#i wrote this before work

[shardminds]

coffee shop au perhaps..... your choice of pairing 🥺👉👈

liz ily

velaris fog / feysand / 283w (sorry this is entirely in lapslock, i wrote it on my phone!)

coffee, although a necessity, was not something feyre liked waking up at six am for. if her favourite spot had been even a little bit closer to her home or workplace, she would’ve nixed the early starts entirely. an extra half hour in bed was a luxury not all could afford. neither was walking fifteen minutes in the opposite direction of her studio to grab a velaris fog (some variation on an earl grey tea latte and, given the way she’d been craving them lately, laced with crack) before the rush outside NC Coffee & Co. got too much.

luckily, cassian was twisting the sign from ‘sorry we’re closed’ to ‘welcome to the night court’ as she reached the entrance, even going as far to open the door as she stepped in from the brisk morning. three years living in the north still did not prepare her for the chills that leeched far into early summer. but it was home. she’d learned to love it.

“good morning, early bird,” cassian smiled, all teeth and crows feet, ushering her to the counter. far too enthusiastic for six thirty. “it better be the usual.“

feyre rolled her eyes. as if she’d get anything else.

“two fogs.” rhys - rhysand, the owner, looks, and brains of the place - leant on the counter, chin resting on his palm. feyre itched to paint him - he had a look that deserved to be captured in oils, or marble, or film. there were two to go cups placed on embossed napkins at his side. he slid one forward, offering a wink. “on the house.”

another reason for the six am starts —his undivided attention. and the best damn latte in the city

[starry-eyed-psychopomp]

You’d think that omegaverse aus would work really well for SVSSS, what with PIDW being a shitty internet porn series with 10,000 variations of sex pollen, but if you really try to rework the whole universe for abo you’ll find that it would actually crumble the very foundations of the series. This is due to the simple fact that the entire plot is spurred by Su Xiyan’s pregnancy, with her giving birth to Binghe alone while Tianlang-jun is imprisoned, but if the series was omegaverse there is no way in all hell that notorious dom sugar daddy masc Su Xiyan wouldn’t be the alpha to submissive and breedable omega Tianlang-jun. ANY other possibility is OOC on a world-breaking level. In this essay I will

[redfirefox-55]

Please guys go read Software Entropy by @clubsheartsspades (I hope you don’t mind the tag!)

It literally destroyed me. I forced my sister to read it and it destroyed her too. I just had to draw something for it because I couldn’t get this quote out of my head, but I couldn’t possibly do the scene justice in the same way as in the fanfiction so you need to go read it yourself

[thevoidstaredback]

Enough Caffeine to Kill an Elephant

Listen. It was an accident. He didn't mean to! It just kinda happened.

So maybe he brought a drink with enough caffeine in it to kill an elephant within a few minutes, and maybe he forgot to put the sleeve on his cup so he could tell it apart from the others, but it's not his fault! He didn't think anyone else was going to have the exact same Yeti cup as him! It's not like he'd seen any of the others carry one before. Besides, he worked with superheros. They should be smart enough to check before drinking someone else's drink.

Danny had been summoned by the Justice League Dark a few years back in order to help with a world ending crisis and he just didn't leave. It's not like he could go anywhere anyway. His ghost half hadn't grown past fourteen and his human half had stopped visibly aging at eighteen. He'd had to leave town as Danny Fenton, but he'd stayed in Amity Park as Danny Phantom. When his parents died of old age, thank god, he'd closed down the portal, stuck around for a few more years, before traveling the world as Danny Fenton.

Anyway, he'd taken up residence in the House of Mysteries after the JLD had summoned him. Constantine, at first, had been wary, but he and the rest of the JLD had grown to accept him. He was an honorary member of the team.

At some point, just after Robin had become Red Robin, Danny had been introduced to the Justice League. He liked those guys, too, and worked with them sometimes. Though, he usually only went to bug them.

Red Robin had been very interested in the fact that his was fourteen and working with grown heros, like he was one to talk, but Danny hadn't explained anything other than saying that he had died and come back. The following conversation was an interesting one that lead to Danny knowing that Nightwing was the Batman he'd met and that Batman was lost somewhere. He'd confirmed that the man was not dead, but he hadn't offered to help look for him. He probably should have, in retrospect.

Back on topic! Everyone in the JLD knew not to touch Danny's drink. They'd all seen him make it before and had been horrified on varying degrees. It's not like it could kill him. He's already half dead! So long as he only drank this specific brew as Phantom, he'd be fine.

The Justice League, apparently, didn't get the memo. He blames Constantine because Zatanna and Raven can do no wrong. No, John, he's not biased.

The point is, Red Robin just had a sip of Danny's drink. The horror he now felt was akin to the fear he held when he'd told his parents he was Phantom. (An interaction that had gone very well, thank you very much.)

Danny knew the exact moment that the vigilante realized he grabbed the wrong drink. His eyes widened to an astonishing degree, and, if he'd been able to seen his eyes behind the mask, Danny knew that the man's pupils would've completely overtaken the irises. His hands started shaking, too. Oh, no. The man's already addicted to hellish amounts of coffee. This is only going to make it worse!

Quickly, and without drawing any attention, thank the Ancients, Danny rushed over. "You, um, you okay, man?" Obviously not, but he tends to talk when he's anxious and he was certainly anxious right now. He could've possibly just killed a man via poison!

"What the fuck is in this coffee?" Red Robin asked, going to take another sip.

Danny pulled the Yeti from his hand and gave him the proper one. "Enough caffeine to kill an elephant."

"Obviously not, seeing as I'm still alive."

"Yeah, I can't tell if that's a good thing or not."

"Excuse me?"

"I-I mean-! I didn't-! You know what I mean." Caffeine is poisonous in excess, and his drink was way beyond excess, but it's the only thing that works for him as a ghost! Superpowered metabolism and all that.

"Do I?" The laugh in his voice answered for him. He took a sip from his drink and frowned at it. "I don't think any coffee will ever be enough again."

"And that's my cue to get my drink very far away from you." Danny turned, fully intent on moving to the other side of the room. Besides, the meeting was going to start as soon as the Flash and Kid Flash arrived, which would be soon. Something about one of their Rouges getting out?

