cover for the government to hide people whenever they want. But the water runs warm and red as you sit on the floor to wash your hair. You're escorted there by Gaz - the man who handed you a towel for Ghost. The only one who doesn't eye you in distrust. 

You know he's stationed outside the door in case you do anything stupid. They don't trust you - in their eyes, you're an enemy who lured Ghost into your house to torture him for information. 

A Judas Iscariot ready to be flung into the maw of Satan. 

You wonder what hospital they took Ghost to. 

***

Johnny's voice - a thousand Hail Marys. 

Ave maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.

The words sound ridiculous in Johnny's accent. Simon tries to make a note to tell him so. 

Simon's angel doesn't leave his dreams. She holds his hand, skin so soft against his calloused ones he feels like he'll break her if he holds too hard. She brushes his hair away from his forehead, fingers lingering on the scars left behind. Simon tries to speak to her, but she doesn't speak back - just rests her hands at the base of his neck. A tenderness he hasn't felt in years. 

"Why are you here?" 

He begs for an answer that doesn't come.

Wake up.

He's dragged away from her.

***

His buddy, Soap, apologizes at the hospital.

"I didnae know you were a soldier."

Not a soldier. But you don't correct him.

He takes you to see Ghost. Locked ward, two guards outside the door. A quick pat down across the clothes that aren't yours - a pair of shoes that are slightly too big.

His skull mask has been switched out for a plain surgical mask. It makes him look smaller, somehow.

"He hasn't woken up for the past three days," Soap says, trying to hide the rosaries in his pocket. 

"His body is trying to heal - his brain is slowing down metabolic function to prioritize healing." The words roll so smoothly from your tongue - the same words you used to tell families when their babies and husbands and daughters wouldn't wake up. 

They were lies 90% of the time.

Maybe this is the 10%.

His hair is still crusted with blood. You have the nurse bring you rags and a basin. Under Soap's watchful eyes, you wash Ghost's hair, his hands, his feet free of the blood crusted there. 

They let you go home to scrub the blood off of the floors and table, staining your knees and fingers red. You pretend not to notice Ghost's captain following you at a distance - pretend not to notice him standing across the street when you empty the mop water beside your steps. You do your best to puzzle-piece your door back together until you can get a new one. 

Your phone lights up: a text from your old captain - asking why the CIA was blowing his phone up. You leave him on read. 

When you sleep that night, you dream of the way Ghost grabbed your wrist.

***

His angel brings him back from the nightmares. Above them the heavens yawn - a thousand constellations. They lay on the backs in the wet grass and Ghost describes each one of them to her - how to use them to get home when you're in trouble. 

He doesn't let go of her hand. 

"Are you here to save me?" He asks, but she doesn't answer.  "Do I deserve it?"

Fingers intertwined. A gentle squeeze. She glows brighter when he says her name. 

"Please speak."

She traces the scars on his face and leaves him in silence.

***

Ghost's hands are rough beneath yours. Your mother taught you a prayer to use when you were little, but you can't get the words out of your mouth.

"Why's he so important to you?" Soap asks from across the room, refusing to make eye contact with you. 

"I spent a long time stitching men back together; I want to see one make it through."

Soap fingers the beads on his rosary. 

Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.

You trace the scars on Ghost's fingers - a prayer in flesh. You only speak to God when have something to ask.

He rarely answers. 

***

His angel waits for him - he sees her in the distance, golden-arrayed. She smiles at him - halo glowing brighter. She looks so happy to see him- there's a knife in his side. 

Wake up, Ghost.

She diminishes on the horizon. A phantom in the sunset. 

Come back.

Please Ghost.

A step away from him. A cracked link.

Come back.

Come back.

"Co-"

***

The hospital room explodes into bedlam. A doctor slams into you, pushing you out of the way. You let yourself fall into the wall; across the room, Soap stands bewildered, fingers running through his mohawk - hair standing on end. 

Ghost fights them, reaching across to yank the IVs out of his arm. You watch the blood pour from his hands - stigmata in reverse. Across the room, Soap tries to take a step towards the chaos - you stop him with a small shake of your head. 

Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio.

