#these demigods with their nine inch nails

[notasapleasure]

Oh I realized I forgot to ask about Jerott/Marthe plans (I think I’ve seen what you’ve written but I’d love to hear abt the other ideas too!) and “AU of an AU” bc I wanna know how the townhouse stay goes!

I'll answer Au of an au separately :')

Ik I must have mentioned this a million times, but it always bears repeating :') the whole ethos of band AU Jerott/Marthe is summarised by the song Precious Things by Tori Amos:

So I ran faster But it caught me here Yes, my loyalties turned Like my ankle In the seventh grade Running after Billy Running after the rain

These precious things Let them bleed Let them wash away These precious things Let them break Their hold on me

He said "you're really an ugly girl But I like the way you play" And I died, but I thanked him Can you believe that? Sick, sick, holding on to his picture Dressing up every day I wanna smash the faces Of those beautiful boys Those Christian boys So, you can make me cum That doesn't make you Jesus

These precious things Let them bleed Let them wash away These precious things Let them break Their hold on me

I remember, yes In my peach party dress No one dared No one cared to tell me Where the pretty girls are Those demigods With their nine-inch nails And little fascist panties Tucked inside the heart Of every nice girl

These precious things Let them bleed Let them wash away These precious things Let them break Let them wash away These, these precious things Let them bleed, now Let them wash away These, these precious things Let them break Their hold on me

--

I also actually made a band AU playlist for them ages and ages ago, but some of those songs have since been repurposed to other characters' playlists and I think I'd rework it quite heavily now. Still, gives an idea of the vibes.

More answer and fic below the cut

Marthe gets saddled with minding Jerott while he finishes up his stint in rehab (Anemone on Ao3). She doesn't let on what she knows of where Francis has gone - nor who he's gone with - and Jerott's probably surprisingly tolerable while he's sober and chastened after all the drama of the road trip etc. They get to jamming together and do a few shows for pocket money, and probably bond over some obscure artists and songs they didn't think anyone else knew about/thought were cool in that day and age (mutual love of Nature Boy ftw haha yes I am aware of what I did there: 'the greatest thing you'll ever learn / is just to love / and be loved / in return').

Marthe, cynical about her chances of a solo career in the wake of Kiaya's departure, sees in Jerott a competant musician who she might bend to play her kind of music, to allow her to kind of ride on-his-coattails into the charts/European market (grudgingly admitting the need for a Man in the music industry, thanks for the 'lesson', Kiaya), from where she might find her own niche. They do have chemistry on stage at this point, playing covers together and challenging each other to play better than the other. I think that leads her to a moment of vulnerability where she makes a last gasp effort to convince herself she's bi, when it's really just that competence is a draw no matter who they are. But Jerott's still sober and he's so excited she's willing to tolerate him (oh thank god!! I was attracted to her and not Francis after all!!) that he's well behaved and keeps his mouth shut when told to (see excerpt below). He is also, as we have discussed, A Good Sex Haver, or at least is very much the kind of guy who gets off on giving good head (it's MY au and I'll do what I want to make elements of their marriage less grim ok??), so even if Marthe's not keen on piv she can live with the situation.

The marriage is something they both claim to go into with eyes wide open - knowing it suits her to have access to European residency (I am not looking up citizenship law for this ask, but Jerott probably has dual French/British if that's possible at the time) and knowing that he's obsessed with her(/Francis) while she's kind of indifferent/tolerating him. But of course he believes she'll come to love him anyway, and he believes he doesn't love Francis, and she believes he'll stay sober and meek and won't mind being teased about Francis when it's obvious that's who he'd rather be with.

They do some touring and it starts well - Fleetwood Mac energy, bouncing from love to hate depending on the kind of day they've had. They get a pretty good record contract, but they absolutely blow the recording of it. They have to *live* together for the first time, not on tour, but in a place near the studio, confined and at each other's throats. He starts drinking again. She won't compromise musically. It's a total flop - the lyrics are called outdated and garbled, the music is overproduced, stifled and jars from one track to the next. They play a few live shows where some of the tracks come into their own a bit, but the reviews put such a strain on them they pull their tour and fuck off to Europe, like living together in Jerott's ancestral homelands and sorting through Marthe's grandma's junk is somehow going to improve things.

