#doom metal fans PLEASE interact

[king-ofworms]

GOD this song is like molten gold injected straight into my VEINS if i dont share it with anyone i'm going to lose my mind

[nzia-writes]

•{Speak life unto me}•

RATED SLUTTY 18+

Sums: Riri let’s you practice a majorette dance routine in her garage while she remodels her prototype.

I feel like Dom would channel Riri in this manner. It’s a sappy little something that’s heavy with dialogue. You have been warned. Enjoy.

Interact please and thank you

(tagging a couple folks I seen under riri fics: )

@donewit51life @mysticalmarss @shinsousliya @c0cac0laguns2 @mlmilani @melodykisses @doms-fav @verachii @luhreen @zayswriting

Riri Williams

You draw a breath, trying your hand at Coach’s complex combination once more. You fail with ten steps off count, ten seconds off beat, and ten milliseconds from freaking out.

This is the 100th time and disappointment has been the only result. Come on man. Seems as if fuck-ups is what you run into and a fuck-up is what you are. What else do you call someone allergic to consistency within performance in life and in art?

Coach is gon’ tell me that my efforts ain’t worth a damn again.

Skylar, the captain, gon’ call me all sorts of expletives again.

Maybe they are right. You are not the dancer you presumed yourself to be. You aren’t exhorting enough passion. You aren’t going to succeed with a dancing major. You aren’t going to dethrone Skylar from her rank as captain. Not with all of this lack. So much lack.

“Imma failure, man,” you grit.

The shrill of Riri’s hand-held power tool spurs the cacophony all the more. There is too much going on. There is too much not going on. Failure. Tears. Doom. It is an incessant thought.

You have had enough.

A reverberant scream rattles every solid item within the garage. “Fuck! Fuck Fuck!” Your vocal chords give a roiling wave of heat.

A startled RiRi flips up her welding helmet and lays her tool on the floor. By the time your hollering simmers down, your big brown eyes leak with the pressures of failure and your edges coil from sweat; a newly installed thirty-six-inch buss down gone with the speed of light.

“Y/N.”

A boisterous scream again.

Riri jumps in fright. Damn.

You labored pants follow thereafter.

“I keep on and keep on failing! Busting my ass day in and day out. Still coming up short!” You yell. You yank up your duffle, lodging your belongings inside as aggressive as your body allows. Surely it allowed just the right amount. It wasn’t offering much in many other departments. Useless, it was.

As she powers off her prototype, Riri hesitantly speaks. She’d be damned if she triggered more rage and hurt. Then there’s two bitches arguing and one leaving. “Sugg.”

“Uh uh I’m leaving. I can’t keep doing it, Ri.”

“And what you plan on doing after?”

“Ion know! Lord knows these folks don’t wanna see me win. Lord knows I ain’t got the talent in me to win!” You zip your duffle and turn to Ri, face stricken with defeat. “I’m just tired. I’m not cut fah this shit, ya heard meh?”

“Rest. You need some,” Riri says. She’s so calm, you have no other choice but to be.

“Rest? You think the world gon’ let a nigga like me rest?! Outta’ yo’ damn mind. I’m out.” You turn to go.

“You need cooling and I got it for you. Come talk to me real quick.”

“Ri…”

“Come here, boo. Please.” Her eyes plead beneath fanned out eyelashes.

She removes her welding helmet and places it on the table congested with her quantum technology and hammers. Once she shakes out her box braids, she waves you over. Maybe..just maybe..entertaining what she has to say will end with weights being lifted.

Your bag slumps to the floor and you make your way to Riri. She keeps herself true to her concern and wipes away your tears the moment you are in arm's reach. She reeks of oil and burnt metal but her aura is sweet enough to mute the most unpleasant fumes.

“I can’t stand seeing you like this..” She leans against her work table while you stand before her. Her hands work with caution to fix your disheveled appearance. “Worryin’. Stressin’. You too pretty for that.” She then laughs a bit inwardly. “Got yo’ minks lifting like they got something smart to say.” She simply peels them off and sets them aside.

You persist with a hardened mug, ever the one to cradle rage until everyone feels it.

“Come here,” she sighs, inviting your rigidness into all of her softness, raising on her tiptoes to wrap the parts of you in need of double love. “Let that shit out, sugg. You owe yourself that much.”

She is right. You do. Your rage has cracked a series of dams, but Riri’s love has cracked many more. You whimper and squeeze her small frame tight. “I love you, girl.” The words shake as you inhale. “I love you s-so much.” You squeeze tighter, rocking from side to side.

When the tough battles are fought, she’s the only man standing, willing to fight with you no matter who the enemy may be. She’s going to step about her Sugg.

“Imma always be here when everybody else ain’t, you understand me?”

“Yeah,” you exhale. She coaxes with back rubs and encouraging words until the sniffles are no more. You both soon separate to lean on the table side by side. Her fingers brush yours.

“Whatever rage you feelin’, you entitled to feel. Let it all out, much as you can.”

“Tell that to my mama. To coach. To that doghead bitch Skylar.”

Their hatred and high expectations have silenced your innermost parts. The Y/N you strive to be. And you keep silenced to keep safe, for life has become something that needs to be survived. Not lived.

Riri frowns. Your strength is admirable. You were forced to the bottom at such a young age, unheard and treated unfairly, yet here you stand with the dignity of a knight. She has sworn to sit for hours if it means you are being seen and heard and validated. She will be the change you need to see if no one else will.

“The only way out of this hurt is into it. You gotta face it.” As harsh a truth it is, life will not progress until it is experienced.

“Please… ion know the first thing about facing life. I’ve hid from most of it.”

“It ain’t something you know how to do, it’s something you learn to do. I’m here to help you find your way back. Always.” She slides her hand in yours. Squeezes softly.

“Thank you..so much.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to do. Now go ahead. Tell me how you feel. I wanna hear your heart.”

“I just got too many folks praying on my downfall. Especially back home where my mama swears my dance major ain’t worth it. No support from them unless it’s to flaunt their lavish lifestyle.”

That’s that shit right there, Riri thinks. Makes her want to disrespect your entire bloodline. But she holds back for your sake. You love them, after all. “Listen here.” She turns your face toward her, eyes locked.

“We are two young black women who made it out the slums with what we had. Talent and brains. Your ‘mama nem’ can’t take credit for that shit. You got out and did the work. That’s truth. Don’t let nobody tell you no different. Not even yourself.”

You nod. It is hard to believe, but is isn’t impossible to believe.

“Now as for the dancing. What’s up with that? Had you saying you not talented enough and whatnot. I don’t want you talking about my girl like that again, alright?”

You cheeks flush. “I don’t see nothing untruthful about it, Ri. I’m last…always. Coach and Skylar make sure of it. I’m trying for captain but… as you saw earlier I ain’t got it in me. I fuck up more than anything, ya’ know?”

Riri lets that process. She then gestures to her prototype. It’s a polished transformer looking thing. “From one creator to another, the best work is produced during our moments of strife. I’ve failed more times than I have succeeded, but that’s what makes a legend. You are a legend in the making. Don’t give up.”

“I ain’t say I was allat na’. I’m just dancing to somebody else’s shit, ya heard meh?”

“You are always so wrapped up in all you lack that you don’t take the time to see how blessed you truly are. Mama, you got it good. Real good. You shine bright and you have this remarkable essence. That shit changes people and I need you to see it for yourself.”

The more one disregards their gift the quicker it is lost on them.

Riri continues. “Hear me out..if you ain’t invited into somebody else’s circle, form your own. You were co-creator of some of the most viral dances in the loop. You got the smarts, the talent, the moves..” her eyes drink you in from toe to head “the body,” she smirks. “You can do it.”

You lick your lips and look away. Forming a dance team? Hell no. Impossible. There will be too many odds: people willing to sabotage, your own self-esteem, and the pressures of adulthood. It wouldn’t work.

“Nah I’m good on that. I’ve hid from the spotlight, cast as a shadow all my life. I’m fine where I’m at.”

“Did you hide in the back? Or were you forced to the back?”

“I um…”

You are sent on a voyage of memories that were to not be seen again. Now here they are demanding you see yourself for who you are. You have existed so long in this world as nobody. How would it feel to actually be somebody?

“Gotcha,” she laughs.

“You did,” you chuckle. “Look at you being a ghetto monk and shit.” You tug her to stand between your legs.

“And look at you flodgin’ like it ain’t making you feel something good inside. Let yourself feel it, boo. It’s what you deserve.” She flattens her palm on your abdomen, teasingly trailing it up your chest. She outlines the swirly ink sheathing your neck, acrylics lightly scraping brown skin as her hand curls around it.

“You think so?” You bite your lip, fighting the inner-princess.

“Mhm.” She knows it so. “You cool with the backseat?”

“But you all dirty and dusty.”

She tilts her head, braids falling to one side. “Under these clothes I ain’t.”

“I-“ Eyebrows raised. “Girl go head, hea’? Lemme get in this backseat.”

She laughs like the goddess she is and removes her fire-proof apron with the rest of her gear. “On your back for me too.”

“Yeah, mama.” The words melt off your tongue.

Yes, you feel as if you are gliding on your toes, carrying your heart with less strain. It is the Riri effect so it seems. You are truly grateful for a friend with a lethal mouth.

~¥~

The back of Riri’s car is humid and smells of sex. You lay across the seats, thighs forced back into their plushness, pussy spread open for her filthy onslaught. She is situated in a sniper's position with her small feet dangling out of the open car door. Her devious eyes bore into your own. This has surpassed casual sex long ago. This is love-making.

“Damn girl,” you gasp as she jerks your thighs open the moment they close in on her face. She hums against your bundle of nerves, wagging her head for a deeper dive into your oasis. You sweep her braids into a makeshift ponytail, gyrating lusciously. She eats it like she’s starving; so precise and sloppy.

“Riiii. Just like that.” You nearly force your face to become one with the seat cushion as she swiftly slides her favored fingers inside, stroking your gushy walls, twisting deliciously. She had made the quick decision to pop those acrylics off before the escapades began.

She comes up for a breath, licking her lips slathered in your nectar. “Come on, mama,” she whispers sweetly. “Don’t close up on me. I need you to take it for me, okay?”

“Okayyy. fuuu…uhhn.”

“There we go,” she whispers, glancing down. “Look at you.”

It takes all the strength in you to open your eyes to look down on command. “Shiiiit,” you whine. You didn’t feel yourself creaming.

“She’s creaming like this for me?” Riri bites her lip.

Your response sounds scrambled. You were sure it was a stammered, “all for you.”

“That’s my sweet girl.” She means that in a myriad of ways.

“My god,” you cry softly, “Baby.” You use two fingers to widen pretty brown folds, the back of your head sinking into the seat as she plunges her fingers deeper. Wet squelching noises and breathy moans surf the wind. Your brain is shoved into a mind-bending utopia, it feels so fucking good.

You glance down again to see a string of arousal dribbling down the valley of your ass only to be slurped up by the very lips milking you out. Fuck. The lick is long and ravenous, from the crack of dawn to the peak of your mountain, pouty lips suckling as if it were a dreamsicle in sticky heat.

The more speed she exerts the lower your moans drop. You are now whimpering and whispering incoherent babbles, trying your hardest to fuck back, but you consistently run up the length of the seat from Riri’s freak nastiness.

“That’s it, beautiful.” She hooks her fingers, submerges them to their deepest, and holds still. Her thumb flicks your nub deliciously. Your sharp inhale churns her brain in the best way there is, smooth skin prickling in awe of your slick muscular body and your contorted faces. So beautiful, she moans.

There is a pause in time. A hitched breath. A stuttering heart. Love. So much of it it spills over the both of you.

Riri transmutes it powerfully, keeping the pad of her fingers rubbing that raised sensitive spot inside. Your eyes cross and roll back. “Oh yes yes..” Your hand comes down to plunge her fingers in deeper so she can get in that. “Fuuck…..gonna cum. Cum…” You whine in melody, pushing out a river of glistening slick. It drizzles down Riri’s fingers just as promised. “Uhh my god.” You exhale deeply.

“There we go. Feels good to let go?”

You nod, moaning uncontrollably. She crawls up your body to enrich your lips with a salacious kiss. It’s a moaning mess clouded with a tenderness neither of you will choose to acknowledge until your hearts see fit. You spread your cheeks as she slides her fingers in and out of your creamy canal, white fluids oozing out as you clench and unclench.

“You so…” you hiss in pleasure as she slips her fingers out with care, gathering all of what you spilled with an idle circle of her fingers.

“Talk to me nice,” she hums. “Unless you want it again.”

“I can’t do it again,” you exhale, eyes heavy. You palm her cheeks, kissing her lips sweetly. Her long braids fall over your faces but you don’t care to move them.

She brings her fingers up and plunges them in your mouth. You leave not a drop leaking as she slides them out and leans in to suck it off your tongue. You both pull away to stare. You see it. She sees it. Feels it. Smells it. It’s there and it’s mighty.

“Thank you fah that, baby,” you grin. You pronounce it as beh-beh. That ‘nawlins’ never left.

“You know how deep my love runs for pussy. No need to thank me.”

“Mhm. Cute ass.” You press another fat kiss to her lips, running your hands down to her ass to grip her up. She bites her lip and breathes through her nose. She loves that shit.

“I need me a cold drink,” you chuckle.

“Guh you and me both,” Riri laughs.

End note: Imma eat every single time. 🤷🏾‍♀️

Fun fact: I write the smut quicker than the story itself.

