#there is nothing in this drawing that is weird

[wardingshout]

revstar tegakis

[nuwildcat]

Okay, so hopefully you don't mind this, but this drawing absolutely refused to leave me alone since I've seen it and the writing gods demanded a sacrifice in it's honor.

~~~~~~

Jayce has only a basic understanding of undercity politics; even then, he knows this is a bad idea. 

He’s been coming down here for parts for over a year now. Which means he knows all the best places. Benzo’s is reliable. Good parts for a good price. [name]’s got interesting stuff, the issue is the quality is shit. It’s just as likely to break as it is to work. But there’s one place you only go if you’re really desperate. And Jayce is desperate. 

The Machine Herald’s. 

The name is odd, but from what Jayce has heard, if you need something unique, you’ll find it there. The issue is, what price will you pay for it? Because the owner is one of Silco’s. 

Even with his limited knowledge, Jayce knows you don’t fuck with Silco’s people. But again, he’s desperate.

If he can get this last part, he’ll finally have something to share that even Heimerdinger can’t dismiss for Progress Day. 

So he’s taking the risk — crossing the line you don’t cross as an outsider, and entering Zaun. 

Ever since the weird and antagonistic truce between Vander and Silco was struck, there’s been a divide in the lanes. On one side, Vander’s people. The other, the self-proclaimed Zaunites led by Silco. There’s literally a fucking line in the middle of the square demarcating whose land is whose. 

Jayce’s whole body tenses for an attack as soon as he’s stepped across it. Miraculously, his luck holds and nothing happens. 

Peering at the little map Ekko has drawn for him, Jayce frowns and turns left down an alley. 

Ekko had called him a crazy piltie with sludge for brains when he’d asked for directions to the Machine Herald’s, but Ekko is like twelve, so most of what he says is insults.  

The building is pretty nondescript. Jayce almost walks past it, but a cog mounted over the door catches his eye. It’s been welded into its shape by combining many other smaller items, wrenches, pipes, and what looks like a set of keys.

Jayce stares up at it over the open door, trying to pick apart everything in the cog.

“You look lost pretty boy.”

Jayce jumps, too focused on the art, he missed that a man appeared in the doorway. The stranger leans nonchalantly on the door jamb, shooting Jayce an almost mocking look as the pipe dangling from his fingers slowly lets off swirls of pinkish smoke.

He’s startlingly pretty.

The combination of half-skirt, corset, and unbuttoned shirt is clearly meant to draw the eye, and draw it does. Jayce scans the man, struggling to put his finger on what it is about the man that’s so striking.

A quirked brow reminds Jayce he’s yet to say anything.

“I—uh. I’m looking for a—a part?”

The man smirks, his face only getting more attractive, which is doing nothing for Jayce’s ability to string a sentence together.

“I should hope so,” the man replies. “Otherwise you’d need to head elsewhere.” There’s a unique accent to the man’s soft voice, slightly raspy from the smoking.

Jayce chuckles, and steps closer to the shop. “I’m Jayce,” he says, holding out his hand.

The man stares at him, eyes flicking down to his outstretched hand and back up to his face, amusement growing stronger.

“Viktor,” he says, passing the pipe to his other hand before shaking Jayce’s hand. “How can I help you, Jayce?”

Jayce takes a deep breath and dives right into explaining what he’s looking for. As he talks, the other man gives him a bewildered look before a glint enters his eyes, and Jayce can tell he has Viktor’s full attention.

What follows is a three-hour discussion about mechanics that robs Jayce of half his monthly stipend, but sends him home with no less than four different parts he hasn’t been able to find anywhere else.

Viktor sees him off, once again leaning casually in the doorway with a smirk firmly in place. He’s likely overcharged Jayce for everything, but Jayce is so pleased he doesn’t even mind.

“Make sure to hurry back, pretty boy,” Viktor calls to him as Jayce walks away.

Looking back, Jayce shakes his head at the other man and shoots him a wink. He’s whistling as he makes his way back out of Zaun and the lanes. Today, was a very good day.

_______________

Jayce goes back. 

It’s dumb. So very, very dumb, but he does it anyway. They’d talked for hours that first time, Viktor able to not only understand his designs but to make them better. 

Not even Heimerdinger’s done that. 

It doesn’t hurt that Viktor is one of the most beautiful people Jayce has ever seen. And he’s dated Mel Medarda. He knows beautiful. 

There’s something special about Viktor. Fragility paired with a cocky confidence that makes warmth spark to life in Jayce’s belly when he sees the other man. 

It’s all rather new for Jayce. He’s feeling out of his depth. Especially with the way that Viktor has draped himself over Jayce after shoving him unceremoniously on the couch. Legs tossed over Jayce’s, Viktor is sprawled back on the arm, ever-present pipe dangling from his fingers. 

“What’s that for?” Jayce asks before he’s thought the question through. 

Viktor pauses, holding in the hit he’s just taken before letting it spill from his lips, pink-tinted and smoky. 

“It helps with the pain.”

Jayce eyes drift to the brace partially hidden by Viktor’s skirt. He’s only been able to catch glimpses and his curiosity is gnawing at him to see more. 

Viktor stretches, knocking the skirt to the side and putting the brace and himself on display. 

“See something you like, topsider?”

Jayce ignores the taunt, peering closer at the brace. “Did you make this?”

Viktor loses some of his bravado in the face of Jayce’s admiration. 

“I did.”

It’s a gorgeous piece of engineering, and the forge master in Jayce wants a better look. 

“May I?” He asks, fingers hovering over Viktor’s leg. 

This time there’s no false bravado. Viktor nods and watches him like a hawk. 

Gently, Jayce lifts the leg, turning it a bit to see how the various parts of the brace move. Viktor doesn’t fight him, relaxed and loose in his grasp. The brace is a seamless creation. Jayce is highly impressed, so he says so. 

“It’s beautiful.”

Viktor lets out a noise that makes Jayce turn from the brace despite how much he wants to study it. A Cheshire grin has spread on the other man’s face, and there’s a glint in his eyes that speaks of danger. 

“Jayce Talis. Are you flirting with me?”

Jayce freezes, not sure he could cobble together a response even if he could get his tongue working with Viktor looking at him like that. 

One moment Viktor’s sprawled like a satisfied house cat, the next he’s straddling Jayce, arms draped over Jayce’s shoulders. 

“You like?” he purrs. 

Jayce’s brain has stopped working. He’s pretty sure for a second there be blacked out, because now his hands are holding Viktor’s waist, gripping the corset that must act as a second brace. 

Oh fuck. Jayce stares, unable to get what he’s seeing to make sense. His hands—his hands almost span Viktor’s tiny waist. 

For a moment, there’s just static in his brain and then something clicks. His brain lights up, and he squeezes. 

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs. Still staring. 

Viktor chuckles breathily, his finger threading through Jayce’s hair and then pulling, yanking Jayce’s head back. Jayce grunts, tingles racing down his spine as heat pools in his belly.

“Careful pretty boy,” Viktor whispers, leaning down so that Jayce’s eyes cross as he tries to watch Viktor’s lips. “You’re playing with fire.”

Jayce is pretty sure he’d like to be burned.

“You look like you don’t have a clue what to do,” Viktor murmurs, lashes dipping prettily.

“I mean, technically?” Jayce blurts out. Viktor pulls back, looking down at him confused. Jayce shrugs. “Inexperienced? No. This particular situation? Also no.”

Viktor cocks his head in confusion, eyeing Jayce like he’s a specimen Viktor means to study. Again that wicked smile spreads and Jayce’s heart thumps in excitement.

Leaning down so his breath ghosts over Jayce’s lips, Viktor says, “Whoever let you wander down here should have known better.”

Jayce’s mouth drops open, anticipation and want bubbling up inside him. Just a little closer.

“Piltover’s loss,” Viktor whispers. Then he kisses Jayce.

Zaun vik and Jayce

[kashverse]

toji fushiguro is a patient man. no, wait. scratch that. toji fushiguro tolerates things.

tolerates a lot of things, actually—your weird penchant for collecting expensive candles you never light, your insistence on putting throw pillows everywhere (seriously, why does a bed need nine pillows?), and even your occasional need to subject him to reality tv that makes him contemplate the fragility of the human brain.

but this? this is where he draws the line.

it starts with a sound.

