#slow and reverb

[vladolak]

Since that name drop in the IWTV finale, I had to do a slow and reverb mix of System by Chester Bennington

it was in the Queen of the Damned movie and became a huge fav of mine ^_^

[chilltidetrance]

Waterfall Chill Music (Lofi Beats) | Music for Meditation & Zen | Study ...

[faxaway]

do you reckon they like abba

[youling-the-ghost]

I've mentioned this so many times before but I can't get over how sfth are the embodiment of positive masculinity. They're so unafraid of showing their love for each other and it's incredible. The kissing is part of it, of course, but it's also just the way they look at each other onstage. It's the casual physical affection and it's their complete willingness to act feminine for a character. It brings me so much joy when they play women because they do it in such a genuine, passionate way. There's no stigma around playing a female character as a man and I love it so much.

Like, as a new man, sfth have genuinely helped me so much with dysphoria.

[remotewatch]

for this simp I have no sympathy 💳🏃‍♀️

part two section a here!

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 3.5k wc

summary: Jack’s a great boss. He doesn’t care how often you work remote, the benefits are actually competitive, and he lets you run up his Amex as long as you’ll spit in his coffee. Wait, what?

cw: shameless smut, fingering, oral (f receiving), sugaring, inappropriate workplace dynamics, findom, submissive loser jack, ooc (he’s at the office), spit kink, semi public sex?, he calls the reader a bitch but doesn’t mean it, somehow a plot snuck in here, def needs a part 2 eventually

AN: this one goes out to @augustghosts !!! Happy happy birthday and thank you for matching my freak mwah

minors dni pls I don’t want y’all thinking this is realistic or healthy

It’s a technically perfect relationship, as much as you’re aware of the risk of it all going to shit at any moment. Somehow that thought always pops back up at the jewelry counter. Your eyes trace aloofly over the puddles of diamonds littering the cobalt velvet tray before you and finally land on a comparatively understated anklet.

“I’ll take this one, please.”

“Excellent choice, madam.”

You waste no time shoving the evidence of your purchases into an overstuffed trash can prior to slipping the anklet on and dashing to the coffee shop closest to your building. As you wait outside, you can’t help but wonder if you’re visible from Jack’s office. You absolutely are, and he’s been glued to his window like a creep trying to pick your hair out of the crowd since the moment you left, but there’s no way for you to know that.

The line moves faster than usual, and, soon enough, you’re balancing 4 orders of varying sizes with your work tote in one hand and carefully removing the lid of Jack’s cup with the other. Black with half a pump of sugar free vanilla and the massive glob of spit you deposit in there as you traverse the crosswalk.

It had started rather innocuously, and you probably wouldn’t have ever picked up on anything if he didn’t have such an awful poker face. There was a work dinner, some dick of an exec retiring, and out of the corner of your eye you’d spotted Jack placing his personal card in with his company one when the bill came around. That was a little weird. It was much weirder that he looked like you’d caught him pissing in the break room sink when he realized you’d noticed.

Once you had, it was hard not to spot the gunmetal edge of his black card peeking out from under the company one at every single outing, though you made a point to feign ignorance. You’d asked one of your coworkers about it after you had to skip one night to visit family, but she was just as clueless as you felt.

“I was sitting next to him the whole night. He only used one card,” That forced you to backpedal and pretend you must have been mistaken; no sense in drumming up gossip before getting to the bottom of whatever it was.

Still, work was work, and things had been so hectic that the guilty look on Jack’s face had nearly faded from your memory by the time you came storming off the elevator two weeks later, drenched from forgetting your umbrella, one heel broken, and late for the first time since you’d been hired. You’d been so focused on wringing out your sweater that you had no chance of hearing or seeing him round the corner until he was already crashing into you and spilling (thankfully) lukewarm coffee down the both of you. If that didn’t push you over the edge, his attempt at a joke to lighten the situation certainly did.