So that's when things start to come apart, even though they're ostensibly working on a second record together they're not touring and they're working from a home studio, so their world is quite limited and Marthe branches out and finds French friends while Jerott obsessively follows the music news and write great long epistles to Francis.

In terms of the fic I mentioned, the idea was trying to write the highs (well, moderate peaks) and lows of their relationship through sex. I never got very far with the first one (below) but the idea was that 1) leaves Marthe mildly impressed, 2) a bit uncertain of how this might evolve, but still happy enough, 3) he says 'Francis' when he comes, but he's sober and just very tired so she elects to ignore it for now, 4) starting to get bored with this, the tour is tiiiring, 5) studio life doesn't suit them, he's not sober, and when he says 'Francis' this time she's absolutely calling him on it.

I did still intend to write a version of this fic set between the Baron Morgan/Aga Morat stuff and Checkmate, but I only wrote one scene between them, which you've read :)

Others haven't though! So I'll post it beneath the excerpt from the unfinished bit. It makes reference to her suspicion that it's only a matter of time before he calls her 'Francis' and alludes to a less-than-happy occasion on which GRM pulled his hair, not like he's ready to talk about that with Marthe...uh...ever? I imagined it set sometime during their tour, before they get bogged down trying to record their album. It's more them, I think - Marthe eternally shadowed by a kind of self-loathing and resentment of Jerott that's never going to go away.

--

Draft 1

She's pleasantly surprised pre-wedding

No, that won't work, but keep doing it if you have to

He says 'Francis' when he shouldn't

So you can make me come it doesn't make you Jesus

She calls him out on saying Francis, he clearly had no idea he'd said it

1.

By the end of the encore, laughing and waving into what seemed a physical wall of noise, Jerott knew he had never been happier in his life. The crowd wasn't the biggest he had played to, the set had been rough and ready, but there was a spark on that stage that even Marthe could no longer deny. She stepped up to stand by his side and raise her own arms, and she smiled across at Jerott: a small, wry little thing, but a smile that contained genuine pride.

In the motel corridor, Jerott stopped at her shoulder, each of them facing opposite directions. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, her long, white neck held tall and straight, her smile something that even now she fought, but that made her cornflower blue eyes sparkle.

"That was pretty good, right?" He offered his most bashful, winning grin in return, lowering his chin and gaze.

Marthe snorted. "Yeah," she admitted though. "Yeah it was. You can play, I'll give you that."

He raised his brows and tried not to laugh or blush - he knew he could play, he'd never needed to hear it from her. But she was looking at him still, in a strange and calculating manner that made him feel weighted to the spot. Her eyes narrowed, sweat-smudged kohl hemming in their vibrant colour, and she bit her lip.

He didn't notice her hand move until it began to slide around his, neat and warm, her fingers following the sensitive contours of his palm.

Jerott sucked in a breath and his hand tightened reflexively on hers. At the pressure, Marthe's expression flickered, the corners of her mouth moving with something tight and resigned and her nostrils flaring. But she didn't try to withdraw.

She said nothing, and he saw blooms of colour, like peonies, cover the pale skin of her chest and throat. Her pulse flickered in the pronounced v of tendons between her collarbones and Jerott ached to press his mouth to it and feel her life, separate and strange beneath his lips.

Marthe tugged his hand until he took a step sideways, and the lengths of their arms were aligned: his bare brown skin against her rumpled shirt and white skin, long black hairs mingling with the fine blonde ones covering her forearm. Her face was only inches from his. It was smooth as polished marble, distinguished here and there by traces of the complexities of her existence: fine echoes of all her frowns and smiles in the lines that could not be seen when he stood back. And he had never known her eyes so wide, her mouth part with such softness.

