#music and writing is best

[ghostydrawsstuff]

Alright I'm in the mood for some more headcannons! And this time it's about kissing~ hehe

Slenderman:

•He's not really a 'romance' guy, tbh you already have slim chances at survival if you're human, but on the odd chance he does, for whatever reason, gets close with you, he'll take great care of you.

•Kisses with him will be rare, for once since what exactly would you even kiss? But if you're okay with that or him ripping open his skin to reveal his mouth to kiss that he'll do it on special occasions.

•He'll slowly cup your cheeks, giving you more than enough time to pull away or stop him if you so desire. If you don't, he'll pull you as close as possible and press you against his face. If you're okay with his ripped mouth ya will get some of the black blood on you, but he secretly likes seeing how it looks on your skin, smearing it to make it cover more of your beautifull face.

•He tastes like the smell of campfire and the refreshing scent of rain, with a faint taste of cinnamon. It'll make you yearn for more, but he doesn't show his love/affection for you very often, so it's more of a special treat whenever he does.

Splendorman:

•He's very shy and if you want this man to get the hint you will have to tell him. Pretty much any signs go over his head or he'll just take it as a platonic compliment.

•He gives kisses all the time once you're together, whenever he's proud of you or just happy you're willing to spend your time with him. So, you're gonna get little pecks all the time, usually on the cheek, forehead or on the nose (those are his favourite spots).

•Though for more intimate kind of kisses he'll still slip back to his more shy side, he rarely falls inlove with people so he's still not confident and very easily flustered.

•Most of the time when you kiss him he'll wrap his arms around you, so tight it almost hurts, but he just loves you so much and wants to keep you safe! And if you get on top of him while you're smooching him, he'll be putty underneath you and just an absolute blushing mess. A content blushing mess though.

•As one might expect, he tastes sweet, like a chocolate covered strawberry and a lot like energy drinks. You've really tried to convince him to lay off of them, but oh well habits am I right?

Trenderman:

•He's a great kisser in all honesty, even without lips it somehow feels just right. Yet he never really does it frequently. He's a hard worker, sometimes he's just so deep into a project you'd hardly see him at all for a few days, but he will always leave the door to his work room open for you to join him if you so wish.

•One of his favourites way of kissing his a upside down kiss, especially if you're sitting infront of him, leaning your head back and on top of his lap, whenever you do this he just wants to lean down and steal your breath away.

•No matter how often he kisses you, you'll still always be surprised how sweet he tastes, similar to bubblegum, but also faintly flowery, like a botanic garden you just entered. It's nice and it always manages to calm you down after a long stressfull day of your own, like your own little safe space, just in person.

Offenderman:

•Oh boy horny personified! As you might guess he likes kissing you a lot and in pretty much any place. Your shoulder, mouth, hips, hands or personal favourite, neck. He loves teasing you by it, especially if you're more on the shy side of things.

•He likes many different positions, but if you two are actually close he'll make sure to go more after things you're into, but he loves kissing you deeply on the lips, one hand holding your cheek as the other either rests around your waists or teasing you by caressing your body as he explores your mouth with his tongue. He likes being deep inside of you in so many not appropriate ways.

•He's usually on top of you while kissing you, pressing you down against whatever it is you two are laying or sitting on. But occasionally he's more than down for you to take the lead, to sit on his lap and reach up for him or crawl on top of his torso to lean over him. Of course he's not gonna let you do all the work (he'd much rather always give than expect something and not receive) so he'll obviously still tease you until you can't take it anymore.

•Somehow his taste always makes you crave more, it's almost like a drug rushing through your blood. There things that nothing can wash away, so you'll always taste the faint remnants of smoke and blood, but there's always something to sweeten the deal, like dark chocolate making you want to just melt and he's fully aware of it.

[ghostydrawsstuff]

I get more and more veryyy specific spotify playlists for stories, vibes and type of scenes.

I do not require help. I am perfectly normal

[emilyscastlevania]

[gothamite-rambler]

Talia (singing, talking to Jason on her phone): Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you? He's still a threat until he's dead! Finish it.

Batman (connecting the dots): Are you the reason he does that?!

Talia: What are you talking about?

Ra's Al Ghul (smoking): Yes. I have a bunch of videos of them singing together.

Batman snatched the phone away making Talia angry and almost made Ra's attack, but Talia held up her hand to stop him.

Batman: Don't!

Jason (raising his sword for the kill but stopping himself): Oh shit, you're here too.

Talia: I enjoy musicals as well, what of it?

Batman: I knew it! WHY DO YOU ENCOURAGE HIM!

Ra's (in Arabic): La tasrakh ealayha! (Don't yell at her ass!)

Batman (speaking back in Arabic): Autlub minha 'an tatawaqaf ean altaathir ealaa abni! (Tell her to stop influencing my son!) Yeah I learned the language, jackass!

Ra's wanted badly stab the man, but walked off in a huff.

Talia: Don't blame me for him being a talented singer.

Talia held up her hand and walked off ending the conversation.

Batman (into the phone): Don't kill him!

Jason: But... I wanted to. I had a song for it and everything.

Batman (regrettably singing): What good would killing do? When mercy is a skill more of this world could learn to use. The blood we shed, it never dries. Is this what it means to be a warrior of the mind? I hated all of that, but I'm doing it for you, remember that!

Damian on the other hand clapped making his father more embarrassed.

Jason: The bastard sung to make me stop. Damn it, fine.

[suja-janee]

Redraw for my blog’s 4 year anniversary! (Ignore the fact that I accidentally erased echo’s arm oh shitttt)

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Old ver.

[into-fiction]

hear me out:

time travel fic. but. its fucking madame morrible that goes back (bc we know she has a limited ability to read the grimmerie). and it's just morrible trying her absolute hardest to make sure they win this time.

[laritamiauu]

Omg guys I just wrote a whole lesbian retelling of Scylla's myth that I thought in like 15 minutes

Prepare to read a lot this is like a whole ass fanfic

Scylla and Circe we're very good friends, even roommates if you wanna get scandalous.

And the thing of annoying men with bad intentions had been going around for a while now, sadly Circe had already witnessed many of her nymphs being victims of these men.

