#let's get into the swing of things

[zephyrchama]

(Obey Me! Belphegor and MC. The problem with naps.)

You were in trouble.

It had been several hours since you were able to move. Your legs were heavy, most likely numb. You wanted nothing more than to kick and stretch out your neglected muscles. The battery on your D.D.D. was running low.

Belphegor was deaf to the world, his nose buried in your naval with arms coiled around your waist. He was the world's clingiest lap blanket. Despite bending his knees, Belphegor's feet stuck out over the edge of the couch. You had tried fruitlessly over the hours to wake him, but things were getting dire.

You poked at his cheek. Slow and soft at first, but with increasing intensity until you reached a point where Leviathan himself would have recruited you for a button-mashing game.

"Belphie. Belphegor. Belphegor. Belphie. Belph. Belphegor. Hey!!"

You whacked his forehead with your D.D.D. There was no response. You sunk back into the couch cushions to create a bit of distance between your stomach and the demon's face. The next plan was to pinch his nose.

This was also futile. Belphegor clearly stopped inhaling and appeared fine, but such a length of time without breathing would cause brain damage in humans. It disturbed you. He was probably fine, being a demon and all. It was still concerning. You squeezed his nostrils until the excessive passage of time made you uncomfortable and let go. A couple of seconds went by before Belphegor breathed in with a loud snore. Any sense of relief was quickly and easily washed away by annoyance.

You groaned and leaned forward over the demon's head, placing your elbows on the edge of your knees to better cradle your face in your hands with despair. You balled your hands into fists, pressing them against your forehead, and let out a wail.

"Belphie, I'm begging you. Wake up."

Silence. You felt like you were going to explode.

"I have to pee."

You might as well have been talking to a large rock. The demon's weight on your lower stomach was not helping the situation. In an ideal world, you would have reached the bathroom over an hour ago. You leaned back once more and stared dismally at the sleeping figure in your lap. You were running out of options.

"Hear me, Denizens of Darkness. I am Master of Belphegor, Avatar of Sloth. Heed my call and do as I command. Get off of me!"

Wisps of magic curled up your arms, dancing across your neck and face. Its light made everything brighter. Traces of powerful energy - Belphegor's own energy - blew through your hair, whooshing past your ears. Belphegor was forcefully shifted into his demon form and rolled off the couch with all the grace of a baby chick learning to fly.

A deep rumble escaped his throat at the rude awakening. Belphegor lifted himself up in a daze. The fluff on his tail stood on edge as it swung turbulently from side to side. He clenched his jaw, barring his teeth menacingly. "What are you doing?"

You had already seized the chance to leap up. Only, your legs betrayed you. There was no strength to stand and you fumbled over onto Belphegor, colliding with his back. You both momentarily flailed on the ground.

"Explain yourself," he growled while you struggled to stand. Blips of magic were evaporating off your clothes, adding to the disorientation.

"Carry me!" you demanded. "That'll be faster, you've gotta carry me."

Even if you buckled your legs together to hold things in, you worried that wobbling down the hallway with jelly legs would be an impossible endeavor.

Belphegor looked at you the same way he would look at a diseased toad. With no context, he was wholly confused.

"I need the bathroom, now!" It was all you could think of. Magic started swirling at your wrists again as you began to chant, "Heed my words, in the name of the sorcerer..."

"Ok, ok! Wait!" Belphegor scrambled to his feet. He winced at the thought of being commanded again. His chest tightened, already afflicted by the start of your spell.

You had your knees locked together, digging your nails into your palm in a desperate attempt to hold your bladder in. It wasn't the best pose for being picked up. Belphegor did his best. He couldn't carry you in the elegant, suave manner he liked to dream about. Instead, he held you with both arms like an oversized bag of potatoes.

"Go, go, go!" Time was of the essence. He was slow to get a move on, so you beat on his shoulder with your fist. "This is all your fault!"

Belphegor blew a strand of hair out of his face. His expression was a sour frown. He was still cranky from being woken up. "Fine. Just hang on."