[darkermylovex]

๋࣭ ⭑🕸๋࣭ ⭑⁺‧₊˚ ཐི𝕴𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙!ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ๋࣭🕸๋࣭ ⭑

name: call me Dory

age: dont wanna disclose but i am a minor so please be appropriate

Pronouns: she/her

about me: Massive nerd about everything and also a vampire (real). I love love love physical media, Sewing and Letterboxd. I love Goth music with my entire being (and MCR, separately).

NOTE: Unless I say otherwise, all the pictures/gif's I post are from Pinterest and belong to their owners.not me. I will never take credit for something that isn't mine!

Hobbies: Collecting Records, Sewing, Obssesing over bands, Ancient Greek + Latin, Watching movies, reading/writing Comics.

some other stuff i like : THE CROW (1994 movie and original comic) , Ville Valo, Alternative Fashion, Vampires, Comics, Autumn, Halloween, Bats, Movies, Music, Vinyl Records.

favourite artists: Voodoo Church, Clan of Xymox, The Cure, HIM, Joy Division, Sisters of Mercy, Siouxsie and The Banshees, My Chemical Romance (and more)

more stuff that might go under the cut - more fav artists, dni, please interact, fyi/other stuff

more fav artists: Frank Iero, Bauhaus, Leathermouth, Cocteau Twins, Depeche Mode, K1lling Joke, Lebanon Hanover, October Noir, London after Midnight, My Dying Bride, Skeletal family, Twin Tribes, She Past Away, VV, Paralysed Age, Necromancy, The Damned, Death Cult, She wants revenge, Bat Noveau, Dsjecta Membra, Paralysed age, Dead Can Dance, Rosetta Stone.

other genres I like: general goth music of any kind! deathrock, post-punk, Dark Wave, Gothic Rock etc. I’m also getting into Doom Metal a little more.

(I listen to way more artists but I decided not to list all of them cos it would take too long and I'm feeling lazy)

𝕯𝕹𝕴!! (dni)

-adult (unless in forums) -under 13 -homophobic -transphobic -ableist -racist -sexist -classist -body shamer -Disrespecting Religions (including if you disrespect satanism and paganism) -Not respecting ppls prns -Venting without consent -bully -Scammer -RCTA -mlm or wlw f3t1shiz3rs yuck -Melanie Martinez supporters -Defending any kind of ab*se or h8 -🇮🇱 supporter -If u glorify/romanticise w4r

𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙!!

if u like any of the bands/things I've listed

The Crow fans!!!!

Goths and other alternative people (emo, punk, scene, decora, etc)

If we're mutuals on any other platforms!

Movie, physical media or music enthusiasts!

𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖙𝖚𝖋𝖋:

tone tags are appreciated but not always necessary

I'm British (+British timezones)

i will probably edit this as i think of more to add and as my interests change!

fav user: @literallygeeway

[sp11ked]

okayyy so I just realized I don't think I've properly introduced myself on here so I might as well do any introduction post

So yea, wassup. My name is sp11ked, I'm 15 and living in a non descript area in Canada.

I don't post much oc but I do reblog stuff I think is cool. I don't really have any specific tags that beside that one music tag thingy i did that I can totally remember. I mostly just reblog though so there isn't much need for navigation.

When I'm not on tumblr I'm either skateboarding, programming or fucking off playing video games or sumthing.

I have a lot of broad hyperfixations such as but not limited to:

Danganronpa

Red dead Redemption

Overwatch (gross ik lol)

Splatoon

Fear and hunger

Mouthwashing

I have a couple of sorta niche bits of media I really enjoy that don't necessarily have communities on here:

Full Metal Jacket & The Short-Timers

Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (idk i watched it a lot when I was in 7th grade cause it was like the only horror movie i wasnt scared to watch so i kinda just had it on at all times to make myself feel tough lol)

Doom (I just think the demons are cool)

Hotline Miami

Brandonworks (it's a really well done roblox horror arg, I know that sounds lame but just give it a chance it's so fucking good)

and a bunch of random roblox games I really enjoy

Other than that stuff I am an avid music fan, My current favorite bands are:

Weezer (what can I say, im a loser)

IDLES

Suede

Death Grips

Green Day (even tho their new stuff kinda stinks)

Gorillaz

MDC

and last but not least

The Doors

Also I'm gay I think I forgot to mention that but you probably picked up on that already lol.

ANYWHOOOOO

My sexuality and gender identity are on the rocks right now so don't be suprised if you see my pronouns change teehee.

thank you for listening to my introduction, It's been about a year overdue. I'll probably change it over time but yea thanks for sticking around.

Also if you're here for anything mouthwashing related, if you're a curly/jimmy apologist please please don't interact, I could go on and on about to you about miss understanding the game lol

[tenebraevesper]

The Sonic Adventure (Story Concept)

To preface, this story is a Fantasy AU based on a dream I had a while ago and I genuinely want to turn into a story because I really loved the premise. I will write down a detailed description of the dream, but I need to describe the setting first. Please note that, if there are inconsistencies, that’s because, again, this story was based on a dream.

The story is set in a fantasy world, something akin to Sonic the The Black Knight, with kingdoms, magic, quests, dragons, etc. The characters present in this story so far are Sonic, Tails, Amy, Knuckles, Shadow and Dr. Eggman. Also, note that in the dream, everything looked like it came out of the Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW) comics (except for one moment), shown in the image above.

The premise of the story is that Sonic, Tails, Amy and Knuckles are adventurers, going on various quests of helping people or seeking treasures, with Sonic seeing himself as the greatest adventurer in existence. Sometimes, he’s accompanied by his friends, sometimes he goes on solo adventures, being a huge thrill seeker. 

He and his friends also fight Dr. Eggman whenever he causes trouble. In this story, Dr. Eggman rules over the Eggman Empire, a literal empire populated by his Badniks and he tries to expand it by conquering other kingdoms, but is always foiled by Sonic and co. I guess Metal Sonic, Orbot and Cubot are also present, even though they didn’t appear anywhere in my dream.

As for Shadow... well, let’s just say that his and Sonic’s relationship and dynamic was the main focus of my dream and Sonadow fans will have a field day with this one. It is kind of insane.

To start off, in the dream, it was made clear that Sonic and Shadow have a history together (an iteration of Sonic Adventure 2 happened; don’t ask me how, it just did). However, for some reason, Shadow is depicted as an evil king/warlord with his own kingdom and he and Sonic are considered enemies. He has his own castle and land, and there were even banners with the Black Arms logo, so I assume Shadow has sided with Black Doom and that this is the Black Arms Kingdom.

It is established that Sonic and Shadow have been fighting a lot. Basically, whenever Sonic goes on a solo adventure, expect Shadow to pop up somewhere to fight him. Their constant interactions let them grow closer, where they see each other as rivals and always look forward to their next encounter.

At some point, Sonic learns about a mystical artifact with unknown powers and wants to find it, going on another solo adventure. Shadow also learns that Sonic is trying to find that artifact, so he follows the latter, deciding to make it a competition to see who will find it first; something Sonic agrees on.

The scene cuts to Sonic running through a cave filled with blue crystals, avoiding traps, only to find Shadow at the end of it. Surprised, Sonic observes Shadow as the ebony hedgehog reaches for the artifact, a blue crystal orb on a stone pedestal and places his hand on it, suddenly having a vision.

The vision in question? It is this scene:

I’m not even kidding, the whole dream looked like something from Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW) comics, and when Shadow had his vision, it was literally the cutscene from Sonic the Hedgehog (2006) where Sonic is killed by Mephiles. Oh, and Elise was standing in the background for absolutely no reason. I was legit baffled when I saw that. Also, once the vision ends, the whole sequence goes back to the Sonic IDW art-style.

Shadow is stunned for a moment after having this vision and spots Sonic, turning to his rival and telling him that he’d team up with Sonic because he saw the future and he wants to prevent it from happening (confirming that the artifact they were searching for can show the future to the holder). Sonic is baffled, walking up to the orb and places his own hand on it, getting a vision of himself being killed by Mephiles and then turns to Shadow with a serious look on his expression, nodding in agreement.

Unfortunately, that’s where the dream ends.

However, there are a few interesting details I managed to gather from the dream regarding Sonic and Shadow’s relationship.

As I mentioned above, Sonic is an Adventurer and Shadow is an “Evil King” (even though he doesn’t do anything evil in the dream) and both see each other as rivals. They are also very competitive, with Shadow being more than willing to just leave his kingdom to confront Sonic, while Sonic is okay with derailing the adventure to deal with Shadow.

It is also implied in the dream that, despite being “enemies”, Shadow actually deeply cares about Sonic, but refuses to admit it, and those confrontations are their way of spending time with each other. 

While he tells Sonic that the reason he wants to team up with him to save him from his death at Mephiles’ hands is because he wants to be the one to defeat Sonic, it is heavily implied that Shadow is unable to imagine a future where Sonic doesn't exist and it is hinted that Sonic is his only friend.

It was also implied that Shadow is kinda possessive of Sonic, but tries to pass it off as just being part of their dynamic as rivals, but Sonic understands Shadow’s true feelings towards him and doesn’t press the issue. Neither would admit that there’s more to their relationship than it just being a rivalry, but they are also aware that they do have strong feelings towards each other.

In any case, this is all I got. I do really want to eventually expand on this story to at least give it a proper ending, but for now, I’ll be keeping on working on Sonic Cyber Revolution, where Shadow is also kind of a tsundere towards Sonic.

#Sonic the Hedgehog Analyzer (Masterlist)    

[b0d1ly-st3w]

INTRO!!

Pelle (not a Mayhem fan, Morbid solos)

He/They/It

Scottish

Homosexual Biromantic & Poly

I'm Autistic and Schizophrenic

∘₊✧──────✧��∘

Fandoms, Interests and more!!:

Manhunt (Rockstar), Bully, Postal, Hatred, Doom, Farcry, Hotline Miami, Cry of Fear/Afraid of Monsters, Saw, Fight Club, Silent Hill, Wolfenstein, Donnie Darko, Gregg Araki's Teenage Apocalypse Trilogy, Deathgasm, Heavy Trip, Vampires, Metal Subgenres (mainly Black, Thrash, Death, Goregrind, Mincecore).

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

DNI!!!:

Kink blogs, proship, basic dni (racists homophobs etc), Mayhem, Burzum and Lords of Chaos fans, NSBM likers.

(If you are any of these things and I've interacted with your post without knowing please feel free to block, dni goes both ways)

[stratesphere]

goofy ahh introduction

hihiii !!! uuuhh idk how to do this shit lloooolll

i go by Sam, Si or literally any 'S' name is totally cool ^_^ or nicknames lalalala

any pronouns but i dont like she please !!

please nobody under 11 or above like.. 21 interact w me unless ive known you since before then..

—

my main interests are Ride the Cyclone, Cry of Fear, Afraid of Monsters aaanddd pmmm (madoka magica) ((i have way more minor ones.. slenderverse and other shit.. i only like zero day..))

as far as music goes, i like doom metal, thrash, heavy, nu, black, dsbm and sludge :3 im the #1 korn fan take it or leave it. I ALSO DIG ALL KINDS OF PUNK

other music artists i like are: msi, babes in toyland, aberdeen is dead, blitzkid, david bowie, the doors, I LOVE EAZY E AND NWA, elliot smith, fugazi, ff5, hole, kmfdm, jeff buckley, mitski.. THERWS SO MUCH IF UR CURIOUS JUST ASK IM ALWAYS OPEN TO ANY KINDS OF MUSIC

—

i draw and play bass guitar.. and idk what else to put here now.. idk if ill post my art here hmmm

@systemofadownfan is my best friend i love tjem they are my other half

[gurogutted]

euthanasia

he/she boygirl fagdyke chubby autistic bpd freak. label hoarder psychocop (hatred) kinnie, toki wartooth, etc i only use tumblr and twit. also telegram and discord. DNI: zi*nists, pr*ship, anti-kink, knubbler fans, jomfru haters, under 14 dnf im in highschool dont be weird. | preferably 15+ please

this blog will contain cartoon depictions of violence, depictions of substances (and all that may be similar in nature), images of weaponry, blood, and suggestive content (amongst other possible warnings...). this is your warning as i dont tag it unless a mutual/close friend asks me too

refer to me as euthanasia

lover of many weird special interests and other things like (but not limited too), saw, hannibal, metalocalypse, cannibalism, evil dead, postal, chuck e cheese, clerks, phantom of the paradise, blue eye samurai, and more.

i like metal, specifically doom/stoner doom, grindcore, death metal, and industrial metal.

i like making friends, everything cute, shipping, and everything scary

please be warned that i am extremely childish and giggly, i am nothing like how i am portrayed on my blog lol

i love rarepairs.

art tag is #gutted art

i dont believe we should have censorship on the internet, but i will not follow or allow those who i do not believe to be good people in my spaces.

i dont look at blogs before i interact. if you have a strict 18+ blog and i interact, i suggest blocking me if it made you uncomfortable.

i block whoever i want for whatever reason i want. please do not go seeking out an explanation unless we were close.

age regressor due to trauma

"she walked out with empty arms machine gun in her hand she is good and she is bad no one understands..."

[struwwelzeter]

Things I need to ask Richard Kruspe about.

(Because @theelliottsmiths send me a thing)

Sorry, but I am gonna make you suffer with me.

