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tinyshyteacup · 10 days ago

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Can I possibly get Chibs smut like first time together after months of just kissing and slow burn even though both of you wanted to rush bc you both felt it😍😍😍😫😫

Probably a little softer then your request but I was feeling it. (Also wayyy longer then I intended)

TW: smut, tobacco depictions, soft chibs, p in v. 18+ MDNI

• Nightfall •

Chibs moves with the silence of a man used to danger. Soft-footed across the dorm floor, every motion careful. This Lockdown had been a joke, and you'd spent the day on your feet, helpful as you were, putting everyone before yourself.

Chibs, despite his tough exterior has always been careful with you, gentlemanly, you'd kissed, held each other, but never explored beyond that.

You hear the low clink of his rings as he gathers your sweater first, folding it loosely over the back of the chair.

His rough hands lift your tank top, your jeans, each item drawn up off the floor and out of the way with a kind of reverence.

There’s no leer to it. No smirk.

Just a soft focus behind his eyes—like he’s cataloguing every thread, every impression you’ve left behind in his space.

"You leave a wee trail everywhere ye go, don't ye..." he murmurs almost inaudibly under his breath, the hint of a fond smile in his tone, though you’re not meant to hear it.

His kutte comes off with a whisper of worn leather, hung on the same hook near the door.

Then his boots.

His belt.

His shirt unbuttons, one clasp at a time.

A slow ritual, like shedding the weight of the world with each piece.

The click of his lighter breaks the silence—small, brief, familiar. The ember glows warm orange against the low light as he steps near the cracked-open window, letting out the first slow exhale.

He leans against the sill, arms crossed, one hand loosely holding the cigarette between two fingers.

The smoke curls around him like a ghost, clinging to his hair, his collarbone, the soft shadow carved beneath his jaw.

"Still can’t wrap me head ‘round you bein’ here..." he mutters softly to himself, thick Scottish rasp coated in smoke and weariness.

"Look at what ye've bloody done… makin’ a home out o’ this mess."

He turns on instinct—maybe to stub it out, maybe just to check that you’re truly asleep.

But he freezes when he catches your eyes on him. Your voice is barely audible, soft and warm in the low dark.

"I can't sleep."

There’s no startle in him. No mask sliding back down. He just holds your gaze for a long second through the smoke, then lifts the cigarette slowly to his lips again.

"Aye," he breathes around the smoke, tapping ash into a tray. "Me neither."

He finishes it slowly, no rush. Not now. Not with you watching him like that. When the stub is pressed out and the tray is pushed aside, he moves toward the bed again—bare chest catching in the dim light, every scar, every piece of ink a chapter written into his skin.

He doesn’t speak as he pulls back the covers, slipping in behind you, one arm drawing you in automatically. His hand skims over your waist, then stills there.

"Ye wan' talk about it, love?" His voice is low, warm against the back of your neck, his accent thick and rasping.

When you shake your head no, just nudging closer, he presses a kiss just below your ear.

"Alright, then."

You both settle. His breath deepens. Yours matches.

Your fingers curl around his hand where it rests across your middle, holding him there like a lifeline. And he lets you.

He doesn't try to fix your thoughts or chase away the ache that keeps you awake. He just stays. Anchors you with his body, his heat, the steady beat of his heart against your back.

You wrinkle your nose a little, burying your face into the curve of the pillow before letting the words out in a mumble against the fabric.

"You smell all smoky."

For a beat, there’s silence, just your fingers idly tracing the lines of ink on his arm.

Then that low, husky chuckle rumbles up from his chest, warm and unguarded. His breath fans across your temple as he leans his head into your shoulder.

"Aye, well," he murmurs, smile tugging crookedly at the corner of his mouth.

"that’s what happens when y’drag an old bastard in from the window, love."

He turns you in his arms with slow certainty, careful not to jostle you, one hand slipping beneath your shoulder and coaxing you to face him. Your legs shift beneath the covers, tangling softly with his, one of his thighs pressing to yours, anchoring.

His eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at you—tired but bright, like you’ve flicked a switch inside him.

It starts so quietly that it could’ve been mistaken for nothing more than a breath.

One moment, you're teasing him—soft voice muffled by the dimness and his chest so close—and the next, he's looking at you like he’s never been kissed before in his life. Like this might be the first one that matters.

There’s no rush in him, no heat chasing the moment too fast. Just a long pause. A slight lean in. The barest flick of his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if asking for something without saying a word.

Then he kisses you.

Not hungrily.

Tenderly.

The kind of kiss that makes you forget your name, not because it steals your breath, but because it gives it back.

His lips move slowly over yours—his stubble brushes your skin, a rough whisper against your softness—but there’s no force, no pressure. Just a quiet pull.

You taste the faint bite of smoke on him, warm and earthy, but even that fades beneath the press of something more.

As the kiss deepens—as his tounge whispers across your lip, a request for entrance—his hand shifts behind your neck, anchoring you to him.

Not in control.

But like he’s afraid the world might wake up and take you away if he lets go.

You don’t realize he’s moving you until you feel the change in pressure beneath you.

The pillows beneath your head are soft, worn from years of use, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the sheets. Somehow, in the space of a few lingering kisses and the hush between them, he’s gently rolled you beneath him.

But there’s no weight. No pressing need. His body hovers over yours, forearms braced on either side of your shoulders, the line of his thigh resting between your legs, protective, not pushing.

"Didn’t even notice, did ye?" he murmurs against your lips, voice roughened by smoke and the Scotch lilt of his amusement. His accent curls around the words like they’re only for you.

"Slippery bastard, me." You feel more than see his wolfish grin, as he tilts his head and tugs your bottom lip with his teeth.

His fingers drift down, resting at the edge of the button-up shirt you’re wearing—his shirt, too big on your frame, hem brushing your thighs. The sight makes his breath catch, just slightly.

"Jesus Christ..." he mutters under his breath, eyes searching your face as if checking you’re alright with each slow move.

Then, delicately—tenderly—he lifts the first button, slipping it free. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t undress you like a prize to be claimed. He does it like a man peeling away the world to reach you.

He pauses with the shirt hanging open, brushing his knuckles lightly along your collarbone. Not taking, not assuming. Just… being.

"Ye alright?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid to break the spell.

When you answer yes, he doesn’t move fast.

His other hand rests against your ribs under the covers, thumb tracing slow arcs over the skin below your breast, grounding you both in the moment.

“Fuckin’ unreal, ye are.” he murmurs, kissing along your collarbone, voice husky, lilting with that rich Glaswegian lilt.

His hand moves across you— mapping you like you’re a story he wants to learn line by line. The pad of his thumb traces over the gentle curve of your hip, along the slope of your waist, settling at the dip of your thigh.

His fingers still for just a breath. His eyes search yours, quietly scanning—checking that you’re still there, still willing, still you.

His voice is a rasp, barely more than a breath.

"Tell me to stop, lass, an’ I will. But if ye don’t… I swear to God, I’ll be nothin’ but gentle with ye."

And you know he means it.

Not because he says it—but because every moment leading up to this one has proved it.

The laughter. The chase. The quiet way he stood behind you in the clubhouse when things get tense. The cigarette at the window when he thought you were asleep.

