#HI I GOT A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY

[cannonfullofcanons]

@indomitus-ferox inquired: “Hey, look at me, okay? Stay with me; it’s gonna be okay, just stay with me... ” ( from Noble Six to Noble One, because I had to )

send in " hey, look at me, okay? stay with me, it's gonna be okay, just stay with me... " ( OR if your muse wouldn't say this: 💧 + [WHATEVER YOUR MUSE WOULD SAY] ) for the sender to find the receiver badly wounded or dying from unexpected yet serious injuries. | Accepting!

         How had he gotten here? He remembered flying; the pelican was shot to hell. Fuel was leaking, it wouldn't stay airborne for long. Words echoed in the back of his mind, faded, vague, but he could just make it out.

         Hit 'em hard, boss.

         Emile's voice. Even swimming in darkness, an inch from death, he felt a surge of emotion. Had they made it? Had they survived? And more importantly, did they accomplish the mission? After all they'd endured, he had a longing to know. To be sure his sacrifice wasn't in vain. It was stupid, selfish; emotions he'd cast aside long ago, before he even underwent augmentations as a SPARTAN. Yet there they were, lurking in the depths of his dying mind.

         Another voice came, from beyond the darkness. It's gonna be okay. This voice, he recognized as well. Noble Six. He strained against the newly-returning pain. The shackles of death, shaken off, if only briefly. Though his eyes were open, he could scarcely see; yet, his eyes felt fine. The possibility of brain damage occurred to him. It had been one hell of a crash.

         Why was she here? They had a mission. He should be dead, and they should be getting off-world on the Pillar of Autumn. Jun was already off-world with Halsey, God willing. So why had she come back for him? And for that matter, how exactly had he survived? His last memory was of flames engulfing him, and the world fading to black in an instant. Even the armor he wore shouldn't have saved him from that.

         Had he just...gotten lucky?

         Carter forced his eyes open wider with a heavy cough, throwing blood from his mouth with each spasm of his chest. "Hell, Lieutenant...don't sugar coat this." As his vision started to come into focus, he noted the jagged metal piecing through his chest on the right side. How he'd survived the crash, he'd never know, but with this, he doubted he'd live long enough for it to matter. He'd used up the last of his biofoam to keep flying that pelican, after he'd been shot.

         "You shouldn't have come back, Six. Waste of time. Where's the package - Emile? Did you get it to the Autumn? If you tell me you let that ship leave you here, just so you could come back for--" He's interrupted by further, spasming coughs. "Goddamn it. ... Finding me was like finding a needle in a haystack. But we're just as dead either way. Find a pelican, steal a dropship, something - but whatever you do, get the hell off this rock. That's...an order, Lieutenant."

         Carter's eyes begin to grow unfocused; vision fading in and out, but he's holding on. He's slipping back into that inky darkness, only this time, it's not foreboding. It's welcoming. As if calling him home. He didn't want to die, especially if there was chance he could still help. But given his current predicament, the odds seemed to be tipped rather heavily against him. His breathing slows, and he cracks a fleeting smile. "I'll...give Kat and Jorge your regards, Six. Give those Covvies hell. Show 'em...Noble isn't gone yet."

[moonyflesh]

[🚬]

no thoughts- just Logan smoking some big ass cigar at any given moment.

[the-palelady]

listen. if you don’t like sabrina carpenter that’s fine, but that woman’s outfits are so stunning and i can just imagine ghost going absolutely mad seeing you in them.

especially in something like THIS. that man would go absolutely fucking feral.

normally he would be ripping your cute little outfits and lingerie at the seams, but oh no, not this one. the baby blue just looked so perfect, hugging your curves in all the right places. he had to keep this outfit safe no matter the cost.

one night, you slip it on right before he comes home from work, and set yourself up all pretty for him. your hair fanning out across your face, skin glowing, an angel amongst a sea of blankets and pillows right there on top of his bed.

simon’s angel.

and oh he is on his knees for you.

he’d worship every last inch of your body. those perfect, round tits that he’d suck into his mouth eagerly. he’d kiss down the plump of your tummy, the dip of your hips, until he’s nestled in between your legs.

he’d kiss along your inner thighs, moving his thumb up to rub at your sensitive nub, your back arching up into him, whining out his name like the pretty little thing you were.

simon would take his time with you. always does. he doesn’t want to hurt his girl when he finally does settle himself in between your legs, his cock heavy and sliding against your folds. the lingerie is still on, panties tugged to the side around his thumb.