***

He's lost - fighting against the hands that attempt to hold him down. It's hell around him, fingers wrapped around his arms and legs trying to force him down. He wraps his hands around the IV in his arm - barely aware that they're there to help him. His veins burn. 

He's forced to the bed - the voices above him a dissonance that means nothing to him. His heart is slamming into his chest, fingers digging into the mattress when he sees her. 

Hazy.

His angel in the corner of the room. 

Simon is pinned to the bed with the weight of her eyes. 

He must still be dead. 

In his moment of weakness, he's is slammed back into the bed.

***

You watch as the nurses pin Ghost down to the bed, the doctor trying to break through to him. Soap pushes through them and grabs Ghost by the shoulder; Ghost jerks, and then looks at Soap. His eyes soften just slightly and his whole body relaxes beneath Soap's hand. 

You duck out of the room - heart slamming against the inside of your chest. 

You can't breath; fuck, he's alright. 

Fuck. 

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to stem the pictures flashing through your mind: screaming and sand; Ghost's blood dripping from your fingertips; covering bodies with your own to block them from shrapnel; the sound of Black Hawks overhead; Ghost looking up at you, bleeding out on your kitchen table. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

***

Johnny is talking faster than Simon can understand. The pain in his side nearly pulls him back under - he doesn't struggle when they put the IV back in. 

He cuts off Johnny mid sentence. 

"Hazy -"

Johnny looks at him confused, eyes flashing to the door. 

"She's outside; L.T. what happened the other night?

Simon tries to push himself up - he needs to track her down. To feel that she's real; to hear her speak again. The sight of her standing over him, golden halo'd won't leave his mind. His hands ache for the feeling of hers. 

"Johnny move."

"L.T. - you're fucking delusional. What happened to you?"

Simon grips the blanket with white knuckles, and thinks about the way Hazy traced the scars. He was dead. 

He was dead. 

***

You hear Soap and Ghost speaking in the room; you're gripping your shirt and pressing it into your face - trying to pull yourself back to the present. 

You saved him.

You saved him.

You're shaking when Soap approaches you, sliding down to the floor beside you.

"He says," his voice cracks, "he says that you're his angel. Keeps asking if you're real."

An angel.

Fuck.

You laugh, small and derisive. 

"I think I might be the opposite of an angel."

Your voice is muffled by your shirt. You feel so fucking stupid for breaking down from the sight of Ghost - nobody but a stranger. 

"I think you need to go see him."

***

Johnny leads her in, hand on her elbow. A flash of anger. 

Take your fucking hands off of her. 

Like he can read his mind, Johnny drops her elbow and turns around - letting the door to the room shut behind him. She stands at the doorway, hands held behind her back. She doesn't look at him - doesn't speak.

His stomach flips - his angel won't look at him. 

"Are you real?"

The corner of her mouth lifts. 

"Are you?"

He wants to beg her to come closer, to touch him, to trace the scars on his face. He wants to rip his mask off so that she can see him. But he keeps his hands pressed to the mattress. 

"Why did you save me?"

She smooths an invisible wrinkle in her jeans. 

"Just my instinct I guess."

"I thought you were an angel."

She crosses the room - slowly at first, but faster until she sits down in the chair Johnny had been in. She keeps her hands folded in her lap and her gaze pointed down. 

"I probably made a shitty angel didn't I?"

"Hazy."

She looks up at the sound of her name. Ghost leans back; eyes screwed up against the fluorescent light. 

"That's not your real name is it?" Ghost asks. Tell me your real one. Please.

"Is Ghost yours?"

"Not even close."

***

You leave him in the hospital - a quick good-bye and a promise that you'll come back to see him. 

You don't go back. 

You dream about Ghost every night; waking up gripping the sheets with the taste of blood in your mouth. The second coming of grief when you find his blood on the underside of your kitchen table.

***

Simon thinks he's stupid - she didn't come see him for a reason. She doesn't want to see him. It's been a year - she's probably forgotten him by now.

Fuck.

His feet carry him up the steps and he knocks before he can stop himself. 

Simon Riley doesn't believe in angels. 

But his opens the door.

