#just stick a needle into ur leg in front of all of them

[ivorylungs]

Hizashi and Shouta are hanging out after school one day at Shouta’s house and in the middle of studying Shouta has an alarm go off.

He hops off the bed they set up their school work on and tells Hizashi he’ll be back in one second. Hizashi hardly looks from his work, lost in some math equations.

After a minute, Hizashi hears Shouta wash his hands and walk back into the room. He’s so close to working through this last problem on his worksheet that Hizashi only takes his eyes off it after he realizes he heard a package crinkling, like, 10 seconds ago… wait did Shouta bring snacks up and not even offer him any??? Kinda rude, bro!

When he looks up Shouta isn’t holding a bag of chips, but a needle that he is currently aiming at his own thigh.

“Almost done” is all the warning Shouta gives before plunging the needle in.

And that was the day Shouta found out Hizashi is terrified of needles.

Also the day Hizashi found out Shouta is trans

[anachronistic-falsehood]

AO3 WRAPPED NUMBER 29 but i want u to give me ur top 3. or top 5 if u have a lot

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

MAC MY FRIEND MAC GHOSTIEZONE!!! my top fav passages i've written this year.... this is gonna take a while to answer i have so so many to choose from omg.... i'm gonna put this under a cut bc it is going 2 be Long (also i am going 2 tag u because idk if u have seen it yet and i v much want u to see the dstuck passage i'm posting it's got wilbur in it :3 @stuck-in-the-ghost-zone )

3: this one is from my ctubbo oneshot titled Harlequin that i wrote on impulse in early september. mac idk if u have read it but u should i think u would like it :3 the style of it is v experimental in a lot of places but i had SOOOOO MUCH FUN writing it and it's kinda angsty but the ending is sweet and i reread it and was like ;-; this fic was very much me projecting onto ctubbo OK HERE'S A QUICK PASSAGE :3

Tommy is your brother, you think, but not in the way he and Wilbur are brothers. They’re brothers in general, two different souls who experienced such different walks of life and stick together regardless, who follow each other to the ends of the earth no matter how wrong or bad one of them thinks the other is.

You and Tommy are more like... kindred spirits. Brothers in war, allies in politics, victims of abuse who pull each other up by your boot straps and lean on each other so you can keep going side by side.

It’s never just Tommy, or just Tubbo. It’s always Tommy and Tubbo.

Like one name.

TommyandTubbo. TubboandTommy. T+T.

Brothers in experience. Partners in life. Two sides of the same coin. Inseparable.

But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You’re part of the same coin, but people look at you and see two heads, one on each side, no tails. Nothing at all to differentiate the two.

You could draw horns on one side and a white streak on the other, but at the end of the day they always see two copies.

When people run into you, they ask “Where’s Tommy?” “Do you know where Tommy’s been lately?” “What’s Tommy up to?”

You can’t always answer that.

For as much as you’re inseparable, sometimes you’re both alone for a bit. You always come back around like two magnets drawn to each other until something or someone yank you apart again.

You don’t like being a copy.

You don’t even know if Tommy realizes that’s what you are.

Tommy and Tubbo.

The main character and his sidekick.

He called you the main character once, during the Disc Confrontation, and himself the sidekick, and hearing that

it

actually made you

relieved.

Even if everyone else sees you as a second quieter Tommy, he doesn’t.

That counts for something.

2: MY VASHWOOD FIC Just As Beautiful As The Day I Lost You MY BELOVED <3 ughhhh writing this was so sad i genuinely cried doing it. the moment wolfwood remembers vash is what gets me. ik you've read it already but here's that one little passage here for u just for funzies <3 NOW CRY!!!!!!

The video stops.

Vash snaps his gaze to Rosewood. He’s trembling like a wet cat, hand poised over the spacebar. His breath hitches once, twice. He turns to Vash, slowly, just as tears begin to spill down his cheeks.

“What the hell, Needle Noggin,” he whispers. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”

Uncertainty is the only thing Vash can respond with. He steps closer, hand hovering over Rosewood’s shoulder. “I... don’t...”

Rosewood pushes the chair back, wooden legs scraping across the floor, doubles over, and buries his face in his hands. Vash takes that as a signal to do something, so he rests his hand on Rosewood’s back. After the comfort Rosewood gave him last night, it’s the least he can do, really.

Rosewood chokes back a sob. “I shouldn’t know these people,” he says, voice thick with tears. “How... do I know them? How do I know you?”

Vash’s heart leaps into his throat. He kneels in front of the chair so he’s level with Rosewood. “Do... Do you...”

Rosewood looks up, an angry furrow in his brow, even he wipes tears from his eyes. The expression is so incredibly Wolfwood that Vash doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“This past week has been fucking torture, Spikey. You—I saw you leave church last Sunday, and I didn’t even see any of this,” he gestures to Vash in general, the spikey hair, the glasses, the scars, “but you just—you stuck in my head and I couldn’t explain why. I... I still can’t.” He gives a wet laugh. “Humanoid Typhoon my ass. You’re more like a parasite.”

A lump forms in Vash’s throat, alongside something so bright and hopeful he feels dizzy with it. Hands shaking, unsteady like they’ve never been before, he reaches out, fingers brushing over Rosewood’s jaw. He wipes away a stray tear, stubble sharp beneath his thumb.

Rosewood sniffles, shakes his head. “Don’t look at me like that, Needle Noggin. I can’t take it when you smile like that.”

Vash swallows. As quiet as can be, barely any breath behind his voice, he says

“Wolfwood?”

A sob rips itself from the throat of the man in front of him. Vash catches him as he lunges from his chair and into Vash’s arms, heaving cries pressed into his shirt. Vash holds him tight, hands clenched in his jacket. The black poncho remains on Vash’s lap, pressed between them. A stray tear soaks into the fabric. It takes Vash a moment to realize it fell from his own face.

He's never been so uncertain in his life.

But whatever this is, whatever he’s awakened in the priest in his arms, whether it’s real or a delusion, he wants to keep it.

He tucks his face into the crook between a neck and a shoulder, and he cries.

1: i think my fav thing i've written this year would be the tntduo chapter of dstuck that i sent you a while ago BUT since u have already read that and it's wayyyy too long to put in one post i am going to choose a different dstuck thing. most of the passages i wanna put here would involve MAJOR SPOILERS but i have one chatlog between wilbur and one of the cherubs i'm putting in there to kind of sort of replace cdream (i don't like ccdrm but his character is Important so i basically split him in two as a cherub and changed his name). honestly it was kind of a hard decision to change his name bc he's such an iconic villain but i think i did ok with still capturing his Evilness and his shitty asshole vibes ANYWAY this is one of my fav parts of this chapter i love writing chatlogs <3 tw for ummm some brief suicidal ideation bc it's cwilbur that's how it goes

hi wilbur! IO: Ah fuck, what do you want? can’t i just say hi and see how you’re doing? IO: I mean, I can’t stop you, I guess. you’re getting closer and closer to entering this game. isn’t that exciting? IO: Sure. you don’t sound excited. :( IO: What do you mean? This is the picture of excitement. IO: Look at me, I’m jumping up and down with joy at the prospect. liar. IO: Fuck you. hey, now don’t be rude! we’re friends, aren’t we wilbur? IO: We were, yeah. IO: When I was like, twelve. IO: But you started bad mouthing my bro and the rebellion and being all shitty and manipulative, and I literally tried to kms whben I was fourteen because of the shit you’ve said so like IO: No I wouldn’t say we;re friends. but we’re past that! i’ve changed, wilbur. IO: Yeah yeah so you keep fucking saying. if we’re not friends, why do you keep responding? IO: Because you’ll keep fucking bothering me until I do it's just because i want to talk to you. is that really so wrong? IO: Yeah IO: I know the shit that you did to my bro and I don’t fucking much appreciate it that was ages ago! come on, wilbur. you’ll get me out of here, won’t you? IO: If I could kill you I would. man, tough crowd. i think you’ll come around eventually. and even when i do get out of here without your help, your bro is the first one i’ll go for. i’m sure you know this, because it happened in your past. and then i’ll go for the little one. your pen pal. :) he is your bro, after all, and yeah, maybe the older one will slip through my fingers, but your pen pal? he's still young. your bro will get away from me when we’re both older, but your pen pal won’t defeat me while he’s just a kid, and i’m a GOD. :)

The chatlog closes on its own.

He used to be nice, but you think it’s just because he wanted to be your friend. Or, at least, pretend to be your friend. He filled you in on a lot of information about your future and the game, about your upcoming journey as a Bard of Heart, how destructive the class is, how you’re fated to destroy everything you’ve ever held dear and harm the people you love, the nuances of your aspect, the role you’re meant to play in this game.

He called you a supernova in the making, a nuclear bomb waiting to go off, a personified Chernobyl in your own right. It sounded kind of cool at the time, but it placed this heavy weight on your shoulders, this expectation for destruction.

You’re pretty sure he lied about most of the stuff he’s told you, but you can never be sure. You’re set on relying on Phil’s foresight to tell you your role now, although he doesn’t have all the answers. Still, it’s better than running in blind with your only guidance being the ravings of a madman from the distant future. He used to be so kind, it was hard not to believe him.