What do you think of Slash? And don’t give me the “everyone can do what they want” crap, I want the judgemental opinionated guitarist-who-won’t-compromise version please, I know you got it in you. Joe Bonamassa?! How about Guthrie Govan? Would it be ok if we dissed Yngwie a little, as a treat?! Can we talk about all the guitarists you like please? I just need to know.

Can we talk about Steve Albini? What are your thoughts regarding producers and authorship and his ethos? You must be a fan but it seems your working mode is on complete other ends of the spectrum and it’s confusing to me.

How do you feel about the myth building around the electric guitar as representing an entire genre and it’s iconography vs. it being a tool for you?

You don’t seem like a Metal guy, so how is your relationship to black metal, the church burnings and Varg Virkenes memes?! Would it be a better genre without the vocals?

What about classical? Can we listen to Itzhak Perlman playing Sarasate’s Carmen fantasy and talk about sound emulation without an amp and effects because surely you understand how insane that is what he does. How long can you keep up with Matthias Ia Eklunds indian rhythms exercises? My guess is longer than the average person and shorter than you think is acceptable.

How do you feel about production vs songwriting and how much each influences how much you like a song? Because you once said you liked BMTH’s Doomed which I can understand from a writing perspective but it’s made to sound unlistenable, sorry. If you listen to a new song and take it apart mentally (don’t pretend that you don’t), what do you take apart first?

If you were forced to arrange Schubert songs for Rammstein tomorrow, how would you go about it? How can I force you to arrange Schubert songs for Rammstein tomorrow? If forcing doesn’t work, how about bribery? Please?

Are you ever listening to non western music? Does it inspire or riddle you? Can I show you this research project where they are trying to replicate how music might have sounded in assyrian times because it’s awesome and I think you’ll like the idea.

Please show me the electronic music you like, it’s a jungle out there and I need help.

How have your listening habits changed over the years? How much can you still just be a fan without over analyzing it?

Do you miss it? Do you relate to your fans who just find comfort in the sound, and does that even occur to you?

How do you reconcile chasing the (sound) dragon day and night, when we end up listening to your stuff on broken ear buds, tiny bluetooth speakers and with horrible compression on youtube?! Don’t give me the digital ruined it all crap, you listened to the sex pistols on a run down casette tape and a shitty transistor radio and it still got to you, I want the real answer about satisfying yourself. So how do you reconcile it?

Do you miss seeing concerts as a regular crowd person who gets elbows shoved into your ribs? My guess is not that much but aren’t you scared you’ve lost touch a bit? (Sorry, please don’t be mad, I just. Need to know.) You saw Nirvana, right?! How was it?!!!! Do you understand how insane that is, no you don’t. How was seeing all those bands you never could before when you initially came to the west? It wouldn’t be surprising if it was slightly disappointing, it always is, isn’t it. Killing your idols sucks.

Appearantly there is a theory that your music taste stops evolving after 30 - I think it’s bullshit. Discuss.

What’s the first piece of music you remember loving?

Who’s the next stadium band? Will there be any more stadium bands? I understand the dissappointmemt about rockmusic not really producing new things, but what do you say to those of us that are younger and broke who’s closest thing to seeing AC/DC in their hayday will be Airbourne? Is it really necessary to invent something new when the old still speaks to us so loudly? Nevermind Greta van Fleet, it’s not the same, and the Pitchfork review was funny (albeit uncalled for).

I know you said it’s about not being rebellious anymore, but is any genre still? Nobody cares about what you listen to anymore. We aren’t fed music through establishment controlled radio channels anymore, everyone listens to whatever the fuck they want on spotify, so how could it be? When you say Hip Hop’s rebellion is just about the life style and not the music, yes, but wasn’t rock the same once upon a time, because it was jever just the music it was about people trying to doctate how we should live? Isn’t it maybe true in general, that music has become an unsuitable tool for rebellion because we have overcome the barriers surrounding it? Boring, I agree, but is it really down to a genre?

In that context: how do you value live music vs. the pure idea represented in a studio recording? Might going back underground be the best thing that could happen to the genre? Considering the beginning rise in analogue synthesizer building and analogue effect again, can you imagine the guitar (+ effects) going through another resurgance in a few years when noone want’s to listen to overprocessed stuff pieced together in Ableton anymore? Isn’t it already happening? *gestures at Gamechangers plasma pedals* Might advanced (analogue) sounddesign be the hope for refreshment for this instrument? Anyway, just give it a bit of time, it will come back (I promise).

Building on your expereinces with the press, describe the kind of music journalism you would like to read and that would be fair to the artists. Is there a natural conflict between the reader and the artist’s wants and need? Does there have to be?

You once said that there is such nice production in Lana Del Reys music, and I don’t disagree, but I still need you to elaborate on that.

How do you value record packaging? Do you see it as part of the Gesamtkunstwerk like videos and the stage? Not quite? Let me change your mind. Do you know that there are actually so many things we could still do with that noone has ever done before? Even digitally? Why does noone do pop up installations in gatefold LPs?! Interactive ways to explore a digital packaging? What do you think of Third Man Records (provided you’re familiar?)

Oh. Speaking of, your judgemental thoughts on Jack White please. What did you think of it Might Get Loud?

I need to talk to you about how Shine A Light changed concerts Films and how Jonas was right because he took the same idea and just pushed it.

Given your love of movies I take it you know who Jóhann Jóhannsson and Max Richter are - thoughts please. Can we agree that some of the modern classic minimalist composers and acts like Front Line Assembly are essentially doing the exact same thing with a different image and (not even that) different instruments or is that just in my head? I do not think it is but I fail at making people see it. Help.

I need to tell you about that time in London when I shopped at the same supermarket as Keith Flint because apparently he had some business in the neighborhood, and he once knocked pasta out of my hands by accident and I only afterwards realised it was him, and then I need you to be sad about his death with me. No context, I just feel like you’ll understand.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

omg could write something with pretty please by dua lipa and calum? I love your writing!! 💗

Thanks for the suggestion. I’m attempting my hand after a very stressful few hours today. Because of this, I’ll extend it. You can continue sending song suggestions until Sunday, June 7th 7PM EST. 

Enjoy my masterlist. 

Support me on Ko-fi. 

*No one has my permission to repost, including translations. Copyright be-ready-when-i-say-go, 2020*

Female Reader Insert. CW: 18+ Content, so pls don’t interact if you’re underage! Choking, Smut, Sex without a condom (PLS be safe folks--safe sex is the sexiest sex out there, I promise you).

__________________________________________

Hands On Me

I’m a little stressed out. 

Calum stares down at the text, biting his lower lip. He promised he’d finish tracking the bass for this last song before leaving the studio today so that the rough cut would be shown to the producer tomorrow morning, first thing. There was no way, if he went over to her house, after this text that he would be in any shape to get up early and finish tracking before anyone else got into the studio. 

Be a good little one for me. Give me an hour.

He can almost almost the pout. That’s so long, baby. Attached in a picture of her dressed in a silk robe, that obstructing a perfect view of her tits. But not hiding the valley between them, the one where she tattooed a gorgeous bouquet. It wasn’t anything fancy, one rose, one tulip, and one sunflower, tied together by their stems. “Fuck,” he mumbles aloud, feeling his gut tense up. Another text shakes his phone. 

An hour. Or I start without you.

He groans into the empty space, headphones falling onto his neck as he throws his head back. God, he why’d she have to go and do him like that. She knew all his fucking buttons. It was so unfair, but god, he did love it at the same time. Thankfully, he’s able to finish tracking. His last take was practically perfect, but there was something missing on the playback and he wasn’t sure what it was, and he was going to sit in that studio all night if that’s what it took. 

But the lingering threat pushes Calum. He doesn’t have all night. As his fingers slide up and down the frets, over strings and plucking, Calum let’s the image of her wash over him. The glint in her eyes whenever she’s been a tease. Or the giggle that escapes her whenever she gets a punishment she knows she was gunning for. 

By the time the song ends, Calum listens back and almost wants to laugh. THat somehow all he was missing was her in the song, in almost everything it felt like. Like he was missing her when he got up in the mornings, or like he was missing her at breakfast, or how he felt a small twinge of longing whenever she posted about being out and bout, because he wanted to be out and about with her too. 

It was just easier this way though. It was easier not to dive in to those feelings when everything around them was just starting to straighten itself back out. It was easier to pretend than it was to attempt to have anything real when it would only ever end up in ashes. 

Saving his recording and shelving the instrument, he checks his phone. He has a little over half an hour left. He’s going to be cutting it close but he can still do it. 

His knock at the door is answered by her almost immediately as his hand falls from the door. “Want something to eat?” It’s a sincere question. But she’s sitll in that robe, this time it’s tied close though. Calum steps in, slipping out of his shoes. 

He answers at first with just a shake of his head. “Not that, not right now,” he answers. “A little birdie told me that someone was stressed.” He keeps his voice low and soft but she hears it clear as day over the click of her lock. 

His hands slide around her waist. His lips are ghosting over the shell of her ear. “That simply don’t do,” he exhales and it goes straight to her core. She melts into him and Calum melts into her. 

It’s nothing by kisses and groping hands as they walk down the hallway to her bedroom. The tie around the robe goes, allowing the material to fall open and Calum smiles at the feeling of her warm flesh. She’s quick though to pull the hat off and the t-shirt off his body. Her nails scratch over his flesh and Calum has to shiver, as to succumb to the feeling of her working over him. 

Her lips find his neck and she works works the pants open and down his legs. The robe falls off, leaving her bare minus the thong, and even that it’s barely doing its job to cover anything. “I should make you beg,” Calum muses as he walks her to the edge of the bed. 

“But you wouldn’t. Need you.” It’s so simple. The two words that fall from her lips but they somehow mean everything when she blinks up at him. “Don’t make me beg. Pretty please. With a cherry on top.”

Calum laughs, fingers trailing around her nipple and pulling at the erect nub. “I know exactly where you can get on top. Want you to ride my face, yeah?”

“Aye aye captain.” She scoots up on the bed, allowing Calum to lay down. Her hips come up as she peels herself out of the floss of underwear. She’s slow though, as she crawls up Calum’s body. She takes her time, savoring the way he shakes and whimpers at her kisses along his thighs. She kisses up his tummy, pausing just a moment when he laughs to tickle the spot that caused it. 

“That is not sexy,” he huffs.

She shrugs. “No, but it was fun.” Over his tattoo, she teases his nipple with the tip of her tongue. Calum swears he’s going to explode right there on the spot. He’s going to loose all control of his senses and just evaporate into mist at the heat in his gut. 

When her knees pass over his shoulders though, Calum reaches up to guide her hips down and enjoys the first taste of her, savoring it before swallowing her down. She shudders above him, gripping onto the headboard, the metal cook against her fingers thanks to the fan blowing. “Fuck,” she sighs when his tongue laps over her again. 

Calum moans when she finally finds the strength for a pace, to rock over his face. He could die right here, just in the fountain of her. It would be a hell of a way to go. Her fingers dig at his hair, tugging at the strands and his scalp. He lts out a muffled cry, enjoying the small pricks of pain. 

His finger dig into her flesh and she goes woozy, at the feeling of her orgasm creeping up and the way Calum’s so desperate beneath her. He pushes her down, locking her thighs up in a tight grip and absolutely does not let up. Her eyes are screwed up tight but she can see splotches in her vision as her toes curls. She holds herself up by the headboard. “Shit, Calum,” she whines, trying to last longer, trying to find something else to ground herself too. But there is only his tongue and the sctratch of his stubble at her inner things. And it’s only Calum filling her senses. 

So over she goes, gasping and grunting into the warming air of her bedroom as her orgasm rocks her. “Oh God, oh God,” she chants, trying to get a good breath. 

Calum lets her go, just a little, kissing across her sensitive and swollen core, to her inner thighs that are turning just a hair pink. She sinks into the mattress next to him, chest still heaving but she grins at the feeling of him kissing at her shoulder. “Any more stress?”

“Not the same stress as before,” she laughs, fingers curling into his hair. It brings his attention to her and she kisses over his chin, licking up her arousal before they share another kiss. 

Calum trails his hand up her hip, over the dip over her stomach and traces over the three flowers in her cleavage before his hand settles around her throat. She hums at the pressure, it’s not even hard, not even like he’s actually choking her. But she knows he could. He knows he could. 

“Say it again for me,” Calum whispers in her ear. 

“Say what?”

“How much you need me? How you don’t want me to make you beg for it.”

“That would just tickle your peach wouldn’t it?”

He sucks a hickey onto the swell of her breast. “Maybe it would,” he smirks, watching the way her head throws back into the pillow and her hips start to rise up from the sheets. 

“Please, please. Want you so damn bad. Need you to fill me up with your seed.”

It’s an agreement between them, with her on the pill. And there’s always the option to opt out. But right now, Calum thinks of how pretty she would look wrecked from him and his cum spilling out of her. It makes his cock twitch. “Oh, you know just want to say,” he hums before removing his hand from her throat. 

It takes just a moment for Calum to completely disrobe and in the mean time, she pulls at her own nipples, watching him fully bare in front of him. She moves to her knees on the bed, arms winding around his neck as he stands his knees pressing into the edge of the mattress. They share breathes for a moment, noses touching. “Something wrong?” he asks. 

“No, just needed to be close to you. Having you close just feels right.”

It makes his chest warm and he wonders if somewhere along the way he lied to himself and to her, that he was doomed to fall just a little when sex got involved. Right now, even though the thought comes to him, it doesn’t linger as she grasps him, running her palm over the length of him. “Hands and knees for me, doll?”

“Magic words,” she demands. 