"What?" Red Robin asked, "Why?" If he was a little desperate to get another sip of that coffee, he'd rather not acknowledge it.

"Because you don't need anymore lethal coffee," he muttered, "The sip you took will already keep you awake for three days at least, and it probably jump started an addiction. Best to stop it now. Besides, I need to go have my crisis on how the hell you're still alive after even a sip of this stuff."

"Again, rude." The bird themed vigilante crossed his arms as best he could while holding his cup. "If it's so dangerous, why do you drink it?"

Danny took a deliberate sip as he locked eyes with the technically younger man. "I'm dead. I don't need to worry about my heart stopping or having a seizure."

"Excuses."

"No, it's not 'excuses'. I'm saving your life."

"You're a kid. If I can't have that coffee, then you shouldn't be having it."

"First, I'm older than you. Second, I already told you: I'm dead. This isn't going to hurt me. Third, you can't tell me what to do."

"There's no way you're older than me. You're like, ten."

"I'm thirty-eight!" He balked, "I only look fourteen because I died when I was fourteen. We've been over this."

Neither noticed the entire Justice League looking at them. The two they were waiting on had arrived a few minutes ago and everyone was ready to start the meeting, but they'd been distracted by the two's conversation. Was that true? Had Phantom really died so young? They'd all been made aware he was not living, but they didn't think he'd died so young! Though, that was probably the denial speaking.

The Justice League Dark had been fully aware of this and didn't really bat an eye. Though, someone should probably get this meeting started. A potentially world ending threat was the topic, and that was a pretty important thing to discuss.

Captain Marvel was the first to pull himself together, though that was only after Atlas and Zeus had mentally slapped him out of his stupur. "As, ah, riveting as this conversation is," he stepped between the two boys- er, boy and man? "we really need to start this meeting."

Batman did not clear his throat because he'd not lost his voice in the first place. "He's right. Everyone take your seats."

Storyboard Part 2

[hardly-an-escape]

I believe with all my heart that Buck still struggles during thunderstorms after being hit by lightning. luckily Tommy makes an extremely effective weighted blanket.

Tommy awakens, in the early hours of the morning, to a clap of thunder and an empty bed.

He feels sleepily for Evan; that side of the bed is still warm, so he can't be far, probably just in the bathroom.

He dozes off again. When another rolling burst of thunder startles him back to consciousness a few minutes later, Evan is still gone and the sheets have cooled. The rain is clattering hard on the skylight above their bed. With a groan, Tommy hauls himself out of bed to look for his boyfriend.

Evan is not in the en suite bathroom. Nor is he in the office, where he sometimes retreats to read when he can't sleep; nor yet in the kitchen. Tommy stands in the living room, hands on hips, blinking blearily and considering where he might look next.

Then he notices the blankets on the floor.

They’ve got one of those L-shaped couches with the chaise on one side, big and deep enough for two bulky men to cuddle on. Evan has wedged himself against the couch legs in the corner of the L in a pile of blankets and throw pillows, and Tommy doesn’t miss the fact that he’s about as far from the living room windows as it’s possible to be.

Even bleary-eyed, he doesn’t miss the fact that the blinds and curtains are both tightly closed, though he’s sure they’d been open when they went to bed, to catch the last few rays of sunset before the cloud cover rolled over Los Angeles.

Outside, the rain beats heavily against the sidewalk and the roof and the windows and thunder rumbles again across the sky. Inside, Tommy lowers himself down to the living room floor with a grunt and adds himself to Evan's pile of pillows.

"Hey," Evan says, voice sleepy and small.

"Hey," Tommy replies, insinuating one hand into the nest to gently hold the back of Evan's neck. "Storm getting to you?"

"Yeah. Normally it wouldn't, you know, bug me, but I was already having this weird, like, anxiety dream about my sister, and when the thunder and lightning woke me up, it just –"

"You don't have to explain, sweetheart," Tommy cuts in. "I get it."

"It's embarrassing," Evan says, muffled.

"It's not. We have a scary job. Every firefighter I know has something like this, a call or an injury that stuck with them, and not in a good way. Yours just happens to be a little more... visceral, I guess, than some people's."

"I guess. Thanks for coming to check on me."

"Of course." He can feel Evan flinch as another clap of thunder is followed almost immediately by a bolt of lightning that makes the room glow briefly, even through the blinds and curtains. Tommy tightens his grip on the back of his neck. "If you need to stay down here, I'll stay with you, but I think my back and your leg will thank us if we can make it onto the couch."

Evan considers. "Will you lie on top of me?"

"Sure."

They maneuver themselves and the blankets onto the long side of the couch. After some adjustment, Evan ends up on his belly, bad leg cocked to the side and face turned toward the back of the couch, clutching a throw pillow to his chest while Tommy plasters himself against his back like the world's heaviest weighted blanket.

"Okay, you were right, this is so much better than the floor," Evan says, sighing happily, and Tommy grins, and rubs his nose on the back of Evan's neck, and kisses the curve of his ear.

"Tomorrow I'll look for some blinds or something we can put on the skylight, okay? It would probably help if it didn't feel so exposed, right?"

There's a long, silent beat. "You don't have to do that just for me," Evan says eventually.

"Eh, it gets too bright in there anyway. I'm an old man, remember, I need all the help sleeping I can get. And besides," Tommy adds quietly. "I want to do things for you."

"Oh, well in that case," Evan says. "Yeah, I think it would help."

"Then we'll do it," Tommy says simply. They lie there for a few minutes, listening to the wind. The rain is still heavy, but it sounds like the worst of the weather system is receding, blowing away to wherever storms go when they've blown out all their furious energy. Evan's breathing has evened out, and the tension is receding from his body as the storm gets quieter and quieter.

“Do you, uh, do you remember that storm?” Evan asks. He doesn’t have to specify which storm.

“I do, actually. I was supposed to be doing some training runs that night, but all non-emergency flights got grounded. And then the next day, everybody and their granny heard about the guy who literally got struck by lightning. That was pretty memorable.”