***

tag list: @random-thot-generator, @stillinracooncity,

[kekisu]

a very popular headcanon people have (i Think its popular. at least a lot of my twitter mutuals agreed with me a while back) is that joker comes from inaba, and if youve played p4 you know that theres literally nothing to do there

so a big headcanon that i used to be obsessed with is that he would spend a lot of his days skateboarding or biking around listening to music and exploring old dirt roads.. and he ended up getting a special interest in bugs and reptiles because hed come across so many during his little solo adventures. hes also very well versed in fishing its not a fixation or anything but just something hes pretty good at

this is why i tend to draw joker like some sort of skater boy. i think hes always stood out a lot in this small town even before the false assault charge, like he wasnt disliked or bullied but he just didnt really fit in. and this didnt bother him. i think he only realized how boring his life was when he became a phantom thief and got all these new friends in this new big city that understood him despite the circumstances that led him here. like man i really used to live like that and see nothing wrong with it? i didnt yearn for more?

it makes it even more painful when he has to leave and they naturally drift apart. because they all have dreams and ambitions, and the best years of their lives are waiting for them around the corner. but joker is back in this small town where theres nothing to do but hang out in some food court or poke around in the woods. i imagine this newfound loneliness is really hard on him, not to mention the guilt for feeling like hes somehow to blame for. well, whatever happened with goro

to me personally i think goro lived. i think he mustered up the perseverance to bite and claw his way out of shidos palace after seeing that even someone like him has a chance at being loved, he just didnt really remember this in marukis reality because it was all a blur. so both goro and joker were completely clueless as to what his fate would be if they went back to their true reality, which is what was so scary. the uncertainty. he could very well be dead but how could they know for sure? i just dont like the thought of him dying before he could truly live, even though i understand the tragedy of it can be poetic, i just cant stand for him going out like that because i relate a lot to his struggles. and i think it would go against the overall positive message of p5r. sure not everybody gets to have a second chance or a happy ending, but. man. anyways

joker fully believes goro is dead though. he wouldnt be crazy to assume this considering how they parted ways in shidos palace. but it eats away at him and maybe he really does go crazy. maybe his life feels like its stuck in time and while his old friends are out chasing their dreams, hes stuck. broken and shattered over feeling like he couldve done something to save him, knowing jokers savior/martyr complex

im running out of steam and i didnt mean to ramble on about my post-p5r headcanons but, to wrap it up: goro is in rehab somewhere and has a service dog to help with his dissociation and mood swings. and a couple other stuff. he feels like if he walks back into jokers life itll mess something up like joker will just break down or something. so he keeps his distance until they cross paths again. im just very obsessed with the idea of goro getting his life together vs joker wanting so badly to chase that high of phantom thievery again but failing and being actually so depressed

man morgana must be exhausted

[eeveebitches]

phone. || Roman Roy || smut

Pairing: Sub!Roman Roy x F!Dom!Reader Summary: You and roman talk over the phone, stuff happens along the way

Word count: 2.115

18+ only! More under the cut,

Warning(s): SMUT, aka 18+ only! Sub Roman, degradation, pillow humping, phone sex, implications of jealous/possesive roman

A/n: as DJ Khaled said, "another one."

_______________________

It's unusually dark in Roman's apartment.

You squint your eyes, looking around for any sign of him, hand busying itself to locate the light switch. "Romes?" There's no reply, and as you finally manage to switch the lights on you realize he isn't here. The shoes he usually keeps sprawled by the door are missing, as well as the scarf you had given him for his last birthday.

You shrug off your jacket and hang it, noticing how Roman's lighter jacket seems to be missing as well. Cautiously, you walk around the empty space. You take note of the way he left his cologne on the coffee table without its cover, and as you go to his bathroom you see his aftershave is uncrewed, too. He was clearly in a rush.

His bed is messy, as it always is when he's left to deal with tidying the sheets himself. You chuckle at the shirt of yours peaking out from under his pillow. It takes a lot of mental strength for you to not snap a picture for future teasing material, and instead kick your shoes off. 

His scent surrounds you as you nuzzle into his goose feather sheets. The scent is sharp, and woody, and clearly trying too hard to be noteworthy. But deep in those harsh, overpowering scents of desperation, you smell the chamomile from the 'calming room sprays' he always claims to be buying ironically. You also smell your own perfume, and with enough focus you can even smell hints of the vanilla of the soaps you use.