Jerott felt his heart jolt at the expression on her face. He had imagined it so many times, in so many places, and it could never have compared to the way she looked now: sultry and confident, gently, wryly amused, and - finally - interested in what she saw in return?

"You think I can play?" He murmured, leaning into her gravity, his smile smooth and his eyes steady.

She grinned, but it made the hairs on his arms stand on end: a sense of danger gathering. "Don't," Marthe said, her voice crisp and firm.

He raised his eyebrows and broadened his sweetest smile. With an unsteady breath he lowered his face still closer to hers.

Marthe snorted, blue fire dancing in her eyes, the dimples in her cheeks sinking deeper. "I said don't!" She repeated, but her grin crept into her voice. "Don't pull that smooth shit with me, you got your compliment."

Jerott laughed silently and looked down, his eyes hovering on her lips as he contemplated saying another foolish thing.

She must have seen the idiocy on the tip of his tongue and pre-empted it: "Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up," she raked the last syllable over her vocal chords, drawling , chuckling, edging nearer herself until her nose brushed against his. Her mascara-coated lashes lowered until the last moment.

Jerott met her eyes as their lips touched: blue like an open sky, blue like denim and fresh water. Her mouth was soft and hot, closed over his own parched mouth as she tested the feel of him, her open eyes seeking out the response she elicited.

He tried to hold her stare, but her lips moved against his, her teeth met his lower lip with gentle, teasing pressure, and he gasped and his eyes fell shut. His free hand came up to her shoulder, which was warm beneath the shirt she had shrugged on over her sweat-dark tank top, the perfect fit against his palm.

--

Draft 2

He'd proven himself, to Marthe's great surprise, an enthusiastic and generous lover. No inheritor to Gaultier's bored, unimaginative humping was Jerott Blyth; he'd go down on her at the drop of a hat, and he'd do it well; backstage, back alleys, motel rooms - wherever he could get his hands on her while they were both still buzzing with the adrenaline of the set they'd played.

Marthe wasn't sure if it made it easier or harder when he was above her in a motel bed then, taking what he assumed would be given freely in exchange for his own efforts. She did try, for the first few times, to work out if she might like it when it was a handsome young man between her legs instead of her dry, detached professor. But though she entertained the idea of being someone, something else, it wasn't long before she knew it just wasn't for her - neither in the sense of something given, nor in the sense of appealing to her tastes.

But he wasn't Gaultier, she wasn't his pet, and he could play. Their sets were electric, furious, wild in a way Marthe had never had the freedom to be publicly before. And afterwards he wanted to - and could - make her cum like no one she'd met since the girlfriend she'd had back in halls, and after that she was able to simply lie there and wait for him to finish without even feeling much of anything.

Gaultier had developed a habit of working on his compositions while he fucked her - eyes closed, mentally picturing the stave as he hummed and muttered notes to himself. Jerott, on the other hand, was gentleman enough to admire her with his eyes, his hands, his tongue. To never forget a condom the way Gaulter had from time to time – because he could, too. Above all, he was very eager to tell her she was beautiful.

Marthe didn't need to be told that. But it was better than being used as a dissociative tool for someone's artistic process.

It seemed kinder, then, to maintain an air of curiosity, of interest. In order to do so, she made a bet with herself - with the money she was earning from this tour, she'd buy herself a new guitar if he slipped and called her Francis while deep in the throes. If he didn't, she'd do something sensible with the money. Put it in savings or something.

Maybe she was thinking of the guitar when, one night in Seattle, she sat up to take the foil packet from his hands and open it herself. He looked at her searchingly, dark eyes she found difficult to read scanning her expression for ulterior motives.

Marthe tossed the loose tendrils of her tied-back hair over her shoulder and tore the packet open with her teeth, aware of the weight of his stare, aware of his breath coming more heavily.

She rolled the condom on, thinking abstractedly of community sex ed workshops on the college lawn. For good measure, she gave his cock a couple of firm strokes, and he gasped, his brows raising.