“all this for me?” he’d ask in that deep, loving voice, reserved only for you. strands of his golden hair, that have grown out a bit more than usual, stick to his forehead. a handsome grin is plastered along his scarred face, lust filled eyes gleam down at you and you’d whine.

god, you loved him so much.

and he’d let you know he felt the same, wrapping his hands around the curve of your waist while he pressed himself into you. pressed himself into heaven.

“look at ya. so pretty.” you swear you hear him whine.

“takin’ me so well like a good girl.” this time you whine.

his thumb comes up to rub at your clit again while he pistons into you relentlessly. his tip hits that sweet spot so deep inside that you see stars and he backs off for a moment before hitting it over and over again.

your moans only encourage him further, his free hand roaming you like he can’t keep off of you, can’t get enough of you.

he grabs your jaw, your lips pursing from his grip. simon looks down at you with an expression so feral you could have orgasmed from that alone.

“gunna fill ya fulla me, sweet’art, that alright?”

you whine and beg for him.

yes. please, simon. inside, please.

“sing for me, angel. i wanna hear tha pretty voice.”

and you do sing for him. his name falling from your lips like a hymn, a gentle song only meant for his ears. simon can’t help but hold onto you tighter, gruff hands digging into the meat of your hips as you clench around him so tight he feels dizzy.

and he all but loses his damn mind, fucking you into the mattress despite how overstimulated you are. tears stain your pink cheeks and he thumbs them away, pressing into you so far you can feel him in your guts.

simon’s rambling, his forehead pressing into your temple as you cry out, your tears dampening his cheeks.

“ya look like a fucking goddess in this damn outfit. so beautiful. dunno wha tha fuck i did in my past life, but damned brute like me doesn’t deserve ya.”

he won’t stop talking. it’s all so much, yet the praise is sending you over the moon. your skin is on fire where his thrusts meet your ass, and you know there will be purple hand shaped bruises blooming along the expanse of your body when the morning comes.

“fuckkk,” his hips stutter slightly, your core becoming tight as he pulls himself completely out and slams himself right back to the hilt continuously.

“gunna breed this pretty pussy,” and you clench around him so fucking tight he almost collapses, a guttural moan escaping his chapped lips.

“ya like that, baby? want me to make ya a mummy?”

your back arches and you scream for him, white consuming your vision. simon’s hands grab ahold of your plump thighs and his hips roll down into you one last time. he twitches inside of your warmth while his spend coats your velvety walls. his arms reach up to wrap around your torso that’s still arched, his forehead pressing into your ribs as he catches his breath.

you both sit this way for a while, until he regains his composure and lowers your tired body back down to the bed.

when he sits up right your eyes are closed, long lashes tickling the apples of your blushing cheeks. your breathing is even now, and your skin is somehow glowing even more than it was when he first walked in. your hair cascades out around you like a wave. his palm hesitantly glides up along your tummy as if taboo. as if someone like him was undeserving of someone as soft as you.

and simon swears when he looks up at you, taking you in completely, he sees the glow of a halo above your head and a pair of angel wings nestled against the silk sheets of the bed beneath you.

[localceilingdevil]

day 1 - rivulet

[ifwdominicfike]

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[exhausted-undead]

is there blood on jayces hands or just ketchup?? who knows

[hotdrinks]

[ID: A greyscale drawing of Martin Blackwood and Jon Sims lying close together in bed with their legs intertwined and foreheads touching. The scene is dark, but martin holds his phone between them, the light from the screen highlights their faces. There's a speech bubble by Martin's head to indicate that he is talking excitedly while Jon looks at him fondly. End ID]

Jon is the king of the infodump but Martin also has many Cool Facts to share.