“God, Jack, is everything a fucking game to you?! Fuck off!!” came flying out before you could stop it. Your only saving grace was that your entire team was already in a meeting across the floor, but that didn’t stop you from retreating to the bathroom and leaving him no time to say anything.

You were so beyond screwed. You’d busted your ass to get this job and had completely blown it over spilled coffee of all things. By the time you’d dried yourself to a somewhat acceptable level and crept over to the closed door of his corner office, the stomach-dropping dread of plunging back into the job market was already settling in.

There’s a weird clatter when you knock, and Jack looks the slightest bit frazzled when he opens the door, a few curls of his usually annoyingly perfect hair sticking up on one side.

“Can I apologize?” He stifles the smirk that’s tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s afraid you’ll scream at him again.

“You don’t need to apologize, but sure. Come in.” At any other time, you’d feel dangerously comfortable in his office. It’s not corporate at all: so packed with weathered sunshine-smelling afghans and little wooden beach trinkets that seem to multiply every time you leave that it feels more like an antique store than a place of business. Today, the sight of it all makes you nauseous as you try to do damage control.

Thankfully, he cuts you off before the stammering mess of a groveling attempt unravels completely.

“Really, it’s fine. Do you think I can afford to fire anyone right now?”

“I guess not?”

He can’t quite conceal a wince when he sees the puddle you’re leaving on the carpet despite your best efforts.

“Well, you can’t work all day dressed like that. Would you go across the street and let me get you something new? I’ll call and tell them you’re coming.”

“Jack, I’m not going to Loro Piana for a change of clothes. It’s one day, it’ll be fine-“

“Please? And then we can forget all about this and just focus.” Fuck. His mouth looks so good asking nicely. The implications are not lost on you, that you’re crossing a VERY stark line here, but the way he’s looking at you with those perfect fucking doe eyes has your brain buzzing too loudly to care as much as you probably should.

The staff are even more attentive than you’d expect, to an almost unnerving degree. You’ve barely set one foot in the door before your coat and bag are lifted off you and you’re whisked up to one of their VIC suites. There’s already a rack waiting for you, but the sales associate’s not so subtle mention of a shower in the suite seizes your attention. Even though it’s only ten minutes, the water pressure and whatever is in that body wash make you feel like you’ve fast forwarded through a week at the spa. When you step out and look around for your old outfit, you’re timidly informed that they’ve been taken to the dry cleaner as per the cardholder’s request.

“Oh, yes. Thank you, I must have forgotten,” you mutter in a deeply unconvincing attempt to give the impression you’ve been in a dressing room this nice before. As tempting as it is to thumb through all of your options, you can’t afford to waste any more time and throw on the first two pieces on the rack: an ecru knit trouser and short sleeved sweater set. One of the price tags flips over as you tug them from their hangers, and you have to take a deep breath to stave off the tunnel vision the number on it inspires.

Of course, they both fit perfectly and feel like an absolute dream. As soon as you begin to move towards the door, the same sales associate pipes up again.

“Mr. Schlossberg mentioned that you were also interested in some leather goods. Is that still the case?” You turn to see a massive array of belts atop a disgustingly ornate glass (or is that crystal?) table along the back wall with a dozen pairs each of coordinating loafers, oxfords, and pumps underneath. A small sliver of guilt turns over in your gut; you really shouldn’t, but fuck it, that line has already been crossed, and you can’t even pretend it’s a difficult decision.

“Yes, I was! Thank you so much for reminding me!”

She helps you settle on a pair of gleaming chestnut loafers with a narrow matching belt, and you choose not to dwell on how Jack knows your exact clothing and shoe size.

You hate how much of a spring it puts in your step as you hurry back across the street. The meeting is somehow still going on, so you quickly pop over to Jack’s office to thank him again and definitely not to show off how sweet your ass looks in these pants.

You’re so ecstatic from the whiplash of remaining employed after telling your boss to fuck off right to his face that you stupidly swing his door open without knocking first.