Ok, that's plenty, Marthe sat back with an expression she imagined was closer to being a seductive smile than a grimace. She didn't want him to think she was going to do...that, every time.

Perhaps she was overthinking things, overestimating what he'd notice and what he'd expect. Jerott wasn't that complicated, after all - he reached for her and kissed her like there was only one thought on his mind, and Marthe let herself be brought close, kissed him back with the same sloppy urgency.

Then, impulsively, she moved closer still, lifting one leg and shifting to straddle him where he sat on the edge of the bed - he made a sound in the kiss that Marthe took to be surprise and pleasure, and she ground her hips against him, her body still wet from his tongue, from her own orgasm, slick against the rubber he wore.

Jerott moaned and Marthe gritted her teeth. She pushed him back to the mattress and lowered herself onto him, her eyes closed, her mind on the wares for sale at Eve's Garden. She had him half on the bed and half off, his lower legs dangling over the side, unable to brace himself easily against the floor - it gave her near total control of the rhythm, and she batted him back down again if he tried to sit up.

He didn't take much convincing, though he remained propped on his elbows for a time, gawping up at her. She could sense him watching, and cracked open her eyes to wince at his expression of ragged, lascivious desire - mouth loose and open, eyelids heavy, gaze blank. Marthe screwed her eyes shut again and sank herself as low as she could, upping the pace of her rolling hips.

Jerott at last admitted defeat, lay back and made a strangled sound of ecstasy, holding onto her thighs just above each knee with bruising strength in his hands.

She'd never done this with Gaultier - he didn't believe in a woman being on top, and besides, if she'd broken his hip or something, he wouldn't have hesitated to claim the medical bills on her insurance.

But there was, she found, far more pleasure to be had this way. There were no hot, grasping fingers or lips on her breasts, there was no sandpapery, rough cheek rubbing on the skin of her neck. She could keep her eyes closed and imagine herself wherever she needed to be to get off.

She began to believe that she might do so here, as well. She wielded her body with less deliberation, working herself to a sweat as she bucked her hips, her hands resting on the tops of her thighs, feeling her breasts swing heavily, the small, natural garland of fat on her belly and her flanks jogging with her movements. The bed and mattress shrieked and rattled beneath her, the sound like a crowd going wild for an encore.

Jerott let out a cry and Marthe was almost embarrassed to hear herself answer it, feeling fire crawl its way up inside her, flickering and crackling like a broken bulb at the edge of her vision.

Fearful he wouldn't last as long as she needed, she let herself lean forwards, one hand a fist, bracing herself against his chest, the other taking hold of a bunch of his black hair for good measure, fingers tangling against his sweaty scalp. She adjusted the angle of her hips accordingly and bit her lower lip, trying to keep her momentum going.

Beneath her, Jerott's body flinched.

"Fuck...!" he groaned. He gripped the wrist of the hand that was knotted in his hair but found that tugging it only tightened Marthe's hold. His other hand flailed for the bed clothes, grabbing at the sheets and relieving the pressure on Marthe's thigh so she could really move how she wanted to.

He didn't complain about her grip. On the contrary, his eyes were closed and his brow was furrowed with concentration. "Oh, god..." he said hoarsely as his head rolled on the covers.

It was never quite enough though - she didn't get further than eternally close before his body bucked beneath hers with a grunt. The way he craned his neck and turned his head against the mattress pulled her forward, jerked by the hand tangled in his hair, and her own concentration was lost as he came.

"Shit," Marthe barked breathlessly.

She tugged her hand free, noting that Jerott's hold was now on her hips, his thumbs softly caressing her skin, encouraging her own gentle rocking motion to continue as he finished, wringing every last drop of satisfaction out.

Marthe swept his hands away, rolled off him without preamble and sat beside his prone form with a sour taste rising to her tongue. Disappointment - she knew the flavour well. Stupid, to let herself get involved like that, to try and take something for herself. That wasn't what this was about.

It was about her career. Wasn't it always?