(jmart cuddling for @milkteamoon thank u my friend <33)

[shrews-art]

Birth of a god

[courfee]

prompt #46 "Sirius is showing Regulus’ baby pictures to James and Reg is MORTIFIED" for the @marauderswithpalestineproject !! 🍉

thank you @kat-m-toast for the donation (and the prompt, which was just SO up my alley, i loved it) and also thanks to everyone else who donated and participted! 💕

and as a bonus a little closer look at those baby pictures :)

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

solomon couldn't stand your pact marks.

well, no, that wasn't the right way to put it. he was proud, even jealous of your pacts. they were one of the many admirable things about you! he just hated... looking at them. he knew what other people thought when they saw them.

when one would see those marks on your skin for the first time, they would be able to get a glimpse at your relationship with the brothers. one of trust and respect, gathered from just a glance. meanwhile, one would have to be told about his and your relationship. one look at you couldn't decipher all the time you two have shared together, filled with chatting between classes, practicing magic for hours, and endless love.

at first, solomon tried to mitigate this with his own marks upon your skin. wearing lipstick as he placed a kiss on your neck, a few stray bite marks from your time together at night. but those, while fun, were temporary. and solomon needed something permanent.

why not a ring?

(Hope you don't mind me adding on, anon. Thank you for the delicious meal! Literally so honored to read your beautiful work! 🥹)

Getting the ring was the easy part. Getting you away from the brothers long enough to propose...was not.

The lengths Solomon went through to be able to have a private moment with you might put him in a record book as the three realms' most whipped man. With the mask of his "shady" persona secured, he lets his silver tongue weave him through these seven obstacles, the sin of each dripping from it with only you on his mind.

Swallowing his pride, breathing in greed, spitting out envy...his wrath, lust, gluttony, and sloth. A vicious rinse, repeat until he's either buttered them up or grated them down until they finally gave in. But he did it. With the day cleared of any interruptions, his plans were set in motion.

He decides to have a redo of your very first date, flying you up and walking in the sky amongst the stars. It's just the two of you against the ever inky black sky of the Devildom, a place that has become synonymous with your presence. Only this time, there are no surprise gales, no surprise drones -- just the surprise of a velvet heart-shaped box in the inside pocket of his coat.

Solomon brings up fond memories of your time together as you both near the spot he's picked to pop the question. He's filled with a giddy glee that soon you'll have something that binds you to him, something to show the world you're his.

Still, there's a little voice in the back of his head reminding him that you could say no. That perhaps he's not worthy. Does he deserve to have matching rings adorned on his and your fingers forevermore? Does he dare stand by your side as your equal when you are, in fact, so far above him?

He decides it's best not to dwell on such thoughts as this is meant to be a happy occasion, as long as all goes well.

Your feet touch the ground once he lowers you both on top of a cliff that overlooks the Devildom, the moon hanging brightly above. As you take in the magnificent sight, he lowers himself on one knee behind you, waiting with bated breath for you to turn on your own volition.

The moment you do, he knows he'll have to keep this memory stored away with his magic, just staring in awe. The moon is angled just right that it shines right behind your head like a halo. Your eyes are as wide as saucers while your jaw is slacked. With the way you look, he truly wonders if he's in the Celestial Realm.

Nervously, Solomon begins his improvised speech after clearing his throat, "my dearest apprentice, it is with great honor that I'm knelt before you tonight. I have dreamt of this moment more than I'd care to admit, yet I never thought it'd come true. But here I am, willing to give you all of me, if you're willing to give me all of you. You are the sun to my moon, the air in my lungs, the very reason why I believe I've lived so long. I was always meant to find you and work side by side to protect the human realm together. And most importantly, to love you. So, please do this old sorcerer a favor...by marrying me..."

He pulls out the ring box, opening it to offer you the ring within. The blessed box is shaking as he trembles, waiting patiently for your answer.

Happy tears spring from his eyes once you say, "yes." The ring is carefully slipped onto your finger, and a single word comes to Solomon's mind.

Mine.

[shakingparadigm]

what is the theory that ivan manipulated the event where till and mizi met the wagyein?