Your hands move hesitantly, barely brushing his chest as you explore the warmth of him through tentative touches. The muscles there are solid beneath your fingers—etched from years of battle and burden—but you handle him like he’s fragile.

Like you’re the one who needs to be gentle with him.

Chibs doesn’t move at first. He just watches you, half-shadowed in the low light, expression unreadable—but his breath stutters softly, and that’s answer enough.

"You alright, lass?" he asks quietly, voice thick with his accent, the words low like gravel over velvet. His hand shifts to your hip, grounding you, but he doesn't stop your touch. "Ye don’t have to…"

You shake your head, slowly. “I want to.”

Your answer is barely a whisper, and he swallows hard at the honesty in it. The lines around his eyes deepen as he watches you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

When your fingertips rise to his face, brushing the edge of his Glasglow smile, he freezes—not tense, but still, like an animal unsure if it’s being hunted or healed.

Your touch is so light it could be mistaken for air, and yet it carries the weight of things no one’s ever dared give him before.

He inhales through his nose, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

"Ye know what they are, aye?" he asks, voice low and rough, not challenging—just honest.

“Evidence, Filip.”

His lips part slightly, a small furrow of confusion in his brow, like he’s going to say something, maybe a protest, but nothing comes out.

"Evidence that you won, Scotsman" you clarify in a whisper.

He lets out a shaky exhale and leans into your touch.

Chibs moves slow—not because he’s unsure, but because he wants you to feel every second. His weight eases over you, protective rather than pressing. His skin is warm, the scent of smoke still faint on him, but it’s overpowered by something softer—soap, warmth, safety.

He pulls you closer, until his leg slips between yours, the maneuver parting your thighs beneath him.

The pad of his thumb moves in soft teasing circles around your sensitive bud, as he gently aligns his body with yours, the way his hand traces the edge of you knee is so unlike the gruffness he has with his brothers, his breath catches when your knee brushes his hip—but he doesn’t rush.

He shifts and palms himself, a slow delibrate stroke, before notching himself at your entrance.

Cool brown eyes flick to yours and back, before he presses himself forward into your heat.

The slow stretch spreads warm, outward like spilled mulled wine, a slow stain of surrender as Chibs sinks into you.

“Christ, ye ruin me, ye do.” he breathes into your skin.

You slide your arms around his neck, and your fingers brush the hair at his nape—coarse and soft all at once, salt and pepper strands curling slightly beneath your touch.

Your body arched around the intrusion, Chibs leans his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he needs you more than air.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face with a calloused palm and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the soft place beneath your ear.

The room is quiet save for the low hum of the night outside the dorm walls. No engines. No shouting. Just the soft sound of his lips brushing against yours, and the warmth of skin meeting skin.

You're cocooned and consumed by him in every fragile cell, in every pulse of movement, as he rocks into you in a steady rhythmic roll.

You can feel the heat of him, the way he slides across the spongey spot within you in languid grazes.

Your bodies move like waves, with the same tenderness the break has as it maps its way onto the sand—time seems to slow as his thrusts continue slower, deeper.

Not demanding. Not dominant. There would be time for that, he would make sure, but now here with you, your breath hitching with at apex of each movement, it was like a prayer whispered instead of a promise made aloud.

There’s no hunger in Chibs when he loves you like this—His hands are careful, mapping you like a man reading scripture, fingers moving with reverence. He traces the curve of your waist, the slope of your thigh, like it’s a privilege, not a right.

He keeps checking in, even without words—watching your eyes, pausing when your breath hitches, brushing your hair back so gently it makes your chest ache.

When things grow closer, more breathless, he doesn’t break that tenderness. Every sigh from you makes him slow down, not speed up. Every sound you make earns a kiss, a murmur, a whispered.

Until the crash of your orgasm washes over you like the creeping of the tide, slowly and yet all at once.

Chibs stutters above you as he spills into you, the room is warm, thick with your combined breathing as you come down from your high.

The faint smell of cigarettes, soap and skin, lingers.

You let out a faint whine as he gently withdraws himself from your core.

"Its alright, Love" he murmurs, accent thicker now with affection, his lips ghosting the top of your head. "I got ye."

You lie curled against Chibs’ side, one leg draped loosely over his, Your eyes flutter open only as he shifts slightly, reaching toward the bedside table where his cigarettes lie.

The click of the lighter breaks the quiet, followed by the soft crackle of tobacco catching fire.

He takes a drag, exhales slowly through his nose, then turns his head to glance at you.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, up and down your spine with near weightless affection.

"Ye all right, love?" he asks in a murmur, his voice still a little rough from earlier. There's a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at you.

You nod, eyes half-lidded, cheeks warm, limbs pleasantly heavy.

Satiated. Boneless. The word flits across your thoughts, sleep trying to pull you under.

"Christ, yer so bloody soft," he mutters affectionately, brushing his thumb along your back. "Could lie here forever."

He tilts his head back and exhales a slow stream of smoke, the scent curling lazily in the air between you.

You’re just starting to drift when—

CRASH.

The door swings open.

"Hey Chibs, have you seen—OH—OH GOD—OH SHIT—SWEET JESUS—NOPE."

Juice freezes like he’s just walked into oncoming traffic.

There’s a full second of silence, where all anyone does is blink.

You, clutching the blanket instinctively to your chest.

Chibs, exhaling a slow breath through his nose, cigarette held just off to the side.

Juice, wide-eyed, frozen in the doorway with a folder in one hand and utter panic blooming across his face.

"I—I didn’t know—I mean, I wasn’t tryna—like, I wasn’t gonna—" he blurts, already backpedaling verbally but somehow still standing there like a baby deer in leather.

"Shut tae bloody door, Juicy," Chibs says evenly, not raising his voice. Not yet.

Juice flails.

"No, right, right! Totally—door! Got it! I mean, you should lock it next time, man, or maybe put up a sock or something—oh God, you’re not even wearing—is that her shirt?!—shitshitshit—"

You duck your head, cheeks flushing, heart thudding for an entirely new reason.

Chibs sits up slightly, the blanket shifting over his waist. His jaw clenches, cigarette dangling from his lips now, his tone growing colder.

"Juice."

"Yeah?"

"D’ye want tae die tonight?"

Juice stares.

"No."

"Then shut the fuckin’ door and disappear before I put my boot so far up yer arse, ye’ll be coughin’ out shoelaces ‘til Christmas."

"Right!" Juice squawks, spinning on his heel. The door slams behind him.

Silence returns like a drawn curtain.

You stare at the ceiling for a second, pulse still racing.

Then Chibs lets out a sharp, exasperated laugh and mutters around his cigarette.

"Jesus Christ, that boy’s got the subtlety of a fuckin’ grenade in a china shop."

He flicks ash into the tray by the bedside, stubs the cigarette out with two fingers, and settles back in beside you, pulling you against his side again like nothing happened.

You rest your cheek against his shoulder. He's still warm.

"Ye a’right?" he asks softly, voice lower now, gentler. His fingers trace the curve of your spine again like he’s grounding you, bringing your heartbeat back down.

You nod slowly. "That was… a lot."

He chuckles again. "Aye. Jus’ pretend he got dropped on his head one too many times as a baby. Helps it all make sense."

Then he presses a kiss to your hair.

"Back to where we were, aye?" he says, tucking the blanket up over your bare shoulders, "Safe. Quiet. Just us."