a persistent, insidious noise that infiltrates the quiet sanctity of your shared bedroom, gnawing at his ears like a particularly persistent mosquito. it's not your snoring—no, he’s long since grown used to that (and, to be fair, you barely snore; you just breathe kinda loud sometimes, like a weak little pug). but this? this is something else. something worse. something that has been going on for hours now.

a deep, rhythmic, obnoxious snore.

toji turns his head sharply, eyes narrowed, scouring the dimly lit room for the culprit. he half expects to find you lying on your back, mouth open, blissfully unaware of the crime you're committing against his sleep. but no. you’re out cold, tucked under the blankets, looking all peaceful and innocent.

the sound, however, persists.

he sits up, squinting into the darkness. where the hell is it coming from?

a low, grumbling hum. a slight buzzing undertone. toji turns his head to the left. nothing.

to the right. nothing.

behind him. nothing.

and then he hears it.

above him.

slowly, almost fearfully, his gaze travels upward—toward the top of the wardrobe.

and there it is.

the cat.

your ridiculously old, shelter-adopted menace of a cat, sprawled out like some decrepit deity on the narrow top shelf of the cupboard, limbs dangling over the edge, mouth slightly open as he snores with a force that should not be possible for a creature his size.

toji feels betrayed.

he knew this old bastard was sneaky, but this? this was premeditated. a declaration of war. there is only one creature allowed to snore in this household, and it is him.

toji glares. the cat snores. toji glares harder. the cat snores louder.

and so, with the wisdom of a man who knows when he has lost a battle, toji gathers his pillow, his dignity in shambles, and leaves.

he sleeps on the couch that night.

(the cat? the cat sleeps like a king.)

[thewinter-eden]

You Called?

images are mine (except middle HJ pic that I got from pinterest). please do not use without permission. ATE pcs are my inspo for this series.

part 5 of the skz crack!horror series.

pairing: Han Jisung x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: demon!Jisung is summoned by your friends during a drunken college party. They’re trying to scare you, pretend to summon a demon and then lock you in the basement until they decide to let you out, but then the demon actually comes, and he thinks your friends are jerks.

warnings: Fear/comfort, edgy but soft Jisung, terrorizing of minor characters, discussion of spiritualism/afterlife, my only reference for demons is Supernatural, reader is freaked out by witchcraft, slight disparaging of witchcraft and mysticism (does not reflect actual beliefs), Jisung is instantly whipped, deals, fear, this one turned out a little angsty, truth or dare.

word count: 5k

Comment a request to be tagged.

series info

“I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Of course you don’t. But clearly, your aunt did.”

Yes, it’s your aunt’s fault. If only she didn’t have a basement full of jarred herbs and tarot cards and ouija boards and weird leathery spell books, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. You’d be in a different one, for sure, because having the friends that you have isn’t your aunt’s fault, it’s yours, but still—you wouldn’t be locked in a basement with three of your friends browsing through your aunt’s dusty new agey books.

“Now, come on, sit around the circle thing.” One of your friends, Rami, tugs you down by your elbow to sit cross-legged on the edge of a chalk rune on the floor. It looks aged and scuffed and mostly faded by dust and time, but present enough to be identifiable as something mystical.

“I’m serious, I don’t think my aunt would have wanted us down here.” You mutter. It seems colder all of a sudden, chills covering your arms and shivering down your spine.

“Then she should have cleaned it out before she died I guess.” Rami returned, gesturing for Chae and Boyoung to sit down as well. “And besides, this was your penalty. You accepted it, so this is what we’re doing.”

You wouldn’t have accepted the stupid penalty for the stupid drinking game from the stupid college party upstairs if the alternative hadn’t been being cornered by the greasy frat boy who kept slipping his hands under your shirt every time he got the chance.

Next time your cousin tries to convince you to come over and “let loose with a couple of friends” you’re going to remember that her idea of hanging out is a massive college kegger.

“Alright, here it is.” Boyoung draws her legs up underneath her and rests the massive tome of the spell book she’s holding across her knees. She shoots the others a devious smirk, and then clears her throat. “Are we ready?”

You most certainly are not.

It’s not like you believe in the afterlife and mysticism and witchcraft and all of the other spiritualism nuances that your aunt was into, but you also recognize that you definitely don’t know everything about the scope of the universe. You’re willing to admit that you might be wrong about what exists and what is folklore, and you’re certainly not enthusiastic about playing around with the afterlife—just in case.

You’ve never even touched a Ouija board, because what if?

You don’t think they work, but what if?

And now, because you lost a stupid drinking game, your stupid friends are going to use the demon summoning ritual that your aunt just had, like it’s an old family recipe or something.

“Can I pick a different penalty?” You try again, your palms sweating. Yeah, sure, nothing’s going to happen because it’s obviously an old gift shop spell book (a really old, really big gift shop spell book), but all the half-burnt candles and chalk runes and hanging herbs around you are starting to freak you out.

Boyoung and Chae both shake their heads, while Rami reaches out and snatches your elbow. “This was the deal—one summoning spell, and then ten minutes by yourself. You agreed.”

You feel like crying.

You regret it. You regret coming. You didn’t like your aunt when she was alive—who gives their nieces and nephews cat whiskers and tinctures for birthdays?—and you certainly don’t like your cousin now—she clearly has a terrible idea of a good time—so why did you even come tonight?

At this point, you’re even wishing you can go back upstairs and ask the greasy frat boy to rescue you from your friends. They’re way too excited about leaving you locked in the creepy basement after a demonic invocation, whether they believe in it or not.

“Go ahead!” Chae nudges Boyoung. “Hurry up, I wanna go back upstairs.”

“It’s fucking creepy in here.” Rami agrees, rubbing her arms and jutting her chin towards the book.

“Why don’t we just do something else? Forget the basement.” You complain, starting to get back to your feet.

Predictably, Rami yanks you back down. “Rules are rules! Go ahead, Boyoung-ah.”

That’s how you find yourself sitting in a dark basement while your friend chants ominously in Latin, your heart racing like you’ve just run a marathon. Why did it have to be a demon summoning? Why couldn’t it have been a séance? At least if you were going to be playing around with pretend spiritualism, you could pretend to talk to someone you actually liked.

Your dad had died when you were little, you could pretend to have a tear-jerking reunion and then get the fuck out of that creepy old witch house once your friends were satisfied.

Why do you even call them your friends anyway?

You’re all just the members of a few too many group projects for your biology classes, more associates than anything else.

But Boyoung is still chanting, tripping over awkward pronunciation of the dead language and squinting through the faint light to see the faded text on the ancient pages.

You don’t think it’s your imagination when a whisper of air ruffles the hair at the back of your neck, but you’re also extremely anxious at the moment. So anxious that you physically jump when Boyoung slams the book shut.

“Done!” She chirps, hopping to her feet and dusting off the seat of her skirt. She fixes you with an evil grin. “Ten minutes by yourself!” Then she loops her arm through Chae’s and your three associates clamber back up the rickety stairs to the basement door.

Before they leave you, teary and trembling on the concrete floor, Rami pauses and looks back at you. “And no using your phone. If we see any light under the door, we’ll keep it locked for an extra ten minutes.”

It was a meaningless threat, because you know for sure they’re gonna go upstairs and get more drinks and find more friends, and you’re going to have to call your cousin to let you out after they forget about you.

So there you are. In the dark, in a creepy basement, all by yourself. You’re still sitting on the ground, cross-legged, your shaky hands gripping at your knees like it’s the only thing grounding you.

It’s just an empty basement.

It’s just you, by yourself.

You decide to close your eyes and focus on your breathing, counting the lengths of each inhale and exhale until the vague sounds of Boyoung’s invocation fades from your memory. You sit there, just breathing, urging the tension to melt from your muscles, until it feels like an eternity has passed.

The party is still in full swing on the floor above you, the music and laughter floating beneath the door down to you. You focus on the shouting voices until your spine relaxes.

When your eyes finally open and blink down at the bright screen of your phone, reading the giant numbers of the clock glaring back at you, you realize you’ve only been alone for three minutes.

Every ounce of tension returns, winding through the fibers in your muscles until it’s clamped around your bones and settled in the roots of your teeth. You’re still in a creepy witchy basement for another seven freaking minutes. As the darkness seems to physically seep into your skin, your gaze is sweeping the shadows of the room.