He wasn’t so kind when you had a sword at your own chest.

[1ore]

Now that I have internet i can spring this on you from the ask meme C:< (edited the wording on it for my own personal clarity LOL) 23. Introduce an OC that has changed a lot from your first draft of them

Oh man. Okay here's a long one because I’m going and going and going and g

Old Mora has the funniest visual development I think, just because she’s as old as Moribund itself is, and you can tell just how badly I struggle to nail down her design. I think I’ve finally gotten the challenging bits out of the way, but I need to draw her more to get everything else in order.

In Moribund, there’s this concept of the world being birthed and given motion by the interplay of two ur-beasts, an osprey and a snake. It’s not technically correct to say that Old Mora is the definitive osprey, but she rhymes with it, if that makes Any sense at all. So designing her is kind of like designing that in terms of “need to be getting it right”

In her earliest drafts (early ~2014 above) she looked a lot like the ur-snake, funny enough. The defining features of her face came to me all at once, like it should be impossible to tell which side is up and which is down, she should have a jowl window that doubles as an eye, a throat that doubles as an iris, streaming light-tears that are like threads in the eye of the needle, an arrow-shaped beak, etc. And I was really attached to this specific face for a long time, but the rest of her body wasn't coming to me.

like this is very cool but this is not my beautiful wife. (also 2014)

At some point, I went in the fucked up handbird direction, and I stayed there for a longo time too.

These wyvern-y ones are from 2014 as well. I remember the bottom one being kind of a bolt of inspiration re: uncanny feethands and winghands, but looking back she does just look like Smooth Lugia here.

2014/2015 was when Moribund started to find its way in terms of like, cohesive vision and feel of the world, (and also just me as a visual artist finding my way to drawing what I really liked to draw) and I think one of those growing pains was Mora moving from slippery handdragon to giant death bird.

Then I finally knocked the silly beak horns off her face.

Then in 2015 Iuhhhhhhh

violence magenta and indigo blue became morb (TM) blue-black and red. her beak is extremely funny here. you can tell i was struggling so bad, but I forgive her. I still like this piece.

she kind of middles around here for a while. She is pretty much quadruped for all of these; I experiment with making her handwings into seperately-motile coverts and primaries.

During this time I am so very concerned with wings and with the launching power of birds vs. pterosaurs and with figuring out a quadruped Mora.

Long story short: Birds can only get so big, because there’s a tradeoff between having more wing muscle and having more leg muscle. Your legs aren’t what you use to fly, so as they get bigger, they’re better for launching but heavier and more unwieldy while flying. If you get more wing muscle to compensate for carrying them, then that means you are now heavier and need more leg muscle to initially get you in the air. Eventually, you hit a ceiling where you either can’t launch, because you don’t have enough power out back, or you can’t fly, because the clap of your asscheeks keeps alerting the gravity. But pterosaurs can get Absolutely Ginormous because their wing muscles are also their launching muscles and AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

and then I get over it, because I like birds and mora looks cute but kind of dorky on all fours. (^ 2016)

(2018 ^) She’s allowed to get more organic over time. At some point I ditch the feethands completely, but I still choose to struggle with her beak teeth.

Oh, yeah. I forgot. that’s a design issue I had with her from day one. Drawing Mora from the front was a logistical nightmare because she’s so... shape (^ 2018)

I flirt with giving her perforated nostrils and making her more condor-like. (^2019)

doesn’t seem to stick. im still not giving up her beak teeth, but they’re still causing me problems. I want to go back and fix this piece actually, because it’s so recent but she looks sooooo dorky here. (^2021)

From here I think her most important additions are a.) extremely big feather boots and b.) moving the beak teeth up to her jowls. which fixes everything, for some reason

she's been one of those design journeys where a lot of the ideas were cool in isolation, but had to be abandoned because they just weren't serving the actual character that she is: a really big death bird who is also, like, just a woman.

now i just have to make good on drawing her more. and not at two in the morning. waw.

[ricaffeine]

You’re Much More Handsome

Summary: He shuts his eyes and tries to think about other things—anything other than her head near his dick. A filthy continuation of the scene in Episode Eight where Munyeong lays on Kangtae’s lap.

a/n: (picture credits to the owner) i had a wild imagination with this scene when i first saw it so i hope i served it justice 😏😈 i personally love flustered KT he's adorable hehe. i'm still an amateur in writing smut so let me know what you think! which part is ur favorite??? i’d love to hear ur thoughts! 💗🔥

Her sweltering breath tickles the nape of his neck, like a cackling fire against his skin. Kangtae drowns in the delicious shiver, goosebumps stretch across his body—in a sense that pulls him into sweet bliss. His body tingles from the sensation, aching for it to last. 

A gush of air is then blown into his ear, like a loud alarm blaring his senses, in contrast to the previous warm stir, as if telling him the privilege has ended. He almost jumps in his seat, stuttering with his words.

“A-ah, w-what are you doing?!” He frantically hisses, brushing her away and to his surprise she concedes, crawling back to her approaching pose. She’s staring at him with eagle eyes, hands planted on the red plush cushion, her back is excessively arched as she tormentingly poses her enticing chest. The sight itself makes him want to groan out loud.

Stop it, Kangtae

Munyeong smirks at his predictable reflex—like a frightened cat scrambling for sanity. 

“Your face is red.”

In an instant he flusters at her remark, his wobbly hands almost lose hold of the ragged doll but he catches it with his inhuman speed—almost pricking his finger with the sharp needle. He exasperatedly counters. “What? I’m not—”

Before he can even finish his defence, Munyeong promptly drops onto his lap and instantaneously his mind short circuits. Her head comfortably lays on his groin, and Kangtae feels like all his blood has rushed down south. 

“I’m sleepy.” He hears her say, and air catches in his throat. What does she mean?

He sputters out an automatic response, driving his focus to the wrecked doll. “Go upstairs and sleep.”

Munyeong mumbles, shifting her weight backward to his burgeoning region and he chokes back a moan. Her hand trails up onto his clothed leg, fingernails scratching slightly on the green fabric, hindering his breath once more. “I don’t want to. You’re here.”

You’re here. The words warm his chest and unforgivingly, his lower region as his mind dives into a lucid imagination.

Her soft lips, wet tongue, warm silken skin. 

It’s a hard slap on his thigh that snaps him out of his trance and Kangtae springs like a deer caught in headlights.

“Relax, won’t you?”

Munyeong grumbles as she snuggles into a comfier position. He plans to protest, but knowing that his futile attempt would get him nowhere with her wayward behavior, he surrenders, trying to loosen up the tense muscle as she demanded. Though it refuses to as their intimacy terrifies him. 

Letting out heavy breath, he sets Mangtae aside on the couch arm, planning to fix it later once she’s asleep and he leans on his back. He shuts his eyes and tries to think about other things—anything other than her head near his dick.

Tomorrow’s breakfast, Sangtae’s art supplies that he needs to buy, and the grocery list.

Soon enough exhaustion anchors his body, pulling at his limbs and Kangtae hangs his head back, welcoming it.

Munyeong smiles to herself as she rests on his lap, taking a mental note of the thickness of his thighs, planning to put them to good use one day. His outbreak this afternoon has proven his desire clearer than ever and the reminisce of his jealousy pleases her more than it should. She had gotten a call from Sangin late afternoon, a short while after he angrily stomped away, asking her what on earth she had done to make the composed man lash out at him.

He’s just jealous, she laughed enthusiastically before ending their call despite the wails from the other line. Little did he know he jealousy was riled up over something that was not even alive.

Carefully, she pushes herself off his lap and crawls up his sturdy chest, surprised as she’s met by his unconscious state. Silence fills the study room and Munyeong admires his handsome face. Granted asleep, his features strain tense, brows furrowing and his lips sealed tight—as if he’s scared she’s going to swallow him whole. 

She might as well do it.

Leisurely, she grasps his shoulder for support, hoisting up a little and she presses a firm kiss onto the column of his neck. It’s soft and teasing, and a sly smile curves onto her pink lips as she watches him shudder beneath her. Enjoying his subconscious reaction, Munyeong leans in to trail more on the warm expanse, the fragrance of his soap whiffing into her nose. 

She hums in amusement, warm lips dragging along his velvety skin. In between the state of slumber and awareness, Kangtae tiredly stirs, relishing the tingling sensation before he’s jerked back to reality as he feels something lick behind his ear, sparing hot fire across his body. His eyes snap open, the image of her repletes his sight.

“Munyeong.” Bewildered, he grips both of her shoulders, heat searing through his awakened body and he stares unbelievably at her. 

His growl is enough to catch her focus and she looks up at him, bewitching face painted with deceit innocence.

“I mean,” Munyeong rasped, tracing a finger along his sharp jawline. “You seemed so tense earlier, I thought I'd ease you up.”

Kangtae lets out a quivering breath, puzzled at her sly excuse. By trying to kill him? 

“Also, your dick was sticking into my head," she adds shamelessly and he blushes into a deep shade of red. 