You close your eyes.

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emmyrosee · 1 year ago

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'Samu thoughts you say? (๑˘︶˘๑)

Bf! Osamu is the type of man that arrives home and searches for you just to kiss your forehead and ask about your day

The type to ask everytime you come back home from anywhere if you're hungry so you both can buy or make something

Bf! Osamu who has a stubble after a rough week in the restaurant and asks you to help him shave it since you didn't have time to share at all

Osamu who has a picture of you in his wallet AND his office at Onigiri Miya, maybe even one in the kitchen

The type to be subtle with the PDA but when you're both alone he's the biggest cat you've ever seen, noms on your cheeks or shoulders for no reason

Finally the type that knows you're the one when you spend the whole night with him with preparations for a big event on the restaurant

(I'm an avid Tsumu lover, but Osamu is just so boyfriend and husband material I can't ignore it)

OSAMU GOING OUT OF HIS WAY TO FIND YOU AND KISS YOU IS SO GOOD IM GONNA DIE

Bc he’s been so excited to kiss you all day, since this morning when he kissed you last, he just wants to run and pick you up and spin you around and pull you into this insane kiss because you make him feel on top of the world. He settles for an excited flurry of kisses from both of you, giggles and smiles and happy, easy breaths.

OSAMU WHO ASKS IF YOURE HUNGRY BECAUSE HE GETS TO DO HIS FAVORITE ACTIVITY FOR HIS FAVORITE PERSON AND WHO WOULDN'T LOVE DOING THAT???

who jumps up onto his feet and takes your jacket and kisses you with a quick flurry of "you hungry?" "did you eat?" "want to have a snack with me?"

OSAMU!!!!! WITH STUBBLE!!!! IM GONNA CHOKE-

who loves the way you shrink up your shoulders from the tickly feeling of him kissing your cheeks and neck, but loves the way you focus on shaving him even more, the tip of your tongue poking out as you draw the razor over his cheeks and jawline- you nicked him once on the neck, so now you force him to do it himself; but he still trusts you implicitly.

OSAMU WHO KEEPS PICTURES OF YOU EVERYWHERE IM-

he's got you in his wallet, his phone screen, there's one of you in his office and one of you in the inside of his onigiri miya cap. there's one of you in the restaurant, one facing out to the people, and one resting on the register. when someone asks who you are, he gets this wide, proud smile and confidently gives them an excited "my fiancé!"

OSAMU MIYA IS A BITER AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL

hes the clingy one, the one who dangles off of you, the one who leaves playful bites and curls on your lap and falls asleep with your hand in his fluffy hair.

AND HIM SETTING UP THE RESTURANT FOR A JACKALS AFTER PARTY OR SOMETHING, KNOWING YOURE RIGHT THERE WITH HIM TO SUPPORT HIS DREAMS AND GIVE HIM A PROUD LOOK AT THE BEGINNING AND END OF EVERY DAY 🥺❤️❤️

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shoophise · 2 months ago

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Only critique I have towards this AU of yours is dark Sonic's characterization, I much prefer the idea that he has complete awareness of the things he's doing, making dark sonic this uncontrollable creature (exaggerating of course, I have no idea how far your dark sonic goes in the uncontrollable spectrum) kind of takes away what makes the form special to me, the idea that in this form sonic knows that what he's doing is the wrong thing but still enjoys it regardless gives a lot more nuance to the form to me instead of just being the basic "Naruto 4 tailed transformation" kind of character, idk how to describe it, it's been a while since I watched that episode, so forgive me if I got a lot of things wrong, I spend more time analyzing sonic himself instead of dark sonic. Dark sonic being basically if sonic let himself be more self-indulgent in everything he does to the point of basically allowing himself to go an a power fantasy and show off how much weaker anyone else actually is in comparison to himself makes the form really stand out from being just fleetway super sonic, but more silent, dark sonic is not uncontrollably attacking everyone on the battlefield, he knows how to focus those negative emotions on one target, he knows what he's doing and that makes him far more compelling than just being another Kurama-like character, cuz no one ever uses a "character that attacks everything and everyone uncontrollably" to it's maximum extent anyways, never get to see character like that maybe killing an ally, they always manage to get the character to stop before anything truly bad happens, no one has the balls to actually kill a character off like that... Oh well, I got off track, anyways don't let me rain on your parade tho, if you really enjoy the way things are right now let them be, hope you manage to tell the story you wanna tell.

Hi ! Thanks for your thoughts first of all, I always appreciate some feedback and suggestions from anyone! It is my first AU after all.

I think I did a poorly job describing Dark Sonic's personality in the AU, mostly bc I have drawings that will explain everything better. Sorry for taking too long btw! I decided to take a lil break from drawing since I was overworking myself.

I never said Dark Sonic was not aware of his actions tho, I think I stated that the one who's not fully aware of what is going on is HyperShadow, and that Dark Sonic is fully aware; he has his memories, he knows something is wrong, and he wants to go back to normal. He just simply can't, since HyperShadow has basically stole all his light energy.

Since he can't go back to normal, he is stuck following Shadow around since his presence calms him. Dark Sonic in my AU basically cannot measure his strenght, and lets his depressive emotions take over him. I see Sonic as a creature who is way too powerful but never uses his full potential bc he controls himself, but Dark Sonic is just a form where he can't do that.

Dark Sonic is sad, upset, impulsive, and lost. He is all the emotions Sonic usually hides nor doesn't like about himself, he can't think in a positive way, and he lets his emotions act for him.

I hope I gave a better explanation with this! Again thanks for asking, suggestions are always appreciated, have a nice day! ^-^

#hyperdark au #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sonic au #sonic fandom #hyper shadow x dark sonic au #hyper shadow #dark sonic

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ghostchems · 8 months ago

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phantom of the paradise - papa emeritus iv x reader

you go to a special screening of “phantom of the paradise” and end up being taken with the strange man who introduces the film

a/n: listen. i love awkward copia, i really do. but i also love seductive, mysterious, otherworldly copia and that is what this is. there’s just uh kissin’ here. also maybe this is me trying to get Ghost fans to watch this movie bc there’s so much ghost dna in it MAN. 3.7k words ao3 link.

Going to the movies alone never bothered you. In fact, over the years it's become one of your favorite pastimes. You can see whatever you want without worrying about finding a companion. Your taste is… well, it's your taste. Not everyone appreciates experimental '70s films or rock operas, which is exactly what you have planned for today. You've managed to snag a ticket to a rare showing of Brian De Palma's "Phantom of the Paradise" at your local independent theater. You first came across the film a few months ago, watching it nestled on your couch. From the moment it started, you knew it was something special.

You find a seat in the theater's center, perfectly positioned for the screen. Settling in, you cross your legs and place a notebook on your lap. Your pen taps rhythmically as you await the film's start, ready to jot down thoughts for your future Letterboxd review. The theater gradually fills, buzzing with excitement for this cult film on the big screen. You sigh deeply, relaxing into the plush seat. This feels like a well-deserved treat after a long work week, a chance to escape the real world for an hour and a half of drug-fueled musical numbers.