Evan sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was, wasn’t it?”

There’s this feeling welling up inside his chest like water from an underground spring. It’s this combination of marvel and abject gratitude and a dash of there but for the grace of God go I, and Tommy is searching for the right words to try and tell Evan what he’s thinking.

“I’m really glad you’re here, sweetheart,” is what comes out.

Evan wriggles happily underneath him. “Yeah, me too, babe.”

“No, I mean –” Tommy clears his throat against the sudden lump. “I mean, you don’t know how glad I am you’re here. There’s so many things that – that could have taken you away from me before I even got the chance to have you. And I would never have known – I wouldn’t have even known you were missing from my life.”

"Yeah," Evan says softly. "Yeah, I think about that sometimes, too. When Chimney told me about saving you from that explosion, back in the day... he was laughing about it, kind of, but I kept thinking, like. That could have been it. No more Tommy."

"No us," Tommy murmurs.

"No us." Evan cranes his neck around. They can't quite kiss, not at this angle, but Tommy can press his forehead against Evan's temple and breathe him in. The smell of his nice moisturizer and under that the smell of his skin, so fragile and so dear.

[sforzesco]

it's time for spartacus :)

[nekrosmos]

Based on @panchulien 's Mob Boss Nik and Hitman Price AU

Mob Boss Nikolai who just uses his fingers on hitman Price, never going further. It drives John mad. The things Nik can do with his hands alone is out of this world, making Price moan in pleasure under his touch, making him grab the fancy sheets of Nik's bed while he tries to control himself, ground himself, Nik's fingers knuckles deep inside him while his other hand plays with his cock, with his balls, touching him just enough that Price's mind goes foggy, begging for more.

But Nikolai never goes further. He will make John come, he will make him come back, but he will not take him, yet.

John will ask him, many times, to do it, and every single time, Nikolai will grin from ear to ear, telling him that it isn't time yet. Months into this and John wonders if there ever will be a time.

It just leaves Price demanding, always craving more. He isn't blind, he's seen Nikolai's bulge, he knows what he's packing, and he wants nothing more than to have him inside of him. And so, he comes back, no matter how annoyed he is with the man he was first hired to kill, no matter how much he teases him, always in control of the situation, Price always comes back for more, and that's why Nikolai keeps doing it.

Only when John is fully tamed will he give himself fully to him, no matter how long this takes.

[aquanutart]

[marlynnofmany]

It’s back!

If you missed it the first time around, the “human are weird” anthology is back for a second printing. (There’s even a new story included: “Black Box” by Dara Brophy.)

Here’s the blurb:

In science fiction, humans are usually boring compared to other races: small, weak, with no claws or tentacles, and no special abilities to speak of. But what if we were the impressive ones, the unsettling ones, the ones talked about by all the other aliens? What if we're weird?

If you’d like a collection of excellent stories about humans inspiring awe, fear, and utter confusion, it’s available everywhere books are sold!

[annasofthe11thdimension]

Alright, so this is basically...an art dump for all the pics i drew when i was trying to draft the ending i wanted my Odile looping Au 'Like a Wheel Ever Turning' which...is not even SLIGHTLY how this fic is going to end now, but while figuring that out i still like draw all this and had to do SOMETHING with it.

So figured I'd post it and be like 'hey! fun Odile looping act 5 boss fight vibes not connected to anything else!' since like...that basic IS what they are at this point lol.

The one cool idea i loved that i think is now FIRMLY ditched is the act 5 boss fight starts when Odile uses wish craft to splinter herself into two halves.

The 'old/current' her that is meant to be her coldly logical side, and a younger 'copy' version, which is meant to be the childish irrational side...that is what's stopping her just shutting down the time loop because she can't figure out how to be happy with her friends leaving.

I mean, if you murder the part of you that WANTS the wish to come true, that's basically a 'get out of time loop free card' right? Right! Totally sound logic!

Yes the 'young' version of her firmly believes that she's real, and also also got memories going up to about age 21, and also that she ought to be in Ka Bue not HERE among these french weirdos.

Also yes again, a 'young' Odile is EXACTLY as unhinged about this as you'd expect a 21 year old to be upon finding out that apparently the 'real' her think murdering her is the correct solution to this problem!

The shift of the fight was meant to have the inverse 'colors' shift from one version to the other by the end, wrapping up with the point where the 'original' Odile is forced to have a heart to heart with the personification of her perceived 'worst' qualities.

Pretty sure the vibes for this ending was a lot more focused on the resolution of having deeply complex feeling about EXPRESSING emotion directly to other people. That along with a side helping of how isolating it is to be perceived as a 'real' adult such that you can't be weak enough to ask anyone for help. Because really if you can't even be that then why are you any different then when you were irritating mess of a youth?

Not saying any of that isn't still present in the story, but like...there is a LOT of other stuff going on, and those themes are now linked into many other ones too, and that's not even TOUCHING on how Loop's been...somewhat complicating my redrafting lol.

...Also I might have drawn/plotted this version before i knew about two-hats lol. THAT also is a factor.

Anyway! Still liked all of these enough to want to do SOMETHING with them, and figured this worked, so i could like map out my thoughts on them, even if i never got to write this.

[ghost-proofbaby]

15 with Eddie? :)

i woke up this morning, rolled over, and immediately wrote this all on my phone. wasn't even 8 am and i was already all mushy and horny for this man. enjoy whatever this is (morning sex. it's morning sex and being in love) <3

15. "I had a very nice dream that started like this."

warnings: smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), afab reader but no pronouns used, a lot of religious imagery idk why it just... worked?, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: eddie munson x afab!reader

wc: 2.9k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

The sun hadn’t even rose yet. The sky simply lighter, a gentle omniscient light peaking through the curtains, holding little to no warmth yet when you first awoke. The room is shades of grey with hints of violet, soft pinks just on the horizon but not quite painting the scene. 

It’s nice — it’s serene.

You can feel him breathing behind you. Still there, still warm, still holding you with one strong arm around your waist as his nose brushes at the nape of your neck, his snore rustling your hair ever so carefully. It’s almost enough to soothe you back to sleep; counting his deep intakes of air, exhaling in time with him, sinking deeper into bed sheets that are stained with the smell of his cologne and shampoo. Almost.