It's not a theory, actually! It's confirmed that Ivan orchestrated the whole event. The true reason as to why however is still unknown. The information provides more context to this scene, though:

During the earlier times of ALNST the most rational explanation for this scene was that Till ran after a flower crown (presumably Mizi's) and Ivan followed him in out of curiosity. Now we know that Ivan was conveniently just standing there because he was waiting.

Side note, I find it heartbreaking (and maybe a little funny, sorry) that Till most likely didn't notice Ivan in this scene. That's just like him, isn't it. Always too busy running after Mizi while Ivan trails behind, an ever-present shadow.

I'm not sure how Ivan manipulated the circumstances for both of them to end up there, but it is confirmed that everything was intentional. What strikes me most is how they describe this particular scene:

I can't copy down what they said word-for-word (Patreon info), but they described Ivan watching "creepily" as Till and Mizi are faced with danger. We know that Ivan was familiar with the Cerberus wagyein beforehand, enough to touch its teeth and even to rest himself inside its maw. To Ivan, the wagyein is not dangerous, but to Till and Mizi, it could be. Ivan prepared the wagyein, led them there, and watched "creepily" from afar as Till fell on his knees, seemingly injured.

The closest I can get to making sense of Ivan's "scheme" is that he wanted to see how other children would react in a dangerous situation. Ivan's always been an observer, after all, and he's learned to survive by copying the more "normal" behaviors of his peers. This situation occured when Ivan was still young and had not yet developed his more charming mask, so perhaps he staged this encounter to study a situational response, to learn and mimic the emotion of fear. And what better subjects for the experiment than two of the most expressive and reactive humans of their batch? It helps that he was already fixated on Till beforehand, too. I think Ivan became irreversibly obssessed after this incident, especially since it's framed as a turning point in Ivan's life, comparing Till to the stars.

This is just my attempt at an interpretation, though. It could very well be for another reason. He most likely chose Till and Mizi specifically for personal reasons, not just for reaction. I'm still not sure on the purpose behind the whole thing.

The team wanted to capture Ivan's "dark emotions" through the shot of his stalking, which could relate to his more sinister intentions. His gaze can be read in a few different ways, though. Curiosity, interest, fear, etc. Maybe that's why they decided to redraw the shot in ROUND 6.

I think this better sells the feeling they were trying to convey.

[screechingfromthevoid]

nothing (besides everyone ignoring Orym's deal) has made me angrier than watching Dorian keep up this facade. Dorian Storm has always been a type of mask he's worn. At first he called himself a liar because of it. The happy go lucky bard was a way of escaping for him. He was escaping Brontë so he created Dorian. He didn't believe he was Dorian. Until the Crown Keepers made Dorian real. And for a while, he really believed he was Dorian. That he has this new family and new life and he could be who he truly wanted to be.

And then his brother came back and made his problems Dorian's problems. Until he had to put Brontë back on. Because even if the Crown Keepers + Cyrus called him Dorian, he was Brontë. He had to be who his brother thought he was.

When Cyrus dies, the thread to Brontë had snapped. He was going to see Orym, back to the Bells Hells, back to Dorian Storm. But the foundation of Dorian had shattered. Dorian was created in order to run from his place in life, family, Cyrus. Now he was gone. The Crown Keepers had fallen apart. His friends fell through his fingers and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He was once ready to side with a betrayer god for these people and now they're in the wind.

So Dorian shows back up to Bells Hella and he's completely broken. The foundation of both of his lives has been thoroughly rocked. No brother. No Crown Keepers. The two things that forged Dorian Storm. He wears that mask so fucking well. Because he still wants to believe in it. He said it live on stage that he should "believe his own backstory". The one he made up. The one where he was a bard.

He wants to be Dorian so bad. He spends all his money on Orym, he spins the bottle so he can kiss his friends, he flirts, he blushes and giggles at compliments. Exactly how Dorian would, should.

But he wears the gold of the heir. He has a festering animosity inside his chest. He doesn't sleep. He's thinner than he was. He doesn't sleep. He sicks abominations after their creators. He talks to God's without an ounce of self preservation, daring them to strike him down. He does not acknowledge them as they taunt him.

The god of beauty and magic calls him beautiful and he does not smile.