Jack slams his laptop shut, but the audio pause is delayed, and the there’s nowhere for him to hide as its speakers blare out clear as day:

“-my perfect good boy. Give me all your cum. Yeah, you’re my favorite ATM.”

The secondhand embarrassment is absolutely brutal, so you imagine his stomach is falling out of his ass right about now. He purses his lips together as he stands up painfully slow, fingertips pressed to the desk so hard they’ve lost color. God, he’s never this quiet. By the time he stalks over to your side of the desk and leans back against it, your heart is pounding so erratically you think you might drop dead right there on his pashmina rug. The new outfit suddenly feels heavier, like every wordless second he spends squinting at you adds a few ounces to the knit. Your suppressed sigh of relief forces its way out of your nose when the next words out of Jack’s mouth aren’t “go pack your desk”.

“Do you plan on telling anyone about that?” His expression is totally unreadable and it’s freaking you out; you don’t think you’ve ever seen him completely serious, even in the most dire of time crunches.

“No. Am I still getting fired?” This time, Jack lets a smile bloom across his face like he couldn’t stamp it down if he tried.

“I don’t think I could ever bring myself to do that.”

Once again, some would say stupidly, your relief emboldens you.

“Why do you use two cards when we all go out?”

He gives your outfit a slow once over that would be repulsive coming from anyone else before glancing at the idle laptop, then back at you with a sprinkle of condescension mixed with his normal charisma.

“I like buying you shit.”

The frankness of it all is embarrassingly hot.

“And it doesn’t feel the same using the company card?”

“Not at all.”

That sliver of guilt is back, but it feels more obligatory than genuine. It’s currently being steamrolled by carnal curiosity.

“Why do you like it?” Jack’s eyes are practically sparkling with anticipation as he glances down.

“Why didn’t you turn down the belt?”

He presses his luck when you hesitate to respond. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying nice things, you know.” Still, nothing, so he strolls over to the floor safe and hands you a bulging cash envelope from its contents.

“For your rent, or whatever. So you know I’m serious. You don’t have to do anything else, but I want to ask for one favor before you get back to work.”

Your throat dries up, and your expression must betray your assumption and feelings because he’s quickly correcting you with a small chuckle:

“No, not that,” as he’s twisting the lid off his thermos and handing it to you. That’s weird, but whatever. You’ll happily take drinking out of his mug over bruising your throat if it comes down to it. Jack gently pushes the rim down away from your mouth with two spread fingers when you go to take a sip.

“Would you spit in it? Please?” This time, you don’t give your doubts a chance to articulate themselves.

It hits the insulated inner wall with a shrill ping and drips slowly down into Jack’s coffee, and before you have a chance to fuck this up, you’re forcing the tumbler back into his hands and retreating to the doorway, envelope clutched in a death grip.

“You have a call at eleven. It’ll become my problem if you’re late again, so maybe figure something out.” you suggest on your way out. Just as the door clicks shut, you fail to stop yourself from turning back and get an eyeful of him swirling the mixture like he’s at a wine tasting and gulping it down in one shot.

Your new arrangement develops rather quickly after that. Now that he’s no longer trying to conceal his interests, Jack is practically falling at your feet whenever the two of you are alone. The rest of the team is already used to you showing up early and staying late, so what difference does it make in their eyes if you’re actually doing work or dragging him around his office by his tie and beating a raise out of him with his own shoes? Initially, you shy away from indulging as much as he’d like and keep your authorized user status just for groceries, rent, the boring shit. It’s not until the first time he sits you down in his chair with his laptop open and tells you not to stop shopping until you’re squeezing his tongue that you allow yourself to see the real appeal of having an unlimited credit line. He’s already got your info on autofill; god, what a thoughtful little freak, you think as you book recurring massage after manicure after private museum tour after clearing out your Bergdorf cart. The digits and commas are blurring before your eyes as you struggle to navigate the Cartier homepage, and soon you’re just clicking add to cart on anything that slightly catches your attention. You cursor twitches once, twice, in time with the unrelenting work of his fingers (he refuses to roll up his sleeves, says he loves you sticking to his cuff links), but you manage to click purchase all before focusing your full attention on your incoming orgasm.