“I-I think I should g-go.” Utterly embarrassed by his arousal, Kangtae attempts to stand up, wobbly legs ready to run back to his room but she pushes him back down, tumbling on top of him. Her warmth radiates around him and he feels like he’s suffocating in sweet disaster, his body lusting for more but his every cell of his brain tells him it’s wrong.

Before he can say anything, Munyeong steals his lips into a fierce kiss and Kangtae feels like he might just stop breathing. 

She doesn’t spare him at all, soft lips persistently moving against his, licking the seams as she demands for his tongue. He protests to cave in, terrified that he’d become more lost in his lust, obliged to push her away but his mind blanks white as soon as her hand slides down to palm his stiff cock—a loud groan falls apart from him and she uses the advantage to dive into his open mouth. 

Her wet tongue licks into his mouth, leaving no corner untouched and Kangtae groans shamefully, completely lost in the new sensation as her hand works on his erection. After a few moments, he feels her pull away and Kangtae, who doesn't remember shutting his eyes, opens them, and sees her angling for his neck. Sucking on a spot that makes his limbs go weak and Munyeong takes another mental note, nipping and grazing until she's pleased with the blushing mark.

“Let me.” Lacing her fingers with the waistband of his pants, she gives him a look, falling down to her knees. Telling him she wasn’t going to stop there and he doesn’t protest when she tugs both of the clothing halfway down. A small gasp leaves her lips as her eyes prey on his rock hard cock—as if it was the best thing she has seen in her life. 

Slowly, she wraps her small hand around his thick shaft, it twitches in her grasp, pulling out a weak moan from him and Munyeong flashes him a smirk.

“See? You're much more handsome.”

He fumes into a deep blush, shy but glinted with pride, tearing away from their stare. In a painfully slow move, her thumb massages at his head, smearing the juices that are already leaking from the angry tip and his answering groan encourages her.

“Do you want me to stop?” With blurry vision he looks down at her. She’s kneeling in front of him, her tempting mouth perfectly aligned with his pulsing cock and she meets him with a sly gaze. 

Kangtae feels like he might pass out. The world around him seemed to be spinning from her whirlwind of seduction and he could scarcely choke out a word, barely managed to shake his head no.

She’s only teasing him—a playful trial to his self control before she eagerly takes his rock hard tip into her plush lips, sucking lightly and his taste bursts onto her tongue. Kangtae seals his eyes shut, her sensual touch hindering his breathing pace as his hips involuntary buck into her face, surprising her. 

Munyeong hums at his wild reaction before she takes all of him into her warm mouth, going as far as she can take as her tongue flattens against the underside of his veiny shaft.

Kangtae shudders in pleasure, shoving his dick into her mouth like his whole body is on fire. She lets him for a moment before releasing his dick, spit dripping down her chin and she wipes it away. As much as she’s loving his wild reflex, she wants to do it herself.

"Stay still for me, mhm?"

He looks at her with hooded eyes, barely getting out an answer and he feels her soft hand reach for his. His heart swells at the gesture, fingers locked with hers and Kangtae lets her take the lead.

Her determination unveils as she takes him back in her pretty mouth. Alternating between sucking and licking, curling her tongue and her hand strokes the part that can’t fit her mouth. Her eyes never leave him, captivated by the sight—he's collapsed back, body writhing under her hold as he refrains his hips from moving. Incoherent profanities spill from his tight lips. 

"Fuck Munyeong!"

His loud groans sound into the spacious room as she curls her tongue, unable to control himself as Kangtae sloppily jerks into her wet mouth and arousal seeps through her panties. He had really lost control. Munyeong opens wider, aroused by the beastly side of him and she encourages him to use her, softly moaning to herself.

"Fuck fuck I'm-"

His orgasm ripples through him like an earthquake, unexpected and violent as he spasms in his seat. Kangtae dozes off to a sweet ecstasy, pretty moans spilling from his lips, his hand clutching onto hers like his life depends on it. Munyeong emboldens him with a promising grip, hot fluid spurting into her mouth and her lips milk every last drop.

Getting off her knees, she climbs back on to his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. A coy smile plays on her glistening lips as she gazes at his scorching face.

“Did you like it?”

Kangtae gapes at her, pupils blown out as he breathes hard from her endearment. All he can do is muster a shy nod and her smile grows wider, meeting him in a deep kiss.

His strong arms circle around her small waist, pulling her closer and her weight crashes onto his lap, long legs gripping his sides as she grinds her heat onto his bare cock. Her arousal almost drips through the thin material of her panties, rocking her hips into his as she moans into his mouth. the sound tattooed in his memory.

This time he doesn't refrain himself, greedily lapping at her mouth, lingering with the taste of his own release and if possible Kangtae blushes more furiously. No one has ever done that for him, and although the power was in her hands, she had held him with tenderness more than he could ever imagine.

He drowns himself in her paradise, licking relentlessly at her cavern until their exerted lungs burn for air. 

Munyeong pulls back, inhaling sharply and he can see adrenaline gushing behind her eyes. Her hips don't stay still, rubbing the head of his cock against her pulsating clit.

“I want you. All of you.” She whispers, lust dripped in her words and there’s a pause of sentiment. She stalls, dreading for his response. 

“Can you give it to me?”

His breath is caught in his throat as he stares at her, distracted in the delicious touch of their bodies and he chokes out a pleading answer.

“Yes.”

Sighing, Munyeong lifts herself up, scrunching the lower fabric of her dress around her waist, discarding her panties. His jaws are slack as he watches her lower herself, brushing her damp folds with the head of his cock.

Without a warning she takes his breath away, sinking onto his hard cock as her tight walls desperately cling around him. Munyeong moans in relief. She had been longing for this, for weeks she had solely relied on her own fingers to sate her hungry desire, exclusively sparked by him, and their reality reminds her that her dreams could never compare to this.

Kangtae grips at her hips, doing everything he can from thrusting into her like a mad man but he feels like it’s getting more difficult by the second. 

They rock languidly into each other,hips rolling in a luscious rhythm that sends both of them into a spiral of bliss. Munyeong whimpers helplessly, rolling and grinding onto his cock. He fills her perfectly, greater than any man has ever had. His hands are everywhere, her breasts, hips, and neck, begging for more. 

Munyeong places her hands onto his broad chest, beginning to ride him, tight walls clenching around air before she slams back down to him, hissing at the unbelievable pleasure. Their moans resound into the room, filled with the sound of their skin smacking and Kangtae’s eyes are strained at the obscene view. His cock disappearing into her hot pussy before reappearing once more in the filthiest rhythm. 

She whines his name, spewing curses into his ear and his hips instinctively smack up to meet hers. 

For a split second, his mind revisits the man from today’s afternoon, enraged at that bastard’s audacity to even touch her and Kangtae holds her even tighter in his arms, closing the gap between their chests and he can feel her taut nipples peek through the cotton of their clothes. Munyeong falls weak in his embrace, threading her hands in his dark locks of hair, shifting her weight back and his thrust bumps into a strange spot. Her body tingles in the new sensation.

“Oh my— Kangtae!”

She cries in pleasure, nails clawing into his back as she buries her head into his neck, panting. Kangtae notes her strange surprise and begins to ram repeatedly at the same spot. Her screams are drowned by his hungry lips, toes vitally curling and she trembles from the attention on the newly discovered spot.

“More more more!”

His thumb brushes past her wet folds, eventually finding her clit and he rubs fervidly, mimicking what he has seen on the internet. His lips find its way to her elegant neck, sucking until it leaves a prominent bruise. Munyeong trembles above him, body scorching from the feverous pleasure and she shatters completely. 

His name cries on her lips like a prayer, her walls squeezing tight around him and he breaks apart shortly. Thick searing streams of cum shooting into her and he grunts her name in the sweetest song.

Breathlessly, she mewls next to his ear, her chin resting on his broad shoulder. After a moment when their breaths falter back to normal, she pulls out of him with slack limbs, missing for his warmth. 

Settling herself on his thighs, Munyeong gazes at him with a devilish grin. 

“I pulled your safety pin.” 

The room stills with quietness and she cups his tender face in her hand, eyes glimmering with triumph as she playfully asks. “Do I get a certificate?”

Resulting to her words, his parched mouth falls open, not knowing what to say and Kangtae stares at her. 

He really had removed his pin. 

Munyeong watches as thoughts scatter behind his dark orbs, splashing colors and pulling him into reality before he emits with laughter. She feels his hand slowly creep up her back, tugging at the zip of her fragile dress and his strong arms draw her back onto him. Their chests collide and he brings a finger to graze her puffy lips.

“You got me. Why would you care about that?”

[bowieandqueen11]

Remember When / Hargreeves Imagine

Request: Love ur writing btw!! I have a Great idea for a Diego fic! Can u do his siblings somehow finding tapes/videos from the mental asylum Diego was in and seeing how badly he was tortured and abused. Then he has a panic attack or something at the end and they comfort him. 

I-ugh anon omg - my heart <3

Warning, some strong language, and also some descriptions of abuse, so please don’t read if it will make you uncomfortable!

Comments and reblogs are so so so appreciated, as this took me honestly way to long XD! Thank you!!