“Pretty please.”

It’s with a flashing grin she concedes, leaving Calum with a perfect view. Along her spine is another tattoo. This one is of a script he’s never been able to decipher that falls down into a waterfall. It’s a piece and he loves to trace up it to the back of her neck before sliding to the front and cupping her throat. Which is always does before bringing her back into his chest. 

But for right now, he settles for a couple gentle smacks to her ass before lining himself up. He settles for just teasing her with his tip and watching her wiggle her ass just for him. It’s just for him. All for him. The thought makes him dizzy, but nothing grounds him like how slick she is, how she grips onto him like no one else ever could. He keeps one knee on the bed just for leverage, his hands full of her hips as he guides her in time with his movements. 

They sigh, not quite into each other, but at each other at the feeling. She hums, enjoying just how thick Calum is, stretching her out in a way that always borders on too much but never exceeds it. It’s a welcomed warmth that fades into the heath of pleasure. The sounds of hips slapping into ass and thighs bounces around her room. 

She can loose herself like this, hand fisting her sheets and crying out for Calum over and over as his hips drive her closer and closer to release. Calum runs his hands over her skin, like trying to remember every bump but knowing he’ll ultimately get lost in the feeling of her. He’ll always lose awareness in the way she whines for him. 

“So, good for me,” he praises, watching her arch even more for him.

“Ah, shit,” she huffs, when Calum brings a hand down to the front of her and playing at her clit. She’s not going to last like this and with her teeth gritted she lets the orgasm crash into her. She lets it consume her and though there’s a skyrocket in pleasure, his fingers keep playing through her release. She can feel her muscle tensing and quivering. “Please,” she whines, finding just enough strength to grab his wrist. 

Calum doesn’t need to be told twice before sliding it up her body. He takes a second for each breast and then holds her throat again, pulling her into his chest. His hips are still snapping, still rocking. Her head is swimming. “Stay with me. This is what you wanted,” he pants. 

She knows that but what she didn’t expect was that even though she’s cum twice her body wants to push for a third. She can feel the twinge of it, just on the horizon. It leaves her though when Calum pulls out and guides her to her back towards the center of the bed and climbs fully onto the mattress now. 

She gives into gravity, but find the edges of the galaxies again when Calum reenters her. Her nails claw at his back, whining at how she borders overstimulation. But it feels so good. Her nose is invaded with the scent of his sweat and cologne. Any worry she had early today is completely gone. 

Calum bites at her shoulder, trying to keep his orgasm at bay but there’s really no use. He cums, praising in her ear, “So good for me. Gonna be so full when I’m done,” he grunts softly. His hips stuttering but sure to give her every drop. 

They spend a moment, embracing and Calum finally pulls back, slow to retract himself. She keeps herself open to him, so he can watch just as a tiny bit leaks out of her but he pushes it back in with him thumb. “Not wasting anything,” he states. 

It takes a couple minutes for them to regain strength. As the bruises and hickies blossom in the shower, she spends a moment washing over his back. “Seriously though, when’s the last time you ate today?”

“I had lunch? I can’t remember.” 

As he steps under the running water, she opens the glass door, wrapping a towel around her. “I have veggie burgers. It’s not gourmet, but it’s something.”

“You don’t have to.” Water is falling down the lines of his face, clinging to the skin of his lips and for a moment, she feels the urge to kiss him but not like usually, when it’s a hunger to be consumed. Just, like a normal kiss, one that shows you care. 

“I want to,” she counters. “Ketchup and mustard with spinach, right?”

Calum can only nod. “Yeah, but really you--” Before he can finish the sentence, she’s gone. “But you’re going too anyway.”

-H

[yandere-ac]

Can we get more of the villager reader x yandere human villagers? I was wondering if you could do a yandere human Lucky x villager reader?

Yandere Human Lucky X Villager Reader

Not so lucky

Silence. Silence. Silence. That was all your ever heard most of the time, how everyone in you predicament heard most of the time. But make no mistake, that wasn’t a bad thing. When there’s silence, no ones there to hurt you, no ones there to take you away. So a silent day was better than a day with noice down here. Today however, was not one of those days. The faint sound of footsteps and a conversation was getting closer and closer to you and your friends position, which only made everyone more and more tense. The silence was interrupted by one big creaking metal door opening and the owner, Maxie turning on the lights. Everyone covered their eyes instinctively as they winced at the sudden change of setting. The lights flickered for a few seconds before returning to normal. “So who will it be? Do you have any specific villager that you want or are you just browsing?” Maxie asked the current customer as they both walked around the “store”. The store being full of big metal cages where a bunch of villagers were trapped. One of those villagers, being you. Y/N the A/T. You were a bit away from the two men, lying in the corner of your cage, you’ve been here for such a long time now that you knew how to get around. Key point is to not interact or make eye contact at ALL. You pitied the people in here who were amongst some of the most popular villagers in the community. They were always the first ones to go. You however, you were just a simple A/T. You had some fans but nothing too big. As such, not a lot of people came to specifically look for you. and still, there were always the people who had their niche interests. After five years here, you were actually gonna be sold off. Tomorrow you would leave this retched place forever, and it terrified you. With the new internet service, people didn’t have to come to the store if they wanted a villager, but they would most likely be charged more. Right now you felt helpless, you were doing so well keeping out of interest but it seems like your efforts were doomed to fail.

“Well, right now I’m searching for Maya the Cat? You know the one?” The customer asked. Poor cat. Maya had been in here many times before. Every time someone bought her, Maxies goons would already have found a new copy of her somewhere. In fact she was currently in the cage next to you. Looking over at her, you could see that she tensed up as she heard this. You normally didn’t do this, I mean, your rule was to ignore everything and everyone during the payments. But something about how she looked, you had seen it a bunch of times, like you said, you’ve been here for such a long time. You’ve seen people come and go, but one thing was for sure. Every time they were chosen, they’d have the same horrid expression on their face. And you felt bad every time you saw it. Maya was currently curled up in a corner of her cage. It was the corner that was directly next to your cage. So, without a word. You simply crawled over to that side of the cage and tapped lightly on the metal bars, gaining her attention. Losing her was gonna hurt since you two had become so close. Rule number two you had was to not interact with any of your fellow prisoners. Attachment will only lead to pain when they’re eventually bought. But it wasn’t your fault that Maya had started to talk with you. She was your cage neighbour after all, and after a while you just couldn’t ignore her anymore. And while it was risky to interact with the person that was gonna be sold off, it didn’t exactly matter to you. You were already gonna be shipped off, it wasn’t like things could get any worse.

You grabbed her tiny paw and she quickly took ahold of it with both of her paws. She was squeezing them tightly as the sounds of footsteps approached you two. Now you broke your second part of your rule: don’t make eye contact. You looked over at the two and almost let out a yelp. The man standing next to Maxie...he was wearing layers above layers of bandages on his face. The only part of his face that you could see was his ears sticking out of the bandage and the top left part of his face which was not wrapped up. The only thing you could see was his eye. And my god what a captivating one. His eye was very round and was yellow. And he was currently staring you down with such wonder and intensity that it actually made you tense up and shrink down under his gaze.

“So yes, here we have her! She’s in popular demand so you better act quick mr...?” As Maxie said this you could feel Mayas grip getting tighter. “Lucky. Mr Lucky. How many tickets?” The man In front of you asked to which Maxie let out a laugh. “Nonono, we don’t take tickets.” “Oh? How many bells then?” “We take real money. She costs 200 dollars.” As Maxie said this you could see the mans eye narrowing. “And there’s no way I can get a lower price?” “A lower price?! What do I look like to you!? If you’re not gonna pay then get lost!” The customer, Lucky, walked closer to Maxie, rummaging around his pocket. “I see...what about them? Y/N? How much do they cost?” As he said this you felt your hand start to shake slightly. How did he know your name? Was he...was he a fan? Maxie wouldn’t sell you to this guy...would he? “Sorry pal, they’ve already been bought. Now quit trying to change the subject! Are you gonna pay or- HOUGH!!!” The air became as ice once Maxie stumbled backwards, a knife stuck in his chest and a huge blood stain pouring out of it. He looked at it in shock and could barley notice as Lucky walked up to him and pulled the knife out of his chest. Blood started to pour everywhere as Maxie let out screams of pain. You froze up, looking petrified as the brutal scene was unfurling before you. Eventually, Lucky took his knife and drew it through Maxies skull, striking the final blow, killing him In an instant. Everyone was quiet for a few seconds, staring at the corpse that used to be your seller. You couldn’t say he didn’t have it coming but still, it was weird and scary to see someone who had been moving less than 10 seconds ago now lying on the floor. Dead. And the fact that you were in the room with the killer didn’t make it any better. Speaking of which, Lucky started to prod around the body, checking his pockets until he could feel something. He pulled it out from Maxies pocket, it was a key. The key to all the cages. Oh no.

The first thing he did was go over to your cell and open up the door. You let go of Mayas hand and hastily crawled back to the end of the cage. Not like it did much because Lucky followed after and dragged you out if the cage. You began to thrash around and struggle but he held you tightly against his body with his strong arms. But that didn’t stop you though. In fact the more he held you, the harder your struggling got. It escalated so much that he had to push you up against the prison bars, holding you completely still by the shoulders. “If I released all your friends, wound you come with me then?” ...what? This utterly shocked you. Would he really? “...what’s the catch...” you looked at him, your voice seemed to catch him off guard for some reason, however he regained his stance quickly. “Like I said, you’ll have to come with me. Willingly. And rest assure. If I let them go and you run, I will kill them all...what’ll it be?” Hmm, you would basically throw your life away...you didn’t know what this person would do to you. If he could kill Maxie, he could kill you. But either way, you’d either end up dead or alive. You might as well be useful to the others in the process. “I’ll do it...just, please promise...” After you said this, Lucky walked over to Mayas cell and tossed the keys inside. “Unlock your door and then everyone else’s okay? But do it 5 minutes after we’ve left.” Lucky said, or well it was more of a demand. Maya quickly nodded her head in fear as she grasped the keys with her frail hands. Lucky looked down at you.

“Let’s go”

And so, he grabbed your hand in his big one and walked out. You never took your eyes off of him while he led you away. Now that you were out of the store you could truly see what he looked like. He had a couple of black curls sticking out from under his bandages. His skin was a darker shade and his clothing. His clothing was special. His entire torso and up was wrapped in bandages, he was wearing a brown puffy jacket and some matching pants. But he had no shirt, just the bandages protecting his body. He took notice of your curiosity and pulled you closer to him. “I think you and I are gonna become close...” as he said this he stopped in front of a boat. He helped you board it before going up himself.

“Very close...”

////////////////////

So last time I focused on the humans taking advantage of their positions to have control over the villager reader. This time I wanted to focus on the buying of villagers (not trading, no I mean those sites where you can totally buy Raymond and Ahnka for $20! It’s not a scam what are you talking about?).

[homebody-nobody]

touch me someone

HIIIII it’s your favorite fic writer back from the dead with TWO whole fics real close together maybe I’ll finally become a consistent publisher?!? we can dream. Anyway. JJ and Kiara are my new Bellamy and Clarke I guess so enjoy this VERY angsty smutty hurt/comforty poetic nonsense the idea for which would not leave my brain til I wrote it. Please for the love of god read this bc I actually kind of love it and need validation or concrit or literally any feedback at all bc my none of my irl friends like this show so pls interact/comment 

---------------------

ao3

----------------------

He pulls away from her, and his eyes are wide but dry as his chest heaves. He looks wild, uncaged and raw, the moonlight turning his blond hair white and his blue eyes into pools of silver. Tragedy and shock have destroyed him, the chains he’d wrapped around his brash, heedless, unending want twisted into shards by an explosion of hurt and grief. He has always been the victim, the boy left behind in empty rooms with nothing but loss and bloody fragments, told to piece himself back together. Finally, they’ve taken the last thing. When he told John B they had nothing to lose, they still had each other. And now, he doesn’t even have that.

But she’s still here.

--------------------

Touch me someone 

I’m too young to feel so

numb, numb, numb, numb 

You could be the one to 

Make me feel somethin, somethin. 

The Phantom went down around 8:30 PM. Or maybe 10:30. Kiara doesn’t remember. She only knows that the hours between then and now have felt like a lifetime and also no time at all. Like she’ll turn and John B will be there, behind her shoulder, laughing at something JJ said, Sarah hanging off his arm; but also like the world is dark and will be dark and has been dark forever. Like the sun will never rise after this. Like the storm took the light and heat from the world just like it took her best friend. 

Later, she’ll learn that John B’s official time of death is listed as 8:34 PM, when they stopped trying to establish radio contact with him and Sarah. Later, she’ll watch news stories about the manhunt for Rafe Cameron and the scandal of Ward Cameron’s property being left to his second wife, rather than his remaining daughter. Later, she’ll get an email from an internet cafe in Bermuda and her whole world will flip upside down one more time. 

But now, she is laying in her four-poster bed, watching the ceiling fan lazily trawl the same, tired circle, listening to the pull-chain tap not-quite-silently against the glass fixture. Now, her hair still damp from the shower that her mother made her take, eyes stinging from sharp wind and tears not yet shed, the inside of her mouth shredded and sore from the hours she spent chewing on her lips, the world is too quiet, too peaceful. The crickets outside sing soft and gentle, just like they have every night her whole life, and the texture of her comforter, the quiet harmony of the night, the soft click and whoosh of the fan -- it all feels so chokingly familiar, like spiralling back down to earth after spending weeks dipping in and out of orbit. 