Jack tugs his phone out to check his pending charges without letting your clit slip from between his lips, and the elated moan he lets vibrate through you when he sees the final total has you drenching him down to his shirt collar.

Since he’s always this desperate, it’s hard to play along with the little song and dance he does of pretending you need to rein it in. You have to bite your tongue to not laugh and just say “no problem!” every time he requests that you please stay within budget today after his first sip of spit coffee. Obviously, there’s never been one; the only parameter you give yourself is a minimum of two supremely gaudy purchases per week for him to “notice” so you can get the ball rolling. Like today. Your new heels are hideous and feel like they’re lined with steel wool, but they fulfill their duty of catching the attention that was already yours to begin with.

“Those aren’t the shoes you had on this morning.” You don’t even glance up from your monitor.

“Nope.”

“When did you find time to go to Saks again?”

This time, you give him a look like he’s 500 years old and couldn’t rotate a pdf to save his life.

“I was working remote from their cafe. The chairs are really nice.”

“Yeah, they’re real nice in my office, too.” It’s clearly not a suggestion.

As per usual, you elect to sit on Jack’s desk just to needle him. When he lifts your leg to get a better look at the new heels, his nose crinkles up in disgust.

“These things will fuck up your back.”

“They’re car to table only, you should know that.” Your other foot swings around to tuck against his sacrum and nudge him in between your legs.

He’s trying his best to act upset, but you can feel his dick throbbing through his slacks.

“How much did you spend today?” You make a big show of pretending to think for a moment.

“I’m not sure. More than you made?”

“You fucking bitch,” And that second leg is shooting up between you and kicking him back hard enough that he bumps into the filing cabinet.

“I ought to report you to HR for that.” only then does he notice the anklet, glinting wickedly under the soft amber lights. Jack pulls your foot closer and with frighteningly little effort nearly tugs you straight off his desk.

“Is this new, too? How much?” He’s got the same look on his face as when his manners are wearing thin on the phone, all carefully applied nonchalance ruined by the the ravenous impatience in his eyes.

“Ten,” and he straight up shudders. He presses the cool platinum against his cheek, and his eyes slip closed as he jerkily ruts against you. Through three layers of fabric, you can still feel every bend in his pulsing underside vein.

“You didn’t think to ask me first?”

“Why would I? It’s my money.” The choked up sob that spills out of him is abruptly morphed into an irritated groan by a knock at the door.

“Fuck, I can’t deal with this. Get rid of it.”

He’s plunked you into his chair and scuttled under the desk well before you can remind him that that’s not in your job description. Jack pulls your seat close enough to shove his nose right into your cameltoe just as the door swings open and one of your least amicable clients comes stomping in.

“Where the hell is he?! First it was ‘email me in a month’, now his direct line calls are getting dropped! My intern had to show me his fucking Instagram to prove that he was even in town!” And he keeps going, but you struggle to register any of it over Jack ever so politely licking you over your stockings like he’s taken you out for a lovely date first and not at all like he’s using you as a human shield to deflect this moron.

“I’m sorry. He’s not currently available.” Jack vacuums your clit right into his mouth at that, rolling and twisting his tongue over it like it’s a goddamn ring pop.

“That’s a load of horseshit. John’s never worked hard enough to be this fucking unreachable. Where is he?!” Normally, you’d be at least a little concerned about how close this guy looks to throttling you for your boss’s location, but the way Jack’s cheeks stick and unstick to your thighs as he rocks his head as best he can in the confined space is diverting most of your attention.

“I understand your frustration, sir,” your customer service voice wavers as he relentlessly sucks you through the fabric. “But there’s simply nothing I can do. Mr. Schlossberg is in meetings for the rest of the day and specifically asked not to be disturbed.” You press a warning foot against his dick, and he groans so loud you’re forced to squeeze your thighs around his head and cough to muffle it. Luckily, the client is too far up his own ass to notice.