Bookshelves covered in spilled wax, random feathers, jars of little stones and dirt (hopefully dirt?), various crystals, tons of super old books, crates of more books, larger jars of plants and branches that you can’t begin to make sense of, and an aura that you can’t quite put your finger on.

You can’t say why you feel like you’re being watched, especially when you know you’re alone, but your heart is once again inexplicably racing in your chest.

There’s no one.

The shadow to your left is the marble bust of a saint or an angel or something, the one near your feet is the pile of musty blankets on an old wooden chair, the one straight ahead of you is the kettle that hangs from a frame over the ashy pit of a cold fireplace.

Honestly what the hell was your aunt up to before she died?

You bring yourself back, focusing on the cold concrete beneath your butt, the way your ankle is grinding into the floor, the cold that’s curling its fingers around your throat when your shirt slips off of one shoulder.

As you try to slip back into the calm refuge that you’d found with your eyes closed, desperate to not emerge from the pit of the basement with tear streaks of dust and mascara, all you can hear is your own breathing.

There’s no one in there with you, no one in the shadows, no one lurking behind the stairs.

Sucking in a deep breath, you hold it and listen to your heart pounding in your ears. It’s a trick you learned to calm yourself when you were young, counting to four between breaths. In the next few moments, you feel your body begin to relax and sink back into a neutral position.

Your lungs burn as you count to four for the tenth time.

The next exhale is loud.

And it is most decidedly not your own.

You shoot upright, hand snapping out to clutch at your phone. Fuck what Rami said, you need that flashlight. Tracking the shadows again as your sweat-slicked hands fight your thumbprint reader, eyes widely combing every inch of the dark room, you find yourself unable to peer past the blackness to see the source of the sound that made your heart flip.

Your phone just keeps shaking its “try again” message at you, stubbornly refusing to unlock.

Until you see them—and you realize that you’ve already been looking at them—your gaze landing on them a dozen times in the past thirty seconds, not even registering them.

Until they blink back at you.

Your fingers stomp your passcode in and swipe on the flashlight.

Cold white light floods the room, and he’s standing there, staring at you.

You scream, bundled nerves exploding your body backwards and you find yourself on your feet, scrambling back against a heavy bookshelf.

But he’s just standing there, watching you from the other edge of the chalk circle thing you were sitting on. His head is tilted slightly, sharp eyes hooded as he beholds you silently.

Your arm is practically spasming as you try to keep your light pointed at him and check all the walls and corners at the same time, your brain screaming at you to figure out where he came from. Where did he come from? There’s only one door in the basement, and it’s up the flight of stairs to your left.

“What the fuck?” You screech, your other hand scrambling for something—anything.

The man’s eyes narrow.

He’s not especially tall, but he’s lean and strong, dressed in all black, his raven hair curling over his forehead and neck. There’s something devilishly beautiful about him, about the honey of his skin and the flick of his tongue between his lips.

His eyes mimic yours, tracing you up and down, and his tongue flicks again. Then he opens his mouth and his chin twitches up, short locks of hair flipping away from his eyes. “You called?”

The sultry baritone of his voice floats to your ears with heavy, dangerous weight, and your fingers automatically clamp around the first thing you find. Before you can reason your way through your next decision, you hurl it—the book you’re suddenly holding—directly at his head.

The man flinches, knocking the book aside with the swipe of his hand, but doesn’t realize there’s a second one coming.

You’re pelting them as quickly as you can find them, yanking ancient (probably valuable) books off of the shelf, sending up plumes of dust everywhere, hurling them at the man as you edge your way towards the stairs. He’s standing between you and your exit and you’ll be damned (hopefully not literally) if you’re going to be sacrificed to a demon in your freaky aunt’s basement.

But then his voice reaches you with a completely different tone.

“Stop! Oh my god, stop!” He’s twisted away from you, his hands up covering his face. You see glimpses of his eyes gone impossibly wide, lips jutting out in a disbelieving pout, trying desperately to catch your gaze. He dodges another book and dances away from another. “Why are you—stop!—you called me!”

Another book strikes his shoulder and his pitch goes even higher.

“You literally called me! Stop!”

You stop.

He sounds so…offended that you’re battering him with books that you just plant yourself, clutching a heavy tome to your chest, gaping at him.

He takes a second to collect himself, smoothing down the sleek black jacket that wraps around his thick shoulders and falls snugly around his narrow waist.

Running a hand through his hair and shaking dust out of it, he gapes right back at you. “Do you know how rare it is for this to happen?” He demands, eyes still comically wide. “We don’t just come when called anymore! You—” He jabs a finger in your direction and you shriek, flinching. “Are lucky that I was curious!”

Your hope of coming out of this experience without wearing your mascara in crusted ribbons down your cheeks went out the window about fifteen books ago. “You…you’re…” You suck in a deep breath that sounds like it choked you all the way down. “You?”

The man glares at you, planting his hands on his hips. “You are unbelievably rude.” He decides, taking a step closer as though you aren’t literally hiding behind the giant book in your hands. “You reach through the veil to call upon a spiritual being in the year of our Lord, 2025, and when I answer the freaking phone you throw a library at me? This is why we don’t talk to you people anymore.”

But he doesn’t reach to touch you or attack you and stomp on your skull, so you lower the book away from your face ever so slightly.

He’s standing in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, a disappointed frown on his face.

You take a second to blink at him, a flood of tears trickling down your cheeks. There’s so much happening, so much shattering your entire perception of the universe right now, but there’s only one thing on your mind. “Did you just say ‘oh my god’?”

At your timid, whimpering voice, the demon’s eyes roll. “Are you serious right now?”

You flinch, stumbling back. “It’s just…” Your eyes wander and you mentally pinch yourself. But, honestly, he’s fucking gorgeous and your racing heart is making your head spin already. “You’re a demon?”

“Yeah, so?” He shoots back.

“So…” you swallow harshly. “God?”

This brings a smirk to his lips. “If you came down here to ask about God, I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

“I didn’t call you.” You argue, glancing behind you to make sure you aren’t going to be falling into a coffin or some other terrible thing that your aunt has hidden back there.

He looks confused. “You didn’t?” He glances around. “Someone did. It’s not like I can get the address wrong.”

“My friends called you.” There’s nowhere for you to go. You’re standing against the wall, mere feet away from a literal demon, and there’s nowhere you can run from him.

At the obviously otherwise empty basement, the demon raises his eyebrows at you. “Where are they?”

You shakily point towards the stairs as you slide down the wall to the floor. “At the party. It was a dare. A penalty for a dumb game—they were supposed to pretend to summon a demon with all of this weird shit and then I was supposed to stay down here for ten minutes by myself—they just wanted to scare me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please just go away, I’ll never bother you, I swear.” You’re sobbing, completely overwhelmed, feeling completely exposed to this spiritual being as he watches you fall apart.

You’ve got the massive tome propped up on your lap, leaned against your forehead to shield yourself as you weep.

Do demons kill people?

Do they just possess people?

Are you going to go on from this night demon-possessed?

Are you supposed to pray or something?

Weight lifts from your bones as the tome is suddenly taken from you, and you blink past tears to see that the demon is crouched in front of you, dark strands of hair dancing with his eyelashes as he peers into your fearful face.

His gaze traces the trembling in your shoulders, your hands, your thighs, the rigid, bulging muscles in your throat and forearms as your body tightens with terror. When he speaks again, his deep voice is gentle. “Your friends summoned a demon and locked you in here by yourself?”

There’s nothing you can do but nod, wishing you hadn’t skipped your weekly phone call to your mom earlier. You wish you’d told her you love her, that you never meant to be possessed by a demon.

You see his hand lift and your eyes squeeze shut, a whimpering gasp rushing past your lips. If you get out of here alive, you’re burning down the basement and going to church.

But then his warm—feverishly hot, actually—fingertips glide over the wetness of your face, and his thumb is wiping at your tears. When your eyes snap open, he’s cupping your cheek in one hand but his eyes are black fire. “Stay here, baby, I’ll be right back.”

His touch disappears in a swirl of black smoke and he’s gone, vanished right before you like he was never there.

But your cheek is still throbbing from the heat of his palm, your heart thumping in your chest from the impact of his low voice.

Did he just call you baby?

All of that goes directly out of your mind because in the next second, you can hear enormous crashes of thunder above your head. The music from the party dies with an electric squeal that makes your ears sting, and then screams fill the air. The ceiling of the basement pounds and trembles with running footsteps from the floor above, furniture crashing and college students stumbling into things.

