#nothing will go wrong

[fferthe]

[neos-nero]

Nightmare and the 10 year old homunculus who wanted to eat his soul (Pandora)

[kivaember]

Title: alis propriis volat (they fly with their own wings) Rating: T+ (may go up later) Pairing: V.IV Rusty/Raven | C4-621 Tags/CW: Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Morally Ambiguous Characters, Implied/Reference Suicide, Implied/Referenced Indentured Servitude, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Medical Trauma, Mute Raven | C4-621, Identity Issues, Worldbuilding, Unreliable Narrator, Trust Issues, Implied/Referenced Sex, Panic Attacks Summary: “I’m not here to kill you, buddy.” Slowly, Rusty crouched down. “I’m here to capture you, before Arquebus does.” or; C4-621 manages to escape Institute City on his own after V.II Snail’s failed ambush, but with Handler Walter no longer in contact with him, and Balam essentially destroyed, C4-621’s only ally is the disembodied Ayre. Well, until the RLF swoop in, but that’s its own awkward can of worms. Current Chapter: 21

[rabbitrah]

Not my tipsy ass confidently writing like multiple paragraphs about actions to take in solidarity with red state queers that are RIDDLED with typos 💀

[vexedtonightmares]

guys ren & i are gonna achieve perfect lyctorhood

[egophiliac]

can't believe that skeleman has turned on us, and Halloween Prom is tomorrow.

(what a top-tier UM...we are about to be just totally obliterated in the absolute silliest way. what possible use could this power have outside of bringing us to the brink of utter holiday disaster.)

[yikes077]

Leaving my college stuff in my car in my grandma’s drive way over night. The highest predicted tempature tonight is 23 degree Fahrenheit. Nothing will go wrong.

[simonbrain]

love the idea of reader just trying to fuck all her stress out with a random at the bar before returning back to her mundane life, and simon deciding he's going to keep her instead 🙂‍↕️

the prick doesn't budge when you try to kick him out; instead, he drags you back into bed and works his mouth to loosen you up again, and now you've forgotten why you were trying to haul his ass out of your home.

(you attempted to sound stern while telling him to get out of your house, but he merely chuckled, the sound so raspy and condescending that it stroked a heat within you that you thought was sated last night.

"this is our home. now get your arse back in bed, i'm fuckin' hungry.")

you had to really fist at his hair to pull him off of you, and that only turned him on if the deep groan rumbling out of him was anything to go by—you swear his tongue sunk deeper inside you. he only relented so he could fuck you dumb in the shower after, leaving you with trembling legs and feeling more dirty than clean (atta girl, don't you waste any of tha'—keep it all in).

you blink, and now suddenly you're seated as he spoon-feeds you a nice, hearty breakfast, huffing something like messy girl when toast crumbs get all over your face and the wooden table.

words can't express how flustered you are; you're too stunned to even continue telling the big man who's now feeding you scrambled eggs that he needs to leave. all you feel like you're capable of doing is opening your mouth to accept another spoonful, ignoring the ache you feel between your thighs when you catch his heavy stare and hear a low hum of approval.

then he's leaving (and it's not because of your nagging), muttering something about having to work those mutts to the bone today, all while you're trying to make sense of what's happening. he gives you a sloppy kiss to silence your questions and exasperation, one that makes you feel hot all over and almost melt into a puddle had it not been for the firm grip he had on your ass.

he licks his lips when he pulls back, eyes darting to where your shirt just barely covers where he'd rather be all day than having to go and train recruits. he stares for an uncomfortably long time and before you can speak up, face growing a little hot from the tension, he's turning around to finally leave.

before the door shuts, he says, "be a good girl, ay? see you tonight, birdie."

you're left with your thoughts and feelings of dread and anxiety. there definitely isn't any underlying interest or anything; the freak has fucked your brain out of your head, that's all. you're sure he didn't even mean it anyway. maybe. hopefully.

a drop of his come rolls down your thigh, and arousal shame burns through you. since when did you let one-night stands finish in you?

(your so-called one-night stand came home hungry and pissed, so worked up that he dragged you over to the nearest surface and played with you for a good hour. by the time you had half the mind to tell him about the dinner in the oven—your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at how much money he had sent you for groceries earlier, nevermind how he got ahold of your account details—he grunted and finally gave your poor pussy a break, scarred mug all slick and flushed.)

good luck when he takes you to meet his mates at the bar a week later, the same bar you brought him home from; the comments from them make you wish a hole in the ground would just swallow you right up.