She wants to scream until her throat is raw, sob and fight and unleash herself on every single adult that hurt John B, that brushed him off or refused to help or wouldn’t listen to him. She wants to gut Ward Cameron for ripping everything away from John B, first his father, and then the gold that was his by right. The gold that was theirs. She wants to rip off Rafe’s skin piece by piece until he’s in shreds at her feet. She wants to eviscerate his father with the same gaff hook he used to rip apart those two mainlanders and ruin John B’s life. She’s so full of hurt and grief and anger that her fists keep clenching white-knuckled in her blankets and she wants to bring down the sky itself. But at the same time, she’s haunted by that same emptiness that followed her after Sarah’s childish betrayal, like she’s watching it all from the outside. 

She can’t sleep. She won’t. Sleep is just an escape, a place to forget, and she’ll have to wake up and remember what happened all over again, remember the rush of hope and the hours of adrenaline and apprehension that ended in a tragedy none of them could have ever predicted. What child foretells death? 

Rolling over, she presses her face into her pillow, smothering herself until her lungs force her to turn her head for air. She opens her eyes, no less heavier than they were hours ago. Her throat tightens like tears are about to well up, to spill over and stain her sheets, but they don’t come. Itchy and claustrophobic, she throws back the sheets and paces over the smooth boards of her room, bare feet making soft noises over the lacquered wood. She has to get out, to make sure that she didn’t dream up the whole goddamn thing. 

She dresses quickly, throwing on denim cutoffs and an old drug rug that cycled its way through at least two of the boys’ wardrobes before landing in hers. She doesn’t know where she’s going, doesn’t know what she needs, but she throws her wallet, her charger, a flashlight, and her water bottle in her beat up backpack, and, on second thought, a toothbrush and some deodorant. She picks up her keds and tiptoes down the stairs, avoiding the creaky eighth stair. 

The key rack is empty, and, chastising herself for believing her parents would leave the car keys out after everything she’d pulled in the last few days, she rocks on her heels, assessing her options. The most prudent one is probably just to go back to bed, given the usual risks of going out at night as a teenage girl, the massive punishment that looms in her future, and, now, the lack of a vehicle. But the thought of returning to her stale room, skin crawling and mind racing at a standstill, makes the decision for her. She slips out the back door, making sure to catch the screen door before it slams, and digs out her bike from next to the garage. The tires could use air and the gears are misaligned, but it still rides, and it’ll get her… somewhere else. 

Her original intention is to go to Pope’s house, mostly because it’s closest, but then she thinks about how she kissed him earlier that afternoon -- and God, was that just this afternoon? There’d be implications, now. Showing up in the middle of the night, throwing pebbles at his window -- it would mean something. So she stands up on the pedals and pushes past his street, floating like jetsam through the night. 

She ends up heading for the chateau, which is where she was going all along. After her family moved to the outskirts of figure eight just before high school, it was the only place that felt like home anymore. She cruises deep into the cut, where even the smell of the air changes, from freshly mowed grass and chlorinated in-ground pools to gasoline and oil, rotting seaweed and the salt marsh. 

The little house sits in the reeds, ramshackle and welcoming as ever, tired and reaching under the moon. It’s empty and forlorn, alone on the edge of the edge, out past the main cluster of the cut, pushed past the tideline, separated from the rest of the flotsam by a freak wave. The Routledge boys never fit in, even with the outcasts, and they made their home like they knew it. Skidding to a stop in the gravel driveway, the sting of tiny rocks against her bare ankles is the only thing she’s really felt in hours. Her heart picks up, skipping over itself as her memory stumbles over all the years seeping out of the wind-weathered boards and the sinking foundation. 

Again, it feels like this would be a moment for tears, like the sight of John B’s house, the memory of Big John’s booming laugh and all the bonfire-scented nights on that sagging porch should mean enough to make something in her crack, to finally shatter the glass walls of shock and let the grief come pouring in. But it doesn’t. She just stares up at the chateau, one part of her aching for the ease of a found family she’ll never get back, the other dreading the fate of the little house. 

The breeze changes directions as she stares up at the rickety shutters and holey screens, bringing with it the tinny sound of music played out of a cell phone in a solo cup, a noise she knows well. Her stomach drops to the hard-packed dirt, crashing there with her bicycle and sending up a cloud of dust. Maybe John B survived. Maybe he made it back to shore, and he’s laying low, doing that stupid, chivalrous thing he does, trying to protect them by not letting them know. Maybe he’s out by the shed in that old metal lawn chair, Sarah in his lap, exhausted and defeated and alive. But as she gets closer, the moonlight glints off tawny waves crusted with sweat and salt, and the momentary, wild hope crashes and ebbs away from the shore. 

JJ hears her, of course, sitting up in the hammock and turning toward the sound of her flat-soled sneakers slapping the dirt. “Hey,” he says, his expressive face, for once, inscrutable. 

“Hey,” she says, slightly out of breath from the sprint. “I thought you were…” she trails off, because he knows. Because he’s the only one in the whole world who can look at her and understand the cathedral dreams and vaulted memories crashing down in her chest. 

“I’m not,” he says, an answer that belies more than either of them knows. JJ gets this look, when he’s seconds away from doing something particularly concerning (and usually criminal). Manic energy lights up in his blue eyes, burning anywhere from mischief to stubborn determination to full-tilt rage. The well-developed muscles in his shoulders and arms refuse to relax, and his hands get so fidgety they lose the coordination it takes to flip the zippo lighter between long, practiced fingers. His face fights with itself, half already spitting with well-steeped anger, the other tired, and broken, and grieving. 

“I noticed,” she responds.  She drops her bag on one of the metal folding chairs, dooming it to a coating of flaky, faded paint. Crossing the grass, hoping her broad strides will disguise the rattling breath in her chest, the shake in her hands, she moves to sit next to him in the hammock, and he shifts his weight to allow her. 

There’s no verbal communication, no squabble about personal space or indignant demands she find her own seat. There never is, not with her boys. The Pogues. It seems so silly now, hiding behind that name for themselves, a name she’d never really belonged to, anyway. He’s holding a lit joint in one hand, a bottle dangling from the other, and he offers her one while swigging from the other. The old favorites of a Maybank in crisis. She takes it. 

He falls back next to her, sending the hammock swinging as he gazes up at the stars. Sarah had known the most about constellations, of the five of them, but JJ knows a fair amount, too, some of the only memories of his mother the nights when she would hold him under the stars, tracing the designs across the sky, her hand wrapped around his tiny one. His eyes keep drifting off the sky and landing on Kiara, eyes distant, bathed in moonlight. 

“He’s not dead,” JJ says, surprising himself as much as her. He sits up, and she follows. He stares at his feet for a while, and she thinks about putting her arms around him.  “I --” he picks his head up to look at her and stops, voice stolen by the hope in her eyes. “I’d feel it,” he finishes lamely, and watches the spark die. 

“The first stage of grief is denial,” she says, and it’s supposed to be at least slightly lighthearted, but it falls cruelly to the crabgrass. 

“You sound like Pope,” he counters, and there’s too much weight to that name to throw it around for long. They’re both thinking of Kiara kissing him, and the memory is pleasant to neither. 

She doesn’t really know why she did that. Maybe it’s because he’s everything she’s supposed to want, intelligence and ambition and ingenuity, everything she tells herself is important in a guy. Maybe because he’s in love with her. Maybe because she’s definitely in love with one of her best friends, and he’s the one who makes sense. She takes another hit and hands the blunt back to JJ. 

“I’d know,” he repeats, and she knows it’s not her he’s trying to convince. He lays back in the hammock, putting the blunt between his lips and dragging deep before tilting his head back and blowing the smoke into the tumultuous night. She looks back over her shoulder, watching his jaw and the movement of his throat as he exhales. Laying back next to him, she tries not to think about the warmth of his skin against hers, the strength of the body pressed to her side. It’s only JJ, the same reckless, stupid asshole who carried that damn pistol everywhere all summer and has a talent for getting into trouble. He’s not giving her butterflies with his proximity, and she’s not thinking about reaching down and lacing her fingers through his. 

Eventually, JJ flicks the roach into the darkness and stands as quickly as he can without tipping Kiara out of the hammock. She starts, not realizing she was dozing on his shoulder until it’s gone. “It’s late,” he says. 

She stands as well, tucking her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt as he kicks at the dirt. “I don’t --” she starts, and the hesitation makes him stop his nervous movement, meeting her eyes. “I don’t want to go home.” He opens his mouth to say something, but she interrupts him. “I can’t go home.” 

“Okay,” he says, after a second. He doesn’t want to be alone, either. She nods, and walks past him, picking up her bag. He follows her up to the house, and they stop at the foot of the stairs to the porch, staring at the buzzing light. JJ takes a stuttering inhale Kiara pretends not to hear, and he goes up the stairs first, wrapping a shaking hand the handle to the screen door. He pauses before going in, frozen, and it isn’t until she lays her hand on his shoulder that he summons the courage to push the door open. 

They knew the place was going to be tossed, but it still hurts Kiara and kills JJ, to see the overturned table and scattered papers, the couch cushions scattered on the floor and the coffee table flipped. He tries to shuffle backwards, to run from the sharp, fresh grief and the deep, familiar ache of loss and violation, but Kie is in the way, and when he turns to escape she catches him, her arms around his shoulders, his clutched around her waist. “I can’t --” he chokes, his face pressed to her neck, “It’s not --” his breath speeds up, his shoulders shaking. “They --” 

“I know,” she says, swallowing down tears, herself, in that same small voice from the night in the hot tub. She knew JJ was broken, on that deep, fundamental level that, intellectually, she could conceptualize, but she could never feel. But that night, seeing the bruises on his ribs, damning as fingerprints, the ghost of his pain, the whisper of breath knocked out and the brush of betrayal, turned her chest inside out. This feels the same way, watching him lose the last shred of some semblance of home to the same kind of mindless anger and selfish authority that claimed the first one. “I know.” 

He pulls away from her, and his eyes are wide but dry as his chest heaves. He looks wild, uncaged and raw, the moonlight turning his blond hair white and his blue eyes into pools of silver. Tragedy and shock have destroyed him, the chains he’d wrapped around his brash, heedless, unending want twisted into shards by an explosion of hurt and grief. He has always been the victim, the boy left behind in empty rooms with nothing but loss and bloody fragments, told to piece himself back together. Finally, they’ve taken the last thing. When he told John B they had nothing to lose, they still had each other. And now, he doesn’t even have that. 

But she’s still here. “Kie…” he breathes. She opens her mouth to reassure him again, but then his hands are on her face and he’s kissing her, deep and rough and desperate. She bursts into flame underneath him, paralysis broken, stupefaction overcome, as the glass walls she’s been watching through crack and shatter at her feet. JJ’s hands wrap around the back of her neck and spread across the small of her back, pushing her up against the door, and she twists her hands into his shaggy, sun-streaked hair. Every desperate question is met with his touch, and she chases it, even as he pulls away in horrified shock. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, Kie, I’m so sorry --” He tries to shove himself away from her at the instant she curls her fists in his shirt, and it almost rips as she pulls and he slams back into her. Teeth clash and noses bump and it’s not perfect or soft or loving, but passion born from desperation and terror of what it would mean to stop. Putting his hands on the door on either side of her face, he pushes himself off of her, even as she tries to yank him back. “What are we doing?” he asks, in a voice that won’t like the answer. 

“JJ,” she gasps, pushing her fingers back up to tangle in blond, salt-sticky waves. “Shut up.” Pulling his mouth back down on top of hers, she gasps into him as his hands come down and frame her ribs, one of his arms sliding around her waist and the other pushing back up into her hair. 

“Don’t you think --” he tries, even as he leans over her, their breathing ragged, his knuckles white in her impossibly soft curls. His forehead is pushed to hers and he can’t pull away any farther, sucked into her gravitational field, helpless to it. 

“I don’t want to think,” she insists. “I want this, I need this,” This momentary pause is already too long, and if he stops kissing her, stops touching her, the tears she’s been holding back will crash over her and they won’t stop. The dark room is loud with heavy breathing as she catches the scent of him, salt and sweat and smoke. “I need you.” 

His grip falters and the momentary relaxation has her pressing herself against him. “Are you sure?” he asks, and this is a choice, now. This isn’t something that either of them can pawn off as a mistake made in the heat of a desperate moment. He wants this, has wanted it, ever since he met her, but he won’t be a decision half-made, won’t take advantage of vulnerability only to become a regret. He’s giving her a way out, knows her pragmatic nature and her anxious need for well-thought plans. He wants her to think, even if she’s desperate not to. 

He’s right, when he almost never is, but she knows that if she waits too long or lets in the doubt that expects her, she will break. “JJ,” she gasps, “Please.” His name, she knows, he can’t resist, not when paired with urgent pleading, and in this way, she makes her choice. He surrenders to her. 

They fall onto the creaky pullout, still set up from JJ’s most recent stay, not minding the sheets and blankets wrought asunder by the angry police search. He can’t let go of her, his hands pushing up her sweatshirt, dragging over her sides and up her thighs, tangling in her hair like he’s drinking her in with his touch, intoxicated with the smell of peach in her hair and the taste of sweat on her skin. Kiara lets herself get lost in him, ride the wave of desire pushing through her, moans and gasps when he hits the right spots and closes her eyes as he lifts her shirt over her head and attaches his lips to her neck, his hands finally coming up to cover her tits, and the long careful fingers she’d spent so many afternoons watching prove adept at twisting and pinching her nipples and leaving her begging for him. 