The sudden ringing of your phone startles you. You fumble a bit trying to remove your phone from your pocket, smiling as you realize it's the tiny devil himself calling.

"Romes?"

"Don't 'Romes' me, where in shit's name are you?" he immediately grumbles out, not giving you a second to trade simple formalities. 

You can't help but laugh at him. "And hello to you, too. What do you mean, 'where am I'? Where are you?"

He groans, then mumbles something far too incoherent for you to pick up over the phone. "Uh, at your fucking apartment? Did you seriously forget about me that fast? I'm seriously regretting hooking you up with that new job, since you're now apparently too cool for little ol' Romes." After a few seconds of processing his words, you frown. "Wait, what? You're at my apartment?" 

"Okay, yeah, you totally forgot, and I just embarrassed the fuck out of myself for breaking and entering. Nice knowing ya, I'm gonna go jump into a river or some shit," he mumbles underneath his breath. Even through the phone you can tell he's pacing around. "Can you even swim?"

He scoffs at that. "The fuck kinda question is that? You don't ask a guy about to take a cyanide pill if he's well versed in medicine, do you? Twisted bitch." Your frown deepens the more you listen to him. "Roman, we were supposed to meet at your apartment, you do remember that, right?"

It's completely silent on the other end of the line for a few seconds. Then, "Oh fuck off, you are not at my apartment right now. Just admit you forgot and let me go cry-jerk myself to sleep in your bed," he huffs out, trying to fight back the strain in his voice.

"Romes, I'm laying in your bed right now." He laughs at you, clearly doubtful, but as he quiets down you get the feeling he's starting to believe you.

With his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, Roman looks down at the pillow of yours he's holding. It's a long one, for your neck or something, and he relishes in how much it smells like you. "So what, we're at each other's apartments, laying in each other's beds, like total fucking idiots?"

You can't help but snort at that. "You're the idiot, since I'm at the right apartment. Also, way to go snitching on yourself. You better have removed your shoes before getting in my bed," you say, tugging at a bit of string connected to one of Roman's pillows.

"Yeah yeah, my shoes are off. I am gonna piss on all your furniture, just so you know. I need to mark my territory as the alpha and all that," he jokes, swiftly unzipping and shuffling out of his pants. "Oh, I'm also gonna sleep here because I can't be fucked to call someone to drive me back. Your bed is comfy as shit, anyway."

You let out a humored chuckle, quickly putting the phone down and removing the top layers of your work clothes to leave yourself comfortable. The sound of his voice is small, so after getting settled back in you grab the phone and place it right next to your head.

"Sorry, was getting comfy, what's up?" 

Roman lets out a low whistle. "So basically stripping naked? That's hot. You should take pictures of your boobs or something and send them to me," he says, his clutch on your pillow growing tighter as he continues, "we could have hot and heavy sex over the phone, like they did in the 60s when FaceTime and pocket pussies weren't a thing."

"I'm down if you are," you reply as casually as you can, despite the fact that the idea of it excites you. Roman seemingly chokes on his own spit at that, coughing for a few seconds. Ad he clears his throat, he awkwardly unbuttons his blouse as he keeps the phone flush against his ear.

"Oh yeah? What're you wearing, then?" he asks in a try-hard sultry voice. It's hard not to laugh at that, but you manage. "A 17-inch strap on with LED lights, what about you?" Roman lets out a forced moan in reply. "God, that's fuckin' hot. I'd see my insides glow all kinds of pretty colors and shit," he forcibly continues moaning out.

With his blouse fully unbuttoned he shuffles it off, ignoring the fact that he somehow is already getting riled up. Maybe it's the fact that he's surrounded by your presence, or maybe it's the fact that your voice is dangerously near your ear. 

Whatever it may be, it makes him move a shaky hand down to his length, applying a singular squeeze to himself and fighting back the hiss he wants to let out. "Seriously though, can you at least try to hide the fact you smell my shirts while you sleep? They're just sticking out," you chuckle out, tugging at the shirt you had previously spotted.