She felt troubled cause she didn't knew what to do, this was before she started to turn men into pigs, so she didn't know how to stop them, so many rumours of and island with beautiful women had been spreading around and men were coming to see them like they were exotic animals, and she as her leader had to change that reputation, in a way that would keep her nymphs safe and also scare away all those filthy men.

One day a ship arrived, it wasn't a big one so a few men just went to greet them as usual, but this time, there was this one guy who was trying to flirt with her most beloved nymph, Scylla.

She quickly became extremely jealous, running over to them and separating them immediately, she couldn't handle the fact that the person that she loved the most could be in danger, she couldn't lose her.

At night she had an idea, a twisted idea, so horrible that it made her heart hurt just to think of it, but it was the only way, she had to act fast.

So the next morning when the nymphs and the men who arrived the day before were having breakfast, she snuck a potion that she had been preparing all night on Scylla's drink.

She never thought of telling her because that would ruin her plan, of course she would never agree to this.

Later in the afternoon, Scylla was hanging out with this man again, Glaucus, Circe had learned his name by overhearing their conversations, everytime he tried to get close to Scylla she grew more and more angrier, Scylla didn't consent to his compliments but she wouldn't do anything about it, she would just let him be, he was going to leave soon anyways.

They were far more distanced from the whole group, Glaucus had insisted so, they were hanging out in the more depths of the forest. And Circe of course had followed them, this was going just as planned.

Glaucus of course didn't have any good intention bringing her to these far away place, he had been bombarding her with compliments trying to conquer her, he thought he succeeded but the second he got close to her she looked different.

Scylla's face was pale, if you looked into her eyes you wouldn't be able to catch any single spark of light, she started trembling, and screaming in pain as she fell down to her knees unable to utter a single word between her gushing screams.

The transformation was slow, slow enough to keep Glaucus there to witness it, he saw as she grew bigger and bigger, her clothes tearing up as they open space for the snake-like wolf heads that were growing out of her legs and hips. He watched as she turned into a monster.

And Circe too, who has behind some trees spying on them, realizing that this wasn't what she had plan, she planned to change her face to look like a horrible monster for some minutes and scare him away, looks like she had missed steps on the preparation of the potion... But her pretty face was still intact.

Glaucus horrified at the sight of such beast before him, ran immediately to advise his men to go back to the ship, while Scylla followed him, still in awful pain, and she couldn't even move by her own, all of her movements were caused by the hungry heads she had now, that were chasing the men and even attacking them.

Circe ran to her palace, advising all of her nymphs to stay where they are, she didn't want more people she loved to be hurt in the process, she casted a protective spell around the palace that makes it so no beast or monster can enter it.

By the time she got out of the palace the men were already gone, and it seemed that Scylla followed them because she was nowhere to be seen too.

She crumbled into tears in the coast of her island, how could she have been so reckless, purely driven by jelausy she lost the person that she loved the most, not only did she put in danger her people but even damaged the one that she so tried to protect.

Many years passed Circe never saw Scylla again, still feeling extremely guilty, she started to turn the men that came into the island into pigs, taking all of the anger that she had of herself and her own selfhate on them.

While having these men as guest she heard some stories about a beast who lives in the narrow channel Infront of Charybdis, a gruesome and merciless beast who would devour anyone that comes in her lair.

For some reason she felt a strange feeling that... No, it couldn't be, she was probably dead. She made sure that the potion wasn't permanent but even the potion went wrong I'm a bunch of ways...

Some nymphs still say that Circe leaves the island at night, maybe to look for ingredients for new potions and enchantments? Or just to explore the islands that are around them? Or maybe, to visit an old friend?..

[inkyrainstorms]

"Greet the world with open arms!"

"Polites..."

[monsterhospital]

They should retcon everything sad that happens in Arcane and instead make a show about them getting summer jobs at the Kiramman vacation estate

Previously in the AU

[cum-a-calla]

Bottle Service

under the cut: semi-public fuckery, drunken shenanigans, yet another delving into my fucking audio synesthesia orgasm shit with yet another Roman (classic), Roman's a desperate slimy bitch, fingerfucking, interesting uses for champagne bottles, pussy eating, one single daddy mention, inappropriate stalker vibes at the very end

Roman’s in a mood.

He slides against the body in front of him, a woman he picked specifically - he doesn’t want to think too hard about her being covered in tattoos, little silver hoops in her face. He doesn’t want to think about how she’s unlike his usual fare, which, if he’s focusing hard - does he have one? No… no, he guesses not.

He’s not half-drunk - he’s near full tilt, moving fluidly against her in a way unlike his sober self, not worried for once about how he looks, how he’s perceived, what he seems like. All of that is blissfully muted as the party they’re in pumps interesting, pounding music through the speakers. It’s almost like the party he took Tom to - same deal; word of mouth, a strange but cohesive mix of the New York socialite elite, the rich, the poor, the grungy little art scene, people in kink gear, whatever - tons of random people with the intention of getting super fucked up and weird. A little more hush-hush. A little more - what’s that word - oh… intimate.

The club (as it were) seems to undulate as a group to the music they pump through the sound system. It’s pervasive, filling his body as if trying to match his pulse. The girl he presses against his body is warm, maybe not as drunk as he is, but - he can work with that. The idea of getting her just a little tipsier is alluring, if only for his own ulterior motives.

“Hey,” he purrs into her ear, biting back a little gasp as he grinds his hips into her from behind. She’s just a little taller, not too much - an inch or two, at most. God, he likes that. He drags his teeth over her shoulder and waits for her to glance back at him, face flushed, all her freckles glowing in the light like she fucking put the stars in the goddamn sky. “You want a drink?”

She nods, smiling, and he’s on it. He scurries to the bar like a creature, desperately ordering two drinks, as if he needs another one. But who fucking cares?

Roman Roy is on a tear tonight, and if anyone gets in his way, it’s going to be a fucking problem.

She accepts it gracefully, short fingernails chipped with their dark paint, the hoops in her face sparkling in the blacklights, the dancing strobes. Roman leans in close, breath tickling her ear, relishing the way she shivers subtly under his lips.