The lights start to dim and the chatter subsides. A man walks out on the stage, immediately capturing the theater’s attention. His appearance is nothing short of ghostly. His face is painted like a skeleton, with stark white bone-like features contrasting against the dark hollows of his eyes and cheeks. What's most striking, however, are his eyes - one a piercing white, the other an eerie green. He's dressed in a stylishly tattered suit jacket paired with a vibrant blue cravat at his neck. You glance down at your notepad and write:

Spooky ghost man.

He approaches the small podium and adjusts the microphone awkwardly. Clearing his throat, he begins to speak with a hint of an Italian accent, his captivating tone immediately drawing in the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, 'Phantom of the Paradise' isn't just a film to me." He pauses, his mismatched eyes scanning the crowd. "It taught me about the power of music, the price of ambition, and the beauty of the bizarre. It inspired me to embrace my own uniqueness." His words hang in the air for a moment before he concludes, "I hope it moves you as deeply as it moved me. Enjoy the show." His lips quirk into a barely perceptible grin as he taps his notecard against the podium. There’s scattered applause.

The lights dim further, signaling the film's start, yet your gaze remains transfixed on the ghost man, his stark white skull paint a beacon in the darkness. As you attempt to redirect your focus to the screen, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. The ghost man has silently glided into your row, settling a few seats away. Throughout the film, his presence lingers beside you, more aware of him than you would like to admit. His reactions prove oddly charming—a soft chuckle punctuating comedic moments, a subtle lean forward during tense scenes. What captivates you most is his quiet humming along to select musical numbers, his voice a barely perceptible whisper that, surprisingly, enhances rather than detracts from your enjoyment.

His enthusiasm is palpable, and you can't help but feel intrigued. As "The Hell of It" plays during the end credits, his soft singing drifts to your ears. The haunting melody lingers in the air as you find yourself unconsciously tapping your foot to the rhythm. When the lights slowly come up, you turn to catch a glimpse of the mysterious ghost man, only to find his seat empty. Blinking in surprise, you shift your gaze to your notebook. You realize there are more notes about the him than the movie itself.

Gathering your belongings, you linger in your seat for a moment, still processing the film and the man’s lingering presence beside you. You make your way to the lobby, your eyes scanning the crowd, searching for him. But he's nowhere to be seen. Without thinking, you’re already stepping out onto the street, the cool afternoon air hitting your face. You pause, unsure of what you're looking for or why. That's when you spot him—a flash of white and tattered elegance disappearing into an alley behind the theater. Without thinking, you follow, your footsteps quickening as you approach the narrow passage.

You round the corner, you catch sight of him walking away, unhurried and almost graceful. You hesitate, torn between calling out to him and silently observing this strange, captivating figure as he moves further into the shadows. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks. Without turning around, he speaks, amusement in his voice. "Are you following me, friend?" There's no accusation in his tone, just a gentle question. He slowly turns to face you, his mismatched eyes twinkling with an odd sort of understanding. "I suppose the film wasn't quite enough for you either, hm?" He chuckles softly, seemingly at ease with the situation.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. "I... I really liked your introduction," you stammer, feeling a bit foolish. "I'm sorry for following you. I don't usually do this kind of thing."

The ghost man's painted lips curl into a smile. "No need to apologize, tesoro. I tend to have this effect on people. Though, not typically from my film introductions." He takes a step closer, his eyes studying you with curiosity.

"Thank you," you say, offering a small smile. "I thought your introduction was really nice. It added something personal." You hesitate for a moment before continuing. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but... your appearance. Are you like dressed as a character from something?”

The ghost man's smile widens. "Ah, always the question, isn't it?" he says, running a hand through his graying brown hair hair. "This is… eh, me in a way. It’s a long story." He chuckles softly, the sound echoing in the alley. His expression shifts, a hint of shyness creeping into his demeanor. "Perhaps... perhaps it would be easier if I showed you," he says, his eyes searching yours. "Would you like to see?"

"How could you show me?" you ask, curiosity and caution in your voice.

His ghost man's eyes brighten. "There's something not far from here that will explain better than my words ever could," he says, gesturing down the alley. "It's just around the corner."

A part of you suspects this could be a trap. You're reminded of the film—how Leach's initial trust in Swan led to his downfall. Yet, despite the warning bells in your head, you find yourself nodding. "Alright," you say, surprising yourself. "I'll come with you."

The ghost man's painted face softens. "Thank you for trusting me," he says quietly, a hint of warmth in his voice. "This way, per favore." He turns and begins to walk deeper into the alley, his movements slow and deliberate. Your eyes fall to his pants, tattered just like his coat and tight. You trail behind him, notebook still in hand as a sense of unease begins to creep over you. The dimly lit alley seems to go on forever. Where could he be taking you? Why not just explain himself?

After a few minutes of walking, you find yourself standing before a small chapel tucked away a few blocks from downtown. There's something unsettling about its appearance—the weathered stone seems to absorb the dim streetlight, and the windows are dark and opaque. Your gaze falls to a few lone gravestones in the yard. The ghost man gestures towards the entrance.

"After you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. You swallow a breath before pushing open the heavy wooden door. The interior is dimly lit, black flickering candles casting long shadows across the walls. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you gasp. Directly across from you stands a large stained glass window, its center dominated by a portrait of the ghost man himself. The inscription reads 'Papa Emeritus IV'. The window depicts him in all his skeletal glory, a coy look on his face, a barely perceptible smiles. The craftsmanship is exquisite and with vibrant colors, namely the bright blue robe adorned with intricate yellow and black designs that cloaked him. You turn to Papa, questions forming on your lips, but he's already moving towards the window, his eyes fixed on his own image.

He reaches out, his gloved fingers tracing the outline of his own face in the glass. "This is who I am," he says, his voice echoing in the empty chapel. Papa's finger traces further down to the script on the window: Avē, avē Antichriste! Avē Satana! A shiver runs down your spine as you recognize the Latin phrase. It reminds you of "The Omen." As you absorb the stained glass and the chapel's eerie ambiance, you're struck by how much Papa resembles the Phantom—not of the Paradise, but of the Opera. You can't help but draw parallels between the two figures, especially given that he's all but lured you to his secret lair.

Lost in your thoughts and the mesmerizing stained glass, you fail to notice Papa's approach. You feel his presence behind you — a chill runs down your spine as you feel his breath on your neck. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Papa's voice is soft, almost wistful.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Your heart races as you feel Papa's gloved hands gently come to rest on your shoulders. The touch is light, almost comforting, but it sends a jolt of electricity through your body. The stained glass before you seems to shimmer in the candlelight, Papa's painted face both mesmerizing and unsettling. You remain frozen, unable to speak, as Papa's fingers give your shoulders a gentle squeeze.

His touch lingers for a moment before he steps back, allowing you to breathe again. "Tell me," Papa's voice is low, almost hypnotic, "what do you think of my little sanctuary?"

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "It's... nice," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like something out of a dream...” Or a nightmare, you think to yourself. You turn to face Papa, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Why did you bring me here?"

Papa's lips curl into a warm smile. "To show you a glimpse of my world," he replies, his voice a low, melodious purr. "As I mentioned, I have an effect on certain people—those with open minds who might be receptive to an offer, perhaps... or simply to satisfy their curiosity."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued yet cautious, the theme of this encounter. "An offer? What kind of offer?" Your jaw clenches as you recall the film, half-expecting Papa to produce a contract like Swan did with Leach.