You don't get to see the demons use their abilities often. They like to play human in front of you. Unfortunately, with your head buried in Belphegor's hoodie and your mind occupied with other worries, you did not have the luxury to admire the way he bounded through the house with hardly perceptible speed. In just a few quick steps, not even five seconds later, you had arrived at your long-awaited destination.

You rolled out of Belphegor's arms and hastily slammed the door shut in the confused demon's face.

The Avatar of Sloth skulked across the hall to lean against the wall opposite the bathroom door. Now alone with his thoughts, he had ample time to get his mind in order and plan out exactly how to get revenge when you came back out.

[lesboygamzee]

sleep as a form of awakening -> the more obvious thing of literally godtiering on a giant uncomfortable bed / cocoon -> god tiering being most often read as becoming the idealised self -> this obviously tied into transgenderism in most fanworks -> tavros being unable to fully submerge in herself in her recuperacoon because of her horns -> her horns being that of a bulls -> bulls are both male by definition and frequently used as an indicator of masculinity in human contexts -> the cocoon problem is ultimately an easy to fix issue ( just get like . a better one ) but she cant do that herself for various factors -> tavros is prevented from this awakening / idealisation for a percieved inherent masculinity that goes unaccounted for in her room of fairies and games for girls -> you already know where this post is going

[charcubed]

oh everyone and their DISCLAIMERS about how “lokius will never be canon because disney and marvel are awful, but”........ well I have nothing to lose so. fuck disclaimers! this is my idea of fun! what if it CAN and WILL be canon, huh? what if the story is gonna go where it seems to be headed. what if I say they’re going to kiss on international streaming television. who’s gonna stop me

[every-yumichika]

[shortkingvi]

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021), League of Legends Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends) Characters: Caitlyn (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends), Jinx (League of Legends), Mylo (Arcane: League of Legends), Claggor (Arcane: League of Legends), Ekko (League of Legends), Marcus (Arcane: League of Legends), Cassandra Kiramman, Tobias Kiramman Additional Tags: Social Media, Experimental Style, Multimedia, this took me so long to format and produce, but it was SO worth it, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Musicians, rockstar!vi, and popstar!caitlyn, do a duet on the newest punk goes pop album, and this fic is a collection of social media posts and interactions that track their relationship Summary:

Punk Goes @punk_goes Jul 23 What are some songs you’d like to see get the Punk Goes Pop treatment? Let us know down below! ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️ #punkgoespopvol10 💬47 🔁382 ❤️2463

Caitlyn Noticed x3 @kirammanscait Jul 23 @punk_goes Potential by @CaitKirammanReal !!! 💬12 🔁68 ❤️347

-----

Caitlyn's the biggest popstar in the world. Vi's the lead singer of the up and coming rock sensation, Trenchers. When they both sign on to record a duet cover for the newest Punk Goes Pop album, social media - and the world - react.

[girlthativealwaysbeen]

it's not sinking in that today might be the last day in my house and town for many months to come

[void-and-virtue]

Thinking about Neil’s anger. Thinking about Neil’s jealousy. Thinking about emotions beyond ugly and raw bleeding right out of him the second he lets his mask slip even just a millimeter.

Thinking about how what Neil perceives as miasma hanging over him acts like a breath of life to Andrew’s drowning. Thinking about how everyone expects them to cover each other in bile and guts until they’re both festering even worse than before and that’s not what happens. Thinking about how when they look at each other in the aftermath of their poking and prodding, it’s with the most rotten parts of themselves on display, but those parts have finally been drained and what’s left might just get the chance to heal.

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '24 ⸺ 「 1 / 31 * RED-LETTER DATE 」

“Hey Doc? I wanna ask you something.” 

Emmett doesn’t pop his head through the doorway to acknowledge his friend, too focused on topping off one of the mugs of hot chocolate with a generous helping of marshmallows, but he does shout, “Of course, Marty,” into the air. “You know you don’t have to ask. Let me bring Verne his cup and then you’ll have my undivided attention.”