"pretty thing ye caught, lt," johnny grins, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. he's a bit over the top, ogles your chest too hard, but overall he's... alright. you'd probably notice how perverted he really was if you actually looked at him longer than a few fleeting glances, but his stare is kind of unnerving.

kyle—perfection personified—hums in agreement, a warm smile on his face that puts you at ease. somehow you don't pick up on the ulterior motive behind his gaze running over your body, eyes roaming over your chest more discreetly than johnny but just as appreciative. "pretty indeed. you don't mind sharing, do you ghost?" kyle teases, pretty eyes glancing over at simon, who only huffs at that and shakes his head (much to your confusion).

who the fuck is ghost? you only know big guy and simon.

there's a deep chuckle and your focus flits over to the man seated in front of you, captain john price. if you thought simon was scary, john's a man who demands respect and attention just by being in his presence. "you chose the wrong dog to bring home," john hums, voice deep and gravelly and making you shamefully squeeze your thighs together.

"but that's alright, sweetheart. you have three others now, yeah?" the purr that comes out of his mouth is sinful, and when you nod and stammer out a yes, sir as if you were one of his soldiers and not the sweet girl that simon has brought to his captain, looking for approval of his newest toy, he only smiles.

simon's hand squeezes your thigh underneath the table, trailing upwards, and you're slowly understanding what it is that you've gotten yourself into.

[stuckinapril]

We should all be less embarrassed to be caught trying tbh. Wanting to be something is only ever bad if you’re trying to imitate others without ever forming your own thoughts opinions or taste. But I have never looked down on people who’re trying to get somewhere or called them wannabes or mocked them for it. Like that’s admirable actually. There is nothing wrong w having goals and trying at something until you’re good at it. And there’s nothing wrong w the initial phase where you’re struggling. That’s the most natural thing in the world

[doctorsiren]

Day 19 of Sirentober / Doctober

Cracked / Parallel

creature of habit

Available as a print on my Etsy Shop

[redeemed-wren]

I do find it facinating how Dracula Daily has turned Dracula into a different kind of myth now that we're in its third year running. I've seen a few people compare it to Hadestown, or a timeloop. The enjoyment isn't JUST from engaging with the story now, it's engaging with the experience, and while the emails are still the same as previous years, we've been through this before.

The way we as an audience interact with this story and this way of telling the story changes the genre. Its no longer a gothic horror, classic lit story. It's become a mythology, a tragedy, a repeating loop. Jonathan Harker returns to the castle every year. Every year it happens again. And that changes it, builds up new mythos around it, even if the words stay exactly the same.

[hinamie]

all i have left

[zephyrchama]

Yeah, pact commands are powerful and allow you to control the Seven Rules of Hell any time you desire. Pact commands are a little intense though. You can probably get the same outcome by bopping them on the head with a flimsy cardboard paper towel tube.

The great part is that this also works on demons you don't have a pact with, reapers, and other humans (even powerful sorcerers).

The longer your cardboard tube, the more power you wield and the greater your authority becomes. The downside is they can wrestle the tube away from you. But, y'know, until that happens you feel so mighty.

[carebeardean]

Charles has always left Edwin little notes slipped between the pages of his favorite books, in his science equipment, places he knows Edwin loves. Just silly things—post its that say “hi Edwin :)”. doodles of Edwin with his nose stuck in a book. reminders to stock up on wolfsbane. but.

Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.

So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.

then Edwin starts writing back.

Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.

Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.

Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.

Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).

Edwin would rather have to reattach a limb again than lose Charles trust, all the dark and beautiful things he shares with Edwin only. He knows—knows Charles doesn’t mean to make him fall more in love with him.

[oshaskell]

it's so SO fucked up that the buddie thesis of the show has been there since s02 e08 with Thomas telling Buck "you don't find it, son, you make it", and ever since then Buck has found person after person and has kept reaching and reaching for one of them to love him, not understanding why he can't make it work, while at the same time building a home, a haven, with Eddie. he's been making it this WHOLE TIME and 6 seasons later, he STILL thinks he doesn't have it

[muzsmocsing]

Being friends with Xie Lian would be so weird because this man peppers in bits of his insane life ruining trauma randomly mid sentence. You'd like accidentally step on his toes and he'd go "ah don't worry about it, that foot's been cut off and eaten before anyways" smile, and then never elaborate.