Papa's grin widens, revealing a hint of perfectly white teeth. "Ah, curious, aren't we? Well, cara, I represent a rather... unique congregation. We're always looking to expand our flock, so to speak."

"Congregation?"

"Yes," Papa nods and a gust of air makes the candles in the room flicker. "I'm part of what you might call the Satanic church. But, eh, not to worry," he adds quickly, noticing your expression, "it’s not what you think. We're about celebrating individuality, embracing the unconventional, and most importantly... music."

You blink, struggling to process this information. "Music?" The connection suddenly clicks. "That explains why you sponsored the film."

"Oh yes," Papa says, his voice taking on a passionate tone. "Music is at the heart of what we do. It's how we express ourselves, how we connect with each other and the world around us. We have a band of ghouls and I am the bandleader — eh, but that is not my only job. It is my favorite part, though. Other than sponsoring cult films, of course.”

You hesitate, your eyes darting around the small chapel. There's an undeniable allure to Papa's words and presence, but a nagging voice in your head warns you this could be a trick. Yet, something about his sincerity and the passion in his voice when he speaks of music resonates with you.

"I... I'm not sure," you say, your voice wavering slightly. "All I had planned for today was to see a movie… not this."

Papa's expression softens. "I saw you in the theater. Your passion for the film, your openness to the unconventional. I, eh, thought you might be someone who could appreciate what we offer. Someone who might want to... explore a bit further." His words strike a chord within you, resonating with a part of yourself you didn't know existed. Your heart flutters, excitement and nervousness coursing through your veins. As if sensing your stress, Papa reaches out, his gloved hand gently cupping your face. His thumb brushes along your jaw, the touch electrifying and soothing.

"There's no need to decide right now," Papa murmurs, his mismatched eyes locked with yours. "But perhaps... a taste of what we offer?" His painted lips curl into a soft, inviting smile.

Your heart races, feeling trapped. Is this really happening? You know the smart thing would be to leave, to get far away from here and forget this ever happened. But, you find yourself unable to tear your gaze away from his piercing white eye.

"I... I think I'd like that," you whisper, your voice barely audible in the hushed chapel. A burning curiosity has taken hold of you, one you can't shake. Papa's otherworldly aura envelops you, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. His hand drifts from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. With his other hand, he takes your notebook—the last barrier between you—and tosses it over his shoulder.

Your breath catches in your throat as Papa leans in, his painted face drawing closer. As his lips meet yours, time seems to slow. The kiss is unlike anything you've ever experienced—soft yet electrifying, tender yet passionate. The gentle pressure of his lips sends waves of heat through your body, each one more intense than the last. You find yourself leaning into him, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tattered coat. Papa's arms encircle your waist, pulling you closer until you're pressed against him. The scent of incense, candlewax, and a hint of brimstone envelops you, making your head spin.

His lips move against yours with increasing fervor, and you feel yourself getting lost in the sensuality of the moment. The kiss deepens, and you taste a hint of something sweet on his tongue. It's intoxicating, addictive, and you find yourself wanting more. His gloved hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue explores your mouth with skilled precision. Your knees weaken, and you cling to him for support, your fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. The kiss seems to last for an eternity, stealing your breath and leaving you dizzy with desire. When Papa finally pulls away, you gasp for air, your chest heaving. Your lips feel swollen and sensitive, tingling with the lingering effects of his touch.

His appearance is noticeably more disheveled now, his painted face slightly smudged and his tattered coat askew. His mismatched eyes gleam with a wild intensity, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, mirroring your own breathlessness. It's clear that the kiss affected him just as profoundly as it did you. His gloved hands still rest on your waist, his grip firm yet gentle.

"My, my," he purrs, his voice husky and low. "You are full of surprises, aren't you?" A sly smile plays on his lips as he regards you with a mixture of admiration and desire. The candles in the chapel seem to flicker more intensely, casting dancing shadows across his painted features. “May I kiss you again?” When he asks so politely, how can you say no?

"Yes," you breathe, barely audible even to yourself. "Please."

Papa's eyes flash with desire as he swiftly lifts you, his surprising strength catching you off guard. He sets you down on the altar, the cold stone a stark contrast to your heated skin. His lips crash against yours once more, hungry and demanding. His gloved hands roam your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You arch into his touch, lost in his enveloping presence. He draws your lower lip into his mouth, dragging his teeth along it, eliciting a gasp from you.

He plants a few kisses to the corner of your mouth, then drifts to your jaw and further down. His lips trace a tantalizing path along your jawline, each touch sending shivers down your spine. As he reaches the sensitive spot just below your ear, you feel his hot breath against your skin, causing goosebumps. Papa's kisses become more insistent as he moves down your neck with soft, feather-light touches and more passionate, open-mouthed kisses. Your breath hitches as he finds a particularly sensitive spot at the base of your neck and you can feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin.

You can't help but wonder if you've crossed a line you can't come back from — but do you really care at the moment?

Papa lifts his head to meet your gaze, his face paint now thoroughly smeared. You wonder if any has transferred onto you. He leans in, his strong nose brushing along your cheek as he presses his forehead against yours. Suddenly, the candles flicker out, plunging you both into darkness—save for the ethereal glow of the stained glass window. He rests hands resting on either side of you and his chest heaves with each breath. His ghostly eyes, glazed with desire, lock onto yours as he watches you catch your breath. "Will you consider joining my flock?" he asks, his voice husky.

You struggle to catch your breath, your mind still hazy from the intensity. "I... I'll think about it," you manage to say between gasps, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his offer hangs in the air.

Papa's lips curl into a grin, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Take all the time you need, tesoro," he purrs. "When you're ready… I'll find you." He leans in, his painted face mere inches from yours. His gaze searches your face, a flicker of softness in its depths. With careful gentleness, he presses his lips to yours. This kiss is vastly different from his other kisses — tender, almost romantic. As he pulls away, you feel a pang of loss. Papa's smile returns as he takes a step back, his gaze never leaving yours. "Until we meet again," he murmurs.

You watch as he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the small chapel, growing fainter until they fade entirely. Left alone on the edge of the altar, you're surrounded by flickering candles and the lingering scent of incense. A part of you considers calling out, asking him to stay, but something holds you back. In the end, you let him go. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. Your legs feel shaky as you slide off the altar, adjusting your clothes with trembling hands. The cool air of the chapel hits your flushed skin, bringing you back to reality. Eye scan the dimly lit space, searching for your notebook. You spot it on a nearby pew, right where you must have dropped it earlier. Opening the notebook to a fresh page, you fumble for your pen. Your hand is still unsteady as you begin to scribble down the man’s name and the Latin on the stained glass, a reminder of the otherworldly encounter you just had.

With one last glance around the empty chapel, you clutch your notebook to your chest and make your way towards the exit. The outside world feels startlingly normal after what you've just experienced. Your feet hit the ground with renewed purpose as you head back to your apartment.

Your mind wanders as you walk home. You can't help but wonder if Papa's offer is similar to Swan's - a large contract signed in blood that would bind you to him until death. Perhaps you’re being dramatic. He seemed to model himself after the phantom, but you're not so sure of his intentions. There's something more sinister about Papa that sets him apart. The way he moved, the intensity of his gaze, the power of his touch - it all hints at something beyond human. You shiver, remembering the electrifying sensation of his kiss, the intoxicating taste on his tongue. Part of you is terrified, but another part is thrilled by his allure.