“This is outrageous! He can’t just blow everyone off forever because his name is on the fucking building!”

“Your concerns are duly noted. Can I help you with anything else?” He’s already halfway out the door.

“Oh, go fuck yourself!” is yelled half at you, half in hope that Jack is in earshot. As soon as the door slams, you’re scooting backwards and pulling him after you by his shirt. Not that you’d have to, as he’s crawling to chase you across the carpet until you’re pressed right up against the floor to ceiling windows and white knuckling his armrests.

“Wolford doesn’t make these anymore!” you protest when he shreds your tights down the middle to lick you properly. You feel more than hear him laugh in response, and you swear you also detect a muffled “womp womp”. He always fingers you like shining up your seat is the whole point, like he’s only doing this to get to crudely lap and slurp the results up from under you just to spit them back onto your clit. You’re beginning to suspect he only took up bouldering to improve their endurance for you.

Jack finally relents when you twist both hands deep into his hair and drag him off of you. It’s gone curlier around the edges from his efforts, and paired with the overly dramatic lip smack and megawatt smile he hits you with, you can’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“You don’t seem that broken up about it.” He presses one more kiss to your clit before standing up and turning back to the file on his desk without missing a beat.

“Anyway, T&G wants this cleaned up by Thursday, so we should probably get back to it.” There’s no way he’s serious; he’s just trying to rile you up by pacing around, yapping and aimlessly shuffling papers with bubbles of saliva and pussy juice sliding down his face, but you hate that it works so well. Before you realize what you’re doing, you’ve wrapped your fingers around Jack’s tie and abruptly pulled him back down onto all fours, sending the unstapled proposal scattering across the floor.

“Nothing will happen to our portfolio if you just shut the fuck up for five minutes,” He’s all too eager to screw the rest of the day’s schedule when he rests his chin between your legs on the chair’s seat and grins cheekily up at you.

“Only five?”

[kit-williams]

A modicum of kindness

DEGENERATES ALL OF YOU

Context: Moody's anon's fault for giving me the idea

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @squishyowl @ms--lobotomy

tw: male masturbation, angst?

Why were you kind to him of all people?! Mortarion groused as he had left your presence just as quickly as he could. He could see it, hear it in your voice, smell it in your scent, you were scared of him. Unlike his brother Curze who relished in the fear he brought it was simply what being in the presence of someone like them caused in baselines.

You kept eye contact short... you tried your best to not tremble in fear... your voice wavering under his gaze... you practically wilted under him... and yet you were still kind to him. Your voice was soft... your words soothing... it felt like a balm to him to even in your timid state hear his name flow from your lips.

He didn't know you. You were a new face. New to him anyway... no one must have warned you to not try to be kind to him... to let his gaze cling for too long. The conversation was banal at best... inoffensive even just nothing important just something utterly mundane and still you chose him of all people to try and strike a conversation with. He hopes he wont see you again after what he is about to do. He doubts he could look you in the eyes.

Too many fucking layers he internally grouses as he strips free of everything his white hair clings to the sweat on the back of his neck growing long and annoying to manage... he doesn't let serfs touch him lest he crave that human touch more than he should be allowed to. Its why he doesn't want to see you again... he might crave more... the lingering desire to feel loving hands run through his hair... short nails against his scalp as someone helps him clean... would you say such kind words seeing his body?

He was far too pale... a deathly pallor about him as poison clung to his person as he ruined his lungs... for what. He bitterly seethes. He tightens the breather on his face as the problem between his legs wasn't going away and he walked over to his bed. He felt like a bastard... your only sin of being kind to him made him like some abused beast... eager for a gentle hand to caress him.

Mortarion would rather it be your gentle hands to caress him. He whines at the thoughts of what kind words you would still tell him as your soft body ground against his thigh... or would you rest between his legs... tongue licking his tip... would you still say kind words seeing what he wanted to put into you? What he wanted to do to your body? To ruin you for other men?