“Your piercings - you got any other ones?” As he pulls back, she smiles in a way that makes his pulse pump harder, the look of somebody with a very special, very interesting secret. He grins like a predator, leaning in again, skating his teeth along the line of her throat, nipping at the flesh that meets her shoulder. Even through the music, he can hear the slutty little gasp she does, the way she almost melts into the gesture, and he knows without a doubt that he’s in. “Answer me,” he says firmly into her ear, lips pressed against it. He licks her throat, bites gently at it. He can do it harder later, when he’s sure he has her.

“Maybe,” she says coyly. Oh, and isn’t that frustrating - that could mean any number of things, couldn’t it? Roman eyes her, lids hooded and eyes nearly bloodshot. He’s getting drunk, getting fucking hard as they move their bodies together in the strange rhythm of all this music. This isn’t a Kendall birthday party, a fucking local club playing all the latest hits or all that garbage from the fucking 90s - it’s a bunch of random bullshit he’s never heard, and yet their bodies find a way to grind against reach other in the most infuriating way, liquid, smooth.

He has her back pressed against his chest, hand on her soft belly, feeling, grabbing her hip, enjoying the sensation of her warm, pliant body, the way it seems to melt seamlessly against his own in the throbbing heat.

“Hey - I can get us into a VIP area, if… you know. You want.” Nonchalant. Cool. No big deal. Throwing the hook out, seeing if she bites.

She turns and, eyebrows furrowing only for a second, flashes him a smile. He’s fucking in.

Grabbing her hand, fingers clasped together like goddamn high-schoolers - but, he reasons, chicks like that, right? - he leads her to a cordoned off area, a sort of room of their own. They’re able to be a little more alone, able to peek out at the rest of the club at will. A lot more private. The music still pounds through the walls, the lights still strobe and flash and pulse, and with a dull sort of amusement, he twitches his cock to the beat in his slacks. Fun.

Roman puts up a finger, as if to say, hold on a sec, and he goes back out from the room to request champagne, of all things, their most expensive. He wants nothing less. Why not? Why the fuck not? He re-enters the VIP area and finds her smiling, cheeks red, looking like she’s ready to pounce. The only issue here is that he’s faster, only slightly more eager as he walks to her and leans in to kiss her, crush his lips into hers until he can feel her moaning against them. She’s so fucking warm. He runs his hands idly up her sides, over her tits, where he can squeeze and rub and - fuck, he feels like a teenager again with all this fucking enthusiasm. She’s just so soft. She moans sweetly into his mouth and he suddenly understands why cannibals want to eat each other. He feels like he could lean over and tear her carotid out with his teeth, drink her blood, eat her whole.

Instead, he pinches at her nipples through her shirt, rucking it up and humming through her breathy, giggling protests, shushing her. He buries his face into her cleavage, licking, humming. Moaning into it. Biting so very gently into the swell of one of her breasts, but not nearly as hard as he wants to. Soft. Slow. The fuckin’ song and dance, wooing her - right? Isn’t that what this is?

Whatever.

He pulls her bra up, over her tits, and good fucking god - her nipples are hard, and she’s blushing. Roman leans in and swirls his wet tongue around one, sucks it between his lips so gently, lapping at it, closing his eyes. He doesn’t open them at all - he kisses and licks his way between the valley, so fucking soft. Hot. Flushed - he sneaks a peek up at her face, her expression contorted in some kind of embarrassed pleasure. She squeezes her eyes shut when she catches his eye and he smirks against her flesh. Cute. Cute, cute, cute. Roman leads his way over to the other nipple, peeking up every so often, trying so hard to catch her eye again, but she’s lolled her head back. Can’t make eye contact. Smart, he thinks. Real fuckin’ smart.

Unfortunate, too. Because the fuck-dumb, humiliated look on her face makes his cock throb in a more menacing way, making him… ugh, needy. Desperate. Roman bites her nipple just a little and relishes in the way she yelps, nearly glaring up at her as she shudders and looks down at him, even momentarily.

Somebody comes - some guy in a suit, carrying a bottle of the club’s finest in a bucket of ice, two glasses. He barely pays him any attention - Roman smirks, saying nothing at all while his special guest tries in vain to cover herself. This guy’s surely seen worse. But the thought of his little fling getting so fucking worked up over somebody else seeing her tits - well, fuck, that’s just intoxicating. The man nods, smiles at Roman cordially, and turns to leave. Very professional. If Roman believed in tipping, he’d do it - but he doesn’t. Fuck him.

Roman brings his prize over to her, raising a clever eyebrow. He pops the bottle and the cork shooting off makes her giggle with a giddy sort of pleasure afforded to people who don’t always pop bottles - it’s charming in a weird way. Roman feels like a king. He pours them two fizzy glasses, clinking his against hers, winking at her as they toast and drain them back. She hesitates to finish her glass and he tips it, nodding, encouraging her - come on, it’s top shelf. Don’t waste it.

Somewhere between kissing her and pulling her stupid little skirt up, he’s moaning into her mouth and has her against the wall. They’re standing - she’s longer than he is, and fuck, he likes that. He likes leaning up into her, feeling her whole body, running his hands over it. There’s something that drives him fucking wild about remaining clothed while he strips a long, gorgeous girl, keeping her at his mercy, returning the pathetic little moans that come from her mouth. She’s so warm, so ready. Roman kisses and sucks and bites his way down her torso, her soft flesh between his teeth. A bite here, a bite there. Hard, wanting to leave marks he will unfortunately likely never see again. Sucking on each little bite, over her ribs, her deliciously soft belly, her hips. Pulling at her clothes until they’re yanked down her thighs, where he encourages her to kick them off, and wow. All of her. All of it, on display like a fucking platter. His for the taking. All this open, waiting flesh, beckoning to him, and maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s his manic brain tonight, but he fucking wipes a spot of drool off his lips. Fuck. Fuuuuuck. He drops down to his knees, reverent, ready. Staring directly at her soft, puffy fucking slit, ready to part her to him.

“Hey, uh, Roman - hey,” she says shyly, her voice barely audible above the throbbing bass of the music. Roman looks up at her from on his knees, eyes wide, pupils blown beyond belief. He’s lost, barely registering what she says except for the fact that she’s said his name. The dying synapses in his brain pass a signal, and there he is, staring dumbly up at her, cock pulsing in his slacks. She watches him for a moment while he looks up and smiles uncomfortably, shifting in place. “Um - I… this is… -”

Roman bites into the generous curve of her thigh, moaning openly, and she shuts up. Good, he thinks. I don’t want to hear this part.