There’s a flicker from beneath the basement door, and then the light disappears.

The single bulb over your head goes out.

You scramble for your phone, turning the flashlight back on, heart hammering as you listen.

The screams begin to fade, sounding farther and farther away, until the house above you is completely silent.

Black smoke puffs in front of you and there he is again, the demon with the fire in his eyes.

The reflexive yelp that scratches up your throat is accidental, but it seems to douse the flames and the man’s gaze softens as he lowers himself to the floor, mimicking your folded-knees position. He lifts a hand and gestures to you, beckoning you closer.

Obviously you don’t move, terrified out of your mind. “What the hell did you just do?”

“I locked them in a room with me and scared them.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t as funny as they thought it was going to be. Your friends are assholes and I don’t think you should hang out with them anymore.” He tilts his head at you, his hand still extended. “I didn’t hurt them, I promise. They just ran away. As long as they stay away from you, they’ll be fine.”

You’re going to be completely honest with yourself, you didn’t have nearly enough wits about you to wonder if he’d gone up and slaughtered the whole bunch of them. But it’s nice that he didn’t, you guess.

“So.” He claps both hands to his knees. “This is a college party? I haven’t been to one of these in ages. Do you still play truth or dare?”

Your mouth falls open.

He scoots closer.

“Why as long as they stay away from me?” You’re grasping for understanding, wondering why you’re still on the filthy floor in the creepiest room you’ve ever found yourself in, staring at a demon who’s just asked you to play truth or dare.

The demon’s eyes narrow but his lips curl in a playful smirk. “Truth or dare, baby?”

You can’t help the shiver. Do you refuse to play? He’s a literal demon who can apparently call upon thunder and destroy sound and electrical systems and frighten the bejeezus out of an entire college party.

It stands to reason that playing the silly game is probably in your best interest.

“Truth.” The tiny whisper of your voice puts a flash of teasing disappointment in his eyes.

“Okay,” He says, and scoots even closer. “Are you grateful I made your friends piss themselves for you?”

A storm of emotions strike you. Are you grateful? Yeah, a little bit. It would have been hilarious to watch, now that you think about it. Are you confused as to why he did it? More than you can articulate. Would you have ever asked him to get revenge over a penalty that was supposed to be a joke? Honestly, probably not. Are you going to tell him that?

Hell to the no.

“Yes.” You swallow. “I’m grateful.”

He looks satisfied with your answer, with himself. “Good. Your turn. Ask me.”

You don’t want to ask him. You want to leave this house just like everybody else did, with your tail between your legs and your world changed forever—but alive. But you can’t. So you clench your fists and shed another round of tears. “Truth or dare?”

What would you even dare him to do?

“Dare,” He says devilishly, tongue flicking out to scrape his teeth. His eyes are mischief and intrigue, but they’re watching the trail of your tears with undeniable softness.

“I dare you…” Your voice chokes like a candle being blown out, and you struggle to get it back. “I dare you not to hurt me.” It’s pathetic. It’s laughably pathetic, but you’re scared beyond all reason and you need any kind of reassurance to keep you sane right now.

The teasing falls from his expression instantly, and a solemn stare levels with you. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe with me, I swear it.” His hands twitch, he wants to wipe the tears from your face, but he won’t—not again—not until you’re not afraid of him anymore.

You could weep all over again from the sheer anxiety of it all. “Why? Why would I believe you? Why me?”

He just smiles. “It’s my turn. Truth or dare?”

You are absolutely not ready to take a dare from a demon. “Truth.”

“Tell me your name. I’m Jisung.”

Jisung is looking at you like you’re a harbinger of hope, and you suddenly wonder if your name is supposed to hold power. Does giving your name to a demon give him power over you? Should you lie? Do you keep it to yourself?

But he gave you his name. (Or did he lie?)

You tell him. You’re locked in a basement with him—he doesn’t need a magical connection to you to kill you. He could hurt you whenever he wants.

He says your name out loud and you flinch, waiting. But your blood doesn’t boil, your eyes don’t explode, your brain doesn’t leak out of your ears. Your name on his tongue gives you confidence though, like he’s acknowledged you on an existential level and now you can look him in the eyes.

“Truth or dare.”

“Truth.” He already knows you won’t dare him to do anything, not while your mind is still racing with questions.

“Tell me why I’m safe with you, Jisung.”

He blinks at the strength in your voice, at his name in your mouth. It’s so overwhelming, to hear his name spoken aloud, that he has to turn away from you. How long has it been since he’s heard it? A millennium? An eon? Has it ever sounded so warm before? He’s blinking back tears, coughing past an ache in his chest, scrambling to collect himself before he looks back at you.

He could tell you any number of things and they would be true, but would they be enough? You’re the first face he’s seen in decades. You’re the first person who’s looked at him in years. You’re the first person who’s said his name without hurling it like a curse against him. You didn’t beg for your life when he appeared, you apologized like you bumped into him at the supermarket. Because he keeps waiting to see what you’re going to do next, say next, if you’re going to hold his gaze again.

But how does he say that to you?

He settles on his first realization of you. “Because you didn’t use me.”

You’re confused, fear falling away from your face completely as you puzzle through that statement. “I didn’t use you?”

He nods towards the book of spells that holds his invocation. “People summon demons to make deals—to use our power for their own gain. If we answer a call, it’s with the understanding that we’re being summoned to be leeched off of. You’re the first human I’ve ever come to who didn’t want anything from me.” If his throat tightens as he says it, he blames it on a millennium of loneliness and not the swell of pity that floods your eyes.

So he clears his throat and plops his chin in both palms. “Truth or dare?”

You’re warming up now, leaning into the rawness of the open wound he just exposed to you, and you feel your cheeks heat. “Dare.”

He’s stunned, delighted, and he smiles. “Dare?”

You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze, and nod. “Dare.”

Jisung leans forward on his knees and one hand, the other lifting to wipe the last of your tears, and he lingers there, hovering right next to you. “Make a deal with me.”

The words strike you with conflicting fear and excitement, your eyes wide as you stare at him. Radiating heat from his skin kisses your face, feeding the blush on your cheeks. “But you just said—”

“It’s my deal,” He interrupts. “My terms with you.”

You don’t know whether to be scared or interested, but you have few options in the way of reactions. “What are the terms?”

“Summon me again.” He says simply. “Whenever you want to. Regularly. And I’ll protect you.”

You’re gaping directly into his face now, utterly baffled and not at all afraid. “Protect me from what?”

Jisung shrugs and lowers himself back into a seated position, this time so close that his knees are touching yours. “Anything, really. But there is the reality that once you’ve reached through the veil, there are traces of you on my side of it as well. Your presence is known now, you might be vulnerable to things from the other side.”

“Things?” You repeat. “What kinds of things?”

He frowns, like he doesn’t want to tell you. “Demons, spirits, the fallen. But I’ll protect you from all of them. They might not find you, they might not care—but if they do, I’ll be there.”

This is so much worse than a stupid prank demon summoning. “Why? Why would you make this deal?”

He smiles at you then, and it’s the most vulnerable he’s looked so far. “There’s not much in the way of goodness where I’m from. I miss it.”

“Goodness?” You repeat, frowning.

“You.” He says, reaching out and flicking your knee lightly. “Friendship. Smiles. Warm touch. Laughter. Shit—” He breaks off and turns his head away and you think you see him wiping wetness away from his own eyes. When he looks at you again, you almost think you had imagined it. “Give up your stupid ass friends and take me instead.”

You’re stunned; floored; flabbergasted. One of those weird hawk feathers on the bookshelves could knock you right over. “Jisung?” What do you even say to that?

He heaves a massive sigh and both of his hands curl over your knees. You don’t mind. You honestly don’t mind. Even if you know better than to trust him all at once, you don’t mind the way he’s touching you—the way he’s looking at you.

If he’s trying to trick you into some kind of possession, grooming you to be some kind of slave, you don’t know. You’re terrified that you’re being taken in by the most beautiful sad eyes you’ve ever seen, but right now you’re stuck.

He’s still watching you, eyes hooded and hoping, and you give a nod. “Okay. Deal.”

His fingers tighten around your knees and you would be terrified at the feeling of being caught in his grasp if it weren’t for the gaping grin that spreads across his face like you’ve just told a child he can go to Disney World.