‘Way to go. Real Team Zero back there.’

‘Diego, we’ve already been through this. Dad’s a stubborn prick, as he has been, all our sad lives, yada yada, we’re sorry, okay? We should have known he’d still be the same condescending asshole’, Klaus replies, waving his hands in the air as he climbs the stairs back up to Elliot’s apartment. Rubbing his left eye with his hello tattoo, he uses his right to try and fumble a blunt out of his pocket, clenching it between his teeth. As he feels Luther’s footsteps pound up the rest of the way and jog past him to the landing, he can’t quite seem to light it - his fingers are still trembling too hard from the pain of Ben stealing his body in the way he did.

Running up the stairs after him, Diego leaves behind the rest of his shell shocked siblings. Instead he focuses on tucking in the corners of his shirt back into his pants, trying to do anything to stop himself focusing on Reginald and the tears that still threaten to prick at the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t even notice when he walks head first into Klaus, until he has put a hand out and gripped onto his shoulder to stop them both from tumbling back down the stairs like bowling balls and straight into Allison.

‘You, brother, are an idiot. And a fat lot of help’, he smirks, sadly, gently slapping Klaus on his cheek.

‘Rude’, Klaus shrugs, winding his way towards the kitchen and kicking off his shoes in the process, looking for some Vodka to steal.

Allison hops quickly out of the way of the incoming shoes, used to his antics by now, and instead comes to settle next to where Vanya has plodded herself down on the sofa. Fiddling with her oversized jumper, a far away look on her face, Allison places a comforting hand on her bicep and gives her a sorrowful smile.

‘What do we do now?’, Vanya murmurs out as Luther squirms uncomfortably on one of Elliott’s wooden chairs. He ignores the beeping of the machines behind his head, instead swallowing thickly.

‘We, uh... wait for Five, I guess.’

‘No no no, right now, the most important thing we can do to try and change the world, is save JFK.’

‘Ughh we’ve been through this a million times! That’s not how it works Diego!’, Klaus calls from the kitchen, only a cloud of smoke trailing out from behind the wall and filling the room with both a stagnant smell of weed, and a light fog that seems to dampen the small amount of sunlight filtering through the askew blinds, which Elliott had been taking photos through earlier this morning.

‘Look, I get that you’re on some big crusade to prove something to dad, but this is not helpful right now.’

‘We all need to stick together and stop this thing’, Allison chimes in, desperation in her voice.

Luther’s interrupted from his continuing thoughts by a small squeak out of Vanya, following her eyes from where they are trained to a spot on the rug.

‘Oh my god... is that blood? Is someone bleeding?’

‘Holy shit.’

He gets up then, following the trail, beckoning his sisters to stay behind him with his hands until he reaches the dentistry chair at the edge of the landing, grimacing slightly as he turns to swivel it towards him with a squeak. He feels Klaus bump into one side of him, and Diego hit onto his other elbow, a rusty kitchen knife raised and ready, and a look of almost determination on his face, as if he had just been waiting for something awful to happen, just another chain of bad events so he knew his life was back onto its normal tracks.

‘Oh noooo’, Klaus groans, cupping his hands over his mouth as Elliott’s body turns to face them, a knife planted firmly in his eye.

Turning away from the tortured body of his friend, Diego swallows thickly, dropping his knife to the floor and placing an arm over his stomach. None of his siblings really notice, all of them looking over the dead body aghast, wondering, pained that they were the ones who caused something like this. None of them noticed the shake in his hand as he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the bile back down his throat again. 

Klaus, however, did notice something. However, sadly for Diego, it was not the right thing - not the signs of shock, anxiety, or guilt that flashed over his brother’s face - the signs of PTSD he would have been the most adapt at noticing in the room. No, instead Klaus looked past poor Elliot’s head, towards a blinking static screen that kept flashing blue and black on a nearby desk, left abandoned underneath the shutter shots of the rest of them by Five.

‘Hello there, what might you be?’

Leaving the rest of them, he fumbled with the buttons on the old TV, trying to shake it out of his head how eerily familiar this seemed to dear old dad’s surveillance system. Hitting any button he can find in vain, he throws his blunt out of his mouth and flicks it across the room, slamming the control panel with the fist of his palm, until his pointer finger somehow managed to falter and hit play on the tape left inside.

Never before had Klaus noticed how much time is like water, that it can drip by in front of his eyes so slowly, or even freeze with each new frame. The past few minutes had passed by as if he had watched a thousand frames per second, too slow to be normal, so unusual. He turns to try and point to his siblings, but his jaw is still so slack and he finds he can’t move his fingers properly. Shock, that’s what they call it, shock, he thinks to himself, fighting to get his words out so they don’t trail out.

There is a sadness in his eyes, the glass green too glossy when he finally turns to his siblings and manages only to feebly point at the screen.

For the first time, since his mouth had been wired shut as a teenager, Klaus was at a loss of words.

This grabbed the attention of his siblings, who crowded over to join him and peer intently at the screen - all except foe Diego, who stayed hovering at the edge of the group.

The screen lights up again, showing an empty room, one without proper handles, only sheets of smooth metal as makeshift windows for staff to peer through. There’s no bed, no mattress on the cold floor, just emptiness, isolation, silence, for the man who sits in the centre of the floor in pure white. They recognise from the shaggy hair and the wild beard that it’s there brother almost immediately.

'You were in an Asylum? What for?’, Vanya asks.

‘For trying to save the President’, Diego manages to mutter, unable to look any of them in the eye. ‘For doing what needed to be done.’

He’s interrupted by himself, the small version of him on the tape muttering to himself, rocking back and forth. ‘I am not enough, I can’t do it, I’m not good enough. You’ll never be number one, never.’  

The door swings open then. In his intense silence, Diego somehow screamed with his whole body. The eyes wide with horror, the mouth rigid and open, his chalky face gaunt and immobile as the doctor approached him with the needle.  

‘Please! Not the needle!’, he begs and cries. ‘Please!’

Luther’s the first to turn round and look at his brother. The first to finally look, to finally see him, how defeated he looks, for the first time since they all landed in that alleyway.  It's the look that he gives Diego. Those pale blue eyes, probing into his soul, desperately wanting to see what's going on in there. That look, it just tore Diego apart, piece by piece, and although it wasn’t his fault, he found himself deeply unsettled, deeply angry at him, at all of them, so suddenly.

‘W-w-what? What are you looking at a-a-ss-’

An invisible hand clasps over his mouth and stops his words from escaping, an equally ghostly hypodermic of adrenaline piercing his heart, making it contort and expand until it feels just about ready to burst. His ribs heave uneasily, and Allison’s afraid he’s about to pass out, Klaus rushing forward, biting his lips. Diego only wants to run, but needs to freeze. All he can do, instead, is fall to his knees, and allow four pairs of hands to catch him before his face hits the floor.

A single tear slides down from his warm, butterscotch eyes, followed by another one, and another one, until soon, a steady stream of salty tears flowed it's way down his cheek, releasing the sadness and sorrow that has been held inside of him for all this time but still he did not make a sound. His siblings made the noise for him, warm, comforting little nothings, telling him it was going to be okay, he didn’t have to go back, they were going to do it, save the world. Save themselves.

The hand appeared from nowhere and tightened on his wrist, white knuckled, strong, until Luther had pulled him against his chest, and the others had gently fallen to their knees too and placed their arms around his back as best as they could. Klaus was half leaning over Allison’s leg, and Vanya in turn was completely squished, face first, against his chest, but somehow they made it work.

There is the hug of gentle arms that still gives you the space to breathe, like the ones Grace used to give Diego after a mission. Shutting his eyes, he realises he isn’t used to this type, the kind of hug with strong arms that tells everything that your are - body, brain and soul - that they are with you. 

They stay like that for a while, the five - well, the six of them, as Ben places his arms around his siblings as well, even if they can’t feel him. The six of them, battered, afraid, neglected, and yet, not alone. They huddle there together, embracing each other and crying and just allowing themselves to be open, to be vulnerable with each other, to realise their dad wasn’t there and they didn’t have to go through this alone anymore. 

Tears were wiped and sobbing laughs were shared, and even Five, when he blipped back into the room, saw the set of his siblings hugging on the floor and felt a pang of loneliness and love for his crazy family ring out in his heart that he joined them, if only for a second.

From then they weren’t numbers anymore. They weren’t even siblings. They were more, Diego said with a smile. They were Team Zero.

[rrrawrf-writes]

what is it good for?

pt. 1 || pt. 2 || pt. 3 || pt. 4

fun fact - the marles part of this entire lil thing is the og part of the story, and i initially wasn't going to write more of it, except then i did. ur welcome.

tw: descriptions of dead people, blood, poorly-researched medieval surgical procedures

Dayehmon waited patiently. He could have slipped his bonds and disappeared from the tent a dozen times over, even without the promise of his guards to turn a blind eye. Everyone understood the responsibilities that came with being the commander of the royal guard, but that hadn’t stopped General Porrin from ordering Dayehmon pinned down and arrested, as soon as they recovered the king from him. Every healer that wasn’t on the battlefield had been pulled to tend to Mafvin, and the crossbow bolt sticking out of his back, and Dayehmon had been hauled to a hastily-cleared storage tent, tied up, and put under guard.