“Hey,” Roman coos, handing her the opened bottle of champagne. “Drink.”

“I… I don’t kn-”

“Drink. Now.” Roman looks up, watches, smiling into her skin as she nervously listens, tipping the bottle back against her lips. God, she’s so red, so vibrant. So willing. “Good girl.”

She whimpers as she pulls the bottle away, Roman’s fingers already trailing along her slit. She’s fucking wet - of course she is. Roman paws at her, tracing, dipping in teasingly as her hand shakes, bottle between her fingers. He sees. He notices. He’s drunk, but he’s not fucking blind.

“You like that, honey? You like - oh, hold on - stay still.”

Roman plunges his fingers into her, finding a space in that hot, pulsing pink flesh, curving them to nudge into a spot that makes her knees buckle. Bingo.

“You always this fucking wet?”

She whines and tries to squeeze her thighs shut, but Roman’s quicker - he digs his free hand into her thigh, squeezing at the flesh there, knowing he’s hurting her and enjoying it.

“I - n-no, I… uh - oh,” she moans, bucking her hips. “I have a… it’s… the music. It’s the music.”

“The music?” Roman fucks his fingers harder, and then he focuses. He focuses on the beat, the pattern, and he tries to match it, fucking into that plush flesh with the bass. She gasps, she melts, and he can actually feel it pulsing and fluttering. He laughs, pleased, surprised. “Oh, fuck. What are you, huh?”

“I dunno,” she moans quietly, grinding into his touch.

“Uh-huh,” he says quietly, fucking into that spot. This gives him pleasure - in a weird way, it’s not really about her pleasure at all. It’s about his. And it makes his dick hard to finger this random fucking girl in a club, reaching his hand up to tip the champagne bottle whenever she lowers it - and his eyes are, in fact, trained on her. Watching. Waiting. Encouraging her, wanting her to drink most of it. Even expensive champagne tastes like shit - but it’ll get you more drunk, right?

Roman gently takes the bottle from her hand and she’s more than ready to part with it, moaning against his ministrations. Roman takes a swig - there’s still some left. Of course. Roman swigs again, and then…

“Hey. I wanna - …stay still,” he says, almost a mutter.

“What?”

“Stay fucking still,” he says louder, barely sparing a glance up at her. He takes the champagne bottle and teases the tip against her cunt. Slowly, parting her folds, rubbing the lip against her clit. He’s only entertained doing that for a moment, hearing her shy little moan before he’s easing the bottle at the entrance of her tight little cunt.

“Um - wait, uh -”

“Shut up,” Roman breathes, working it gently. He’s not a monster, not even close. He works it in and out, tipping, sliding and pushing and turning everything to his favor. He’s only pushing millimeters at a time, right? It’s fine. Her little whines and the buck of her hips, well - he puts a hand against one hip to keep her still, but he likes it. She likes it. There’s nothing she can really say…

…right?

And… she doesn’t. She arches a little in surprise, looks down at him and what he’s doing, and - red-faced and shy as fuck, to his delight - she takes it. Wordlessly. Obediently, even.

Roman’s cock pulses so hard in his pants he might just cum.

“Does it feel nice?” he asks, pushing the neck of the bottle further into her. He edges it back and forth, in, out, deeper, shallower, testing all of it just to see how she reacts. She’s shaking a little and he kisses her thigh before biting into it. “Tell me with your fuckin’ words, slut.”

She gasps and shivers, and then there comes a gentle little whisper that he hears above the bass of the club: “Yeah, it… mmm, feels nice. Feels good.”

“I bet it does,” Roman breathes. He looks up at her and watches. Cock throbbing, he leans forward and drags his tongue over her clit, right between those plump, gorgeous cunt lips. He parts them like that, licking, lapping, sucking. Champagne bottle edging gently in and out, Roman’s wet lips against hers, and oh - now she’s moaning, rocking her stupid fuckin’ hips. Roman’s so hard it’s painful, and he reaches a hand down just to pet it before he realizes he can’t keep doing that or it’s going to end WAY quicker than he intended. He rocks his hips with her, instead, just to grasp a little friction where he can get it. Fuck. Fuuuuck.

Roman laps at her like a fucking dog, moaning. She moans even louder - she’s not lying about the music thing. Curious, he pays attention to the pulsing beat and tries to match it with his tongue, the way he licks, the way he gently thrusts the bottle neck into her cunt, and sure enough she’s louder. Figures. What a stupid bitch. He keeps doing that, lapping, licking, moaning and sucking at her clit even when she yelps - that makes him harder, when she seems to not like it as much. He can parse that out later; right now, all he’s focused on is making her cum.

“You get this fucking soaked for anybody, sweetheart?” Roman asks, taking one of her pussy lips between his teeth and just barely nipping on it, sucking before releasing. “You this easy? I mean - you’re letting me fuck you with a fucking bottle, right? So…”

“I - I’m not - fuck you,” she says, eyes shut, hips stuttering their rhythm. Roman smiles against her inner thigh.

“You should… you should fuck me,” he moans, and oh - oh, fuck, Roman’s cock stiffens so hard underneath his slacks that he thinks this is it - he’s gunna blow his fucking load right against his own thigh, before he can even finish her off properly. He holds his breath and it passes, the panic. Okay. He’s okay, he’s still up and throbbing, still licking at her fuckin’ clit, still edging the bottle into her stupid fucking cunt.

She whines so loudly at his words that he laughs.

“Oh, yeah? You want my cock that bad? That’s cute. Not today, honey - today we’re having a little… a little toast,” he says, fucking the bottleneck into her a little more forcefully. He imagines smashing up into her as hard as he can, making her scream, shriek, bleed. It’s a passing thought. Nothing he can’t shake away. He strokes his cock through his slacks, the pulsing bulge there, all heat and violence. God, he wants to unzip and free his aching dick - but it would… it would dampen the experience. Right? He doesn’t fucking know. All he knows is that this is it, this is what he wants, and he’s so close to cumming his fucking jockeys that all he wants is to make this bitch cum.