Marty makes a vague noise that many years of friendship has taught Emmett means sure thing, Doc, and it takes him barely three minutes to drop off the hot chocolate to Verne, who smiled like it was Christmas morning when he saw the mountain of marshmallows floating at the top, and join Marty in the living room, carrying the tray with their own drinks. He passes one of them off to Marty who accepts with a smile and a nod and then takes a seat opposite him, fixing him with an expectant look.

“So, what did you want to ask me?”

Marty’s eyes immediately drift to the shelf, where Emmett and Clara’s small assortment of family photos sit, arranged in elegant wooden frames. In the centre is a black and white photo that has started to yellow around the edges, looking paradoxically fragile and yet able to withstand even the most rigorous tests of time, holding onto that frozen memory for all eternity. Emmett turns his head to follow Marty’s attention, his eyes alighting on the single photo he expects will be the topic of their conversation.

Ah. Out of all of them, there is only one Marty was never able to be present for.

For once, Emmett manages to look perfectly natural in a photograph, even dressed to the nines in a sharp suit. His smile stretches from ear-to-ear, making him look at least ten years younger, and though his face is angled away from the camera, his eyes are bright and alive, brimming with love and warmth. Marty could even imagine the photographer trying to get Emmett’s attention, demanding he look at him for the photo, only for every single word to go in one ear and straight out the other when Clara was standing beside him, smiling, the picture of radiance as she regards her husband with the same fond warmth. Her wedding dress was no more intricate than any of the outfits Marty had seen her wear during his few days in the Nineteenth Century, yet it seemed to be made for her and her alone, perfectly tailored and somehow able to put even the outfits of royalty to shame.

If Clara was the sun, Emmett was the moon that revolved around her. In that single moment, forever frozen in time, they were the only two people on Earth. 

“I had been wanting to ask for a while, but–”

“No, no, of course. You didn’t get the chance to see it, and I’m sorry for that, so I’d be happy to fill you in on the details.”

Marty curls his fingers around the warm mug, shuffling somewhat in his seat, and Emmett waits patiently, noting each one of Marty’s nervous habits as they arise. There are a hundred and one things Marty wants to say, Emmett can see them written across his body, written into every small movement, and, equal and opposite, there are a thousand things Emmett wants to say in return, things he makes an effort to hold back until Marty speaks first.

“I’m happy for you two, Doc–really, I am. Clara’s–well, Clara’s amazing. And I’ve never seen you so happy before. I was afraid that–” Marty shakes his head, his eyes focused on the photographs. “When I first saw the picture, I was…” He forces a laugh, but there’s no humour in it and Emmett would know that self-depreciatory tone anywhere. 

“It’s stupid, I know. I didn’t realise it at first, but I was jealous. Can you believe that, Doc? My best friend is happy, he’s got a family for Christ’s sake, and I was too busy at first being afraid that now you’re–you’re just gonna forget me because you’ve got Clara and the boys and the house and there wouldn’t be a place for me.”

Emmett’s eyes widen despite knowing the blow was coming and before he can open his mouth, allow the words that have been building up on his tongue to break free, Marty shakes his head and continues, reinforcing the wall and keeping the words at bay just a little longer.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Doc. I already said I know it’s stupid but I couldn’t help feeling that way. And I should have asked you about your wedding and everything a lot longer ago but I-I just couldn’t. And that’s fucking stupid, right? I want to know because I couldn’t be there for you and you’ve always been there for me.”

Marty’s words are a blade driven straight through his chest, each word twisting that razor-sharp blade a little more. He can’t help the pang of guilt he feels echoing in his ribcage, scraping against the bars of a prison he will not allow it to escape from, not now. This conversation was a long time coming–he’d almost expected it sooner rather than later, but he knew better than to push, knowing Marty would open up when he was ready–but no amount of anticipation could have prepared him for the blow that hearing it put to words would strike.

The Time Machine’s destruction had not been an accident. Everything had been carefully orchestrated to prevent any further corruption of the timestream, to spare himself the temptation–the broken heart–of trying to go back against all rational, scientific thought.

Ultimately, Marty couldn’t stay in the Nineteenth Century, not if he wanted to live a normal life, not if he wanted to be happy. And he couldn’t allow Marty to become another unsolved disappearance, leaving the McFlys to wonder and agonise over their youngest son who vanished from the face of the Earth without a trace.