But when you first awake, you have a different idea in mind.

It starts off innocent enough. Small movements as you press yourself further back into Eddie, minuscule wiggles to just be close to him. You’re still half asleep and yet, every atom in your body is desperate to melt into him. You need every inch of his skin pressed tightly into yours. Your vision still blurry, but the instinct to burrow more tightly into your boy impossible to miss.

“I know you’re awake,” he suddenly murmurs into your neck, voice muffled and rough with his rest.

You hadn’t even noticed the change in his breathing. More focused on the ache between your thighs that you had woken up with. 

“Sh,” you jokingly whisper, smiling as you force your eyes back closed. He can’t even see your face, but it feels right to put on an act, “You’re gonna ruin it, Munson.” 

“‘M not ruining anything, baby,” he nearly slurs. His arm tightens around you, encouraging all your squirming, pulling your hips back to be flush with his a little more urgently.

He’s hard against your lower back. His flimsy boxers do nothing to hide his excitement. It isn’t particularly surprising — most mornings he wakes up hard as it is — but it does cause a soft stirring within you. Encourages your hips to swivel once more, action a bit more pointed, just enough pressure to cause a low groan to slip almost inaudible from between his lips.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a bit louder now. His tone is still gravely, scratching an itch of the farthest reaches of your mind. Somewhere between a cat’s purr and the sound of tires on dirt roads when your favorite person is returning home. Comforting. Serene. 

You press into him further, shamelessly grinding now, eyes still shut, “What? ‘M not doing anything.”

He doesn’t need to see your voice to hear that sleepy grin.

It doesn’t happen quickly — there’s no rush as he slowly tugs at your body, encouraging you to rotate so that he’s no longer spooning you. Your back digs into the mattress holding the warmth of his body from the entire night, wrapping you up in a bliss that’s impossible to replicate. His smell, his warmth, his presence. You don’t think you’ll ever tire of mornings like this, especially not when you finally open your eyes to find him propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes and a half-smile that accentuates  his left dimple. 

He’s fucking beautiful. It takes your breath away.

“What’s got you so excited this morning, hm?” 

The light has grown ever so slightly brighter, just enough as though it whispers, look at him. The room is still grey, but your boy is a vision of colors. Dark russet eyes with streaks of gold that the sun couldn’t compare to, chestnut hair that sticks up in all the wrong places from his slumber, skin that washes out in the pale winter morning and only makes the contrast of the soft fuchsias and violets blooming along his neck from the evening before more apparent. He’s softer than any sunrise, more relaxing than any bath he’s ever drawn for you, more calming than hearing your favorite song strummed out on muted guitar strings. 

You love him. And that only really fuels your flames.

“I had a very nice dream,” you mumble, squinting up at him, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Your touch is delicate as you trace over his stubble, painting mindless patterns briefly before cupping the full side of his face and threading your fingertips into the edges of his hairline, “A very nice dream that started just like this.” 

He rolls his hips against your side, peering down at you as he does so, letting you guide him closer until his lips barely brush yours. 

You can hear birds chirping outside. There’s the rumble of a truck engine. The creak of a nearby front door opening and shutting.

The world is beginning to wake up, but you���re not quite yet ready to share the day with anyone but him. 

“You did, did you?” he’s awake enough now to tease you, body slowly inching its way over yours, arms on either side of your head to hold his weight. The plush comforter slips down, exposing his bare shoulders as his torso serves as your new blanket, “Tell me ‘bout it, baby.” 

Your legs fall open instinctively, making a home for him and only him. A space between your thighs perfectly carved out for the shape and weight of him as he slips into place, hips digging into yours, a homely and familiar position you’ve found yourself in a hundred times before. 

It never gets old. It never elicits any less of a reaction from you, always pulling the softest of gasps from your throat as he leans his head down to trail his lips down your exposed neck. 

The sound has him pulling you into him a bit more urgently, but his pace never quickens. He’s taking his time. You two have all the time.

A car alarm, distant as could be, sounds off. A voice of a neighbor echos across the trailer park. 

Maybe it’s an adoring husband wishing goodbye to his wife for the day. Or a mother, rushing her children for school. There’s a million and one scenarios, thousands of strangers beginning their dreary week, but you only care about the warm welcome of the day that he offers you. 

Anything but dreary, even in tired morning light.

“You were kissing my neck,” you say, careful to be as silent as can be, even if it were just the two of you in the room. The world doesn’t need to know you’re awake yet; it doesn’t deserve your attention like he does yet.

His teeth graze unintentionally against the soft spot below your ear, “Like this?”

“Just like that.”

For emphasis, you lift your hips, seeking out his with ease. You can feel him, pronounced as he presses against the thin fabric of your underwear. There’s too many layers between the two of you, too much cotton and linen in the shapes of his t-shirt you’d worn to bed and his damn boxers, but they’ll come off eventually. 

Eventually. There’s no rush.

Your head tilts back in a sigh, and he pauses all his kisses to ask, “What next?”

“Keep going,” you squirm, hips continuing to roll, flames of desire lighting in your gut, dancing as soft as the morning light, “Keep going, please.” 

The night before, he would have teased your desperation. 

But right now, with just you and him and the ghost of sleep, he’s not in the business of taunting. 

He listens, a hand coming down to your hip. Not holding it down to the mattress, but simply holding. He lets his thumb slip beneath the t-shirt, lets a rough callous built up from years of guitar and working on his van brush roughly over your skin with the most sensitive of intentions. 

Slowly. If the morning wasn’t so heavy still on the two of you, weighing down every movement, slowing every reaction and pacing every adoring kiss, this is the part where the two of you might have grown a bit impatient. More nipping, more bruising gripping, more complaints of going further, further, further. 

But today? In this moment? The two of you have time. 

A dream sequence of his wandering hands slipping that old faded tee up until it’s finally bunched at your chest, until he’s finally peeling himself away from your body and he’s lifting it over your head. Every move is brimming with a love you never thought possible. A love to swim in, a love to sink into. One with the capability to drown the two of you, but it only breathes a new life into both of your lungs. 