Roman gets sloppy, and somehow it works in his favor - his wet, drooling kisses, his licking, saliva dripping on the floor, moaning, humming. She’s wild for it. She’s drunk as fuck, rocking her hips. Finding the rhythm, whatever non-rhythm it actually is.

“Alcoholic pussy - must be my birthday,” he says idly.

“It’s your birthday?”

Roman’s brows furrow and he focuses up at her, scoffing, shaking his head minutely. “What? No. No, it’s not my fucking birthday. Just… just - stop talking, honey. Daddy’s eating.”

Oh, that shuts her up.

She gasps and grinds her hips against his face with a little more purpose. Roman’s humming and licking and, oh, fuuuuck his dick is aching, he wants so badly to pull it out and cum all over her stupid fucking shoes, all over the floor, whatever. But she’s so close. Too close. Roman’s stupid as fuck, and he knows this, but he’s not dumb enough to quit while he’s ahead - not this time.

Roman hums, pushes the bottle, licks harder, faster, and - ohh, and - finally she tenses up, and he continues the rhythm. No change in pace. He focuses and he can even feel the tiny beads of sweat along his hairline, yet to slide down the shape of his forehead but threatening there, wet and ready. But she’s even more ready - she starts moaning in a way that makes him struggle to unzip his slacks. She sounds like a fucking porn star, keening, arching into his face until he lowers his mouth to tongue her wet fucking hole, his nose rubbing into her clit, and isn’t that nice - he noses it, moving his face back and forth so he can stimulate her just to see if it tracks. He happens to look up while she looks down, his nose buried right up against her clit, and she throws her head back and makes the most delicious sound he’s ever heard. He noses her clit even faster, cock in his fist. He pulls the bottle from her body and takes a swig from it, the taste if her mingling with the alcohol, and tosses it aside as she winces. Fuck it.

Somewhere behind him, the bottle shatters, and the sharp sound through the room seems to spark the heat gathering in his fucking balls, spilling all that intense pressure over.

Roman moans and gasps and fists his own wet, dripping cock as she cums on his face and there it is. He shoots his fucking load all over his own knuckles, dripping down, cums harder than he has in a long, long time. He bucks his hips into his own fist as she quiets down, her moans settling into contended little whines, her hips settling down. It’s almost romantic, really, the way they calm down together in this private little space. Their own little world in the midst of an entire public club, all the sounds and people.

Roman absentmindedly licks his own fingers clean, pulling his slacks up as he slowly stands, zipping, buttoning, watching his guest pull herself clumsily together. She glances shyly at him a few times and he takes a little pleasure from that; she’s more worried about what she looks like than he is about what he looks like - he can work with that. He can deal with that.

Both of them dressed, flushed and spent, Roman leans in and kisses her. The taste of himself mingles with the taste of her and she hums into his kiss, which sends a strange flutter through his spent cock - he’s nowhere near getting hard again, but he’ll think about this later. He’ll recall it, memorize it, use it for his own end.

“Hey - hey, give me your uhh… your phone, yeah? Just in case you - yeah, yeah, hand it over. C’mere.”

Roman takes her cell phone, switching automatically to her contact list to enter his own number, his name with an eggplant emoji at the end of it, a bottle. He smirks at his own stupid joke and then, taking a millisecond of a pause, eyes her. She’s smiling, swiping hair behind her ear, flushed and gorgeous. Roman looks back at her phone and opens up other apps - her google maps, her own number in the contact list; he screenshots these.

“Sorry, drunk fingers - hold on a sec,” he fake-laughs, and she laughs genuinely in return, waving him off. Not caring. Not noticing at all how he’s sending those screenshots of her home address pin and her phone number to his phone, deleting the texts, the screenshots he took. Scrolling very briefly through her photo reel and sending himself a pussy shot, a picture of her tits - deleting those, too. No trace that she could find on her phone, anyway. She would never know the difference. He smirks as he hands her phone back, winking at her. “Hey. I gotta get into work early, but… let’s get together again, sometime, yeah?”

She smiles, tucks her phone into a pocket. No muss, no fuss. “Yeah,” she agrees, her sexy smile making his stomach flip in the worst, most exciting way. He thinks of those nudes already, thinks of how he’s going to go home and jerk off to knowing he has them, has her address. Cock unable to get fully hard again, but tingling nonetheless.

“Good. Let’s get you a cab home.”

[antigonesghosts]

What I loved about Cinderella's Castle is it is so entirely about Ella. We know starkid can handle a show with tons and tons of characters but I found it quite refreshing for it to be so wholly her story? I think it was a lovely choice for this show and man Bryce did such a perfect job of it, she is truly such a star

[jack-kellys]

so we all know life is a circle. thus fandom is a circle. we see things come back around like the de/twinkification of racetrack higgins. or cowboy versus artist jack kelly. or "mom" friend david jacobs and the perpetual need to make the newsies some kind of heteronormative family. and yet again we've found our way back to the anti katherine pulitzer arc of her "getting in the way" of jack and davey's popular subtextual/fanon relationship. (yes im late nevermind that.)

now, not being a katherine fan is different than being anti-katherine. not being a katherine fan means you might have criticisms like "i'm not sure how she serves the newsies narrative better than, say, sarah jacobs, as sarah is more aligned with the newsies contextually/societally and katherine is very distant and rich lol", or even "i'm not a big fan of how katherine seems to be tired of jack's shit for most of the play and then 'suddenly' finds romantic interest in him within one song".

but being anti-singular-young-woman-character because of a ship between the main two boys is. a tired take is it not? again with the circle, we've had this discourse already and its been cut out. since 2012 and 2017 we been talking about this girl and her value, but not in the context we should be.