She almost rips his t-shirt off, pulling his bare chest against her own and letting the feeling of skin on skin light her up, setting fireworks off behind her eyelids. Wrapping one hand around the arm holding him up, she can feel his teeth on her neck, and she knows he’s leaving marks, and, for once, it doesn’t feel like she’s being claimed. She knows what it is -- proof this is happening, that they’re alive and feeling and crashing together again and again. She sinks her nails into his bicep as his fingers skim below the waistband of her shorts, and feels him smirk against her lips. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and the teasing in his voice is tortuous and reminiscent of his old, humorous self, just enough to make her sad for a moment, and when she nods quickly in return, it’s a bid to forget that sadness. His fingers flick open the button of her shorts and as his fingers dip lower, the only thing she can think about, the only thing she can feel, is his touch, his all-consuming presence, radiating heat. The bastard takes his time, her only gratification the press of him against her hip, hot and hard. He teases her through her underwear, and she can’t say she doesn’t enjoy it, arcing into his touch, shocks of pleasure building in incredible anticipation, but he’s going too slow, and he’s wearing too many clothes, still, and the intense want gnawing at her has too much potential to turn into grief. 

“Would you just --” she grunts against his mouth, cut off on a moan as he presses his fingers against her clit. “Fucking -- ah,” he works slow, hard, circles, enjoying himself as she tries to form sentences with his hands on her. “Fuck me already!” Because even this can’t be easy, not between the two of them. Because she’ll always be fighting with him, even with her bare chest pressed against his and his hand down her pants. 

JJ grins, scraping his teeth over her ear. “What,” he says, still teasing, still bittersweet, as he finally pushes his hand into her underwear, “aren’t you enjoying this?” Slowly, much too slowly, his fingers part the lips of her cunt, pressing down over her clit before finding the wetness further down. JJ practically growls as his middle finger dips between her folds and he finds her soaked, dropping his forehead against the forearm braced above her head. “Fuck, Kie,” he moans, and he can’t disguise the wasted crack in his voice. “God, you’re so fucking wet.” He’s already drunk on her, every new sensation dragging him deeper.  

“Your fault,” she stutters as he puts his hands, lean and strong and practiced, to good use, dragging slick fingertips back up to her clit and teasing small circles, rough, calloused skin creating delicious friction. And this -- this is what she was so desperate for, to feel only his touch and the way he pushes her higher, closer to an edge far away from the bleak grief of their every day world. He moans, too, as he dips his middle finger into her and she keens into his mouth, and she’s not thinking anymore, only chasing heat and skin and pleasure, the rest of the night foggy and distant, moonlit and blurred. 

She doesn’t even know how much time passes before he’s kissing his way down her body, only that he’s fucked her so well with his hands he has three fingers inside her and she’s asking for more. He pulls his hand away and she lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched noise at the loss of contact, only to end on a gasp when she opens her eyes to see that he has his fingers curled around the waistband of her shorts and his face is hovering near her hips, pupils blown wide as he looks up at her. He asks her something, but blood rushes in her ears as her heart pounds and her chest heaves and it isn’t until his tongue darts out to wet his lips that she realizes what he’s saying. 

“Fuck, yes, please,” she whines, and it feels like less than instant before her shorts are on the floor and his head is between her legs, his tongue on her clit, and she screams, pushing her hands into his hair as his mouth launches her higher and keeps her there, wave upon wave crashing over her until her legs are shaking, and when she feels the pull deep in her stomach and he takes half a second to breathe, she has enough presence of mind to yank him back up, slamming his lips down onto hers, tasting herself there. 

“Inside me,” she gasps, ragged and raw and scraping. “Now.” 

“But you haven’t --” he breathes, and she reaches down, shoving past the waistband of the shorts he’s still wearing, her hand on his cock stopping him dead. 

“Now,” she repeats. And then, leans up to kiss him, slightly softer than before, as if in apology for being so rough, but more as a distraction as her hands unbutton his shorts and shove them down his thighs, her hands finding him again and stroking his cock until he’s gasping into her mouth. “Unless,” she says between short kisses, trying to keep her tone light, even as her cunt aches for him. “You changed your mind?” 

He scrambles out of his shorts and boxers so fast it’s almost funny, but the laugh falls out of her chest as he braces his forearms on either side of her face, pushing her hair back from her forehead and looking at her so carefully it almost hurts. “I don’t have a condom,” he says, uncharacteristic worry trembling in his voice. 

“I’m clean,” she says, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair once more, to ground her, and disguise their shaking. “You?” 

He nods. “What about --” 

“I have an IUD,” she says, more grateful than ever for her liberal mother and her own presence of mind. 

He licks his lips again, eyes dropping to her mouth before flicking back up to her eyes. “Last chance,” he says, like she’s going to change her mind and push him off of her, run off into the night and leave him here, disgraced and embarrassed. “Still sure?” he asks, like he’s expecting her to say no. She nods without hesitation, caught in his blue eyes, turned cobalt in the half-light. He kisses her one more time, and it’s laden with years of things he hasn’t said, and she surges up with urgency, not ready for the tenderness in his touch. JJ tries to slow her down again, to revel in the moment of bare skin and vulnerability, no matter how guarded it may be, but she reaches down, wrapping her hand around his dick, guiding him closer to her, and he’s falling into her touch, into her orbit, helpless. 

She draws him inside her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder with a forsaken, heavy breath. It’s too soft, this moment before he moves, too easy to break, every sense on fire. The air is too close to her skin, too tight around her arms, like she could rip the fabric of it with the barest movement. She wants to be lost in him again, to feel separate, far away and floating above herself, not so torturously in her body, JJ trembling and present above her. “JJ,” she says, opening her eyes to find his, a split-second mistake, the next word hitching on its way out of her chest. “Move.” 

He does, mercifully lowering his face to press against her neck, the eye contact too substantial, too burdensome to hold. The bubble surrounding them expands as he works her up to that blissful edge with ease, his mouth letting out a stream of filthy words about how good she feels surrounding him. Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back, letting her hands have free reign over his back, his shoulders, his arms and up into his hair, every place she wants to touch him when she watches his ridiculous muscles ripple under his young, tan skin. He shifts his weight, hooking her knee over his hip so his cock hits exactly the right spot with every thrust, and she cries out, racing higher. 

She should have expected that JJ likes to run his mouth -- she only catches parts of what he’s saying, things like ‘so fucking hot’ and ‘sound so fucking good’ and ‘so fucking wet for me’ and as her moans increase in pitch and volume, he growls “c’mon, Kie, cum for me,” and she falls apart. He fucks her through the aftermath and she barely knows what noises are coming out of her mouth, her nails digging angry welts in his back. Just when she thinks she can’t take anymore, he tenses and spills inside her on a half-broken sigh. 

Her vision sharpens as he rolls off of her, collapsing on the squeaky bedsprings, and the house is too quiet all of a sudden, the air once again too close. Her breath slows, the sweat cooling on her skin in the soft breeze pushing through the wooden walls, the still-open front door. Neither of them says anything, and Kiara can feel him looking at her, his blown out smile too loud in the fallout. She sits up, almost flinching at the light touch of his fingers on his spine when he picks up a strand of her hair. “I’m gonna pee,” she says, finding her underwear and pulling them on, and then, after half a moment, pulling his discarded t-shirt over her head. 

Her head echoes as she steps over the scattered mess to get to the bathroom, like she’s walking through a tunnel. Her legs ache and tremble, and she wraps her arms around herself, numb and falling. She fights tears as she washes her hands. The bathroom is, as always, a deplorable mess, products everywhere and hair all over the sink. Her green bikini top is still on the floor from when she’d forgotten it just the other day, and that girl feels impossibly far from the one staring at herself in the mirror, wearing her best friend’s shirt while he’s naked in the next room. There’d be shame, and guilt, too, if the smell of John B’s deodorant didn’t choke her with overwhelming loss. Bracing her hands on either side of the sink, she can’t hold it back anymore, and sobs spill out of her, harsh and echoing in the small space. 

JJ is behind her an instant, half-dressed in basketball shorts and drawing her into his arms, tucking her close to him, her tears hot on his skin. “He’s gone,” she whimpers. “He’s really gone.” He doesn’t say anything, just guides her back to the pullout and straightens the blankets enough for her to fall in. She curls up on her side, crying so hard she can’t breathe, and he climbs in across from her, pushing one arm under her neck and using the other to pull her against him, his lips pressed to her forehead. 

Tears leak out of his own eyes, silent and soft to her earth-shattering grief. “It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures her, fighting the quiver in his own voice, his chin shaking with the effort of it. He stares into the empty darkness above her head, every jerk of her prone body another crack in his breaking heart. “He’s coming back,” he says, more to himself than her. “He’s coming back to us.” 

When she finally quiets down, the betrayal of dawn is beginning to lighten the sky, the moon fading, and the idea of this night being over feels impossible. For a short while, they breathe each other in, her forehead pressed to his collarbones, his hand trailing up and down her spine. Her head aches and her eyelids fall heavy over gritty, exhausted eyes, but she still fights sleep, stubbornly resisting another day, the beginning of a life without John B and Sarah. “I can’t stay here,” she says, finally, pushing back from him. “I should go home.” 

He reaches up to catch her chin as she watches her hands curled close to his chest, reluctant to go. “Kie,” he murmurs, lifting her gaze to meet his. He moves forward to kiss her, and she flattens her palms against his skin, stopping him even as her eyes fall to his lips. 

“JJ,” she says, an exhale more than his name. “We -- I mean, I --” 

“Shit,” he sighs, and it almost sounds like a laugh, formed from expectations he wished hadn’t come true. “Okay.” His eyes flutter close, and she watches him draw back into himself, close all the doors, like he wants to turn off the lights and pretend he’s not even here. But then, he looks at her again, gently smoothing a curl behind her ear. “It’s just --” he starts, and inhales again, wetting his lips as he struggles to keep his eyes on her deep brown ones. “Can we go back to normal tomorrow?” Her eyebrows push together a fraction of an inch, and he focuses on the wrinkle there, a thousand times easier than holding her gaze. “Please,” he says when she inhales to say something. “I don’t want to be alone.” 

It’s the first time either of them have been completely honest all night, and the most he’s said in hours. “Yeah,” she says, agreeing without thinking. Making it about him instead of admitting to herself that she wants to stay, that she doesn’t want to be alone either. “Yeah, okay.” She allows herself to be kissed, to be held and kept softly. JJ twists his fingers in her curls, skims his lips over her hairline before pressing his forehead against hers. 

He tucks his hand against the side of her neck, his fingers spanning from her ear to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright,” he promises, and they both pretend he’s saying it to her. She’s seen JJ cheerful and stubborn, breaking and angry, seen him a thousand different ways. But never like this, kind and soft, quiet in the grey, grieving dawn. Eventually, she falls asleep under his touch and reassuring whispers. 

The morning is just as sticky and unforgiving as every other that summer, and she wakes up damp and sticky with sweat. JJ is stretched out on his stomach, arms tucked under his head, mouth slack and hair falling over his eyes. Her head still hurts, and now so do her back and thighs, and she stretches her hand out across the rumpled sheets, tracing the red lines she’d left down his back. He blinks awake, closing his mouth and freezing when he feels her touch on his skin. 

“Hey,” she murmurs. 

“Hey,” he replies.

She waits for him to say something, but he just watches her, his clear blue eyes unflinching. She bites her lip. “I should get home,” she says, keeping her eyes on the knuckle tracing over his back, his gaze too heavy to hold. 

“Yeah,” he says, “okay.” Neither of them move. The world waits on a hair trigger, and JJ’s more familiar with this kind of silence than she is. She wants him to break it first, to be the impulsive hothead he always is, to make the choice for both of them. But he doesn’t, and the moment crumbles, and she sits up and goes in search of her clothes. 

He doesn’t say anything until she stoops to pick up her bag, sweatshirt in hand, ready to shove it into the biggest pocket. “Kie,” he says, and she stops dead, looking up at him. She doesn’t know what she wants him to say, but she deflates anyway when he just asks “my shirt?” 

She’d forgotten she was wearing it. Pulling it off, she feels his hungry eyes trace up her bare chest as she untangles the drug rug before pulling it down and arranging it around her hips. She tosses him the shirt, and he holds her gaze as he flips it right side out and tugs it on. They stand on either side of the disheveled living room, daring the other person to say something, move, do anything first. He knows what he wants, what he can’t have, what he’s convinced himself he never will. She remembers the line she drew, the boundary she’d very clearly set. He chooses to respect it while she waits for him to break the rules.

Birds sing in the unflinching morning, and a breeze stirs the hair around her face. She slings her backpack over her shoulder. The sun blazes as gulls call and waves lap against the dock. He tilts his chin back, like he always does just before a fight. She turns to go.

[duhragonball]

For the Ask Game: Son Goku

Give me a character and I will answer:

Why I like them: Goku is the main character in Dragon Ball Z, an anime that I have enjoyed tremendously for over 20 years.  He kicks aliens really fast and hard, and he eats wolves and bugs and clouds, and he’s very cool and good.   

That may sound kind of basic, maybe even borderline sarcastic, but I’m not sure how else to put it.    I’ve gotten so used to liking Goku that it’s hard to articulate why.   