You approach your apartment but you find yourself glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see Papa's striking figure materialize from the shadows. The memory of his touch lingers on your skin, and you can still taste the sweetness of his kiss on your lips. You unlock your door with trembling hands and quickly close it once inside, leaning against it with a slow exhale. Your eyes fall on your laptop, and a sudden urge overtakes you. You rush to it, opening a new browser window. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before you type: "Papa Emeritus IV”.

There he is, Papa Emeritus IV, in all his ghoulish glory. The images match perfectly with the man you encountered in the chapel - the skull-like face paint, and his haunting white eye. You scroll through countless photos, some showing him in the tattered suit you saw today, others in the more elaborate robes depicted in the stained glass window. Your heart races as you dig deeper. The Satanic church he mentioned? It's real, though perhaps not in the traditional sense you might have imagined. It's more of a theatrical rock band called Ghost, with Papa as the frontman. Their music videos and live performances are a spectacle of occult imagery and rock opera grandeur, reminiscent of the very film you just watched.

Everything Papa told you checks out. The band of ghouls, his role as the bandleader, the emphasis on individuality and unconventional expression - it's all there, laid out in interviews, fan forums, and official band statements. You even find mentions of their penchant for sponsoring cult film screenings, just like the one you attended. As you lean back in your chair, a mix of emotions washes over you. Relief at him telling you the truth, confusion at his theatrics. Your fingers unconsciously trace your lips, remembering the electrifying kiss.

You can't help but wonder: what would joining his "flock" truly entail?

#papa emeritus iv x reader #papa emeritus iv #copia #cardinal copia #ghost band fanfic #Maybe… maybe there will be more

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elriel-oblivion · 6 months ago

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Hey elriels, just wanna say I absolutely love the elriel corner of tumblr and sharing the space with you guys. It's geniunely the only place I can get good concentrated elriel content on the whole Internet 😭 reddit is usually full of Elain/az haters or Lucien/gwynriel simps and so even elain/elriel threads become poisoned. Plus you don't get the same level of analysis and deep dives there as you do here.

So thanks for being here 🥰🥰 Elriels are so intelligent and soft and I love it.

That said, I've realised the acotar podcast I've been listening to this year (Book Talk for BookTok) has slowly descended into anti elriel rhetoric every time el or Az is mentioned and I just 🥲🥲🥲 Genuinely thought they would give a generous, fair analysis on elriel but all they've given since their ACOWAR analysis is pro elucien/Lucien and anti elriel and I can't with it any more. Really gutted bc I generally enjoy the rest of the podcast, but their analysis always excludes pro elriel interpretations or even skips over textual evidence that 99.999% points to elriel endgame (eg they didn't touch at all on Feyre questioning the elucien bond and Rhys saying the bond is sometimes wrong but every time Lucien is mentioned in the book, he gets a pro elucien point). Bit ironic bc one of them is a self-proclaimed elriel herself and both usually allow for multiple interpretations of the text.

I'm currently on their ACOFAS analysis so maybe it'll get better but I doubt it bc there was more of that misogynistic 'Elain's so rude, she doesn't even give Lucien a chance!! Shes denying what her body wants when it always draws towards him!!' idea in just the first episode alone 🙃 Pity. They don't have this outlook when Nesta's spiralling and wants to be away from everyone incl Cassian.

I'll prob finish their FAS analysis and when they release their ACOSF analysis, I'll listen to that too bc they do have good literary analysis, but for elriel, it's a no from me.

So does anyone know of any pro-elriel acotar podcasts? Amazing if the podcast focus is elriel throughout the series but I doubt that exists lolol so I'd be happy with another in depth acotar analysis by people who have a pro elriel outlook. Or at least, even if they give pro elucien points, not to erase the elriel evidence and give both sides a fair chance.

Tldr: know any pro elriel acotar podcasts?

#elriel #elain archeron #elain x azriel #acotar #elriel supremacy #elain #pro elriel #pro elain and azriel #azriel and elain #anti elucien #anti gwynriel #pro elain archeron #pro elain #pro azriel

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fanatical4creation · 1 year ago

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INVERTED!Poppy!!!

Finally made her up, I was just putting it off and putting off designing her but then I took my pen, my new laptop and drew it, now look at her!!!

Alright let's start shall we?

Design:

"OMG FANATICAL WHY DOES POPPY LOOKS LIKE A FRISK-" Shhhhh, you need to calm down, i'll explain everything;

Alright, bare with me: The original Poppy mentions in an animation, that she's talking to her therapist, that people usually thinks she's a Chara, but she's none! And I think, I theorize, I suppose that the reason why she looks like a Chara is bc an Frisk was drawing her (you know her lore?), so supposing that the whole concept of Invertedverse is that the original universe Underswap, that Frisk who drew her is an Chara, so if the Frisk drew a Chara in the original, here the Frisk that is now a Chara would draw a Frisk....... so, that's the logic here.;

Even though Poppy is still not a Frisk nor a Chara, but I don't think I translated that into her design, maybe I'll redo it sometime.

Her clothings are intriguing. It's her original teenage/adult clothings but with some green and a purple cloak or cape, whatever that is. This cloak represents her importance inside OmegaTimeline, that reminds me;

View from back Ω:

Made it with wind because it's cool, plus, her silhouette is cool too

Story:

Core was the "ruler" of Omega Timeline, everyone would look for them when there was a problem and needed help, everybody trusted them, but they put Poppy on their place... Core is a very mischievous character, no one really knows why they put Poppy in charge.

Omega citizens theorize that the reason is because Core was lazy, or that they didn't like the attention, or maybe they wanted to focus fully on recruting people, even thought after Poppy got in charge Core was rarely seen interacting with people and also the numbers of new survivors to get to the OT decreased.

Poppy tries her best to help remain peace within Omega Timeline, even if it requires all of her energies, thought she could really use some help, she thinks that the reason why her parent is more absent while she was in charge was because they knew she could everything alone, and that she should do it.

She doesn't have many friends, and the old ones got far away because she's too busy working signing papers, solving problems, financing projects, etc, etc.

Character:

She suffers. That's the truth, she just needs a vacation and a hug from her girlfriend.

She doesn't like parties... just thought it was important to mention.

Poppy doesn't like her parent, almost hates them even, they seem so irresponsible, imature and a coward, after just letting their daughter in charge of a (practically) country in surprise, it's expected for her to feel that way

Poppy has to be the clueless character in the whole Invertedverse, the reason is that she's so busy at work, or too busy being tired, and she usually gets information on what's going on from Core, but Core have been very silent lately, wonder why...

She has the hobby of playing board games, dancing and origamis!

She likes to cook more for others than herself

Sometimes she would visit the Madame T's orphanage, mainly to see Cadence and her friends, but also to donate and all of that things famous ppl do in orphanages idk.

Even thought she does a lot of hard work sometimes she'd take credit over someone elses work unintentionally, i mean, she's kind of the president.

She can't lie, like literally, maybe it's just her morals, or maybe it's a supernatural force idk.