(because the context we should be talking about it in is a newsies 1992 versus newsies broadway context, not an anti-katherine context, but i digress.)

katherine's value. what is there to mine from? she is an extremely young woman reporter, 17-18 years old, whose article makes the front page of the new york sun. since she writes under a pseudonym, i'm presuming she writes with skill well above her age to be published at all (yes, even writing vaudeville reviews). in past productions she either finds the newsies at jacobi's because she saw the walk-out (TWWK) from inside The World (UK), or jack kelly simply interests her enough for her to seek him out again (Broadway/Tour/Live). she is unsure about herself as a writer despite her skill which is made clear in her song. she is rich. she did not need to have a career and was encouraged not to. pulitzer is her father and she does not get along with him. she matches jack word for word, often with davey at her side. she mills comfortably about the newsies through the second act and has a friendship of some kind with specs specifically. she also literally says "that's a face [jack's] that could save us all from sinking in the ocean/like someone said 'power tends to corrupt'" essentially prophesying the act 2 betrayal. which is crazy.

you can draw your own conclusions from the above, but all of it is essentially canon? right? so maybe you don't have to be a fan of all of it, but you're really going to tell me absolutely none of this is compelling. that none of this is something you can interpret for yourself as complex. that albert is more complex.

this is not me saying you have to include katherine in everything, because that isn't what this post is about. this is about individuals choosing to dislike or devalue katherine by only viewing her in relation to her as a romantic interest, instead of a complex character in a period piece with a full arc. yes a full arc. it's the musical that's rushed not katherine.

@we-are-inevitable speaks on this extremely well in the comments of this post as well, more in connection to katherine as being a compelling romantic interest in the context of newsies speaking in the defense of love interests/often women characters. in this post i speak on how i would navigate jack/katherine as a director, and in this post i speak on how to direct something to believe in to make it, well, believable, aside from its awful writing for both kath and jack. because again, fandom is a circle, and i literally talked about how to "fix" jatherine in august 2024. at length

[vintra-lavellan]

An amateur analysis of Rook's theme: Not The Chosen One

NOT a music expert and super open to corrections but I think Rook's theme Not The Chosen One is pretty neat—it weaves together three groups of motifs to represent three central figures in DATV: Rook, Solas, and the Evanuris.

Rook: breathing, beats, and strings in staccato.

0:00, but most especially after 0:30. We hear rapid breathing, some beats, and flourishes. These seem to convey the frenetic pace, the controlled panic, with which Rook must act and often does. It feels like Rook is running out of breath.

We also hear at around here the start of quick, detached bowings. Maybe violins? Maybe the cello?

Violins are often the central instrument, and in my head it is the instrument of choice for representing the player character. Our favorite Lost Elf Theme is akin to a duet between the violin and the cello, a final debate between a pleading Inquisitor and Solas. If it is a cello, it works well too—Rook, Solas' mirror.

In Not the Chosen One, the strings in staccato are no different—it carries the tune, the time-ticking feeling, through markedly short bows.

The use of strings in staccato here is a sharp contrast to the cello's smooth, sustained strokes (legato) that we associate with Solas. I like to think it's evocative of Rook's relative youth and position as a "narrative foil" to the Dread Wolf.

Solas: Cello, of course. In legato bowing.

At around 0:50, a familiar, mournful cello creeps in to contrast the strings. Solas.

The cello here doesn't take center stage like it gloriously does in the Dread Wolf Theme or as brutally and honestly regretful as it does in the Lost Elf Theme.

Instead, it's in the background. Underpinning the piece. You would barely notice it if you were not listening carefully, but it makes the piece feel fuller.

It is Solas, still mournful, speaking, guiding from the background, as he does in DATV.

The Evanuris. The otherwordly, digital flairs and horns.

Someone on Tumblr (can't find the original post) made an astute observation about how the Evanuris themes are heavily drawn on digital sounds to convey their otherworldliness, their warpedness. Super agree.

The Evanuris linger from the very beginning in flairs. High pitched, digitally altered horns pierce the start of the piece and throughout the interplay of Rook's breathing, their strings, and Solas' cello like a threat. In fact, a horn at 0:29 initiates Rook's running at 0:30.

The digital horns are apt—I like to think it's a callback to the darkspawn horns of the Origins theme, but warped, twisted, and advanced, as the Evanuris and the Sixth Blight are to previous blights. The horns persist heavily also in Elgarnan's theme, Eldest of the Sun (the beginning in his theme feature grand, deliberate, and slow horns, reminiscent of the Origins theme.)

At 1:20, Ghilan'nain enters. A warped wind instrument, maybe a flute, more like a harmonica. We know this is her because this is the same instrument used in her theme (see 0:32 of Mother of the Halla). She features heavily here as she does in the main story as the genius controlling the Blight.

Ghilan'nain persists for a while, rising and rising alongside the cello until around 2:00...

At 2:00, Solas' cello returns center stage in a mournful but determined passage (2:00-2:30). It is remarkable here that the cello, Solas, is carrying the main melody alone, against the digital sound, the horns, the flairs, and the strings. This is arguably the most memorable section and the most honest we see of Solas here, reminscent of his honesty in the Lost Elf Theme—no wonder this passage features heavily in the endings and meshes well with the Lost Elf reprise in the Atonement ending.

After 2:30, Rook's short-bowing strings regain control, but our other motifs—our lone cello and our Evanuris punctuating the soundscape—remain until the end.

ALSO the title is perfect. This song is about Rook, thrown into a chaos. They are not the chosen one (they are not the Hero of Ferelden nor the Inquisitor, whom Thedas views as sacrosanct "chosen ones"), they are tasked with the impossible, but they managebto weave through three major powers anyway—Solas and the last two Evanuris. This is what they do in this piece—they begin harried, uncertain... then they are guided, then they are almost bested by the Evanuris and Solas, but they survive and regain their voice in the end.

[tadpole-apocalypse]

Listening to the Inquisiton soundtrack again and imagining what we could have had if Trevor Morris was brought on to do Veilguard’s music instead of Hans Zimmer. It’s not even close, how much better he did.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[phoenix-downer]

Next to My Husband

Summary: Penelope can't believe Odysseus is really home, and he claims he isn't the man he once was. But one final test reveals the truth, and husband and wife reunite at long last.

~ 2770 words. Set during "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again" in the Ithaca Saga of Epic: the Musical and expands on their reunion. Angst, Romance, Fluff. Check the tags for additional info. POV Penelope.

Penelope waited in her chambers, staring out the open window facing the sea. For a long time, she had despised it for taking her husband away from her. How many nights had she spent staring at it, hoping, wishing, praying he would come home? And now Telemachus claimed he had returned.

It was too good to be true. Odysseus was dead. He had drowned or perished on some faraway island. She was in denial like so many other widows of the Trojan War. This was just a dream, nothing more.