Mortarion... Why did you have to actually say his name? It fuels his mind running wild as he languidly strokes his length. That's what caused all of this... the fact you said his name... how he wanted to get you to say it again and again and again. Mortarion! As you slide down his shaft inch by inch... glazed over eyes as drool runs down your chin... just keep saying his name... tell him that you desire this mess of a body.

He fucks his hand harder than he would you as of course you would be scared to even be in the same room... much less actually bed the Primarch... Mortarion does his best to shut down his fantasies as the corners of his eyes burn with that shameful want... to not let them end to not face the reality of it all... that he was in his room pleasuring himself because some mortal said his name sweetly. No one told me you were handsome. He cums at the words you said so softly under your breath... if he was a mortal he wouldn't have heard but he did... he heard you admit that.

Mortarion hurries into the shower before the shame can set in. He just sits under the water like a beast left out in the rain as he feels the sting of shame in his eyes. He doesn't know if he can handle you being kind to him again... and yet he doesn't want to dissuade it... He breaths in the poisonous air as he figures he will never see you again... and you'll just be another pretty face to haunt his lonely nights in bed... another face to haunt him when he needs release... kind words to haunt his fantasies.

He very much hopes he doesn't see you again... because he knows... like a beaten dog he would be desperate to hear your kind words again.

[mercymaker]

I can be good, if you just wanna be bad. I could be sex, unless you want to hold hands.

[gulper-eels]

recreation of a photo I saw - don't ask, I just liked the vibe lol

[butchreyes]

omg u know how the pilot ends with owen setting up his little rock and his portrait of the 252…. what if the finale ends with him in his new york office setting up a picture of the 126…. naur

[tzarrz]

a heem heem- whimper

[vladolak]

I found this song called Back to Me by a group called The Rose (더로즈) and I needed to do a slow and reverb mix :3

[tadhgbarakat]

the principle of impenetrability (n.) no two bodies can share the same space at the same time, and matter holds its ground. touch the wall—it will not let you through.

aviso de conteúdo: tortura, violência contra menores.

No escuro absoluto do porão, o único som além da própria respiração é o tilintar da corrente que o prende pelo tornozelo.

Nas paredes, o verde escuro do sacro cardo há muito se tornou preto, mas os traços de cada um dos aons ainda resiste ao teste do tempo. Através da magia, o cômodo é à prova de sons.

A única luz no ambiente é não mais que um fio, se esgueirando entre as frestas da porta no topo das escadas sem nunca o alcançar.

Seus olhos rapidamente se acostumam–o problema é o nariz.

O quarto cheira a mijo e coisa pior e, sem uma mísera janela para abrir, o ar lhe parece denso e pegajoso, grudando nas paredes de seus pulmões e o fazendo engasgar com o fedor.

Seu fedor. Quando tinha sido a última vez que tomou um banho?

Baixar os olhos nada faria, então tateia o próprio corpo até encontrar o tecido áspero das próprias vestes. Os trapos tinham mais rasgos que podia contar, e era como se nunca tivessem sido lavados. O tamanho o surpreendeu–a camisa era uma coisinha mirrada e ainda assim lhe ficava grande, e seus ossos pontiagudos sob o toque.

Não se lembrava o porquê tinha sido mandado ao porão daquela vez e, sem saber se era manhã ou noite, não tinha esperança alguma de acompanhar a passagem dos dias.

Qual a sua idade? Levou a mão até a gola, e um único detalhe o situou no tempo: o botão tinha sido arrancado pelas mãos do avô, então só podia ter mais que seis anos.

Duas mãos, firmemente envoltas ao redor de seu pescoço. Ali no escuro, fechar as pálpebras era evocar a imagem mental. Sacode a cabeça tentando afastá-la, sem sucesso–não quer ser tocado.

Apoiado contra a parede, encarar a escuridão é a única maneira de a afastar. Sente, com um arrepio, que a escuridão o encara de volta.