When his lips wrap around a nipple and your back arches, that love thrums a bit deeper, coiling up your insides and urging your fingers to tangle up into his curls. 

You need him closer.

“So beautiful,” he whispers against your skin as he mouths at it, “So, so fucking beautiful.” 

The back of your skull digs deeper into a pillow engrained with the shape of your head from years of rest, a soft laugh slipping in between your blissful breaths, “Don’t lie. I’m a mess right now.” 

You were. And so was he. In a barely awake, subtle and tired way. Messy hair, messy marks of sleep across cheeks, messy breaths not yet minty from a morning routine the two of you followed like a religion. 

His head lifts, eyes glowing in the limited light, “I like your mess. As a matter of fact, I love your mess.” 

His hand on your hip squeezes for emphasis. 

You look down, wordless as you drink him in. A vision between the pinks dancing through the curtains, a godly presence as the dawn breaks. He’s a salvation, a new beginning and a new ending. He’s everything fairytales had tried to convince you existed in your youth. Prettier than any angel, warmer than any sun. 

And he’s yours. In this moment, and in all the next ones.

“I think I can make an even bigger mess of you, though, if you’ll let me,” a devilish smile finally overtakes his features and both of those dimples you’ve become so unintentionally fond of make an appearance. 

He dips his head, lowers his voice, lets his lips explore. You nearly pray to the Heavens above as you feel his hand slip from its gentle cupping of your hip, moving to slip nimble fingers beneath the band of your panties — but you don’t. Not a single God would care about what’s happening right now.

Just two people, two souls, twisting up in their bed sheets. Finding each other, finding divinity, before the sun even has a chance to stretch its arms fully over the horizon.

When he sinks lower and his face disappears beneath the cloak of the comforter, you hold your breath. When his mouth finds your cunt over fabric, you release it with a moan.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages, both hands pulling off your underwear, pressing a hard kiss one final time over the cotton before he slips them off, “Keep making those pretty noises for me.” 

Your thighs drape over his shoulders, heels digging into his back as he begins his morning worship. All lips and tongue and finding the right places as fast as possible. Not out of a rush, but out of practice. He knows your body like the back of his hand, and he proves it. 

He knows exactly how hard to suck on your clit once he’s captured it between his lips. He knows exactly where to trace his tongue, circling your hole in lazy circles, not quite teasing but not quite succumbing as he lets you buck your hips in reckless abandon. When to speed up, when to slow down, when to add a finger and when to let the gravel of his voice vibrate against your core — he knows you. Through every little whimper, through every soft chanting of his name, through every tug of his hair. 

And he knows you well enough to know when to stop his ministrations, pulling back only to crawl his way back up your body, his boxers slipping off somewhere in the process. 

You’re still all over his lips as he kisses you fervently, slick and sticky and a little tart as his tongue dives into your mouth.

And just as he knows you, you know him.

You’d lied, of course. You hadn’t really had a dream just like this. You can’t even remember how you’d awoken with such want, but all that mattered is you had. You’d woken up to an all-consuming need, even if your half-conscious state, and you’d woken up to him.

Your hand reaches down between the two of you, wrapping around him carefully. Your skin is still cooler than his, it’s always cooler than his in the dead of night, and he hisses at the content.

“I love you, you know?” you quietly confess to your lover, as though it might be a sin, as though it might be the greatest secret to ever be held on a patient tongue. 

His skin is nearly velvet under your touch, pliant in your palm as you stroke him. Each movement and twist of your wrist begins to unravel him, his head dropping to the juncture between your shoulder and your neck. Every pant of his breath brushes skin just as his snores had. 

Gold litters the shade of sunrise entering the room, but the only warm colors you care to entertain are the ones in his eyes as he finally looks at you and tugs your hand away.

“I love you more.” 

You could argue. You could fight him on it, start to rattle off your list of all the things you adore about him, prove that no one has ever loved another person in this lifetime the way that you’ve loved him. The freckle below his right eye, the chip in on of his canines from an accident in his youth, the scar on his left knuckles from the first time he’d tried to do a trick with a butterfly knife at nine years old. The jokes he interrupts your day so kindly with, breaking up the mundane with laughter that seemingly fuels you to carry on with your time until you’ve returned home to just him. The passion that flows inside of him until it pours out over everything sacred to him — his music, his interests, his friends, you. A passionate and devoted man, yours to have and yours to hold.

But you don’t argue the point. You just smile as he kisses you, deep and searching, as he lines himself up with your entrance.

He loves you more, you love him most. He’ll figure it out — eventually. 

The stretch of him is pleasurable, just like it always is. Filling you, warming you, making that closer you crave so ardently nearly tangible. Every roll of his hips has him reaching spots inside of you to elicit stars to cloud your vision. The morning light, the white hot pleasure — you don’t care what makes your vision blue. You only care that it does, all your mews and all his groans entangling up in the air. 

Your palms slide over the back of his shoulders, your fingers dig into soft skin that you’ll spend the rest of your days memorizing.

Eddie. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

No prayer has ever been repeated with such need or belief as his name from your lips. 

And he returns the favor. Gasping out your name, somehow finding himself just enough in his right mind to continue to whisper sweet nothings against your ear, timing them with his leisurely thrusts.

“So fucking tight and so fucking good to me,” he manages to gasp, digging his hips in a little harsher, “Could stay here forever. Kind of want to stay here forever.” 

You don’t know how he’s coherent; you can’t form a single response, eyes rolling, hands clinging to him tighter. 

“Look at me when you cum.” 

He knows you. He knows you very well. You hadn’t even noticed that coiling in your stomach or the fluttering of your walls when he calls you out, forehead pressing to yours as your eyes open to find his. 

It’s not world-shattering when the waves come — it doesn’t have to be. It’s something to wrap around your entire essence, something to soothe and something to coax you into oblivion. Something to get lost in as his movements stutter and his own eyes grow heavy.

He doesn’t close his eyes, and neither do you. Lost in that pleasure, and lost in each other. 