She faintly heard her name called out, and then the door to her chambers creaked open. A man stood there, looking utterly haggard and ragged in the torchlight. He quite literally wore rags, his clothes were stained with blood, scars littered his body, and his dark hair and beard were matted. His eyes were red instead of the brown she remembered. But the way he looked at her…

She swallowed and stood. It had been so long since she had seen Odysseus that she wasn't sure if she could trust her eyes to tell her the truth.

“Is it really you? Have my prayers been answered? Or am I dreaming once more?” she asked.

He smiled sadly. “It's hard to believe, I know.”

She hesitated, then took a few steps closer to him. “Forgive me, but you look different. Your eyes are tired and your frame is lighter. Even your smile is different. It's so torn. Is it really you, my love?”

If this man really was her husband, he had changed so much in the intervening years that her heart and mind were having trouble coming to terms with the differences. She was a practical woman out of necessity, but all those painful days and sleepless nights longing for him to return had created a phantom lurking in her mind, a spectre made up of memories and longing. Her phantom husband was not the same as the man before her now—he was young and kind and optimistic, not middle-aged and jaded and haunted.

But then again, she was hardly the same woman either. She was also middle-aged now, and exhausted, and cautious. Naivety was the luxury of fools. She’d had to be clever and cunning and deceitful to survive. To raise Telemachus and keep the kingdom running and hold the suitors at bay.

His face fell. “I’m not the man you fell in love with,” he admitted, and she was confused for a moment before he continued. “The man you once adored—he's long gone.” That haunted look returned to his eyes, and he hung his head in shame. “I'm not your kind and gentle husband, and I don't deserve to be called your love. Because I'm not that man, not anymore. I don't even know that I deserve to be called a man after what I've done.” He ran a shaking hand through his shaggy hair.

She wasn't sure what to say. If he truly was a monster, he wouldn't feel remorse. But those blood-soaked clothes certainly spoke for themselves. The servants were currently cleaning up the aftermath of his killing spree that had left 108 men dead. And yet he had done it for a reason. Telemachus had told her it was to protect them. He had spelled out their horrible plans, the ghastly fate Odysseus had spared them from. Any good husband and father would do everything in his power to stop such an awful plot directed at his family. It was just difficult to wrap her mind around how far Odysseus had gone.

The world was a cruel place, to turn her kind, gentle husband into a ruthless killer.

He mistook her silence for judgment. “I know you've been waiting for the man who was once your love,” he said, and there were tears glistening in his red eyes and shadows on his face from the flickering torchlight. “But you don't know what all I've done, and I can't change the past. How could you ever love me if I told you?”

“Try me," she said softly, like this was another one of the riddles or puzzles or challenges they always used to make for one another. “What kinds of things did you do?”

She wanted to know. Wanted to find out what he had done, what spectres haunted him.

“Left a trail of red on every island,” he told her. “Traded my friends like they were just objects I could use. Hurt more lives than I can count.”

He continued telling her what he had done, and though it made her stomach turn, she appreciated his honesty. He wasn't sugarcoating his behavior or pretending his dark deeds hadn't happened or weren't his fault. When she had seen him off to war, she had hardly expected him to keep his hands clean. But the war had ended a decade ago, and his journey back to her side had taken another decade and even more bloodshed.

Yes, the world was cruel to drive a man like her husband to commit such atrocities. She could only hope the world would be less cruel for their son. A kind, peaceful world where good men never had to be ruthless to make it home alive…where good men didn't have to leave for war in the first place…if only.

But she was Penelope, Queen of Ithaca, and the scarred, bloodstained, haggard man before her was claiming to be her husband and king. She would leave speculation pertaining to ideal worlds to the philosophers and any actual execution of said ideals to the gods. Penelope of Ithaca for her part would continue to deal with reality.

“And why did you do these things?” she asked, her voice careful and stoic as she paced the room, her expression keeping up the façade of a judge.

“All of it was to bring me back to you,” he said, his voice breaking at the torment he'd been through, at what he still tortured himself with, and her heart broke along with it.

If this was a false Odysseus, he certainly sounded like the real thing.

“If you want nothing to do with me,” he continued, “I understand. Just say the word and I'll be gone forever.” He dared to take a step closer to her. “But if you could find it in yourself to fall in love with me again, not the man I was but the monster I am now, please, tell me.”

He pleaded with her with his entire being. His arms and legs trembled, his eyes begged her, and she could sense how badly he wanted to embrace her.

A part of her wanted to cave completely, to take him in her arms and smother his face with kisses. But she had one more test. One final question to confirm he wasn't an illusion and to make sure he was still her husband deep down. Was he still the same man she had fallen in love with all those years ago, or had the years changed him too much like he seemed to think?

She suspected he needed this test as much as she did.

“If that's true,” she said at last, “if you really have done those things and you really are a monster like you say, could you do me a favor? Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace.”

She gestured to their bed, to where they had spent so many lovely evenings together and where she had spent countless more agonizing nights alone. “See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here.”

It was a trick question, one only Odysseus would know the answer to.

His face twisted in pain. “How could you say this? I built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat. I carved it into the olive tree where we first met. It's a symbol of our everlasting love.” His voice got louder and angrier, and it was clear he was wounded deeply by her request. “Do you realize what you’ve just asked me? The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots.”

His unspoken meaning lingered in the air. He didn't want to destroy the symbol of their love or the reality behind it any more than she did. And that meant he was still her husband, despite what he might think.

She couldn't test him any longer. She smiled as tears filled her eyes. “Only my husband knew that, so I guess that makes him you.”

His eyes widened. “Penelope…” So much meaning and emotion behind a single word. Twenty years worth of longing and waiting. Oh how she had wanted for him to say her name again. To hear his voice once more.

She cupped his cheek, and he melted into her touch, the tears streaming down his face. “I will fall in love with you over and over again,” she promised him through her own tears. “I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been, you're mine.” She stroked the faded scar on his cheek that he'd gotten from that boar hunt all those years ago. “Don't tell me you're not the same person. You're always my husband, and I've been waiting for you.”

He threw his arms around her, holding her close like his life depended on it, saying her name over and over again. He had been through so much to come home, to return to her. There would be consequences for his actions—trials he must endure and people he must face. But they would deal with all that together. And they would do it tomorrow. Tonight, he didn't need lectures or judgments or reckonings.