His actions had stirred up quite the controversy. Lying back on the cot someone had brought him, Dayehmon closed his eyes and listened to the shouting and opinions thrown outside of his impromptu prison. Arliya protested, of course, but Porrin cut her off.

“He needs a far better reason to label himself king-killer,” she snapped at Arliya. “This reeks of treachery - His Majesty was protecting us.”

“His Majesty was slaughtering a corpse,” Arliya retorted, but when Porrin dismissed her on threat of being discharged from service completely, Arliya had stormed off.

Dayehmon closed his eyes and worried.

One of the guards, late that night, stepped in to offer him a drink from their canteen. “He’ll live,” they murmured. “I doubt he’ll even have a scar.

“All my hard work, wasted,” Dayehmon murmured back wryly, but his shoulders dropped with relief.

The guard gave a nervous chuckle. “He’ll remember it, at least.”

Dayehmon could only hope that was true. “Vitalia?” he asked anxiously, but the guard just shook their head before taking their place outside the tent, and left him to his own thoughts.

The upside, Dayehmon figured, was that he hadn’t gotten so much sleep since the last time he’d had to drug Mafvin. His hands had been tied in front of him, which was incredibly pointless, but to make everyone happy, Dayehmon had gone along with it. At least it kept sleeping comfortable.

His blessedly rare series of naps was interrupted sometime the next day by someone kicking the leg of his cot.

“Do that again, and I’ll chop your foot off,” Dayehmon murmured, his eyes still closed. The kick came again, harder this time. With a scowl, Dayehmon sat up, and glared up at his king.

“Don’t think that you’re immune to foot-chopping,” he warned Mafvin sternly.

“Don’t think that you are immune to execution,” Mafvin returned, just as seriously. He stood straight, with no sign that Dayehmon had shot him in the back, or that he’d fallen at least twenty feet. Of course, Dayehmon remembered, Mafvin’s magic had burned through that miniscule amount of magicsbane, quickly enough to cushion the fall even without Dayehmon throwing himself under the king’s body.

The two of them stared at each other a moment longer. As usual, Mafvin cracked first, the tiniest hint of a tired smile touching his lips. He twitched his fingers, and the pointless cords around Dayehmon’s wrists slithered away. He reached down to pull Dayehmon to his feet, and into a tight embrace.

Mafvin trembled. Dayehmon felt him shake as he wrapped his arms around the king, and he cradled him close. The canvas of the tent quivered, and so did the earth just under their feet.

Dayehmon slit his eyes open, lifting a couple fingers from Mafvin’s shoulders to gesture for the guard that had entered with the king to leave. They tugged the tent flap close as they left, and then Dayehmon sat on the cot, tugging Mafvin down with him.

Instead of sitting, Mafvin collapsed to his knees, breaking into a ragged sob.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. Dayehmon slipped his fingers into Mafvin’s brilliant red hair, then eased off the cot to join him, tugging Mafvin close as he wept and apologized, over and over.

---

The hospital tent was overflowing. All of them were, and the supply tents and barracks, besides. Every scrap of canvas not being used for the kitchen sheltered wounded soldiers, crying out in pain and dying faster than the medics could treat them. Two days after the battle, and Marles and the rest of the medics were still up to their necks in the wounded and dying and dead.

He hadn’t slept in two days - no, three. He’d been on the battlefield. Sometimes Marles saw things at the corner of his vision, heard things - susurrating whispers, cries for help he couldn’t tell were real, or his imagination, the souls of the dead clutching at his sleeves, until he snapped, “I’m doing the fucking best I can!”

The poor soldier he had his hands on whimpered and blinked up at him. “Y-Yes, sir, I - I know,” she whispered meekly. Marles blinked, hard, banishing the ghosts, and looked down at her as he twisted the tourniquet tighter. He slipped a gag into her mouth, grabbed his saw, and told her, not unkindly, “You’ll still have a life with just one hand.”

She whined around the gag, and he started cutting. He’d run out of herbs for the pain nine hours ago, and there had been nothing to put her to sleep for five.

---

His hands shook. Marles blinked, and blinked again, halfway through stitching up a soldier’s leg. His hands shook, but he wasn’t finished, but he couldn’t see clearly enough. Someone touched his arm, and Marles jumped with a gasp, whipping around. The string in his hands snapped; the soldier cried out in pain.

“Go to bed, Medic Summerborn,” someone ordered. Marles tried to focus on her, but he couldn’t remember who she was; one of the other medics, he knew. She firmly took the needle from his slippery, blood-covered fingers, and pushed him towards one of the cots crammed into the tent. It was empty; its last resident must have just died. Marles had given up thinking anyone was walking out of these tents of their own volition.

She had to force him onto the cot, and gave him a drink of water. It must have been mixed with something stronger, given the taste, and Marles sunk down, head swimming. “The supplies came in?” he asked, hopefully, but he was asleep before he ever heard her answer.

---

It wasn’t enough sleep. Marles woke up again because they needed the bed for another soldier. But his hands were steadier now, as he washed the dried blood from them. He didn’t recognize his face in the tiny mirror he kept in his bag; he looked only because he had blood all over the side of it, and he needed to keep himself clean, or else he’d bring infection to the soldiers he was trying, desperately, to keep alive.

It was the third morning since the witchking attacked, someone told him. Marles didn’t know why he bothered cleaning up. His hands were all over with blood again the second he stepped back into the tent, cutting away infection that had set into a soldier’s arm.

They’d stopped being recognizable. They weren't people any longer; they were bloodied arms, legs, gaping wounds in their stomachs, their chests, their hips. Clotted slices in the sides of their heads, unseeing eyes from the dead who had faded while the medics worked on someone else, because there weren’t enough of them, they weren’t fast enough, Marles wasn’t doing enough -

He ignored the ruckus outside the tent. Grabbing a needle and thread, Marles set to stitching the wound he’d just created. The tent brightened as the flaps opened, and then darkened again, as someone filled the entryway. The soldier writhing under Marles’ touch stiffened, and then whimpered.

“Stop crying,” Marles snapped, not even looking up. “It’s barely a handful of stitches, you'll be fine.”

“No,” she whimpered, trying to push herself up from the cot. “No, he’s here, please no -”

Marles cursed and left the needle in her arm, pressing her down by her shoulders. “Stop moving,” he snarled, reaching over. A crate shoved next to the bed held his supplies and his flask, heavily dosed with sweetsap. His hand bumped against a thick, wiggling vine, and Marles didn’t even register it as something that didn’t belong, as he grabbed the flask and shoved it between her teeth, anything to get her to stop moving.

The ruckus had entered the tent. Battle-hardened veterans cried out in fear, shaking in their cots; some of the other medics had stopped, staring at the entryway. Marles finished his stitching, before he could turn his attention to whatever the fuck was going on. He glanced at the vince again, thicker around than his arm as it snaked over the crate, moving -

On instinct, he grabbed a knife built for cleaving bones and threw it. It sliced through the vine, embedding itself inches into the crate. The vine cringed back, bleeding sap like an open wound.

Marles finally looked up.

He stood in the entry. More vines, thick and spiked, wound through the tent, curling underneath the cots and twining around the ankles of those still standing. The man in the next bed, hyperventilating, tried to get up. Marles yanked his knife out of the crate, and snarled at him, “Stay the fuck in bed.”

The soldier stayed the fuck in bed.

“What are you doing here?” Marles didn’t recognize his own voice. It rasped with weariness and anger - no, fury. His hands shook. His entire body trembled with rage.

The witchking of Cordell stared back at him, a similar rage on his own face. “Where is she?”

“Get out,” Marles snarled.

“No,” said King Mafvin. Marles stormed towards him, tromping over and through the vines that spread throughout the tent. The thorn-covered plants could have overwhelmed him in an instant, squeezed the life from his body, stabbed poison into every one of his veins, like they had done to Marles’ soldiers on the battlefield - but they peeled away from him instead, even as he advanced on the enemy king with a bloody knife in hand. The king demanded, “Where is my daughter? One of you bastards has to know -”

“Get out.” Marles stopped shot, just in front of the king; beyond Mafvin was an entire entourage of Cordellan guards and Eolan officers acting as anxious escort. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’ve won. Leave.”

The witchking didn’t move. “I want my daughter.”

“And I want my soldiers to stop dying,” Marles snapped. “Haven’t you killed enough of us? Was hundreds dead not enough for you? Have you come to finish us all off?”

“I just want -”

“Leave.” The word cut across the king’s voice like a scalpel. Marles glared up at the taller man. “Leave, before I slit your throat myself.”

Mafvin’s eyebrows arched. The Cord guard next to him, a darks-kinned man with three scars down the side of his face, stepped forward with a hand on his sword. But at a slight gesture from Mafvin, he stilled. The witchking said, with deadly calm, “You’re a medic. You can’t harm me.”