She also keeps taping her fingers in hard surfaces all the time, I think it's anxiety.

Oh yeah, her full name is still Poppy Marusina, but she can also be called Iris Marusina, or maybe I'll change that to her original name, idk

Poppy (c) fmsdraws

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123puppy · 1 year ago

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Sharing a bed is peak Appleradio potential but lemme run with the idea of Alastor suffering through sleepless night and all of the above

If he can help it, Al will stay awake for as long as he can until he passes out, and wherever he goes to lie down and rest is anyone's guess but I like to think he hides in the guest rooms of the hotel, the darkest corners like the closets, under the beds, anywhere where no one can see or find him

During the start of their relationship Alastor never slept in a bed with Lucifer for months. It was a thing Lucifer didn't know how to tread upon since Alastor will deflect the questions or attempts to sleep in the same bed, and that's it, nothing but lying in bed, sleeping. No touching required

With some gentle persuasion and endless promises not to do anything but close their eyes and lay in bed for 8 hours, Alastor caved and they were sharing a bed late one night

And it was... nice. Very nice. The presence of Lucifer alone calmed his mind, he can hear the soft breathing of the man beside him and the small shifts whenever Lucifer rolled around in bed. It put him at ease, his eyes closed, taking in the scent of his partner, and....

He can't move, why can't he move, he's still in bed but it feels wrong, so very wrong, wait where's Lucifer, where did he go he was right here a second ago, why are the shadows creeping towards him, they look more jagged and seem to sneer at him like he's a disgusting piece of meat, wait his throat, why can't he breathe, what is sitting on his chest no wait-his windpipe is being crushed-what is happening why can't he breathe!?!!?!? His hands, they're stuck, his vision is getting blurry, the shadows are laughing at him and begin to swallow him, suffocating him even more, he tries calling for help but all that comes out is a bleat-

Lucifer is in a panic when he gets woken up by the tremors on the bed and witnessing his partner suffering through Sleep Paralysis, he calls Alastor by his name and what he gets is a bleat in response and his heart throbs at the impact the sound makes

He wants to touch but fights the need bc there is no good outcome from it so he continues to call Alastor gently, coaxing him out of his petrified state by giving him reassurance after reassurance and remaining close by but not touching so that Alastor can feel his presence

It was grueling to hear his partner make broken sounds and painful to get sharp popping noises and drowned out radio static, but Alastor fully wakes up and Lucifer is so relieved

But Al, Al is frozen, silent, breathing heavy as his eyes dart around the room, like he's looking for something, and Lucifer sees how frantic he is, he's getting ready to run-

And Alastor is startled when a wispy outline of a duck nuzzles his cheek what-

Said duck waddles into his line of sight, exaggerated movements and soft chirps drawing Al's attention away from his downward spiral. A second joins the first, then a third, fourth and fifth. They're following each in a figure eight pattern and harmonizing together

And Alastor is mesmerized by the scene, his smile small and exhausted but calm and less strained, radio static softer with a hint of a song coming into focus as the display calms him, breathing steady

And maybe this becomes a thing before they go to bed or when another Sleep Paralysis/Nightmare happens and maaaybe Alastor would inch closer and closer to Lucifer until their backs would touch and sleeping becomes a little bearable

#If I can't sleep neither will Alastor #Until I finish writing lol #appleradio #radioapple #hazbin hotel

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unknown-art-room1 · 5 months ago

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stex... save me stex...

suggestion: Polar Express!

The one in the film is an American 2-8-4 Berkshire steam Locomotive... and modified to look more like a Pere Marquette 1225, which is also a steam Locomotive.

Because The Polar Express was also a Zemeckis film, it had a bttf 3 reference in it, and there's a frame of the engine having flux capacitor in it. Does Santa have bc yes? who knows.

What I do know is that it is a yearly tradition of my family to watch the movie during the holidays, and also said Express CAN FUCKING DRIFT ON ICE.

(and also bends??)

she's so cool

Okay, when designing her I remembered the fact you mentioned about the flux capacitor in the engine. But I didn't notice how you called the engine a "her", but that's okay! I made the engine a female anyways so it's all good in the train hood! ... Was that too cheesy? I can't tell.

But here she is! I call her Pea! Very simple: Polar Express = P. E = Pea. On her shoulders are the symbols of the flux capacitor, her ear muffs have bells like seen on the front of the train, the side of her shoes have snowflakes, her gloves in the yellow areas are reindeer but they are covered up, and she has the numbers 1225 on her. Only other thing I can say about her is that I used Momma McCoy as a reference.

Apart from these images, I am going to talk about other ideas I had that link to her but don't include Pea. By that I mean I'm talking about her one Freight car and her coaches. I did not draw them because that's way too many characters I have to make.

For her Freight he carries coal, like how Dustin and Porter would. I can see him as being a big guy, tall with a wide secret sleeper kinda build. Extremely friendly and not afraid to work hard when it comes to helping Pea, and keeps the coaches in line when they're all working as Pea has to focus on leading the way and getting them through everything to reach the North Pole.

Okay the coaches... For a start, I fully believe the coaches would look like elves in terms of design. They're smaller than the first two, and there is a lot more of them in number like how you would see the elves towards the end of the movie. Each of them being friendly, with their own personalities based on what they are used for. One makes hot chocolate and baked goods so they smell sweet, another is storage for all the items the kids need, another holds supplies for cleaning, I wouldn't be surprised if they had a medical cost.... The creepiest one being the one filled with old toys. Acting more eccentric and unhappy about people throwing these toys away, wanting you to feel guilty about your choices.

However, in the movie we see about four of them? The main one the kids are in, the two on the other side of that one, and the one filled with old toys. While the posters you see several more of them. Which honestly makes sense to me, the train has some kind of magic since she could drive from what I'm assuming is America all the way to the North Pole.

If this train is magic in that regard than they can probably add or take away coaches from the children so they don't get stuck in a coach or hurt themselves. They have room for all those people who served hot chocolate and had storage for the cups, and machines used to make it. There has to be something going on here, maybe these ones can only be accessed by the adults, maybe the children as well if necessary.

I am fully willing to suggest they have their own Caboose. They were used for cooking and cleaning for the ones who worked on the train and traveled with it, I wouldn't be surprised if they had one.

#my art #sketches #art #starlight express #stex fanart #stex appreciation month #stex london 2024 #stex revival #stex 2024 #stex headcannon #stex oc #stex #stex polar express #stex pea #polar express pea #polar express #art request #request

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sweetieviktor · 9 months ago

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"take me back to the night we met", feat. viktor.

summary: you knew he was dieing, but seeing him using shimmer was too much to bare . based on the song "the night we met", by lord huron.

word count: 720.

content warning: season 1, act 3 spoilers! idk if shimmer use count as a cw, but anyways this is angst and it doesn't have a happy ending!

author notes: there's so much time since i've written fanfiction!! but i loved doind this one and i swear that i cried while writing this. and this may be very ooc and doesn't match the scenes in season 1, act 3, but i dont have time to watch it again now and i was so hyped up bcs of season 2 that i just had to write something, yk? also, there may be some typos or grammar errors even though i re-read this like 3 times i think lol. but yeah, here it is!

you came back to his lab expecting to see him doing good, maybe working on his research, too focused on any stuff he was doing at the moment and not noticing you by the door, but he wasn't in there, or so it looked like.

he was hunched over his desk, in his hands was a glass tube, the remaining of the purple liquid shimmering in the dark room, illuminating just enough to draw his weak silhouette amongst the shadows.