He needed his wife.

She pulled away a little and searched his face, then leaned closer, closer till her lips brushed against his. His breath caught, and then he was kissing her back with all the desire and passion of the last twenty years spent apart. One hand wove its way into her hair and his other arm wrapped around her waist, and she wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against him.

He deepened the kiss, and her mind flew back, back to all the times they had done this before. To their first kiss under the olive tree that was now their bed. While they were older and more experienced, their eagerness and passion now reminded her of then.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. She very much wanted to continue, but he insisted on cleaning up first. So she sent the servants to fetch water and heat rocks for the bath. When everything was ready, she glanced at Odysseus.

He still hadn't removed his bloody rags, and he stared at the water with fear in his eyes.

He’d never been afraid of water before. All those years at sea…had he almost drowned?

“Ody?” she gently asked, using his old nickname as she placed a hand on his arm.

“Poseidon has had his revenge after all,” was his cryptic response. “I don't think I'll ever be able to enter a body of water without panicking.” He smiled ruefully. “I can torture a god with his own weapon and slaughter over a hundred men in a single day, but taking a bath is beyond me.”

She glanced at the tub. It really wasn't that big, just large enough for the two of them. Maybe they could start small and he would get used to being in the water again.

“I'll join you,” she said, then carefully unfastened the fibulae holding her peplos in place as he watched. As the garment slipped off her, she had a brief moment of uncertainty and grabbed the fabric. He hadn't seen her in twenty years. Would he still find her aging body beautiful? He’d probably met plenty of stunning mortal women and breathtaking goddesses on his journeys. How could she possibly hope to compare—

He gently grasped her hand and led it away from her body, letting the peplos slip off completely. The way his eyes traveled up and down her body, the hunger and yearning in his gaze, she knew her fears were unfounded.

“You're even more beautiful than I remembered,” he told her, putting her fears to rest for good. He embraced her and kissed her softly, tenderly, and she gently tugged at his rags. Normally, it was the servants’ job to undress and bathe the king, but she wanted to be the one to help him.

When she’d gotten all the rags off at last, she wanted to cry. His scars were even more visible and numerous now. She knew each one carried a story of pain and suffering and survival, and she wanted to know them all.

He misunderstood her expression, shame crawling up his face and driving him to look away from her. She quickly put a stop to that when she kissed the scar on his right shoulder.

“You're more handsome to me than ever, my love. These scars are signs of your survival. Wear them proudly.”

He searched her face and then kissed her again, and they spent quite a while kissing and touching before finally making it to the bath. He braved the water with her by his side, and she carefully cleaned every inch of him. Washed away the blood and the sweat and the grime. Ran her hands through his tangled, matted hair until there were no more snarls or knots. And he carefully washed her too, washed away the fear and sweat and deceit until she felt completely clean.

When they were through, he looked much more like himself again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and was about to kiss him when a bright light flashed. When she could see again, it took her a moment to realize Odysseus was still with her, because her husband quite literally looked like a god. He was taller and stronger than ever before, and his hair graced his broad shoulders in thick dark curls. Going by his expression, she had undergone a similarly miraculous transformation.

Then he smiled, a smile so big and bright it lit up the whole room and made her smile too. “Thank you, oh goddess of wisdom, for your support in my romantic endeavors,” he called out to someone she couldn't see, “but I would've taken my wife to bed all the same.”

He grinned and swept her into his arms, and Penelope could've sworn she heard an owl hooting in return. But soon all thoughts of their divine supporter fled their minds as Odysseus carried her to their wedding bed.

Twenty years of absence could not easily be undone in a single night, but they were willing to try. Especially because the night went on and on and on, almost as if Someone was asking Dawn to wait until husband and wife were fully sated.

When at last they were, Penelope smiled and played with Odysseus’s hair as they cuddled together. His eyes weren't red anymore. They were back to their beautiful, natural brown. A sign that he wasn’t a god or monster but just a man.

“How long has it been?” she asked, knowing her answer but wanting to know his.

He grasped her hand and tenderly kissed it. “Twenty years,” he said softly.

Her lips parted. So he had been faithful after all. She had been faithful too, hoping and waiting and longing for his return.

“Twenty years,” she echoed to confirm his unspoken question.

They told each other everything after that, all that had transpired in each other's absences. Athena must be still helping them at this point because Dawn still hadn't arrived, and yet Penelope somehow had the energy to tell Odysseus everything and listen to his tales in return.

When he was through, he caressed her cheek as the first rays of Dawn spread across the sky.

“I love you,” he said, the words simple but profound. Like he was grateful she knew everything and yet still accepted him.

She smiled and kissed his hand. "I love you too.”

They'd both been through so much. She had worn herself ragged raising their son single-handedly and running the kingdom, and she had lied to the suitors. Odysseus had done such terrible things to make it home, had killed so many people. And yet she knew the man lying next to her wasn't a monster. He had much to atone for, but he was her husband, and he always would be.

————————————————————————

A/N: This story was such a joy to write. A big thank you to @aquariusshadow for introducing me to Epic and reading over the story for me and giving her suggestions, and a big thank you to @scoobysnack1107 as well for also reading and providing feedback ❤️ I love Greek mythology and musicals, so Epic is like the perfect combination of two of my interests that I never knew I needed.

Just a few notes about the writing process: I wanted to incorporate how Odysseus’s eyes turn red in the animatics for the song “Odysseus,” and how they seem a little less red when he reunites with Telemachus and Penelope. Also, all the stuff with Athena being his wingwoman is actually legitimately from the Odyssey (giving him a glow up, delaying dawn for him and Penelope, etc.), which cracked me up. I read the 23rd book before I wrote this story in preparation, and you truly cannot make these things up. Also, the scar from the boar hunt is on Odysseus's foot in the Odyssey, but I moved it to his face for this story. I also went down a research rabbit hole about ancient Greek baths and clothing to make sure those details were more accurate, and that was a fun diversion. And of course I loved including the callbacks to “Just a Man,” incorporating the lyrics of "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again,” and exploring Penelope's mindset more.

I feel really lucky to have gotten into Epic right before the Ithaca Saga released. It's been such a fun journey, or shall we say, Odyssey 😎 Congrats to all the cast and crew for all their hard work! And thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed! ❤️