Emmett may not have planned to stay, but even he couldn’t predict Clara’s intervention. 

Life had to go on, even under extreme or difficult circumstances. There was only one choice available, then.

Still, Emmett doesn’t hesitate.

“Marty, I could never forget you. Whether we’re in the same time period or separated across the timestream, you will always be my best friend. And I will never stop caring about you. I know things have been busy lately, both for you and for me, what with your college courses and the boys’ schooling and Clara’s acclimation to the Twentieth Century and making the necessary repairs on the house–” Emmett stops himself before he runs off the entire list of seemingly infinitely-growing projects on his list. 

“The point is, nothing is going to change that. And I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel neglected or unwanted at any point, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Marty nods, finally pulling his eyes away from the photo to take a good long look at his best friend. 

“I know, Doc. God, I know. You must think I’m an asshole.” 

“You’re not an asshole. Far from it.”

Marty actually smiles at that, swirling his hot chocolate carefully in the cup. “So… You’ll still tell me about your wedding day?”

“Of course I will, Marty.” Emmett pauses for a moment, a thoughtful expression working its way over his face. Then, he smiles, almost conspiratorially as he recalls something of particular note. “The minister certainly wasn’t pleased when we changed until death do us part to something a little more fitting–until the end of time—”

@bttfdoctober

[voiidsalts]

gay ass loser

[cursedfell]

caught a cold + have a big project i'm starting on for school. i'm trying to be more comfortable here, it's been awhile since i've found such a loving community in rp. (also, slowly binging extremes in ffxiv, while i try to map out what i want to write for this stupid cybersecurity project) i just wanna say. thank you to everyone who is so patient with me while i write.

also, pls come to me ifyou would like to ship. i love shipping. i love when characters kiss. or fight. y'know. (handshake emoji)

[greppelheks]

I don't know how you've all experienced the year 2024, but I barely witnessed it, and I've been fighting for my life

[sainz100]

2024 Singapore GP | x

[xdeerlybelovedx]

A commission turned gift for @oathofpromises !!

[kushanna]

highest point of the final family conference

[b-rainlet]

'Swing Kids fails at showing how cruel the nazis truly were'

This is a movie about german children who weren't inherently in danger by virtue of being 'the right race' whose only 'wrong-doings' were listening to the wrong kind of music and still they were constantly threatened and beat up, were forced to join the HJ to not endanger their families, one of them had his hand hurt so badly by a nazi he couldn't use two of his fingers anymore and had to teach himself to play guitar three-fingered, they were used to gather information for the Gestapo to the point the mc distrusted his best friend, they witnessed beatings and deportations and the shooting of a man on the run, the movie quite literally ends with the teenage main character being sent to what's most likely a concentration camp for dancing to the wrong music

[cxpperhead]

"You'll be surprised how bad I can hurt you if you try anything stupid."

He's not kidding. There's a dull crack as Copperhead realigns his lower jaw, snapping it back into place after a punch or three had dislocated it. A quick yawn ensures nothing had been permanently damaged but he does not attempt to bite the man again. Had Copperhead been born an ordinary human, he had no trouble believing he'd be nursing a broken jaw right about now, and understood this was no ordinary foe he was dealing with. "So I can imagine. You must be the one they call the Punisher." He responds calmly, eyeing the iconic skull emblazoned across the other man's chest. Copperhead supposes he should be grateful all he's gotten so far is a punch to the face - the things he'd heard about this man and what he did to his enemies could turn anybody's blood cold. Still, that didn't mean he'd simply give in. Copperhead had a job to do and couldn't afford to waste precious time and energy playing cat and mouse with the vigilante when a contract was still alive. The end of his tail gropes around blindly, slitted eyes fixated on that of his foe's while the end of his tail slowly wraps around the leg of a nearby wooden chair.

"But you must understand I've got no quarrel with you. You've got bigger fish to catch in this city." Copperhead remarks before the chair goes flying, in an attempt at forcing an opening between himself, Frank Castle and the closest exit.