[starry-pop]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MISCHA BACHINSKI FROM HIT MUSICAL RIDE THE CYCLONE

(he has a drink because it’s his borthday)

[lulu-draws-stuff]

Little guys :]

[edenfire]

💗🏥 Shuake Week- Day 6 - Wound Tending 🏥💗

I've always really liked the idea of goro waking up after the engine room with a bullet wound in the chest. he miraculously survives, and akira has to take him in and tend to him, while hiding him from shido's men😳💦

(also yes, goro is wearing akira's pj pants😌💞)

[llondonfog]

i hope you're doing well, my dear lettie <3 for the six sentence prompt ask game, might i request silver getting sick at school and lilia dutifully cuts class to take care of him? 🥹

"Oh— oh, watch yourself, love—"

The hand on his arm is sure and steady, and it is the only thing that keeps Silver's knees from buckling away beneath him as if he were wobbling around with transfigured sea legs, jellified and weak.

It's a familiar touch, one that he would know even in the deepest of slumbers. He doesn't need to lift his heavy eyes to know who has seemingly materialized out of thin air to support him, and because Silver is, still among all things, a child, it takes no effort at all to slump his head to the side and rest his forehead against the waiting curve of his father's shoulder.

" . . . now, what am I to do with you?"

Silver was sick.

And not the average, runny-nose and scratchy cough kind, but the roiling shower steam nausea, feverish kind— the kind that felt as if little craft fairies with lead hammers had taken up residence in the hollows of his bones and the aching sinus pockets behind his eyes, and were banging incessantly on his raw nerves with vicious, unmitigated glee.

Morning classes had been an absolute misery of sensory havoc, his mind distracted and his glazed eyes slipping shut with even more forceful vengeance than usual. His pen had scrawled aimless lines across the blank notebook pages, and even Trein had spared him a pitying glance, not that Silver had realized it, for his flushed cheeks and obvious disorientation.

(Neither had he noticed Kalim's repeated concerned glances, nor the way that his friend kept tapping on his cell phone with a worried twist to his perpetually upturned lips.)

It was little wonder then that as the students streamed in eager droves out of their lecture halls for lunch, Silver chose instead to attempt a shuffling escape towards the Mirror Hall, towards Diasomnia and the promise of a timed catnap in the gloomy embrace of its dark, cool corridors before the rigor of his afternoon classes could begin.

He'd been rather foolish to believe he'd make it there unaided with how the stone floor beneath him started to wink closer, the sinking realization tugging at his stomach that he was beginning to plummet down to meet it without resistance, until a presence unannounced had swooped in by his side.

So focused now on attempting to wrangle his breakfast into submission before it inevitably made a second, less pleasant appearance upon his father's uniform, he hardly notices until too late that the ground has disappeared under his very feet with a swiftness that spares him the nauseous threat. Bleary eyes blink past the invisible weight pressing insistent fingers against them, and Silver manages to find a glimmer of incredulity among all of his slippery, pounding thoughts as he stares up at the fae cradling him in his arms as if he were all of five again— and smiling as pleased as punch, in the middle of the grand hallway no less.

". . . Father— !" he doesn't even think to correct himself as he croaks out the beloved title, utterly at a loss as to what the fae could possibly be thinking. "Father, please, put me down! Someone might see—"

"And see what?" His father's eyes sparkle down at him with mischievous delight, but it is not enough to mask the darker currents of worry that linger there, stealing the rest of the sputtering arguments from Silver's mind. "That I'm caring for my adorable junior classmate as a good vice housewarden should?"

His mouth opens and closes more uselessly than a fish as he stares without a rebuttal at the self-satisfied fae, unable to come up with a worthwhile protest in the sluggish cogs of his mind.

The rambunctious cacophony of their fellow classmates echoes from further down the hall, and Lilia's smile creases into something tender and private, an expression reserved for Silver and Silver alone as those clawed fingertips drift soothingly through his sweaty bangs. There's no magic that glitters from his touch, and yet Silver's eyes find themselves drooping instantly just the same, his head tucking forward to rest against his father's chest where that heartbeat reverberates like a lullaby in his ears.

"Come on, dear— let's get you back to bed."