The silence on his end is oddly tense as you fully pull the shirt out, and you quickly realize why.

"Roman... do you actually cum on my clothes?"

He lets out a quiet 'fuck', keeping a solid hold of his cock through his underwear as he realizes he's been caught. "Shit, I-- yeah, I do, sometimes," he weakly stutters out. You tut at that, heat pooling in the bottom of your panties. "So, what, you jerk off sniffing it and thinking of me, or...?"

Roman's breathing slows, turning into weak pants that you can pick up on your end. "I, uh, yeah." A devious grin tugs at your lips as you shimmy yourself to a more comfortable laying position. 

"What do you think about?" It's a simple question, really, but the way Roman gasps through the phone makes it worthwhile. "I dunno, just-- fuck, things," he struggles to groan out as he rolls to lay on his side, the pillow he was clutching automatically slotting between his legs. 

His cock throbs with need, but something about using your pillow seems too much, even for him. Your shirts, and the occasional pair of underwear were one thing, but your bed felt so clean. Roman didn't want to be the one to make it-- make you dirty.

"Do you think about me touching you?" You hear him mumble out a small 'yeah' in response. You respond back with silence, quietly urging him to keep talking.

His clutch on your pillow tightens, knuckles turning white. "I think about you hugging me, 'cuz you always do when you see me," he whines out, as he continues fondling himself with his one hand while the other keeps its hold on the pillow. "You always, uh, squeeze? And you just smell really good, which is nice, I guess."

"Is that all?" You smile at the whine Roman lets out. "Whatever, I like other shit, too," he mumbles out, trying his hardest to practice restraint.

"What's 'other shit'? Like last week at that fundraiser in the closet, did you like that?" you coyly ask him. The drawn out moan he lets out at the memories is like musicto your ears. "Uh-huh," he weakly moans out, the muffled sound of fabric shuffling causing your mind to race with thoughts of what he's doing.

Roman's hips start a hiccup-y rhythm, attempting to grind into his own touch as he thinks of that night. You had toyed with him all night, dishing out casual yet flirty touches to whoever was there, shooting him a wicked grin any time he caught sight of it. When he had dragged you into a closet to try and stop your little show, you had demanded he went on his knees and apologized for his behavior.

By the end of it, Roman was a sweaty mess as he ground against your leg, trying desperately to keep quiet as you taunted him. Just thinking of how nasty you were to him that night, despite you gracefully letting him use you to get off, sends his head reeling as he gasps at his own touch.

You snicker at the desperate noises he's making. "Are you touching yourself Roman? In my bed of all places? You have no shame, do you?" 

"None," he whimpers out, pulling down his drawls to let his reddened and leaking cock spring out, smacking against his stomach. "Are you using your hand to get off? You sick, fucking puppy?" Roman groans out a quiet 'yes' as he carefully strokes himself at an unsteady rhythm. "I w'na use your pillow, can I-- fuck, can I please use y'r pillow?" He gasps out deliriously.

The shocked laughter you let out through the phone is genuine as you realize he's really into this. "Seriously? How fucking disgusting can you be, asking for my pillow? Was using my clothes to jerk off not enough for you, creep? Go ahead and use it if you're really that much of a degenerate."

He immediately places the pillow on the bed and goes to lay on his stomach, moaning as his dick makes contact with your pillow. He doesn't waste any time, immediately picking up in thrusting speed as he revels in the friction the pillow gives against his cock.

"Oh my god, you're actually doing it. Rutting into my pillow like a dog in heat, absolutely fucking revolting," you hiss against your phone, "y'know I have cameras in my room? I could easily send everyone you know the footage of you fucking my pillow like a flithy pervert. You'd like that, anyway, freak."

Roman's moans grow louder by the minute, every one of your poisonous words shooting straight to his cock. "Fuck, 'm close," he groans out, sweat rolling down his forehead as he desperately chases his release. "Are you seriously going to cum on my pillow, Roman? You're a genuine embarrasment, god."

His breath stutters before he lets out a gutteral moan, ropes of cum shooting onto your pillow and most definitely permanently staining it. "Jesus fuck, Roman, you're a legitimate freak," you giggle out through the phone as he slowly comes to, pants coming out muffled as he buries his head into the unused pillows. 