A sharp, brittle laugh tore out of Marles’ throat. He didn’t even recognize it as his own. It sounded like the splintering of bone as Marles amputated limb after limb. It sounded like the way the sharp halves of his broken heart rubbed against each other in his chest. It sounded like death.

“I can’t harm men,” Marles said, his voice low, but capturing the attention of every soul around him. “I can’t harm people. I can’t harm the enemy, who slaughters my friends before my eyes.”

His grip on the knife tightened. “But I can kill a monster.”

The tent went completely still. Mafvin stared at the short, lean medic with bloodied hands and apron stuck through with needles meant to pierce the flesh, his light brown hair tied up out of his face, and blood smeared across one cheek. Then the guard moved forward once again, placing himself between the king and the medic with his sword partly-drawn.

Mafvin broke the silence first. “As you’ve said,” he spoke quietly, not even certain why he was justifying himself to some Eolan medic, “I’ve won. These are my lands now. All I want is my daughter, and your peoples’ cooperation in giving her up -”

“Your lands?” Marles’ voice broke with incredulity. He stepped forward, heedless of the guard - who stepped back, suddenly alarmed that Marles would press his luck. The king shifted back, too, his eyes widening at the venom in Marles’ voice. They all moved as one, until Marles had driven them out of the tent by sheer force of his fury, the vines withering away into dust.

“I’m Lord Marles fucking Summerborn,” Marles seethed. “Once I would have been Duke of Averdale. I am Eolan and Cordellan both. If these lands belong to anyone, they belong to me.”

Mafvin stammered, “I only want -”

“Your daughter,” Marles sneered. Once, he may have understood that. Once, he may have had compassion. He would have walked a grieving father through the camp, helped him look under every flimsy cot and tent flap even while he already knew they didn’t have the princess.

Once, he might have cared. Once.

“Come with me,” Marles said, low, and stalked past the king and his guard, the handful of Cord soldiers following. Luned, the commanding Eolan General herself escorted the witchking through her camp - after Mafvin’s display, she had no choice. Marles moved to the edge of the tents, not too far away. Long, misshapen piles lay covered with white, blood-spattered tarps. In the distances, thick, oily plumes of smoke rose from the funeral pyres.

Marles stalked to the nearest ple, gripping a corner of the tarp and flinging it aside to show - corpses. Soldier after soldier, the bodies dressed in their torn, bloodied uniforms. In some cases, they’d been killed by swords and arrows, the wounds of honest battle.

In others, they were no more than skin blackened and charred to the bone. Or pierced through with bloodied crystal, or choked and twisted by vines and tree roots and branches, still dripping with poison.

The worst cases were those that seemed to have no wounds at all.

Marles pointed his knife at a woman near the end of the row, her hair cleared away from her face. “Is this your daughter?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

The color bled out of Mafvin’s face. When he gave no answer, Marles moved a step or two down the row. “How about her?” he asked savagely, gesturing to another of the soldiers. “No? Is she not here? Perhaps we should keep looking.”

He continued to where the tarp fell, uncovering more. Body after body, laid out, killed by the witchking’s wild, uncontrollable magic. “Do you see her yet, Your Majesty?”

Mafvin swallowed, but his voice came out in a dry whisper. “Stop.”

Marles tapped his boot against the shoulder of an older man, his arm gone, thorned vines wrapped around and through him. “He has a daughter,” Marles said. “A young girl - woman, now. Waiting for him in Riverwall.”

“Medic Summerborn,” General Luned interrupted, her voice strained. “Stop this.”

“Don’t look away now, General,” Marles returned sharply, pointing his knife at her - an offense easily punishable by dishonorable discharge, if not worse. “Don’t feel as though you are blameless in any of this. They marched for you and your father. They fought and killed and died at your orders. They believed there was a reason for all of this. More than just the petty, endless squabbling and greed of those who wear the crowns we pledge our lives to. Know that you’ll wear that crown one day. See them, and know your own power.”

Luned stared at him, took in a shuddering breath, gripped her sword all the tighter. But she didn’t say anything in return. Marles’ lip curled as he viewed the general and the king.

“You’ve all wasted my time enough already,” he said. “More have died, even now, without me. You’ve won, witch. I hope it brings you triumph. Glory in your lands, the earth you’ve scorched and torn apart for the sake of winning this fucking pointless war.”

He left the bodies uncovered, and stalked past the silent king, back towards the hospital tent he ruled with more sovereignty than any monarch could ever dream of achieving.

[ofstvtches]

ROCKY LYNCH,  MASCULINE NB,  HE/HIM & THEY/THEM.  —  looks  like  SAMHAIN SKELLINGTON is  attending  AURORIA  UNIVERSITY  in  auradon.  they're  the  TWENTY  year  old  child  of  JACK & SALLY SKELLINGTON,  which  means  they're  from  THE ISLE.  heard  they're  NURTURING  &  GENTLEMANLY,  but  can  also  be  INFLEXIBLE  &  SELF-PITYING  ;  we  all  have  our  bad  days.  people  normally  associate  them  with  SEWING NEEDLES REPAIRING A BROKEN DOLL , A BAG FULL OF BANDAGES, TRYING SO HARD TO BE TOUGH WHEN YOU’RE SOFT , SOFT HAIR HELD BACK WITH A BAT-SHAPED PIN.

                    ❛  when you saw that little girl , and she was in the sandbox                            and she was crying , and you gave her your toy truck and                            I told you we couldn’t afford to get another one. you said ,                          ‘ she should have it because she’s sad. she’s sad , mommy. ’ ❜                            playlist. pinterest. to listen as you read.

lol u guessed it it’s me , again , by unpopular demand - i am so sorry. third muse already bc i can’t keep myself away from playing absolute CINNAMON ROLLS so that’s what u can expect from sam w/ a pumpkin spice twist. bc nightmare is my absolute favorite movie and ... halloween, motherfuckers. so as usual this will PROBABLY end up long bc i love writing sam so much so yeah , more below ! 

HISTORY 

So as we know , Jack & Sally were sent to the Isle w/ the rest of Halloweentown for trying to steal Christmas ! And unlike Christmas , Samhain was not born in Halloweentown. In fact , he wasn’t even born - he was made. 

Magic wasn’t a huge thing on the Isle - but a resource of science was Dr. Finkelstein , and despite the limited resources and technology on the Isle , the couple begged the mad scientist to create another child for them. And from Sally , it took a lot of convincing , but Jack was able to talk him into it. 

It took even more of an effort to pull off , again considering the state of the Isle. But a good few months into the project and Jack & Sally were greeted with the cries of a tiny ragdoll baby boy. Keeping up with the holiday themed names , he was named Samhain - Sam for short. 

He grew with multiple touch-ups from the doctor to simulate an actual boy growing up - every year , a check-up making him taller , stronger , etc. And in that process he started to look more and more like his mother , with her big eyes and stitched smile and patchwork clothes. But he grew up loved by his brother & parents - though it never quelled the fact he always wanted... more.

He was loved , he was coddled , and as sheltered as a child could be on the Isle. So , much like his mother , he took a habit of sneaking out frequently and trying to fit in with the other Isle kids , even though he knew he didn’t. 

He just wanted to fit in. That was it. And it started off with him wearing large hoods and heavy clothes to hide the stitches on his body as well as masks to cover facial stitches. And while some other Isle kids found him odd and sticking out like a sore thumb , some found him cool. Some found him interesting. But nobody really knew what he was hiding - and it added mystery to someone so NICE , because Sam’s overall sweetness could rival that if sugar’s. 

Curiosity only reached dangerous points though when Sam snuck out on night to camp out with friends - and when everyone else was asleep , one removed his mask , and of COURSE did Samhain immediately wake up. He didn’t stay to see the reaction of the other when revealing his stitches , too afraid that he’d be seen as scary or repulsive for what he was. And he ran. He ran back home , locking himself in his room , and those friends he routinely hung out with . . . well , he didn’t talk to them much after that. Because what if they knew , now ?? What would they think ??

Villain & Auradon kids coming together was a new chance for Sam to try and fit in - be more in his element. He was immediately acquainted with a magic-practicing individual ( could be an AK or a VK - this’ll be a wc ) who struck a deal with him to offer him glamours so he could look less scary. Of course , these glamours would have to be applied and would wear off until the next application , but it’d make him feel more comfortable - even though he WOULD technically be hiding who he is.

While Christmas , the elder sibling , would be sticking around in Auradon Prep , Samhain would prefer to move immediately to Auroria University to try and figure out who exactly he wanted to be , and how he could do that. Currently he’s majoring in Nursing , given he’s always had a rather NURTURING and charitable nature - never turning down someone else’s request to help.

CHARACTER & FACTS 

So lemme get this one thing out of the way bc if I don’t I’ll be itching about it - but all my resources for ( the love of my life ) Rocky were made by me , and while they’re all from multiple eras from both R5 & TDE , I imagine Sam to resemble how Rocky looks around the post-Louder , Heart Made Up On You & Sometime Last Night eras ( basically from like 2013-2015 ). Here , here , & here for some references. I’m nOT DONE GIFFING THOUGH bc frankly I find giffing him therapeutic.