Like, okay, you know that one episode during the Cell Games, where he’s gonna pick apples from his favorite apple tree?   And he does the special karate punch that makes the apples all fall out of the branches without really hurting the tree?    In the dub, he says to the tree “Ready for one more round, old timer?”  Or something like that, and then after he hits it, he’s like “See?  That didn’t hurt a bit.”  I’m not getting the lines right, but you get the idea.    That’s some choice Goku right there.    He’s friends with that tree!   

Why I don’t: hE gAvE mOrO a SeNzU bEaN-- ha ha just kidding, but can you imagine not liking Goku?   Because of something he did in some horseshit fancomic that doesn’t even count?

Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot of guff from people about Goku showing mercy to his enemies.   This is humorous to me, because I’d bet you dollars to donuts that they’re fans of Vegeta and/or Piccolo, and that only happened because Goku decided to have mercy on their stank asses.    “Well I like Vegeta because he kills people.”  He only gets to do that because Goku allowed him to live.    Best Green Dad doesn’t happen without Goku, period, end of sentence, new paragraph.   

I’m not a lore expert like that guy on Twitter who only watched DBZ Abridged, but here’s some cool trivia for you: Cell could have self-destructed and destroyed the Earth at any time.    It literally does not matter that Goku gave Cell a senzu bean before Gohan fought him, because Cell would have done the same thing no matter who beat him or how.     If Gohan had wiped him out quickly, that nucleus would have survived and regenerated, and he would come back even stronger.   The senzu bean just delayed the inevitable outcome, and not even by that much, because Cell wasn’t that worn out in the first place.   The whole thing with the senzu bean was Goku playing headgames with Cell and no one seems to understand that but me.   

But what about Moro, you ask?   Hey, come here.  

Closer.    No, closer.   

Listen to me.   I love you, okay?    But the Dragon Ball Super manga isn’t canon.   Hating Goku over something he did in Super is like hating Superman for something he did in a Mad Magazine bit.      

“Blargle blargle he doesn’t kiss his wife bad father, tournament of power--” I super mega don’t care about any of these ice cold takes.      Every day I go on YouTube and it recommends me the dirt worst Star Wars commentary videos.   “Maybe the SITH were actually the GOOD GUYS and the JEDI were the BAD GUYS!  Huh?  Did I just BLOW your MIND?   Be sure to like and subscribe!”  Every dope with a keyboard seems to think they can flip the script and pretend they’re some kind of genius.    “Thanos was right!”  “Magneto was right!” “Dr. Doom was right!” “Antifa are the real fascists when you stop and think about it!”  “Masks and vaccines are bullshit, COVID-19 is a hoax, but if it were real, maybe it’s the good guy in this situation!”

I didn’t mean to go off on a rant here, but the whole point of Goku is that he’s a pretty cool guy, and the hero of his particular adventure, and you see all these people trying to outsmart that somehow, like it’s not the premise of the character.   It’s like all those fan theories about how every show is really one character having a coma dream in the hospital.    It’s fake-deep, like when Will Smith’s kid goes on the internet and says something like “Water isn’t wet when you stop and think about it.”  

I’m not saying everyone has to like Goku, but I don’t get the hate-boner people have for him.    I don’t like cole slaw, it’s soggy and insipid and I don’t understand it, but I don’t go around trying to convince people it’s not made out of cabbage.  

Anyway, Goku’s awesome. 

Favorite episode (scene if movie): It’s hard to choose, but DBZ #248 always fucks me up.   I looked it up in my liveblog archive to get the episode number right, and the first line of that post: This one always fucks me up.

Moving on.

Favorite season/movie: In Dragon Ball terms, I guess this refers to the sagas, so I’ll go with Cell Games.    Goku goes into the battle with this flawed, touch-and-go plan, and it works.    He defeats perfection with imperfection, and it’s glorious.  

Favorite line: “What I represent can never be destroyed,” is one of the most metal lines ever uttered, anywhere.   It’s a threat and a moral lesson all in one.   

Favorite outfit: Two answers for this one.  

Shu’s outfit in the Fortuneteller Baba Saga was awesome.    I used to wear yellow T-shirts to work, so when I put on my blue labcoat I would see myself in the restroom mirror and think: yeaaaaahhhhhh.

I’m also big into Goku’s look during the Cell Games, classic orange outfit, blue shirt, with the Super Saiyan form ready to go.    That may sound obvious, since this is kind of Goku’s default look, but it takes a while to get all of this together.  For me, it was a big deal to see Goku in action as a Super Saiyan in his standard fighting gear, because the whole time he was SSJ on Namek his shirt was ruined.   Against Gero and 19 he was sick, but starting with the Cell Games, we get him fresh as a daisy, and it’s worth the wait.   Harder to stealth cosplay, though.

OTP: Gochi.   Come on.    I don’t even care that much about ships, but they’re adorable on the show, and the internet backlash against Gochi only intensifies my defiance.   

Brotp: I wrote a fanfic with Goku and Yamcha just joyriding in the desert, and that seemed pretty awesome, so maybe we need more of that.   

I dunno, maybe I’m giving this to Bulma.   They don’t get a ton of screen time together after a certain point in the show, but the bond between them is this really sublime thing.    In the same fanfic, I wrote Bulma and Goku interacting, and that was just a pleasure to write.

Head Canon: I think Goku being an alien orphan matters more to him than he lets on.   Early on, he knew he had parents but he didn’t know why they left him in the woods.   Pretty much every interaction he has with the outside world is about him being different.   Then he finds out he’s a Saiyan and all the Saiyans hate him for being weak and sentimental and so on.   He can kick all their asses, but that doesn’t make him any less of an outcast.   

I think becoming a Super Saiyan is a bigger deal to him than he lets on.   That moment kind of serves as this unspoken proof that there’s more to being a “true” Saiyan than Vegeta, Nappa, and Raditz ever knew.   That maybe, if his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great granny could see him, she might approve.

Unpopular opinion:

Yukio Ebisawa is underrated. 

A wish: I always wanted to see Goku style on Broly ‘93.   It seemed unfair to me that they kept bringing Broly back, and even teased a rematch with Goku in Movie 11, only to not deliver on it.    I wanted Goku to turn Super Saiyan 2 and Broly’d be all “oh noes!” and Goku would look at him and be all “Yeah.   What now, bitch?    That green shit won’t cut it anymore.”

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: I think my darkest fear about the Dragon Ball franchise is that it’ll get bastardized like Superman, where some giant multimedia corporation owns it, has no idea how to tell new stories with it, and refuses to let it lapse into the public domain.   I have no idea how public domain works in Japan, but “Disney Toei’s Dragon Ball KH” doesn’t sit well with me.    Hopefully I’ll be dead by the time that happens.  

Like, Rise of Skywalker wasn’t that bad.   But it did lead me to worry that they really have no idea how to make Star Wars work.    They got it right enough, but the part where Rose is going to stay and guard the base or whatever, it just made me realize they’re only guessing, and they just happen to guess right often enough to succeed.   And it’s not like you can jump over to some other studio and see how they handle a Star Wars movie.

5 words to best describe them: Ain’t nothin’ to fuck with.

My nickname for them: Geeko.    Ha ha, just kidding.  

[takenbyemrys]

Summary:  Harley finds Spider-Man on a roof, watching the remains of a parade for him and the Avengers. He refuses to let Peter get away and decides to make the first move. Well, maybe more than a single move.

Day 1: Identity Porn/ Parade

Peter gazed down at the remnants of the days parade. The avengers had, once again, saved the world from certain doom, and the city had decided to throw a massive festival. It had started with a parade winding through the streets of New York, and it ended with a massive carnival in Central Park.

Peter was sitting on the ledge of a roof watching the crowds funnel into the festival. It was dusk and the air was beginning to nip at his skin, even under his super suit.

“Karen, activate the ‘Cold never bothered me anyway’ protocol.” He murmured to his AI.

“Making sure you ‘Let it go’ Peter.” Karen’s voice sounded softly in his ear. Instantly the heaters in his suit kicked on, helping his body thermoregulate. The sound of creaking metal drew his attention. He spun his head around, ready to jump into action, when he saw the top of a head climbing the opposing fire escape.

“You do know this entire festival is like for you right?” Harley asked. Peter froze. They had interacted pretty minimally when he was Spider-Man, but when they did, it was always much flirtier, and dirtier, than any interaction the had when he was just Peter.

“Well, yeah, but who could go to the festival when you’re all the way up here?” Peter smirked under the mask. A light blush splattered Harley’s cheeks. The country boy shook his head and moved closer to the superhero. He dropped down onto the ledge to sit next to him. They sat in a comfortable silence as they watched the crowd.

“You almost died today.” Harley murmured. If it hadn’t been for his super hearing, he probably would have missed it. “And all I could think about was that I wouldn't have the chance to do this.” Without taking even a second to hesitate, Harley deftly flicked his thumbs under the edges of Peter’s mask. Peter knew he could stop him, but he was transfixed by the feeling of Harley’s fingers on his skin. Harley flipped it up without another word, only revealing Peter’s parted lips. Harley leaned forward and softly pressed his lips against Peter’s.

Peter gasped at the feeling. His lips were alight with fire. Harley reached around and pulled the superhero closer to him. They kissed softly for a minute, just barely touching, reveling in the feeling. Peter leaned into the kiss and ran his tongue along Harley’s bottom lip. He was rewarded with a deep, needy groan.

Without a second thought, Peter was pulling Harley onto his lap. The southern boy gasped, but didn’t pull again. Instead, he started attacking Peter’s mouth. Nipping and licking his way into Peter’s mouth. Peter moaned as Harley fully settled onto his lap, stradling the superhero.

“Can’t believe i waited so long to do this.” Harley groaned. Peter had ducked his head and was pillaging his way up and down Harley’s neck. Harley moaned and Peter’s tongue flicked over his collar bone. His hips ground down on Peter’s already hardening length. The superhero bucked lightly, drawing another moan from Harley. Harley’s fingers scrabbled at the suit, trying in vain to find purchase in skin.

“I mean seriously. How the hell did I not work up the courage to do this sooner? We could have been fucking for months.” Harley breathed. Peter paused his work, thinking about the fact that Harley was thinking about Spider-man. He wouldn’t be doing this with Peter. “Oh my god, you can’t stop now. C’mon Pete, we barely got started.” Peter snapped his head up, meeting Harley’s cocky gaze.

“I- you.” Peter croaked. Harley rolled his eyes.

“Yes, you big dumb webhead. I’ve been trying to get your attention for months. Figured it was me that was gonna have to make the move, especially with that stupid stunt you pulled today. There wasn’t anyway I was going to let you leave this world without at least kissing you once.” Peter swore his heart stopped. He swooped back down and captured Harley’s lips. His tongue slipped into Harley’s mouth and he mapped out the planes of the boys mouth with ease, reveling in the fact that Harley wanted him. He pulled away with a grin.

“I’m not going to leave this world without doing a hell of a lot more.” Peter growled. He bucked his hips again and reveled in the sound that Harley made.

“Thank god, sweetheat. I didn’t think you were ever going to get with the program.” Harley

reached up and ripped the rest of the mask off Peter’s head. “There’s my Peter.” Hearing those words from Harley made Peter snap. He wrapped his arms around Harley and stood, holding him easily. Harley gasped at the sudden movement. He scrambled to grip Peter’s shoulder, but it was already too late. Peter had already moved toward the center of the roof and was laying Harley down gently.

Peter took a moment to stare the the boy. His blond hair was fanned around him, making it look like a halo. His skin was flushed a delicate pink and his eyes were filled with lust. Peter dove back in with fervor, pillaging his sinful mouth. Harley reciprocated with just as much enthusiasm. He reached down and tried to grasp Peter’s suit again. He broke the kiss with a growl.

“As hot as it would be, getting fucked by a superhero, I need this suit off, like five minutes ago.” Peter smirked.

“So bossy,” Peter said. He leaned up and tapped the spider on his chest. Harley watched in awe as the suit folded in on itself, revealing an incredibly muscular, and mostly naked Peter Parker. Harley grinned at the sight of his straining briefs. He had no idea how he hadn’t seen it in the skin tight suit. Peter gripped the front of Harley’s shirt and pulled so Harley was sitting up. Peter yanked the shirt over his head and deposited it next to them. “If you get to dictate my clothes, I get to dictate yours.” Harley grinned and leaned back down. He watched as Peter deftly popped the button on his jeans. Harley lifted his hips as Peter shimmied his jeans down his hips. Before he could get to far, Harley grabbed his hand. Peter looked at him patiently. Harley reached into his back pocket and took out a condom and a packet of lube before he gestured for Peter to continue. The spider rolled his eyes with a smile.

“What? I was hopeful.” Harley smirked.

“You’re a pain in my ass.” Peter said. He climbed back up Harley, running his hands up the boys sides.

“Hopefully you’re about to be a pain in mine.” Peter grinned into Harley’s collarbone.

They scrabbled at each others clothes until they were both naked and gasping. Harley’s eyes roamed Peter’s body appreciatively, moving from his perfectly toned abs down to his weeping member. Peter was gazing at him with fire in his eyes. He looked ready to absolutely devour Harley, and the southern boy was ready for it. Peter made the first move. He grabbed Harley’s hips and pulled them together, relishing the moan that Harley let out.

Harley reached up and licked his way into Peter’s mouth as he rolled their hips together. Peter reached down and snatched the packet of lube from the ground. He tore it open and coated his fingers. Harley groaned as Peter grabbed his ass with his non lubed hand and began gently massaging it..