“Is there some kind of blood pact we have to do to settle the deal? A contract?” You ask nervously, hoping you know which of the dozens of the books on the floor holds the invocation. “What if I summon the wrong demon on accident?”

“Just add my name to the invocation, I’ll come.” He says, and the smile on his face is addictive.

“You’ll come just because I call?”

Jisung squeezes your knees. “If you call me, I’ll come. And promise me you’ll ditch those assholes that locked you down here.” He pulls you closer to him, eyebrows lowering in earnest. “If any demon other than myself had answered, you could have come out of this experience very differently. I don’t want you around any more of their idiotic ideas.”

You laugh then, finally, and he stares at you in awe. “I promise.”

The demon straightens, satisfied, and then he’s extending one hand to you, which you willingly take this time. “The deal seals with a kiss. There’s no fine print, not for you. You have my word—regardless of what you think a demon’s word is worth.”

He has a point, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You let him pull you to your feet, you help him find the spell book and tear the page out, slipping it into your pocket like you’ve just gotten his phone number.

When he circles back to you, he doesn’t look so dangerous anymore. “Are you ready?”

You’re nervous, still doubting what may come of your future, but you’re not scared right now. Instead, you nod, and let his warm hands tilt your chin up. You see the black flames ignite in his eyes once again, just before Jisung presses a searing kiss to your lips and fire shoots down your body.

It’s a simple kiss, as simple as pushing a stamp into a wax seal, but when he leans back to observe the heat blooming across your cheeks, your mind is gone. You feel his forehead touch yours, the whisper of his breath on your skin, the burning impact of his next words, but you’re only barely keeping up.

Because you definitely no longer regret coming to this party, or losing that stupid drinking game.

“You’re mine now, baby,” Jisung whispers against your cheek, and flashes you a wink. “Just call me and I’m yours.”

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015 @p0is0ned-peach

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[fxckn-sxck-fr]

Oh well, since you encouraged me... Something that's been on a mind since I've read your older brother!Dick I just keep thinking of the incest potencial... Even with the more than controversial ages

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍…

!!! 18+ THEMES, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, GN reader, fauxcest, age gap, toxic dynamic, noncon, making out, disgusting touching, brief hints of sexual content, general yandere fuckery, manipulation, kind of grooming(?), controlling behaviors, poor reader trying to cope so hard.

GGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAA—

Don’t worry, pooks, I saw all of your other asks about this idea and I’ll try to remember to hit all of the points you bring up. I just wanna keep it all in one place.

ALSO, ALSO, ALSO, LIFE WITH OLDER BROTHER ENJOYERS. HEY. HEY. LISTEN. If you’re not fucking with this ask and you don’t want the wholesome platonic dynamic you conjured in your brain ruined for you, DO NOT PROCEED ANY FURTHER. LIKE, AT ALL. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

You literally clocked me so badddd. Yes, the undertones in that series are 100% intended. I’m not gonna add anything overtly incestuous, but like… the subtext is there for the freaks to pick up on. Platonic incest where the lines blur every now and then, I love you so much.

Anyways, lemme get to yapping for real.

If we’re going to vaguely follow the Life With Older Brother series, Dick suddenly being so friendly to you would be… a little bit jarring. But try to think about it from his perfective: he wasn’t really there for Jason, and the thought of failing another younger sibling is too much to handle. Maybe he’s just trying to be more present for you. As weird as he may come off, you should at least give him a chance.

The beginning isn’t all that bad. Even if he’s relatively new to the older brother thing, you can tell he’s trying his best, and dare you say it, he’s actually fun to hang out with. Playing video games, going out for ice cream, trashy movie marathons… it almost makes you forget about those weirder behaviors. Almost.

Now, one thing you quickly noticed is how touchy-feely he is. Whenever you’re together, it seems like he’s always got sort of body part touching you one way or another. Sometimes, it’s subtle: a knee resting against yours, a very quick head-pat, his hand brushing against you as he gestures at something. Nothing all that noticeable unless if you’re very sensitive to touch. But then there are times where it’s a little more… overt. Like when he slings an arm around your shoulders. Or when he holds your hand while out and about. Or when pulls you against his side by your waste when it’s a crowded area. Every now and then, you find yourself wondering if this is normal. Do siblings usually touch each other so often? It kind of makes sense, but… considering you haven’t even been siblings for a full year, should he really be this comfortable around you yet?

If you think you can set boundaries with him, good fucking luck. He might’ve made it seem like he was hearing you out, but it won’t be long before he’s back at it with the touching. Okay… maybe this is something he really can’t help. As annoying — and weird… and uncomfortable — it may be, you’ll probably just have to suck it up and get used to it. Some people are just very handsy. But not like that! Oh my god, no. Dick’s Nightwing; a good guy, for Christ’s sake. He would never do anything like that!

(… Right?)

Here’s the thing about platonic physical affection: how weird can it get before people finally draw the line? Is it forehead kisses? Hugging someone by the waist? Having them sit in your lap whenever the opportunity arises? Are any of those things actually weird, or does Dick somehow make them weird? Because, yes, he still most definitely acts like an older brother — he certainly teases you like one, and you constantly have to fight against the urge to bite him like a feral weasel — but the touching… well… maybe familial affection is just a concept foreign to you (thanks in no small part to Bruce), but Dick somehow makes it feel like something else.

And you’ll admit; you don’t actually know what that something else is. All you know is that you’re pretty sure big brothers do not do that gentle, extremely intimate thumb-stroke thing to their little sibling’s face before a forehead kiss. And they also do not come up from behind their little sibling for a hug.

And the lap thing?

That was probably the turning point.

Because what older brother has their little sibling sit on their lap while watching TV? One hand on your hip, the other on your thigh… he’s doing that weirdly intimate thumb stroke thing on your bare skin, and all you can do is sit there and think, oh… I don’t like this. If you’re brave enough to ask him what he’s doing, he’ll play dumb. Hm? What do you mean, kiddo? He’s not doing anything… what are you talking about?

Before you can even begin to express how uncomfortable you are, however, his fingers start toying with the hem of your shit. You’re acutely aware of his knuckles brushing against the flesh of your torso, sending an uneasy shiver up your spine. Dick’s no stranger to touching your waist area, and while you still don’t really like it that much, you’ve gotten used to it. But this? Something about the actual skin on skin contact makes you freeze up entirely.

“You know,” Dick would thoughtfully begin, “I’m probably the luckiest big brother in the world. I don’t think you realize just how cute you are, (Y/N).”

His hand then inches its way up your shit.

BadbadbadbadbadbaDBADBADBADBAD—

Don’t bother fighting back. Don’t bother yelling at him. Don’t even bother squirming as he gently begins to run circles into the skin under your shirt. His grip on your thigh is like iron, holding you down to his lap and making any struggle futile. In fact, if I were to venture a guess, you’d probably be too petrified to even move, the shock of the moment rendering you completely immobile. This was supposed to be your big brother; yes, he’s a bit weird and overprotective, but he’s still your fucking big brother. And while your knowledge on big brothers may be extremely limited, you know for a fact that this is crossing a line.

Your faces become closer and closer until his breath is ghosting against your lips. “I love you, kiddo. You know that, right?”

You don’t dare to offer him a response. Hell, you don’t even know what you could say to that. The only thing filling your brain is the brazen warning bells screaming for you to get the fuck away from him. Except you can’t. For whatever reason, your body’s frozen in place, limbs weighing you down like heavy ice blocks.

You can’t move.

You can’t fucking move.

And, of course… he takes advantage of that.

By the time his lips softly plant themselves on yours, it’s too late. The lines between platonic and whatever the fuck this is have long been crossed, and you can never go back to pretending like everything is normal between you two. All of the subtle warning signs you opted to ignore were now blaring in your mind like loud sirens, almost mocking the fact that you didn’t fucking trust yourself.

This can’t be happening. This absolutely can’t be happening. You thought of this creep as your big brother; was this really the same guy that helped you with homework and let you play games on his laptop? Was this really the same guy under the Nightwing mask?

While the kiss evolves into something a little more passionate, he doesn’t take it too far. Just a gentle make-out session with roaming hands. He ends it by holding you against his chest, seemingly content with just occasionally peppering kisses to your face for the next hour or so. Neither of you say anything during this time. Even if you want to yell at him and demand why the fuck he did that, you’re too shocked to even form a coherent thought.

The man you thought could be your big brother is a massive fucking creep.