Now I don’t have a drawn reference or anything for this next part so we’re gonna have to use our imagination here but unglamoured , Sam basically looks like his mom in terms of the fact he’s a little ragdoll baby. Putting on a glamour doesn’t change his appearance much save for the fact the stitches disappear and he looks more human. 

The glamour is an enchanted bat charm he wears around his neck that can also be used as a hairtie. And it has to be refreshed every so often , so he has to keep going back to whoever provided him with it so it doesn’t lose its effect.

He still has a backup mask just in case , and he’s been practicing with makeup if need be.

Personality-wise , the best one can describe Sam as is sweet and polite. I included tht Stranger Things quote at the beginning 4 a rEASON bc he’s honestly such a sweet kid and will give anything to anyone.

And also bc I imagine Sally as Joyce mom-wise so yEAH bt I digress.

He knows his manners and treats everyone with the UTMOST amount of respect , which makes it extremely easy to get along with him . He’s also maybe a tad bit too giving for his own good , since it’s incredibly easy to use that to one’s advantage and he’s so inclined to believe people have the best intentions. An optimist , even if it’s to a fault. And then when he gets hurt he just sits to the side feeling sorry for himself like “ :’’’(. ”

Now when I say he’s inflexible , I mean that Sam is a very ORGANIZED person who likes things to be done a certain way - like , he can never do anything without a plan , and if even something slightly goes out of what the plan pertains of , he panics. He’s a goody-goody and he’s afraid to break the rules , which is why he’s still hesitant to even do things with the friends who are more “ bad ” than he is.

Everything has to be done BY THE BOOK and if it isn’t then something is bound to go wrong and Sam’s too worried about that happening.

He’s also incredibly insecure about his appearance but I think I’ve hammered in that fact enOUGH ALREADY

But if he takes his glamour off in front u that’s like. A Major sign of trust. So beware.

Again as I mentioned he tries to hang out with kids with the lesser reputations because :

1.) He wants to give them a chance

2.) He wants to make sure they have a friend to look after them

and 3.) He’s so used to trying to fit in with the other Isle kids that he’s trying to be ‘bad’ himself but it never works out bc he’s so sweet and he can dress in skinny jeans and leather and shit as much as he wants but at the end of the day he’s still Sweet Lil’ Samhain. 

One thing he’s always had a fascination with would be angels - he’s always believed in them , always though he’s had his own guardian angel watching over him somewhere , he’s always loved the idea of them. He has lots of angel decorations around his dorm as well as ornaments and stuff for the holidays. It’s also pure irony that he just so happens to be just as angelic in nature.

He’s also a big holiday person like the rest of his family and loves helping to decorate for events and stuff !!

One of his greatest talents is his ability to play both the piano & violin , and he’ll often do that if there’s a piano in common areas or so on. He’s also a talented singer , but he’s so used to putting that to the side , making him lack confidence in his voice.

i v much encourage u to listen to the song i linked i find his voice so....soothing.

Like his mom he’s also very good at cooking , sewing , etc. !! Often has to stitch himself back together if he gets hurt - you know , Sally style. 

More basic facts are that his final height clocks in at 6′4 , he’s homoromantic homosexual , and identifies as masculine non-binary who doesn’t really care how you address him. He’s very chill. And sometimes he has to walk with a cane of sorts if his stitches are loose or if his legs are feeling especially weak.

but yeah that’s it on that end !!!

WANTED CONNECTIONS

So obviously - the person who provided him with the glamour. Only requirement is that ur character’s good at magic or something of that sort.

AND ALSO - I’d love the person who initially removed his mask !! Sam didn’t stick around to see them react to how he truly looked , so it’s all up to you on how this character feels. But he’s avoided them since that scenario.

Also , his group of friends around the time that scenario happened on the Isle. Maybe they’re a little more rough around the edges than him , but this group was always tight-knit. And then Sam lightning mcghosted bc he wasn’t sure if now they knew what he really was.

Ppl who think his whole sweet thing is fAKE bc we know it isn’t but it’s so easy to THINK it is.

Also would love some folks he routinely cares for maybe in the aspect of like. Bein their shoulder to cry on. Patching up a wound. Just being There for them. 

Folks who in general just wanna know more abt him bc he is kind of a mystery !!

Would lOVE sb who his glamour wears off in front of and he begs them to keep his secret but instead they want him to try n be more comfortable w/ himself and who he is. Bc he’s a cute ragdoll let’s b honest he just. Doesn’t see himself that way. 

Ppl who Sam crushed on at the Isle and deffo broke his heart bc life just b like that sometimes 

Also present day folks who r just ready to break his heart bc again thats so easy to do

also once more i’m open 2 ANYTHINNNNNNG sam is my Baby(tm) and i’d lov any plots thrown his way !! will probs make another wc page for him like i’ve done w/ luke and am in the process of doing w/ trixie !!

[bitchfromtheseventhhell]

a belated birthday drabble for roxy 💗💞💗💞💗💞💗💞

the “this is your house I’m not making you sleep on the couch” “yeah but you’re the guest you take the bed” conversation between ur otp right before they share the bed reblog if u agree #NO I INSIST IT WOULDN’T BE RIGHT#WELL THIS BED LOOKS BIG ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF US#SO THAT WE BOTH CAN BE COMFORTABLE#AND WILL IN NO WAY MIGRATE TOWARDS EACH OTHER#AND ATTEMPT TO BECOME ONE ENTITY WHILE WE SLEEP

“This is your house.  I’m not making you sleep on the couch.”

He really should have seen that one coming.  How could he not have?  It’s not like he hadn’t known her since she was ten fucking years old.  Pain in his ass even back then.

“Yeah, but you’re the guest.  You take the bed.  That’s how it goes.”

Arya glares at him.  It’s funny--the curve of her jaw is exactly the same as it had been when he’d been her freaking camp counselor and she’s refusing point blank to do things that are scheduled for her, even if she’s ten, until you’d convinced her that it’s the right way to proceed.

Gendry does not envy his past self having had to handle that task on a regular basis.  Not, of course, that that matters: he’s there now all over again.

“Will you even fit on the couch?” Arya asks, glancing at him and then at the couch.  

“Yes,” Gendry lies.  “I fall asleep on it all the time while watching TV.”

“Look, a nap on a Sunday is one thing.  Sleeping all night on a thing that’s not designed for your body is a whole different thing.”  She’s got her arms crossed over her chest and everything, and Gendry narrows his eyes.  

“How do you know I don’t sleep with my knees raised?”  Lommy had done that once on the beach.  Gendry remembers it clearly because Hot Pie and Arya had covered him in sand and had made jokes about how his legs were now mountains poking out of the sand.  

“Unless you’ve changed since the last time we had this argument...”

The last time they’d had this argument had been when Arya had still been in college.  He’d been roadtripping north with some friends and had stopped by Winterfell.  It had been forever since he’d seen that scrap of a kid who’d oddly been one of his closest friends at camp, but she’d seen him use the check-in feature on on his faces app and had sent him about twelve messages and insisted that he’d come and drink with her.  He attributed the fact that he’d ended up sleeping in the bed in her dorm room with Arya on the couch to his being drunk and the fact that she had an extra-long college-issued mattress.  No one ever had extra-long mattresses, and Gendry sometimes felt like he’d never stopped growing.

Gendry glares at her now.  She’s winning and she knows it, he can tell from the way that curve in her jaw is turning into a slight smirk.  

“Look, this is all stupid,” he says, changing tactics.  “The bed’s big enough for both of us.  We can both sleep in it.”

“I won’t catch cooties?” Arya snorts, and Gendry rolls his eyes.  

The bed is, in fact, more than big enough for both of them.  Arya’s smaller than Gendry (everyone’s smaller than Gendry) and it’s not as though he’s not had girls over before who’ve ended up staying the night.  This is, of course, different than that, because he’s known Arya forever and is not interested in fucking her, but that should make it even safer, right? And besides, what the fuck kind of puritanical nonsense was it that you could only share a bed with someone you were having sex with, but not with one of your oldest friends?  That was bullshit.

Once the bed situation is decided upon, they both seem to relax.  Arya’s looking at law schools in the capital before deciding where she wants to end up.  (“I probably won’t go to King’s Landing.  They’re all vying to be president or on the supreme court or something, and it’s super competitive, and I don’t know...that’s not me.  But at the same time they’re--belatedly, I might add--adding this new immigration rights workshop that just seems so cool so I can’t exactly write it off.”) Her sister is getting married in the spring; she has a new nephew (Arya shows off videos of him playing with a baby piano on her phone while he makes baby noises); she doesn’t much like her brother’s new girlfriend but she is trying to be generous and assume it’s something she’ll get over.  She chats away while helping Gendry clean the dishes from dinner (his dishwasher’s broken and he keeps forgetting to call someone to fix it).

It’s fun having her around.  Easy.  Oddly homey.  She understands him better than most of his friends these days do.  His mother used to talk about the difference between good friends and old friends, and Arya is, has been, both.