You’re still rhythmically clenching around him when he comes, filling you up with warmth, burying deep in you and holding there as his mouth falls open and you're quick to pepper his outstretched neck with kisses. The smallest reminders of all the love you have for him. The gentlest of devotions, sprinkled across the skin of a man who will always know an affection like no other. Not everyone in the world will be so lucky as to know the fondness you offer him, and as far as you’re concerned, that’s how it should be. 

Curses spill as his movements slow, before finally stilling. He drops his weight onto you, exhaustion finding its way back into his bones. 

There’s things to do, a day to begin. Work and people waiting on you two, responsibilities to worry about and daily mundane accomplishments to achieve. But for now, it’s just the two of you. Awake with the rest of the world, but completely separate as you cradle him and he holds you. 

“That was one Hell of a way to wake up, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin, and you only throw your head back in a laugh.

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[peanutbutterandbananasandwichs]

A tale of two wrecked Impalas . . . .

2x01 vs 7x01

So, I want to talk about two superficially similar scenes that are actually very different in terms of what they say about Sam and Dean's relative agency and autonomy.

Let's start with how they are, on the surface, similar. Both scenes occur during season openers in which the Impala had been heavily damaged to the point of being almost beyond repair in the season finale of the proceeding season. In parallel with the Impala in both cases, one of the brothers has suffered some kind of life threatening situation. Both scenes feature a conversation between one of the boys and Bobby about the state of the car. In both cases, the state of the car is explicitly being used as a means of talking about the state of the other brother and a desire for them to recover. The scene in 2x01 is particularly interesting to me because it is one of the only times in which the Impala acts as a mirror/stand in for Dean. As is pretty well discussed on Samblr at this point, often throughout the series, the Impala serves as a mirror to Sam and to his place within The Roles (x, x). "Looks like Dean's taken care of this old beast. Seems like he's taken good care of you too." As Lucifer (as John) says, calling back to John's S1 line "I wouldn't have given you the damn thing if I thought you were going to ruin it." These lines reflect the idea of the Impala, and by implication, Sam being passed down from John to Dean as a possession. The possession aspect is amplified in these lines in particular to me because of the notable lack of female pronouns used in reference to it "the damn thing" "ruin it" "the old beast", all of these serve to strip Sam of his personhood, dehumanising him. Dean's place in the position of power within his and Sam's relationship is reflected here.

Whilst the scene in 7x07 does use female pronouns (and that they are female pronouns is important) for the Impala, it still tacity treats Sam as an extension of the Impala (an extension of Dean) - "we'll glue him back together too" - both the Impala and Sam are objects, with the illusion of personhood, but who ultimately belong to Dean. The scene demonstrates Dean's sense of entitlement and ownership over Sam's agency, his body, his autonomy. "No matter what shape he's in. . ." It doesn't matter what is done to Sam as long as "Sammy" is preserved in some form. By contrast, the scene in 2x01 begins with "[Dean] is gonna wanna fix this" - immediately, this embodies the agency with Dean, if the Impala in this scene is acting as a mirror to Dean then it is saying that the ultimate agency over his own body here belongs to Dean. "If there's only one working part, that's enough" whilst, again, similar sounding to "No matter what shape he's in", I think does have fundamental underlying differences in intension and tone. Sam's line, especially in combination with the first line, suggests that he will look for a working piece, and if he can find it they can help to rebuild the Impala (Dean) around it, and ultimately, Dean will be the one to conduct the final repair. Despite the comparison to the object of the Imapala, I find Sam's approach here to be humanising of Dean. "Working" is I think, especially relevant here when drawing a comparison to 7x01. Dean's line doesn't care whether the parts of Sam they "glue back together" are "working" or not, and there is certainly no indication here that Sam would be involved in the process. Dean will shove parts of Sam back together whether he likes it or not. The 2x01 scene also reflects the relative balance of power in their relationship, Sam as neither the intention, or the power to claim ownership of the Impala and by proxy Dean, the way Dean does over the Impala and Sam in 7x01.

Ultimately, whilst these scenes may appear similar, they are profoundly affected by the relative positions of power Sam and Dean inhabit within the bounds of The Roles, and the effect this has on their relative agencies.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Erik Destler x Fem!OperaSinger!Reader || Drabble

Plot: The costume directors have you wearing something RIDICULOUS, And Erik is NOT about to let that disrespect slide.

Warnings: Mentions of partial nudity, Erik threatening to kill some people, etc.

When the costume directors mentioned to you the dress that you were expected to wesr for this performance, you were appalled! You told them you wouldn't wear it! You told them no! Not a in a hundred years would you wear such a thing on stage before men.

The 'dress' if it could even truly be called such a thing, was nothing more then a loose shift or nightgown. And it was sheer; so sheer that nothing would be left to the imagination, especially with the stage lights shining. It was white, but every curve of your body was visible- and, oh damn if it were cold in the theatre when you worse it! You would be ogled by every single attendee in the stalls.

And Erik would absolutely despise it, too. For sure you were no lady of virtue by this point in your relationship with the opera ghost, but Erik was terrible insecure. And horribly possessive. If another man so much as smiled at you he was grinding his teeth behind the walls- and you would very much like to avoid another murder.

... but the managers said if you didn't wear the dress, then your contract may be void. So you had to.

So here you are, in the middle of the stage awaiting the raising of the curtain. ... cold, stared at from the wings, and prepared to be utterly humiliated.

You imagined Erik in his box, waiting patiently for your entrance, and cringed. Something bad would happen to the theatre, tonight. You just hoped, for the managers sake, that the injuries would be minimal. They really were harried gentlemen these days- but you suppose that's what they get for not believing in the phantom.

When one of the stage hands in the wings gave a signal, and the heavy velvet curtain shifted. It began to rise, the fabric bunched on the floor began to lesson, and then you could see just a slice of the audience, and then-

A flash of black fabric shot out from the wings, pushing someone over in its haste (was that a familiar voice hissing lower the curtain!.. ?), and suddenly that black fabric flew around you. A cloak rested over your shoulders and leather gloves pulled it closed around you. You looked up, surprised and bewildered, to see Erik there with cloth tucked around his face all except one eye- betraying a fury you've seen before.