"What the fuck, man," he groans out, phone still held against his ear. You let out a chuckle, glancing at the time on your phone and realizing it's gotten quite late. "You doing okay, Romes?"

He lets out muffled noises of confirmation. "Yeah, just fuckin' tired now. Thanks for the, uh, phone sex. It was great." 

"Go clean yourself up, Romes. And just put the pillow somewhere in my bathroom, I'll take care of it." He lets out a small whine, awkwardly tucking himself back into his underwear before shuffling to your bathroom. "You're legit going to be the reason I die an early death. I'm gonna fucking, cum my brains out or some shit," he mumbles out as he drops the used pillow on the ground, grabs some wipes and cleans himself up a bit. 

"Sounds like a great way to go out," you hum out in reply.

"Of course you'd think that."

[twohappyboys]

i don’t think i’ve fully gone into depth on how hard Oldies station hits

as someone who didn’t plan to live past 13, hearing and seeing Oldies station live has been a roller coaster for me.

heres some examples of how to song pertains to me

tw: slight mention on SH and general struggle of mental health. Please be safe

Starting of on the first damn verse

“Only consistency in your periphery is fear and the bridge of your nose”

“and as you move about, you learn to tune them out but they say they continue to grow”

the way i’ve interpreted these first two lines is knowing the issues and fears you hold but learning to ignore the irrationality and live through life.

During middle school i was majorly depressed and filled with anxiety, but through out the years i have learned and found ways to control(not sure if that’s the word i want) my anxiety. I now know what makes me anxious and i know how to avoid those situations, and (vaguely)what to do during episodes. Finding Twenty One Pilots and hearing/seeing others were going through and feeling what i was feeling was so refreshing, and definitely helped me get here.

“Make and oath, and make mistakes start a streak you’re bound to break

when darkness rolls on you, push on through”

this feels very reminiscent of getting sober(in any way shape and form) making the decision to get clean, relapsing and starting again even when you know you’ll only relapse again but you should keep going.

I was a SHer, (nearly a year and a half clean) that’s something i cannot hide. it’s a big part of who i am now. and even though i’ve relapsed more times than i could count, i kept going. the longer i was able to keep myself clean the better i felt. there where many times that i’ve wanted to SH but i’ve pushed through.

“Then before you know, you lose some people close

Forcing you to manage you pace”

I think this could mean many things and can be applied to many situations but for me, it means there will be people who leave. there will be people who do not want to be there through your hardships, but you will find the people who do.

i’ve had many friends, many who have left during the hardest times in my life but the ones who truly love me unconditionally have stayed. i’m still friends with those friends today. and for them i am grateful, i wouldn’t be here without them.

“You don’t quite mind how long red lights are taking

your favorite song was on the oldies station”

in a metaphorical sense: you are taking the time to enjoy life, the things that used to occupy your mind are no longer a forefront. there’s something new to occupy you.

in a more literal sense: you’ve grown up, the things you used to love and hold dear are old. no longer relevant to the newer generation, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less valuable.

I’m young, don’t get me wrong. but i do still experience the things i once loved becoming “old”. most of those things are barely a decade old, but in the sense of pop culture they’re old. seeing the toys i used to love in a vintage shop or hearing the songs i used to listen to all the time on throwback stations only remind me that i am getting older.

“you have it down, that old fight for survival

you’re in the crowd at her first dance recital”

and yet again, you’ve grown up. you now know kinda how to handle life, maybe not perfectly but you know how to survive.

like stated before, i never planned to live past 13. i’m 19(soon to be 20) and i’ve experienced and seen so many things i never thought id be able to. I’ve graduated high school, soon ill be moving into my own apartment, i’ve seen my favorite band live, i’ve gone on road trips with my friends, i have a pet, i’m living life. everything may not be perfect and i do still struggle with things, but i know im not alone. i have support, in my friends, the music i love, and my family.

in conclusion, Oldies station has become the song that shows growth and strength. You are never alone, there is always someone or something that can help you keep going. and Twenty One Pilots may just be that thing.