“Peter, this is not a teasing time. This is a fucking time.” Harley groaned. Peter smirked but didn’t stop massaging. Harley groaned and rolled his hips. Peter snorted, but slowly slid a finger into Harley. The boy groaned and rolled his hips again. Peter drug his finger in and out, slowly pressing into Harley’s walls, slowly stretching him. In no time he added a second finger. Then a third. Harley was keening at this point, grinding down on Peter’s fingers.

Peter grinned down at Harley. He reached as far as he could, trying to find the bundle of nerves that he knew would get Harley falling apart. He crooked his finger and preened as Harley moaned. It was positively filthy.

“Sweetheart, please for the love of christ.” Harley’s voice was a wreck. Peter grinned at the thought that he was completely wrecking the boy.

“All you had to do was ask.” Peter leaned down and licked and nibbled Harley’s hip. He bucked and moaned at the sensation. Peter continued down and ran his tongue up the underside of Harley’s shaft.

“Pete, fuck.” Harley groaned. Peter licked his way back up Harley’s body, still dragging his fingers in and out of him. He pulled his fingers all the way out and scrambled to grab the condom. He fumbled so hard that Harley reached down and rolled the condom on for him. He groaned and the feeling up Harley’s fingers on his shaft and bracketed his arms around Harley. Harley ground down, catching Peter’s tip on his rim, causing both boys to moan. Peter lined up and slowly began pressing into Harley.

“Fuck, fuck fuck. Peter.” Harley chanted. Peter’s arms were shaking with the sensation. Inch by inch Peter pressed in, until he was fully seated in Harley. He paused, breathing in Harley’s sent. Motor oil and flowers. It was always an odd scent that had followed Harley since they first met. Peter took a deep breath, reveling in the feel of Harley wrapped around him. His incredibly tight heat was drowning Peter. He waited until Harley experimentally rolled his hips.

“Fuck!” Peter cried. Harley smirked and rolled his hips again.

“Sweetheart, this is usually the part where you move.” He murmured in Peter’s ear. Peter relaxed into his body. He moved one hand down to grip Harley’s hip and gently pulled out of Harley. He rolled his hips, thrusting back in. Harley’s head fell back, a groan ripping out of him.

Peter set a frustratingly slow pace. Easing his was all the way out and then slowly sliding back in. Harley was fighting the urge to snap his hips up to meet Peter’s. He was basking in the feeling of Peter filling him like this, and no matter how much he wanted the boy to fuck him into obvilion, he never wanted this to end.

Peter watched as Harley fell apart underneath him. He knew he was teasing Harley. He knew that this slow pace was absolutely killing him, but he loved the way that Harley was coming apart. He pulled out slowly again, before snapping his hips back in. Harley cried out at the sudden change in pace, scrabbling at Peter’s back. Peter groaned as Harley’s nails dug into his skin, spurring him into a brutal pace.

Harley cried out as Peter thrust into him. He canted his hip up and was rewarded with Peter brushing against his prostate. Peter groaned slammed into him again.

“Peter, fuck sweetheart, I’m gonna,” Harley was cut off as another moan ripped out of him. Peter reached down and gripped Harley’s member. He matched the speed on his hand to the speed of his hips. He was slamming into Harley at this point. Moans were pouring out of both of them as they came closer to their climax. Harley felt his rip through him. The constant massaging of his prostate mixed with Peter’s hand was too much. He cried out, his entire body spasming.

“Harley!” Peter cried. Harley’s walls were contracting around Peter’s shaft, pushing him over the edge. They both rode through their orgasm before collapsing. Sweat was pouring off both of them. Peter lazily licked the sweat from Harley’s collarbone, causing him to shiver.

“Well that was phenomenal sweetheart.” Harley’s voice was deep and raspy. Peter grinned into his neck. “Maybe you’ll let me buy you dinner now?” Peter snorted and pulled out of him. Harley gasped at the loss of Peter.

“I’ll have to think about that.” Peter sat up and stretched. He pulled the condom off and tied it expertly. His eyes roamed Harley’s body with glee.

“I bet you will. Fuck, can we just stay on this roof all night?” Harley groaned. “I actually think you fucked away my ability to walk.” Peter grabbed Harley’s hand and pulled him into a sitting position.

“I would say yes, but i was just promised dinner. Then after that, we each have a king size bed at the tower just waiting to be ruined.” Peter said. Harley smirked.

“Alright sweetheart. Let me get my clothes.” Harley dressed quickly. Peter grabbed his spider emblem and tapped it on his chest. Harley grinned as the suit appeared. “You’ve got five minutes to change and meet me at that festival.” Peter grabbed Harley’s hip and pulled him to him. Peter captured Harley’s lips, keeping the kiss soft and delicate.

“I think I can do that.” Peter pulled the mask on his face and fell off the roof.

“Showoff!” Harley called. He wiggled his hips and couldn’t keep the grin off his face. He had a date to get to.

[stagtic]

STUDY    :   Alastor.   TAGGED    BY    : @angclbcrn​, thanks!!

—    BASICS.

IS    YOUR    MUSE    TALL    /    SHORT     /    AVERAGE?

Very tall, but not the tallest Hell has to offer. He stands at over 7 feet tall.

ARE    THEY    OKAY    WITH    THEIR    HEIGHT?

Oh, he LOVES it. He was pretty short in life ( 5′4″ ) so the fact he towers over the average demon pleases him greatly.

WHAT’S    THEIR    HAIR    LIKE?

Soft and rich, with a bit of wave to it. His ears are covered in a downy fur.

DO    THEY    SPEND    A    LOT    OF    TIME    ON    THEIR    HAIR     /    GROOMING?

Varies based on what he’s planning to do that day. He can go long spans of time without taking care of himself properly, not eating, not sleeping, letting the blood and viscera from his kills get caked under his claws. Pretty gruesome stuff. 

But when he intends to make appearances and to actually interact with people, you best believe he’s smartened up and clean for the occasion. He tends to get very locked into his ideas, often to the exclusion of other things, and it’s easy for him to lose track of himself in the process.

DOES   YOUR   MUSE   CARE   ABOUT   THEIR   APPEARANCE   /   WHAT    OTHERS    THINK?

Honestly? Much as he projects the image of indifference to others and their opinions of him, it’s actually very important to him that others regard him in ways he can handle -- particularly being afraid of him. When he gets NO reaction from someone, it unsettles and irritates him. He can’t work with nothing. 

Alastor is a performer, and ultimately, everything about his Radio Demon persona is about how he’s seen by others. Without an audience, who is he? Not a question he likes to ponder.

—    PREFERENCES.

INDOORS    OR    OUTDOORS? mix of both.

RAIN    OR    SUNSHINE? rain.

FOREST    OR    BEACH? forest.

PRECIOUS    METALS    OR    GEMS? precious metals.

FLOWERS    OR    PERFUMES? flowers, absolutely. alastor is WEAK for a bouquet.

PERSONALITY    OR    APPEARANCE? personality.

BEING    ALONE    OR    BEING    IN    A    CROWD? depends on his mood and current fixation.

ORDER    OR    ANARCHY? ANARCHY! pure, BEAUTIFUL anarchy!

PAINFUL    TRUTHS    OR    WHITE    LIES? it depends on the situation, and which suits his purposes at the moment. that said, his lies are RARELY so innocent.

SCIENCE    OR    MAGIC? magic.

PEACE    OR    CONFLICT? conflict, even if he has to start it himself.

NIGHT    OR    DAY? night.

DUSK    OR    DAWN? dusk.

WARMTH    OR    COLD? cold. alastor’s a big fan of winter.

MANY   ACQUAINTANCES    OR    A    FEW    CLOSE    FRIENDS? both have their uses. once again, this one is situational, depending on his specific needs and goals at the time.

READING    OR    PLAYING    A    GAME? playing a game.

—    QUESTIONNAIRE.

WHAT    ARE    SOME    OF    YOUR    MUSE’S    BAD    HABITS?

Well, there’s the whole slaughtering countless people and broadcasting it live thing. He has a tendency to entirely disregard personal space, he believes the past is set in stone so there’s no reason to regret, and therefore rarely if EVER apologizes, he provokes people just to amuse himself with their reactions, he tells awful Dad jokes and laughs stupidly hard at them, the list goes on and on really.

HAS    YOUR    MUSE    LOST    ANYONE    CLOSE    TO    THEM?      HOW    HAS    IT    AFFECTED    THEM?

Alastor lost his mother in his mid - 20s, and it was ... a very complicated affair. His mother had made it VERY clear throughout his life that she blamed him for her unhappiness. By all accounts, he should have been relieved to no longer carry the burden of her disappointment and loathing, having been forced to care for her in the last miserable years of her life. But it honestly just put more weight on him, knowing he’d never really RESOLVE any of the issues between them. He’d never know if she ever loved him at all, in spite of her being the only person in his mortal life he ever truly loved.

His mother’s life and death left its marks on him, and he still carries all of those twisted emotions even over a hundred years later. He has trouble trusting the idea anyone could ever genuinely like him and is always on the defensive. He plays relationships fast and loose, because depending on anyone just gives them the power to let you fall whenever they decide to drop you.

WHAT    ARE    SOME    FOND    MEMORIES    YOUR    MUSE    HAS?

The early years of his life were actually pretty good, his grandparents’ influence in his life assuring that he and his mother were comfortable. He also holds on dearly to the memories of Christmas, as it was his mother’s favorite holiday and consistently the only time of year she made an effort to be kind to him. He never got much in the way of gifts, but that wasn’t what he enjoyed. The scenery, the atmosphere, the fleeting sense of love from the person who mattered most to him ... he cherishes it.

IS    IT    EASY    FOR    YOUR    MUSE    TO    KILL?

Almost TOO easy. While he’s not just cutting demons down willy nilly, the decision to use deadly force is one he makes very quickly. And the option is never really off the table for anyone; even people that he has an attachment to are in some level of danger, when it comes to his ever - shifting whims and fancies.

WHAT’S    IT    LIKE    WHEN    YOUR    MUSE    BREAKS    DOWN?

It’s ... bad. Alastor is not a demon with much self - control, so when even that much is gone, and he lets the full horror of his powers be known? It’s the literal embodiment of a nightmare. Reality fractures at its seams, his body distorts into something grotesque and unfathomable, and the radio projects all manner of hellish NOISE from seemingly everywhere, even inside the heads of those surrounding him. 

He can kill people that way, and probably HAS accidentally offed an underling or two that managed to be close to him on a bad day.

IS    YOUR    MUSE    CAPABLE    OF    TRUSTING    SOMEONE    WITH    THEIR    LIFE?

I’d like to say he is, but ... probably only someone like Husk and Niffty, who have no CHOICE but to treat his life with as much care as possible, lest they doom themselves as well. 

It would take a LOT of time to extend that level of trust to someone else, who he did not have control over.

WHAT’S    YOUR    MUSE    LIKE    WHEN    THEY’RE    IN    LOVE?

It’s a mixed bag. Obviously he treats his partners with more tenderness than he’d show anyone else, showing a side of himself few will ever get to see. But he is an intense person with a very terrible grasp on his own feelings and, as mentioned, not much self - control. He will obsess over the object of his affection, pouring a healthy sum of the INTEREST that goes towards his projects and plans into them and their affairs. He will be possessive and protective. He will want to be in control.

It would take time for him to fully appreciate that a loving, mutual romantic relationship requires compromise and open communication, neither of which are things he’s good at.

TAGGING: anyone who wants to! i’m curious what your answers to some of these will be.

[latefrequencies]

late frequencies fans pls interact

hey this is a weird post, it’s nearly midnight, I’ve taken my meds and some vistaril so maybe that’s why i’m weird rn, but uhhhhh is there anything anyone wants to hear on my next album? because I’m actively working on the next Late Frequencies album (hear the stuff on Bandcamp here if you’d like, the Soundcloud account contains a large amount of stuff as well) and like. is there anything anyone wants to hear from me? 

i’ve been experimenting with a genre I’m calling “doom synth” which is basically meant to be like doom metal but w/synth and not guitar. “O Void” is a good example of what I’m talking about. (I’m just gonna assume you can listen to the things that are on the Soundcloud.) and ofc I’m going to write at least one more OFF fansong (I’ve been on-and-off replaying the game lately and I feel like with what I do now musically, I might take direct inspiration from the soundtrack. I’m imagining maybe lyrics about the Batter revisiting the zones after purifying them because that’d totally fit with the themes I’m writing about currently.) sometimes I write songs about true crime. last album, I did a track about Ed Gein (”Dig a Hole”) and one inspired by Charles Manson (”Guilty Is the Hand”, “This House Was Built To Last” is a little Manson-inspired, it’s also inspired by the lore I have surrounding LF). Oh does anyone want more lore-specific songs?? The importance of the lore is waning but I Can Do That. I was experimenting with drone metal recently. 

idk why I’m making this post exactly but I think connection with the audience is important and it’s becoming rather clear to me that there are people who listen to my stuff and legitimately enjoy what I’m making ( @bratwizard I see u reblogging “Where Else Are We Going To Get The Blood” and talking about relistening to your favorite bits and that one little remark is frankly the best thing I’ve heard lately, like my song has so many cool parts that they’re worth not even listening to the full song yet to re-listen to those small parts that I actually worked rather hard on so I’m SUPER glad people appreciate those little pieces because so many people wouldn’t really think of them and I’m flattered as hell). so like. idk what I’m asking. anyone want me to try a certain thing. interactivity is important to me. if the audience wants something i am more than happy to at least try to give it to them. it legitimately pleases me to do that.