You think you’re going to be sick.

He doesn’t go out for patrol that night. Instead, he simply picks you up and carries you to his room, dressing you in his clothes for bed. You’re still trying to process the humiliation of letting this all happen as he slips you under the sheets with him and cuddles up to you. Sleep doesn’t come easy to you that night. How the fuck could it? Not only do you have that stupid fucking kiss haunting you, but now you have this sicko’s hand playing with the waistband of your shorts (his shorts), and god. You’re not sure how you didn’t throw up then and there.

So. What happens afterwards? Well, first off, no more phone. Dick’s not an idiot; he knows the lines he crossed that evening and would rather you not call Bruce or Alfred or the police. You’re also not allowed on his laptop unless if he’s supervising you, and your ass is not going outside anytime soon. Then we have the gross shit… yeah, now that he’s had a taste, he’s gonna be all over you. It won’t go that far just yet — he’d rather ease you into that territory, much like what he’s been doing before — but it can get a bit steamy. At least for him. You might still be grossed out over all this or whatever.

You know what the worst part is? He still has the audacity to act like your older brother. It doesn’t matter how many times he touches you or forces you to kiss him: he’ll call you kiddo through it all and offer to play some video games afterwards. In fact, are times where you both return to your previous sibling banter and you can almost convince yourself that things are totally fine. There you go again, falling for his meticulously set up trap.

This new dynamic might take some time to get used to, but Dick will try his damned hardest to make it seem natural. So what if Big Brother sometimes wants to pin his cute little sibling against the counter and leave love bites on their neck? Sometimes, it just has to happen. No harm, no foul. This could be normal if you stopped being so weird about it, you know.

And, you know what… you may find yourself finally accepting that this is your new normal. What else are you supposed to do? You can’t call anyone, you can’t run away, you can’t even fight back because he was trained by fucking Batman… you sure as hell don’t have to like it, but maybe you can make peace with it. This is nothing more than an annoyance from your big brother. That’s all. It’s not him grooming you. It’s not him taking advantage of you. It’s just him being a little irritating at times. Ignore the urge to throw up… ignore how your skin crawls whenever he’s near you… every sibling has their flaw, and being a total creep is Dick’s.

You’d probably begin to despise Bruce a little, too. Did he know how fucked up his former ward is? Or is the exact same way? Guess you’ll never know, because the man can’t even bother to check up on you. He essentially took you out of the system and threw you into the den of a wolf, subjecting you to a new personal hell you can’t even escape from. And Alfred… you thought he actually cared. Is he not concerned about the sudden radio silence on your end?

You really can’t help but wonder if anyone even thinks about you outside of the apartment, and with Dick being in control of what information he feeds to Bruce over the phone, all you can do is guess at this point. In the meantime, Big Brother just came back and needs a hug… why don’t you come on over to the couch, kiddo?

Ugh. There are so many fucking directions I can go in from here. You mentioned Bruce (or eventually Tim) becoming suspicious and finding out what’s going on, and GRRRRR. SO GOOD. SO FUCKING GOOD. I need to write a blurb about this. It’s so addicting. I just had to get some of the base ideas on this out because this concept has been marinating in my brain for way too long. I’m not kidding, I was going to actually explode if I didn’t get to talk about this. I NEED MORE OF THIS TYPE OF SHIT.

[the-ellia-west]

Hello and Welcome!

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About me:

I am a Christian, and a Devoted one!

I am a Minor (High School) So DON'T BE WEIRD

I am a Woman

I am Straight and a Hopeless Romantic, but I'm not looking for a Relationship currently

I am Autistic

I am an Author/Writer

I am a Plotter, and I just recently figured that out!

I love to ramble and listen to rambles!

My MBTI is INFP-T

I live in the USA Midwest but I spell grey with an e

✦ I promise I don't bite! Please interact with me! ✦ Feel free to ask me anything about Writing or my WIPs, I love to help!

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Favorites: Book: John Carter, A Princess of Mars (By Edgar Rice Burroughs) Movie: Narnia, Voyage of the Dawn Treader Artist: Tobymac Song: Sleep in the Storm (Unspoken) Colors: Blood Red, Gold, Lilac Purple, Forest Green Hobbies: Writing, Doodling, Rambling Food: Eggs, Grapes, Noodles, Specifically Spaghetti, and Pork lo-mein Drink: Taro Milk tea & Cherry italian SodaCharacters: Haymitch, Zuko, Knuckles, Eustace, Darth Maul, Gummigoo, Hunter Tropes: Magnificent Bastards, True Kings, Romantic Subplots, Grumpy Mentors, Darkest Hours, Redemption arcs, & Happy Endings Current Interests: Sonic, The Owl House, TADC, ATLA, Fool's Gold

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I Post about:

Any of my Interests

Talking with and Supporting Friends

My Life and Feelings

My WIPS! (Usually Characters but sometimes Plot & Actual Writing) -[See Below]

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My Wips!

Just Click on the Titles for more info! (Masterposts Coming soon) QNA OPEN - PLEASE ASK ABOUT MY OCS

Jest of Royalty -JoR- Genre - High Fantasy Action Drama Type - Webcomic Theme - Anyone can be redeemed if They have the Remorse and are willing to put in the work Description - A Young Farm boy named Ronan Breaks the Magical Staff of a god, and embarks on a Vengeful quest to get them back, Finding a new family along the way and learning the true meaning of mercy and love

Fallen Genre - Romance Fantasy Type - Written Theme - Nothing said, done, or changed, Can Make a Person unworthy of love Description - In a World where name means everything, a Noblewoman named Adémiah runs away from home and meets a Criminal called Dyn who saves her life several times, and through a dangerous journey they learn to love one another, with the help of a Traveller called Bard

Chomik Genre - High-Fantasy Comedy Type - Comic Theme - None Description - Young Hero, Kaezal, is yoinked into a quest for knowledge by a researcher, Akea, and they come across a variety of different Foes and Reoccurring Villains

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Tags:

#Ellia scribbles - My Drawings, doodles, & art practice

#Ellia's rambling - My incoherent Ramblings about the stuff I love

#Ghost-stories - My Actual Writing

#Tea and trinkets - Yapping with my Friends

#Quill-and-ink - My Poetry

#Haunting box - Any asks

#Ellia's dollhouse - My Real Life

#Ellia's dolls - My Hyperfixations/interests

#Fallen wip - Anything important Fallen-related

#Chomik work - Anything Chomik-related

#Ellia's jor - Anything JoR-related

#JoR memes - Memes and random funny stuff

#JoR family - Character info, Team Dynamics, conversations, ect.

#JoR psychology - We dive into the minds of the Characters

#JoR characters - Stuff about individual characters

#JoR vital - Things I may need for later/important stuff

#JoR building - Worldbuilding

#JoR story - The Plot

#JoR snippets - Scenes, Writing, ect.

#JoR thoughts - My ramblings about the WIP

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My Moots:

@thewritingautisticat @yolbert @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @lunaeuphternal @an-indecisive-nerd

@homelessnerd @thebookishkiwi @write-with-will @pastellbg @i-do-anything-but-write

@darkandstormydolls @supercimi @blargh-500 @sunflowerrosy @corinneglass

@carb0n-m0n0xid3 @tiredpapergirl @vesanal @fourwingedsnake @ellowynthenotking

@busybussinbee @the-letterbox-archives @harleyacoincidence @cosmolumine @urnumber1star

@thecrazyalchemist @i-hate-happy-endings @stars-forever @fantastictrashpolice @blue-kyber

@artsandstoriesandstuff @rivenantiqnerd @cybercelestian @aalinaaaaaa @agirlandherquill

@smudged-red-ink @clever-naming-convention

Farewell, and have a good day Loves!