Immediately you're both grateful, and afraid. "What are you- "

Taking over from him, you clip the cloak around your body with your own hands. And before you can even finish asking, he starts dragging you out into a the wings- past terrified seamstresses and pale stagehands. No one dared to stop him; out of horror. The phantom was no mere ghost story right now.

Erik took you all the way out of the main theatre, through a wall that gave way under his hand and was really a secret door, and down a spiral staircase into his domain. Then he let you go, left you stood quietly in the damp darkness.

He didnt go far, though. Just far enough that his madness didn't hurt you. "How dare they." Erik seethed. He's breathing heavily, barely containing himself. He knows you would try to stop him if he attempted to go back up there and wreak some kind of hell. "You are not some whore. Oh, how low the opera has fallen if THIS is how they're drawing their audiences, now!" Finally he pauses, thinking. "... I think I will have to send a letter to dear Firmin and Andre- "

Your voice betrays you, coming out a tone or two weaker then you intended. High, and nervous. "Oh Erik, it wasnt wholly them! It was the costume director!"

He's still lost in his own mind. His own horrid thoughts. "Good. Simpler. I'll just kill them."

"Erik!!" This time your voice comes out right. Stern, meant to press a weaker man into a heading your will. Erik merely gives you a Look.

"Fine fine fine... a message will do."

Slowly, you calm down. Your heartbeat returning to a normal rhythm. Carefully you approach your tragic monster, still clinging to his cloak around you. "... what kind of message will you send?"

He looks at you for a moment, considering, but decides not to tell you. "Neveryoumind that." Finally, Erik's voice softens. He's calmed down, for the most part. "Now. Shall we find you some proper clothes? Maybe a bed?"

"No, I- I-... I think I just want to go home, tonight." You lower your eyes to the floor. Now that Erik has calmed down, you can feel your own rolling emotions. You just want to go to sleep. You were so afraid, earlier. So afraid of the humiliation, and reeling with insult. You don't know what you'll do the next time you see the costume directors yourself. Give him a peace of your mind, for sure.

"... Your bed is my bed, dear Y/N. Follow me."

Erik's voice leaves no room for argument, and when he offers his hand to you, you take it. Through his glove, you can feel the familiar human warmth kept hidden underneath, and sigh.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

Gratitude and affection for this 'monster' flow through you, warming your heart too. You lean and give him a kiss through the fabric stretched across his deformed face. "Thank you."

"... always, Y/N."

[phantomskeep]

WIP Wednesday - Fun In Funeral

For my DCxDP Dead On Main thief!Danny fic, Putting The "Fun" Back In "Funeral". Best read while listening to Ascensionism by Sleep Token

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

“I am not a cat boy!” The boy wearing a cat skull protested.

“Then what are you, a discount Catwoman?” Jason asked as he prowled closer to the pouting thief.

“I don’t even know who that is!” Cat Boy continued to lie. “This,” he gestured to the bone-colored mask covering his face, Lazarus green eyes narrowing in distaste, “Is a fashion statement. Nothing more, nothing less. I just- I don’t even know why it’s a cat!”

None of that really made sense to Hood, but keeping a criminal monologuing? Part of Robin 101 - the more they’re distracted, the better chance at them messing up. “So why a cat, then?”

“I just said I don’t know!”

Hood didn’t respond, catching the cat-themed-thief’s stance relaxing by a miniscule amount. With no hesitation, Jason lunged forward - fully intending to football-style tackle the pouting figure into the concrete roof.

In the next few seconds, Jason would recount later to the rest of the Birds and Bats, he had no idea what happened.

He was in the air - arms outstretched to wrap around the other’s torso in a mockery of a hug. He saw the thief’s eyes widen, a startled yelp leaving his mouth. When Hood flew closer to the occultly-dressed thief, it was like a rush of sparkling heat bubbled up through his lung, tearing viciously at his esophagus before laying stagnant in his covered mouth. Already caught off guard, Jason sputtered - failing to land the tackle onto the lithe man in front of him. Instead, Jason fell a few inches short of the man, on his knees with his gloved hands clutching desperately at his throat and chest.

The other didn’t hesitate to dance out of Hood’s reach as the helmeted vigilante coughed in a vain attempt to clear his airways from the heat-sparkle-power-danger that welled inside him. Not-Catwoman stood to the side, head cocked like a curious crow inspecting a shiny coin. While Hood was still doubled over catching his breath, the thief wisely used the opportunity to glide further out of reach.

“I’m almost scared to ask if you’re okay,” Catboy’s voice echoed around them. “But then again… You did just try to shoot me.”

“It was just a warning shot.” Hood coughed out, his words scratchy as he forced them past the invisible sludge that lodged itself in his throat. The Pit Rage stirred in the back of his mind, slowly creeping to the area it used to occupy and whisper. “Give back whatever you stole before I shoot you for real.”

The cloaked man rocked on his heels, jutting his hip out and tapping at his chin with a clothed finger. Hood couldn’t see Catboy’s full expression, but he had long since perfected the art of reading masked individuals when he was thirteen and still wearing Dick’s old scaly panties. The person in front of him was practically radiating smug little sibling vibes.

“How about,” the modulated voice drew out. “I don’t, and I continue on with my extremely successful handjob!”

Jason spluttered in confusion, caught halfway between howling in laughter or rage, as the cat-themed thief jumped off the museum’s roof. The sound of a grapple rang out as the little criminal soared into the polluted Gotham skies. The Rage screamed, pushing Jason’s limbs to take off without a second thought. Green overcame his vision as the high came tearing back in full force, dragging Jason down like a man caught in an undertow. His body gave chase to the masked individual running from the museum, racing across the darkened rooftops in hot pursuit.