Seu corpo parece pesado, o porão frio. Só o que quer é dormir. Com a pouca força de vontade que lhe resta, conjura a lembrança da canção de ninar na voz de uma mulher desconhecida, e esta o embala até cair no sono.

Acordou de modo abrupto, como se o adormecer no sonho o tivesse puxado de volta à realidade. O coração batia em marcha acelerada–o despertar o tinha arrancado não de um pesadelo, mas de uma lembrança. Sequer tinha sonhado com o avô daquela vez, mas a imagem mental era suficiente. Aquela era mais uma memória da qual o inconsciente o tinha protegido até então, e agora vinha à superfície como uma visita incômoda, sem lhe dar opção que não a receber. Não era a primeira, mas havia algo de diferente daquela vez–uma sensação na boca do estômago, talvez, e tentar a engolir só o fez provar a própria bile.

Levou a mão até o peito e encontrou a de Vincent ali pousada, o corpo quente aninhado ao seu enquanto dormia.

Em um segundo, a presença do príncipe o acalentou, seus corpos entrelaçados uma constância bem-vinda. No seguinte, já não estavam se tocando.

De alguma maneira, estava agora debaixo da cama. Tinha a atravessado, e a sensação parecida com a de romper a tensão da superfície de um lago não durou mais que um momento. O colchão tinha sido como névoa, mas o chão ainda era sólido sob suas costas, e Tadhg o atingiu com um baque surdo.

O ranger da armação da cama e o resmungo aborrecido de Vincent anunciaram que ele tinha despertado.

❛ I'm here. ❜ Anunciou tão logo o ouviu chamar seu nome, entregando a localização no mínimo peculiar. Esticou a mão para tocar a madeira que agora lhe servia de teto, mas esta parecia perfeitamente sólida sob seus dedos. ❛ And you're not going to believe what just happened. ❜

intangibilidade (n.) a habilidade de tornar o próprio corpo ou objetos em contato temporariamente imateriais, permitindo atravessar barreiras sólidas sem resistência.

↳ para @aldanrae personagens citados: @princetwo

[evilcokito]

Happy birthday Coco darling!!!! Thanks for being a super awesome mutual and literally my sparring buddy, because good lord you put up a fight

I’m still better though/j

In celebration of your birthday, here’s a little something from your favourite silly tiny mage of all time!!!! I hope you like it 👉👈

——————-——————-——————-—————-

When was it when you started looking forward to coming home?

An outstretched palm, coming to a close around a door’s handle. Keys adorned with various keychains of characters jingling in your other hand, singing like ringing church bells. You would reduce the amount of keychains, but it does make it easier to find.

Most of the keychains were brought or made by you, but one was specially sewn by your… roommate of sorts. A merry little skull, grinning at you somewhat sinisterly. A top hat stood askew on the crown of its head, a goofy little detail.

“A lil’ good luck charm. Just for ya~”

He told you with a cheeky little smile dancing across his lips. Before you could even object, he grabbed your keys, fastening it among your other keychains. You’ve carried it around since.

Stroking it with your thumb gently, you slot your keys into your door, easing it open. Glancing up, you stare into the hallways, announcing your arrival:

“I’m home.”

You’re greeted with a head popping out of your kitchen, grinning away like a Cheshire Cat. Locks of ebony and violet spill from his head, with a pair of horns sticking out from his forehead. White tattoos cradle the undersides of his eyes, a replica of his spine flowing down his neck, dipping into his shirt. An apron is fastened around his waist, the bright red words “Kiss The Cook” rather prominent on it.

“Welcome Home, lil’ imp!”

The man greets you with a laugh and a nonchalant wave, before dipping back into the kitchen. He’s Sam, your roommate for…. Actually, you weren’t sure how long he’s stayed with you. It feels like one day he just showed up and made himself at home.

Not that you mind terribly, though. He helps with the housework while you’re gone, cooks whenever he’s bored… Sam’s good company as well, always ready with a quip or a joke to keep the conversation going. The only probable issue with him staying with you would be the fact that he was an incubus.