It’s not fun having her around at all when they’re getting ready for bed.  He’s used to seeing her in jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt and is thoroughly unprepared for the tank-top with spaghetti straps and the boxers that she wears as they brush their teeth.  He’s thoroughly unprepared for the way he notices how tight that tank top fits around her waist, the way the wrinkles sit on what is undeniably a curve between her hips and ribcage--a curve that hadn’t been there at all when he’d been younger.  It’s not fun at all noticing the way his eyes slip down to her ass as though she’s anyone but Arya, the way his eyes take in details like how he’s sure he can determine the size of her nipples not because the tank top is see-through but because the way that it seems to sit over her skin changes at the front of her breasts.

Suddenly, he wishes he’d held his ground better about sleeping on the couch.  When she slides into the bed next to him, and curls up into a ball and buries her face into one of his pillows, he’s all too aware of her breathing, of the way she smells, of the fact that they’re so close--so very close.

It’s not puritanical.  It’s fucking smart, Gendry curses his hubris.  He usually sleeps on his right side, but that would be facing Arya.  Arya is sleeping on her left side, so Gendry tries it, but within about thirty seconds his arm is shooting pins and needles and he twists back to lie on his back, determined not to look at her as he does so.  But then, he remembers that he’s not a back sleeper, because his lower back starts to ache and, much to his own amused frustration, he bends his knees, resting his feet flat on the mattress to ease his back a bit.  

“You don’t have to prove your point, you know,” Arya says.  She sounds amused.  

“Nah, my lower back is doing a thing,” Gendry lies, trying not to sound defensive.  “Getting old sucks.”

“Well, that was stupid of you, getting old,” she teases sleepily.  “You should have stayed young forever.”

So should you, he thinks desperately.  He tries to remember how she’d looked--uneven short haircut because she’d taken scissors to her ponytail, much to the dismay of her bunk counselor, wearing a bright yellow life jacket that was only just too big for her.  But he can’t.  He can only see Arya’s hips on those boxer shorts, and the way her breasts looked in that tank top.

“More fool me,” he manages at last.  Arya chuckles and shifts in her sleep.  She’s always been a cuddler.  He remembers that from...from when?  He’d never cuddled with her when she’d been a kid.  He’d had to help Jeyne think of how she was going to stay in her bed during naptime since she never wanted to.  Had it been something from the last time he’d seen her?  Or...

He feels her nose against his arm and he doesn’t pull away.  It’s startling, but he’s never been one to jolt back like a frightened animal.  He’s always prided himself on his steadiness.  “You and me both, I suppose,” she sighs.  Her breath is warm against his skin.

This is unbearable.

He’s the worst friend on the planet.  

“I suppose you always did have a way of following me into trouble, didn’t you?”

“Look--just because you were too stupid to hide properly during color wars does not mean I followed you.  I rescued you.  You’d have still been behind the mountain even today if it weren’t for me.”

“That’s not true,” Gendry snorts.

“It is,” Arya says huffily.  She’s sitting up on her elbows now, he can see the outline of her face in the dark, and her eyes are shining fiercely somehow.  “It is and you know it.”

“We still lost, though,” Gendry said.  It had been a sore loss that one, outfoxed at the last minute.  

“Because you didn’t stick to the plan,” she says and her face is too close to his he can smell her toothpaste in the air, can taste it...

She doesn’t pull away from him, though she does let out a surprised sound in the back of his throat.  Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder very tentatively and when they pause for air she doesn’t look away, doesn’t pull away.

“Why did you do that?” she asks quietly.  Her voice sounds small, as though she’s nervous and he’s such a fool such a fucking fool he should have just slept on the damn couch.

“I couldn’t not,” he hears himself whisper.  

Arya swallows, then pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.  From any other girl, he’d have assumed she was trying to seduce him, but Arya always chewed her lip when she was nervous and he had made her nervous.

“Look,” he says and he sits up.  “I’ll go sleep on the couch, all right.  I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” Arya says quickly and she is grabbing his arm.  “No.  No, I want you to...I want you to stay.”

So he does.  He does because he can’t not, because he’s never been able to deny her anything, and when she presses her lips to his again, he holds her close and lets all thoughts of everything else slip away.

[nebula-horizon]

.... [ RIP ] for the dying ask meme if ur still accepting it

Send “RIP for a drabble of my muse dying [Accepting!]

{This is bloody cause I love making my ocs suffer :-)}

If she hadn’t cared this wouldn’t have happened. If she just ignored the screaming and mind her own business, then she wouldn’t be spitting up razor blades in front of this guy. Though it’s not in her nature to just ignore a murder and not do anything about it. Celeste could barely hold herself up as she gasped for air, leaning her weight against a wall. Her pink eyes glared up at the man who stood before her. His sclerae were black, matching the cold and unfeeling stare he gave to Celeste. She gritted her teeth and tried to scream out for help, maybe Dove was nearby the spot they were going to meet at.

Maybe–just maybe–she could get out of this alive.

However, as soon as she opened her mouth to scream, razor blades spilled out causing her to cough and cry. Though she tried to not show her tears in front of the bastard that did this to her, it was clear to see that she was weeping. Her legs were shaking and her tears mixed in with the blood that dripped down her chin. The white haired man just stood there, hand on his hip as he watched Celeste scowl at him with such malice. The purple haired girl tried so hard to drag herself across the wall to the stranger, but ended up falling to her knees. “You should probably learn to not intrude on important gang business next time, brat.” The stranger said apathetically. His voice was gruff and sent shivers down Celeste’s spine.  “Though I doubt there will be a next time since you’ll be like my friend over there.”. He gestured over to the dead body of the very man that Celeste came rushing in to defend. The body was limp against the wall, needles and razors sticking out from it’s chest and face.

Celeste turned her gaze from the body back to the stranger, a glowing aura surrounded her as Crystal flickered into existence. She pointed at him weakly yet defiantly. “Crystal, Meteor shower!” She shouted, a few razor blades flying from her mouth.

Crystal stumbled forward a bit before thrusting it’s palms forward, a flurry of stars shot out, but not enough to really hurt. The stranger grunted as the stars hit him hard enough for him to fall onto his back. Crystal hanged it’s head as it faded away, leaving it’s user defenseless once more. Celeste cursed under her breath; She was hoping that would cripple him, but now he was probably annoyed and pissed off with her even more. And he was. Getting up and furiously kicking Celeste in the chest, he growled “I knew it–you’re a stand user!”. Celeste keeled over when his foot met her chest, her breathing becoming ragged and even worse than before. “And a pretty strong one at that if you weren’t about to die.” The stranger spat. He watched Celeste’s body convulse as she let out choppy sobs. “It’s a shame really..” He said, regaining his composure. “Passione could use more strong stand users. Too bad you were an idiot-”In a swift motion, Celeste stood up and her fist collided with his chin. For a moment, the stranger was stunned, but that moment quickly passed as he became enraged again. He grabbed Celeste’s wrist and yanked her limp body towards him and glared at her. Before he could yell at her, Celeste interrupted him

“Risotto Nero..” she said with ragged breath. “That’s what this guy called you before you killed him, right?”. She felt the grip on her wrist tighten, but she kept talking anyways. “You’re a fucking monster! What did that guy ever do to you?!”. Celeste watched Risotto grit his teeth, a low and subtle growl coming from his mouth. “All you gang members are the same! Taking the lives of innocent people–not caring about who’s going to miss them!”. In her mind, images of her family flashed in a hazey blur.. and then there was Dove. Tears started spilling over again as she tried–with the little strength she had left–to push Risotto away from her. “You heartless bastards! What do you know, huh?!”Her eyes met with his, filled with vengeance and fury. “What do you know about losing a loved one to such a cruel fate!?”. Risotto snapped his fingers; His stand filling Celeste’s heart and lungs with needles and razors. Her body went limp in his arms as he watched the light from her eyes fade. Even though she had finally shut up, he couldn’t help but feel hollow. Risotto dropped her body to the ground, her long purple hair fanned out messily on the floor. For a moment, he stared at her–eyes appearing downcast and filled with a mixture of anger and despondency. “I know a lot more than you think, kid..” he muttered.

The sounds of rushing footsteps snapped him out of his thoughts. He quickly ran to the other end of the alley way and hid behind the wall. Risotto should have just kept walking away; just forget everything that Celeste had said to him, but instead he peeked back into the alley way and saw a young man dressed like some kind of magician. He ran in, taking in the scene in front of him before falling to his knees, unable to form words. Tears streamed down his face as he held Celeste in his arms. The young man shook her, as if he thought she was just asleep.

“C-Celeste..? Celeste! Aaahh…” His brittle voice wavered as he tried picking out the razor blades and needles, pricking and cutting himself in the process. “AaaaAaahhh.. Cel..este…Celeste? Please wake up…?”. Risotto bit his lip as he forced himself to look away. He started walking, but could still hear that young man cry out. “Celeste…! Cel….aah..Reyna! No! Aaaah!!!”. His choked sobbing and screaming rang in Risotto’s mind. Something felt so familiar about his cries and it would continue to haunt him for a while.

And those words Celeste said to him…he’d never forget them or her face. He could only hope that the young man he made suffer that day was over it; that he would’ve moved on with his life by now, but how could he? Not even Risotto Nero was over Celeste’s death.