“viktor…?” was everything you said while getting closer to him, walking with slow steps, trying to make no sounds to alarm him.

“stop.” raising a hand, that was all he said.

just as you were told, you stopped on your tracks, observing that, his once perfect hand, was now painted in a shade of purple, the same that was inside the glass recipient.

it can't be. right?

“what you did to yourself?”

“i did what needed to be done.” he was so baretoned, you didn't understand why he seemed so rude, so crude, so… unlike him.

when his words settled in, it felt like your stomach was turning, wrapping itself around your guts, making you sick. you felt sick, for him.

“please, please, viktor, don't tell me that you're using sh-” “yes.”

of course you knew about his condition, of course you knew he wasn't doing good at all, and mostly, you knew that things were meant to end, one way or another. but you didn't think he would kill himself like this.

and this was all you needed to break.

“why you didn't told me? i could have helped you, we could find a way to work through it,” the tears started to prick on your eyes, your voice breaking, the anger at yourself pooling into your core. “you wouldn't need to use shimmer, vik...”

the feeling that the universe stole and took all that once mattered to you was what drove you insane. the feeling that you could make things different, make things better, the oh so simple solution that you could find, if only he had told you.

“it’s not that easy! you wouldn't understand if i told you sooner. no one would understand it, even if they tried really hard to.” he turned his head towards your direction, looking at your face for a brief second, before turning his gaze back to the ground, his purple irises trying to focus on something that wasn't your saddened face, now, feeling his own eyes burning, burning even more than the blood running in his veins. “we are in piltover, the city of progress, and yet, i am stuck behind, and i'm dieing. so, i needed to do something, and i did.”

“what you don’t understand is that you're destroying yourself, viktor. destroying yourself so slowly that it almost feels like torture. i fear that i wouldn't be able to see you for another day.” you sobbed, the tears rolling down and he didn't dare to look at your eyes again, he knew that you were crying. he knew it and he couldn't bear the thought that he was the one that made you cry. “if there is a god somewhere, i wish they could turn back time and take me back to the night we met. maybe things could be different, right?”

looking at him, a weak, nervous smile was all you could get out while crying, thinking to yourself when things started to get this wrong and how you let it happen, without even realizing what was wrong. how could you let him do this to himself?

your body was shaking, it felt like the whole world was trembling. the nonstoping thoughts hammering your head, your heart a mile per minute, the air in your lungs wasn't enough. everything, everything seemed like it was crushing down on you, right in this moment.

“i'm sorry. i'm so sorry... i need to go. now.”

you needed to get out of here, you needed to breathe.

you headed back to the door, wishing that some cold breeze would cool you down, would just stop your mind and racing heart. wishing for him to be fine again. praying for any and all gods that lived in the skies and beyond, praying for him to be alive. just for a bit more.

#—swe writes #lol x reader #arcane #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #viktor angst #machine herald #arcane angst #viktor lol #league of legends x reader #i swear that i cried while writing this like aaaaarg yk? but i love how it turned out #and it felt so good to write some fanfiction after almost 3 years (yes the last fandom i wrote something was arcane lol #even if i dont write angst that much #i think this one is just chef kiss you know #i love this fandom so much #viktor nation rise #i've made angst content for yall

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lsunstreakerl · 1 month ago

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alralr the race is starting but im not gonna be able to watch it so im gonna spend the last 20 mins or whatevr i have on yapping abt the fmf design for max 🙏

first, this is explicitly for the northern kingdom soo like the first chapter when he was still living there, this is what he would've looked like. ofc after moving he had to adapt to verhoeven's dress code so !!

last time i yapped a lot abt material and worldbuilding, this time around i wanted to focus a lot more on the actual design and what it means.

so cloak colour change, bc the other one didn't really give what it was supposed to give and i was able to put a lot more meaning into this one. dark inky blue cloak, and a pop of orange somewhere unexpected. the idea is, in an animation sequence the cloak could be affected by the wind revealing the striking verstappen orange. this type of instance would ofc only happen in situations like high up on a podium giving a speech, fight sequences etc. spaces where the show of power from the royals r required, the patriotic orange also showcases specifically on max's character the entirety of his person that he hides behind a heavy coat for the sake of his kingdom.

briefly back to material for a moment but the fur lining the cloak is mixed in an effort to have affordable distribution of resources. the standard quota would be for royalty to have refine. materials while the civilians can get mixed but max insisted on his being just like the ones of the people. his guilt could never.

the undercloak is black, inky like a single brush stroke and it effectively obscures his figure underneath the heavy cloak on top. the whole outfit is an illusion. and it'll only become apparent once we look at his red-cheeked, ruddy young face.

the layers, the fur, the cloak that swishes around his rather thin legs all serve a purpose and it's to obscure his silhouette to make him seem more imposing than he actually is. this young verstappen is the one that harshly trained those trainees and made them men. and he was angry. the orange underneath the sea blue tells many stories and his boyish overgrown winter hair (people r dying there's no time for style) paired with his rosy cheeks tell us an even fuller one.

his hands r hidden beneath his cloak, his knives r tucked in his belt right next to where he rests his palms. sometimes he thinks that he can move the knife as if it were his own head. his whole silhouette looks like an arrow. he's a weapon first. sometimes he forgets where the blade ends and he starts.

hshsj soo those r my thoughts. if we ever get some sort of ficlet or flashback chapters maybe a prologue on max in his hometown then i suppose this design would be relevant lol. i think first establishing who he used to be is important to establish who he became, so even if it's irrelevant rn, the teenage-young adult design would be quintessential to his development as a human methinks.

i loveddd the softness of chapter 6 !! very cute i can't wait to see where it all goes ur writing's beautifulll mwah xx

AHHHHHH OH MY GOD. please know I'm going insane about all the little pieces of this. off my rocker, they're peeling me off of the walls.

his fluffy hair!! and the blush!! hiding behind all the fur I need to squish him.

I love the way you showcased his need to not be seen "above" his people. he uses the same materials they do, he lives in similar conditions. he heats his own water, he hunts for his own furs when necessary, he goes out to the villages to assist however he can. he's a member of the community before he's a verstappen, and that's what's earned him their fierce loyalty.

THE ORANGE I LOVE IT. I see your vision about it being an incredible visual cue, and I think it's also very inspiring, seeing how they don't have bright colors all that often. it makes max easily identifiable in a fight if he wants to be, either to draw attention away from others or serve as a rallying point.

max having to "hide" himself behind those layers, to present an image that's older, larger, more of a figurehead— you get it!!

always having his hands near his weapons, constantly being aware, all of that is an important part of max. survival can be v harsh up north, and when it comes down to survival of the fittest, then it's rightfully assumed that the leader is the most adapted to the environment.

I do actually have a prequel ficlet in the works for him! it'll probably be a tumblr exclusive thing for right now, but it's in progress :)

once again I am going feral about this it's BEAUTIFUL and I'm absolutely obsessed, you've done an absolutely incredible job 🤍🤍🤍

#fmf verse #fmf art #CHEWING ON THE WALLS

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