A demonic being from the depths of hell, whose life force is sustained by deeds of a more sinful nature. Well, that was how Sam explained it, the first time he showed up on your doorstep.

You almost got a heart attack then. This scantily dressed man with a pair of horns and a forked tail knocking on your door one fine Sunday? Man, it’s a wonder why you didn’t call the police straight away.

You slapped him with a slipper. Sam’s never been more surprised. Most people either fall for his charms, or run away screaming. He hardly gets to meet anyone who could resist his aura, much less hit him in the face.

You’re a rather interesting lil’ imp!

So he moved himself in right after. You’ve tried various ways to kick him out of your house. A salt line (Sam ended up vacuuming it up), playing prayers from every religious CD you could get your hands on ( Sam changed it out to other music. Better music, he said. It’s from your favourite band… hate to say it, but he’s got taste), replacing the locks on your door (he teleported right in with a ring of fire. You haven’t gotten the burns out of your floor till this day).

Come on, cut it out trying to kick him out! Sam’s so very hurt, y’know? It’s almost as if you don’t want him around, lil’ imp~

You can try to tell him that you want him out, as time goes by, Sam doesn’t miss the soft note in your voice whenever you talk to him. It’s getting harder and harder for you to hide the blush on your cheeks whenever both of you make eye contact. Hm, you’re not as immune to his charms as he initially thought~

Or so Sam claims, but somehow thinking about you liking him only because of his looks makes him hurt a little, in his chest. In his… heart. That sounds rather odd to say out loud, actually. Especially since he’s an incubus. Sam’s supposed to be immune to this sort of thing.

Goodness, was he experiencing the forlorn of love? Him?

Falling in love with a mortal…. Falling in love with you?

That doesn’t sound too bad, actually.

For now, Sam’s playing the role of the helpful, kind roommate the best he can for you. Slyly finding out your favourite things to eat, your favourite things to do. Watching stupid horror movies with you on the couch, cuddled up to each other. Sam has to fight the urge to slip his hand into yours under your blanket. He settles for letting your fingers brush against his when you reach for the snack bowl.

Sam knows you mortals like to take things slow. Relationships start carefully, with both parties getting to know each other first. He doesn’t want to scare you off, ever.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do without you anymore.

So Sam waits for you at home every day.

He greets you with a smile on his face when you come home.

Sam doesn’t even have to fake it, anymore.

But beware, because even his patience can run thin. He’s a demon, after all. An incubus, straight from the flaming pits of hell. So if one day, you find yourself restrained on your own bed, Sam’s hands on your hips….

Well, you’ll forgive him afterwards, wouldn’t you?

After all, he’s your beloved Sam darling, isn’t he?

THE SAM INCUBO HOUSE HUSBAND, MY GOD,ooooooohhhhh BLESS ME FATHER-

My God, Ceru, thank you very much, it's absolutely brilliant AAEEEHHHHHH I READ IT VERY EARLY AND A LOT OF TIMES. IT'S VERY CUTE AND... :) THE END asjasjajsjasj hhhhhhHEEELLLPPPP.

OBVIOUSLY POST IT SO THAT OTHERS READ this Sublime work of art AHHHHHHHHHHHH- MATCH MY FREAK. I read this while listening to songs on [Slowed + Reverb] HIGHLY RECOMMENDED-

[bunnakit]

if we get the tharn screaming over phaya's body scene this week i need you all to know that nothing, absolutely nothing, not wild dogs nor natural disasters, will keep me from doing a character study of that moment from tharn's pov and i'm so, so sorry in advance

edit: wow ok I didn't think more than 2 people would read this but I guess lmk if you want me to tag you if/when this happens?

[corpsepaws]

okay but hear me out. A fiddlefordxstandford animatic to the song 'roxanne' from moulin rouge. And bill is like totally jealous and leads to a fight. and that's when stanford snaps. then epic fight.

I THINK THAT WOULD BE SO COOL!!