[purfectprincessgirl]

Weeee, nothing like a fun art meme to start off the day, eh? lol Seeing some of my fellow mutuals filling out this "Draw a Character You Like" template, I couldn't resist giving it a go too~ ✨

NOTE: Pls refrain from any rude comments if you happen to dislike any character(s) here btw; these are just my own personal faves, so ya miiight wanna take that negativity somewhere else, thanks~✌😊

-"Current Favorite" = Ofc goes to bird daughter Octavia, 'cause aaaa poor girl deserves ALL the love rn 🥺💜

-"Comfort Character" = While not *as* prominent as some other ponies (even princess-wise), without Cadence (+her debut episode "A Canterlot Wedding"), I wouldn't have stuck with MLP for as long as I have soooo ye, a natural comfort fave Cadence has grown to be lol💗

-"By Design" = Tbh I'm not really *that* big into Rainbow High nowadays (idk a mix of general series burnout + the weird slime reboot didn't rly appeal to me-); but Bella in particular is always a fave of mine to see featured (esp doll-wise with how many Bellas I've collected atm lol) 💕

-"By Plot" = About time I *finally* made some TADC fanart, bruh lol (ever since I watched the initial pilot), and yee Pomni's just been a blast to watch throughout these recent eps ngl~ ❤️(esp in her growing empathetic side + gradually-sillier antics with her fellow circus members). Curious to see what else Gooseworx has in-store for this lil jester!👀🤞

-"Guilty Favorite" = Seems to be more commonplace nowadays to find SU a rather... "hit-or-miss" show (esp in the critical community-); but Jasper's always been an entertaining baddie imo (+the odd lil friendship she formed with Steven at the end was pretty amusing lol)

-"All Time Favorite" = Ofc... not a surprise at all to those who've known me long, DP fandom-wise lol. Idk, Sam's just always been a fun & spunky presence for me even years later, so she'll always have a special place in my heart imo~ 💚🦇

[northsealight]

cold hands warm steel

summary: jason's spirit indeed is willing, but his flesh is weak.

notes: this is a teaser of sorts for my project I've been working on!! + some thoughts about knight!Jason, temptation, and his weird thing for metal weaponry. I thought about this about a year ago and was inspired to continue it after reading @sanguineterrain's wonderful wonderful Jason knight fics. also would not be here posting this willingly if it weren't for @shoot-i-messed-up indulging this..

The knight’s day begins not with the rising of the sun, but with the discordant hums of church bells, beckoning him to morning mass. Jason is no different– like a good man of the faith, he stews in the back pew of his lord’s chapel alongside the rest of the cavalry. 

The homily, much to his horror, is like nothing Jason has heard before; graphic denouncement of desire, temptation, and the sins of flesh. He knows the oath, knows it like the brand seared into his face, knows it like the rejection of a father afraid of his prodigal son. He knows not to break it. Yet the description of such lecherous acts that were meant to sicken him, draw him in. Placidly, he thinks of you during the priest's fiery sermon— you who did nothing but infuriate and annoy, you who somehow, enticed him in another language that transcended the physical.  Something precious as a knight’s chastity seemed to dull in face of what he could desire, possess, own— if he finally submitted to you.

The thoughts linger with him, long after mass ends, long after entering the forge— as he flattens his armor, each strike of the white-hot steel brings to mind images of warm, giving skin; each chime of metal reminiscent of muffled sighs, quiet gasps. 

Even in preparation for violence, his longing follows him. When Jason wearily lifts the chest plate to his body, his first thought upon the cold suggestion of his armor is hot hands, gliding down his stomach. When Jason hooks all of his gear into the right corners, all the belts, buckles, and screws that slide against each other without resistance, he guiltily imagines damp limbs, bumping into one another in uniform ecstasy. 

Like a man possessed, he grasps the hilt of his sword, and imagines his thumb pressing your pulse point; the soft juncture between your neck and collarbone. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, he slides the pad of his digit up, up, up; past the hilt, the crooked cross-guard, through your clothing, and into the cool steel of your skin. 

What words could he elicit with a press of his finger? What carefully guarded secrets could he uncover? He forces his thumb down, harder, and imagines your bright grin, and hands that guide his clumsy, fumbling ones down. Harder, and you shower him with praise, words that make his ears flush with embarrassment. Even harder, and he may as well be lost to the grain of your voice forever. 

Jason is brought out of his reverie by the sting of broken skin. He watches as his blood, ruby red, spreads and stains the base of his blade. 

For a moment, it seemed that even cold steel could bend to human want.

[vantablackdraws]

SHIT IM TWO DAYS LATE WHOOPS!!! REQUESTS?? FROM MY FAVORITE GUILTY GEAR ARTISR??? on my hands and knees begging for the smallest doodle of Chaos and Daryl if you have the time

(fun story: I spent months upon months thinking I was missing an image of the one drawing you did of them because ao3 loves being weird with pictures for me, only for you to post it here on tumblr and I find out I missed nothing boy was that a whirlwind of emotions)

(I'm so sorry I thought this was funny)

[corioliseffect]

Fanart of a scene from thermodynamic equilibrium by piastrism on ao3. goddd this fic was so good. spy au? lestapiastri?? badass girl max??? crazy fire metaphors???? it has everything. Including this banger dream scene which i just had to draw 💙❤️🧡

It's a weirder dream than usual. Weirder than anything she’s had lately, and not in the sense of how fucked up it is, but just how — weird. There is no better word to describe it, really. “Pass me the salt?” Max blinks. She’s sitting at the main seat of a long mahogany table. On her right sits Oscar, on her left Charles. Except Oscar is wearing a white shirt with a grey vest and a cravat, while Charles only wears a see-through, flimsy chiton. “Hello? Salt?” Oscar waves his hand in front of Max. Max clears her throat, and passes him the salt, finally. Oscar thanks her with an eye-roll. When she looks down at herself, she yelps a little. She’s almost naked, with nothing but a pair of red lacy underwear covering her body. Charles seems to enjoy it – he snorts at the sound she made. “I’ve always thought blue suited you more,” he says with an apologetic little smile, sipping on a glass of– something. Something sweet and syrupy, like honey.

closeups + extras under the cut

I took a step back and looked at the chairs and then this ^ wouldn't leave me alone lol. plus... oscar jack piastri... get it...

procreate says this drawing took me 10h 55m which is. wow. crazy. but so worth it, i'm really proud of this.

[totallyanopossum]

Call of duty

Ghost babysits

WC: 1.3k

Link to story master post

Warning: mentions of drug use, addiction, sexual content

Note: solo smut scene

Part 6, home alone

3 days later their teams packing up to go on a mission. Price calls her down to talk to her, he's planning on leaving her on her own, that's why he had Ghost stay over. It was a test run to see how she'd do without someone who knows her past watching and she passed with flying colors.

Y/N-“ so what's up?”

P- “ we've got a mission real soon and I know I've been overprotective but I trust you and think your ready to be on your own this time”

She never thought she'd hear him say that, not only that he trusts her but acknowledging his behavior. She's so used to being lied to and manipulated that someone taking responsibility for their actions is a surreal experience.

Y/N-“ th..thank you, this means a lot, i wont let you down”

P- “ it's okay to slip and fall along the way, as long as you keep trying and getting back up. I'm sorry if i ever pressured you made, you think one slip up is a disappointment, this is new for me”

Y/N-“ this is a learning experience for both of us, i think we're doing good”

P- “ yeah”

Y/N-“ so how long will you be gone”

P- “ a week or so can't really know till we're headed home”

Y/N-“ okay”

-💀Simon❤️‍🔥-

Hey

Hey lovie

Heard you got a mission soon

Yeah we leave tomorrow

Good luck come back to me

Nothing could keep me from you

When your back I wanna see you

I already miss you so much

Me too lovie me too,

once back I won't make you wait long

It's weird having the house to herself, she hasn't been left alone this long since before rehab and even then she has never liked being all alone, it kinda creeps her out. Being left alone with her thoughts is a torturous trial she's never done well at.

When Ghost was ‘babysitting’ she couldn't always hear or sense where he was because of how stealthy he is but she knew he was there somewhere. But now she knows she's all alone, alone with just herself and there's a reason even before rehab she was always around others, when she's alone all that's left is her mind, and her mind is greatest enemy.

Getting clean wasn't easy, she's drawn to anything that takes away the pain. She can't remember most of her psychotic break but it's still got its claws in her, the call to drugs, and now left all alone with her thoughts she's starting to have strong cravings.

Knowing no one is coming home to stop her, to catch her, scares her so badly she goes to a meeting. She keeps this up going to a meeting every day, figures if she's busy doing that and getting support then she can't go find something to swallow, inhale, or snort.

When she's not at meetings she's drawing, doing yoga, baking, dancing to music, and has doubled her walks now taking one in the evening too. She usually keeps a relaxed, very free schedule but now she's packing her days so full there's no time for anything else. No time for her mind to wonder and torture her, no time to think of drugs, no time to go score them, no time to worry about Simon and Price.