The Pit Rage stuck its greedy claws into Jason’s mind and pulled. What happened around him became a green-tinted blur - flying after the thief’s form, firing pot shots when the two were parkouring along the Gotham skyline, a strained voice shouting as the bullets missed. The overwhelming sensation of rage-rage-chase-friend-predator-rage-fight-fear-play-rAGE drowned out any sense of rational thought. It was like Jason was in the backseat again, watching as he lost control of his life as the choices he made as a teen came back to haunt him in divine punishment. He fought against it, just like he did when the Rage took his body to the Titans Tower. Like when he was so beneath the power of the Pit that he took out everything on a highschool kid. All the progress he had made over the last three years - washed away because of a man in a catsuit.

The mere hours he had of quiet peace almost made fighting against the Rage so much harder - Jason knew what it was like again, to not have to battle against his own thoughts every second of the day. To not look at a single act of kindness as some convoluted plot to trap him like a feral, rabid dog. The void in his chest, a grief-stained black hole of bad decisions, warred with the Rage for its own spot in the young man’s own tale of self-sought retribution against himself.

This? This was Jason’s own personal hell. To be alone, trapped inside his mind, while his body was controlled by a green-tinted monster. When his actions were no longer dictated by himself and the worst parts of him came out to play.

When Jason finally wrestled back control, kicking and screaming and fighting his own thoughts like it was the only thing he knew how to do, he found himself leaning against someone’s rooftop greenhouse, alone. The cloaked thief was nowhere in sight, and the ex-crime lord hesitated against nosing around for hints of where he might have absconded off to.

Based on a familiar stretch of cargo cranes, he deduced that he ended up between Gotham University and the docks. The black-haired man took a moment to himself, checking to see how many rounds he had fired (eight, he had emptied an entire clip, because of course he did) and if there was any blood clinging to his uniform (not his, never his, why was it never him–). When he wasn’t able to find anything, Jason forcefully shook out his body, trying to get rid of the built-up tension and stress. It helped him relax, marginally, but did nothing for the painful pressure behind his eyes pounding in time with his heart. The Pit Demon lounged in the back of his brain, oozing an air of self-satisfaction that made Jason want to claw at his own head until it stopped.

“Fuck,” he muttered, shoulders sagging. This entire situation was… not good. Jason didn’t even want to think about talking to the rest of the Bats about this, but. It had been a long time since an episode that bad. He didn’t know if he could control himself if something else set him off, but he wasn’t prideful enough to risk innocent people to a Rage-filled Red Hood.

[ganondoodle]

in other news, i still hate the 'curse' demise says being seen as a literal thing so widely, like he is somehow powerful enough to bend the world to that cycle and even the gods being helpless against it (unless they want it or even orchestrated it but that option never comes up does it), its never even considered to perhaps not be real, like its a literal law of the zelda world, imo its pretty boring itself and also boring as an explanation for the cycle and most often really only gets used to or talked about to make ganondorf be just a helpless evil guy that is born evilly bc he is cursed and if you took away tha demon juice he would side with hyrule and be good tm (a side effect being that people think he is the actual reincarnation of demise like zelda is supposedly of hylia which also sucks IMO) .... or to make demise some sort of puppet master, which i hate even more no .. no i hate that the most (bc it makes ganondorf a puppet and demise the evil demon master and thus ruins both my favs yippie)

[charming-doodles]

Happy Holiday Truce @jackdaw-sprite !!! (And a happy new year~)

I kinda smushed two Lost Time prompts and was inspired by two posts you tagged as Lost Time for inspiration since I've never really written or drawn art exploring Danny and Clockwork's relationship before. (Hope that's ok xp) I hope you like it ><

Danny raced through the Zone, struggling to reach Clockwork's lair as ghost after ghost delayed him, picking a fight with what Danny's core quietly noted was motivated by desperation.

Desperate to what? Beat him to the ground?

No, that wasn't it.

His core hummed with... discomfort??? Unsatisfaction??? None of these ghost were giving him what he wanted.

What did he want?

Danny didn't know. Didn't have time to think as he blasted away one of his rouges, confusion bubbling when Pandora of all ghosts seemed to bow at her defeat. Although, it wasn't like she was putting much effort into their fight. She seemed only amused. A quiet acceptance lingering in her eyes as he slowly floated away from her.

"I understand I can't have you. Not with how your cores call for each other."

...what?

He didn't stick around for an answer. A desperate need like no other pulling him towards Clockwork. Idly, as he finally reached Clockwork's lair, a conversation he had with Clockwork resurfaced.

"Ugh, that's the third time this week that Skulkers broken his promise not to attack during school hours! And it's only Tuesday!" Clockwork simply smiled in amusement as Danny ranted about his day.

"But as I recall, you've successfully ended the fight before the Fentons showed up with minimal damage. You're improving. What is there to complain about?"

Danny snarled but pulled back, startled at his harsh reaction, hands slapping his mouth closed. Where did that come from?

"Sorry, it's just that..." He growled softly, flexing his hands into fists, "Lately these fights have been feeling so... UGH lame!"

"Lame?"

"Yeah! Lame." He huffed, looking away from Clockwork, knowing he was laughing at his childish insult.

"Poor thing." Danny's core bubbled at the insult. Clockwork raised his brow towards Danny, the ghostling's irritability easy to read with how little control he has in hiding his core's projections. "Is the lame fights to blame for your irritability or does the baby ghost need a bedtime?"

"BEDTIME?!" He stuttered at the offense, his core surged at the insult. He groaned. "Don't tell me you want to pick a fight, too! That's what everyone seems to want from me lately! At least you'll be a challenge."

Clockwork's eyes pierced right through his soul and Danny involuntarily shivered with fear.

"Perhaps tomorrow."

"Tsk- Perhaps tomorrow." Danny mocked. "Scared you'll lose?"

"No." He smiled a little, "I'd like to see their desperation as they fight for guardianship one last time. I let this go on long enough."

Guardianship. His core hummed with recognition. Expectation.

This was it. What was it? He wouldn't be alone anymore! Since when was he alone? He just had to prove himself! But why??

He entered Clockwork's lair with a grimace, irritated and tired from all the ghosts attacking him since their last conversation. Everyone understood what they were fighting for except him. Would Clockwork even explain himself after?

He didn't have much time left to think, when Clockwork swung at him. His core hummed with excitement, wild green eyes meeting calm, piercing red.

Game on.