She's got the days covered but the nights,she can't escape her mind during the nights. All she can do is put on her sleep playlist, hug onto the pillow Simon used, focus on counting her breaths and hope she can fall asleep before 4 am.

A week has gone by and still no word but she's not worried, well not yet at least, she promised herself she wouldn't worry until the 3 week mark. But she really hopes they get home soon, her sleep has been extra shitty and she needs a night of sleeping with Simon. Wither it's just sleeping cuddled up or being fucked till passing out, both resulted in excellent sleep and she needs that.

Almost at the 2 week mark and the packing her day's full routine is wearing her down and the crappy sleep is not helping. So today she switches things up, she needs to feel something good, needs some oxytocin.

She lays down her towel, gets her rose toy and thinks of her man. First time she did this she was just imagining what it would be like with him, but now she's been with him and knows exactly what it's like, fueling her even more.

She dims the lights, puts on some music to set the mood, not having to care if someone overhears.

Legs spread open, one hand rolling her nipple between her thumb and pointer finger the other applying her rose to her swollen clit.

She never thought something could top the rose but Simon working his tongue on her is just something else, but she'll just have to make do without him for now.

Her light moans turn to whines of need, she needs more. She feels so empty now knowing just how full she can feel. She gets up and digs through her still till she finds the hidden velvet bag stuffed in the back of her underwear drawer.

The metals cold to the touch but it's just what she needs, Simon's stretched her cunt to only be satisfied by him now, so a butt plug is just what needs. She hasn't played with her ass in ages so she'll have to go with a smaller plug.

Laying on her side, leg up, using her own slick arousal as lubrication she slowly pushes the cold metal plug into her tight ass. The stretch is euphoric, making memories of Simon painfully stretching her out flash before her. Letting out sinful moans as the plugs fully in and she's clenching around it.

She always orgasms so quickly when she has something in her ass, but she wants to enjoy them, make it last. So she sets her rose aside and uses her fingers. They easily glide into her sopping wet cunt as she starts pumping 2 fingers in and out.

Her core tightening, clenching down hard, pussy dripping, toes curling, bottom lip bloody from biting, head thrown back, as she reaches her peak calling out Simon's name and a mess of unrestrained moans.

She's panting as she comes down from her release, she finally got the hit she was craving, oxytocin isn't Oxy but this was better. Once calms down, coming down from her high she looks at the mess she made and a sinful thought crosses her mind. She wants to snap a picture and send it to Simon but he explained she won't be able to reach him till he's home so it's no use doing that.

She cleans up her bed and goes to shower but leaves her plug in, she used to love wearing one on the regular and had even managed to stretch up to a decent size, but her ex hated it, called her a bunch of nasty things but she has a feeling Simon won't have a problem with this.

She takes a long shower just closing her eyes and enjoying the feeling of the water falling over her still sensitive body. This leads to round 2 with the handheld shower head held to her puffy sensitive clit peppering it with water, she's so glad she left her plug in. She orgasms hard screaming out, grabbing onto the edge of the shower bench as she squirts. She knows she's able to but it's been ages, she feels lightheaded and takes a while to recover and finishes her shower.

She spends the rest of the day in bed drawing and watching a show enjoying her oxytocin bliss.

Sorry for the wait and short chapter lifes been getting crazier then usually

[overanalysingfandoms]

dude a draw. Not super accurate to what I wanted and imma try again later, but it reminded me of your Robin Hood AU.

Oh my god this is amazing!!!!!!!

My boiiiiiiiii he looks so goood ajrbwkdbskndnd

I absolutely love the purple!!!!! It's very regal (fitting for a Prince) and also very Grian, especially paired with the red!

He just looks so cute! With the puffy sleeves and the skirt skdbdksndksndj

And his facial expression is perfect!

I genuinely love your art style, my boi looks amazing!

This is genuinely soo cool <3<3<3

In return for this wonderful fanart please have the first draft of an incomplete fanfic for this au I wrote in one sitting like a year ago:

[Context, they're in Grian's room at the castle and it's around 6:00 in the evening]

Grian opened his mouth to fire back another witty mark when a knock at the door froze them both.

There were a few seconds of silence before another round of knocking and a questioning "Your Majesty?" snapped them out of their trance.

BigB.

Ren's advisor had mentioned to Grian at dinner a few nights before that he would be coming round sometime this week to go over some of the new defense plans and check if any changes needed to be made. Apparently he had chosen the absolute worst possible time to have their little chat considering the wanted criminal currently in Grian's room 2 inches away from him.

For a brief moment they stared at eachother in panic. Then the Prince jumped into action, pushing Scar in the direction of his wardrobe and shouting a hasty "Just one moment" over his shoulder. It took a few seconds but Scar seemed to get the message, rushing towards the wardrobe, throwing open the doors, and attempting to clamber in.

Unfortunately, a combination of the man's height and his natural propensity for clumsiness led to him snacking his forehead off the top with a grunt. He tried to get in again but the space was too small and rather inconveniently, though perhaps predictably, filled with Grian's clothes. Scar turned around to the Prince with a shrug and Grian groaned.

He grabbed Scar's hand and dragged him over to his bed. Glaring at the outlaw's suggestively raised eyebrows, he pointedly gestured for the outlaw to get under the four-poster. Once Scar did, not without an endearing obnoxious wink might he add, Grian hurriedly adjusted the sheets so they covered the gap between the bed and the floor, leaving a little room for Scar to peak out.

Finally, he ran back to the wardobe and slammed the doors. Probably a bit too hard if the concerned "Grian?" that came from outside was anything to go by. The Prince winced, he would have to figure out a way to explain that.

Brushing down his skirts he called an answering "Coming!" and ran to the door.

---

BigB sighed as he made it to the Prince's room. It had been a long day and thankfully this was the last thing on his list. He knocked. And... heard nothing? That was odd, he could have sworn Grian had said he had nothing planned this week when BigB had mentioned his visit a few nights ago.

"Your Majesty?"

A harried "Just one moment" was followed by a series of strange noises and eventually a loud slam. That didn't sound good, "Grian?" he questioned,

"Coming!" came the answer and a very frazzled looking Grian opened the door.

He must have seen the obvious confusion on BigB's face and explained "I was just putting all my socks away"

"Riiight... All your socks?"

"Yeah, I was organising them in colour order" he responded smoothly, as if it should answer BigB's questions rather than create more, all the Royal advisor could do was stare at him.

"What? Don't you like having all your clothes organised? Drives me mad if mine aren't"

There wasn't much BigB could do other than shrug with a nervous chuckle. It was probably another of those weird royal habits Grian seemed to have a whole lot of.

"It's not really something I think about to be honest"

"Oh."

"Yeah..."

"Welllll..." Grian began awkwardly "Did you want to come in?"

BigB breathed out a sigh of relief, "Yes please"

---

From where Grian had put him under the bed Scar had a pretty limited view of the Prince's room. He could see the back of the open door that Grian was talking to BigB through and the desk with the vanity by the wall next to it, but that was pretty much it.

He was just shifting to get a bit more comfortable - not that there was much he could do, lying on your stomach is pretty awkward no matter what position you're in - when Grian brought BigB in.

The Prince shot him a look, no doubt warning him to stay still and not make any noise. He of little faith. Scar was a renound outlaw! He knew how to handle himself in a situation like this, it was practically his job. He responded with a pout before giving Grian a quick wink and got an, admittedly fond, eye roll for his troubles. Really, so rude, you'd think Grian didn't care for his plight at all.

The outlaw stayed silent as Grian hauled himself onto his desk, back to the wall, and gestured for BigB to sit in the chair, the advisor's back conveniently facing Scar. The outlaw grinned as he made eye contact with Grian, anyone in The Resistance could say what they wanted about the prince being a risky informant, but they couldn't deny his cunning.

[That's all I wrote 😭]

I planned more but never got round to it haha

I want to continue it at some point

[titisorriso]

A jester bored. Did this to test a brush i made.

[sysig]

Permission to headbutt: Granted (Patreon)

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Me when I really want to draw fanart for a fandom because it looks so cool, but I haven't the slightest idea about any deeper lore than surface level plot and symbolism

[rupeenotruby]

That was long. Keeping this short. Not sure about this one. Thank you to @/runecatwrites for this [Click] analysis post as it was pretty helpful for the Wild and Wars dialogue (though I think the analysis is better).