Marthe sighed and massaged her brow. Her grandmother would want to know when she was moving to Europe, when she was going to find a market she could really sell to. When she was going to make something of herself - or, failing that, make Francis Crawford make something of her. Whatever they really were to each other.

Her grandmother would have a great many questions when the tour finally came to an end in New York, but one thing Marthe's grandmother would be certain of was that the man currently lying next to her was second-best - and Marthe's grandmother would therefore judge him perfectly adequate to his task.

Jerott lay still for a moment beside her and then raised a hand and rubbed at the top of his sternum, at his throat like he had a pain there. He let out a cough and frowned at the ceiling, then sat up and slipped away to the ensuite.

Usually, when they were in the motel room, he couldn't wait to wrap his arms around her afterwards, to pin her close in his hold - where Marthe felt like a small bird gripped in a fist. He'd fall asleep and she'd lie there, smelling his tobacco, his whiskey, waiting until he was heavy and snoring and she could squirm free to lie comfortably on the other side of the bed.

Tonight though, he lingered in the bathroom, and Marthe felt chilled and exposed as she realised that, for once, she would quite like to have been held in his warm arms. It might have made her feel a little less silly about the whole relationship, just to follow through with the act a bit longer today. But he didn't seem in any hurry to come back to her. She lay naked on the rumpled bedsheets while he ran faucets and clattered about with mouthwash and water glasses.

Her head propped on one hand, the remote lying in front of her, Marthe glared at the tiny TV screen in the corner of the room and stabbed buttons on the remote with one-fingered vindictiveness. That was it, she'd decided. Penetrative sex had to be the worst joke ever told to womankind. She wouldn't bother getting her hopes up again about it.

Click.

Porcupines fucking on a nature documentary. Marthe accepted the funny side of it, and snorted.

Click.

Some lowest common denominator sitcom where the overworked woman was chewing out her lazy husband.

Click.

Teleshopping.

Click.

Pizza ad. Her stomach growled. Maybe she was being unfair. Maybe she was just hungry - she hadn't eaten since before soundcheck.

Click.

A familiar shade of rose pink caught her eye as the channels flickered, and she stopped her assault on the remote to frown at the screen.

"With revelations emerging about Rajneeshpuram daily, it's looking more and more like Graham Reid Malett's activities were standard across all the cult's sites."

It was a report into illegal activities at the main ashram in Oregon, but showed footage of the man who had styled himself Geetesh in custody and on trial for crimes committed at his own Nevada ashram. Marthe watched with a kind of fascinated disgust as the portentous voiceover barely scraped the surface of Reid Malett's wrong-doings.

"Fraud, invasion of privacy, coercion, and he presided over violent and sexual workshops in which willing participants..."

As she watched, Jerott emerged from the ensuite. He handed her one of the two water glasses he'd filled and paused by the bed, staring at the TV with an appalled expression.

"What the fuck are you watching?" he asked.

Marthe shrugged the shoulder that was uppermost and nodded at the bedside table, indicating that Jerott could leave the water there.

"You don't wanna know how Swami Graham is doing?"

He'd moved round to his side of the bed and she saw his face the way it was lit up by the screen: repulsed, furious, maybe even a bit scared?

"No."

Marthe thought she noticed his fingers tremble a little as he put his own glass down. He ran them through his hair and then his eyes fell on the remote.

"Switch it off."

She saw him reach for it and - because he wanted it, because he spoke commandingly and she'd let him have enough already, and more, that night - she snatched it away. "I'm watching!"

"Well don't! What do you even want to know that you haven't already seen with your own two eyes?" He gestured furiously, pointing two fingers at his own fierce features, and grabbed again for the remote.

"Hey!" Marthe wasn't above hollering when he laid a hand on her to stop her from protecting the device. "Don't touch me!"

Jerott had already retreated to stand by the bed again, maintaining a distance, his palms open at his sides, his expression one of vexed fury. "Please switch it off," he said carefully, but Marthe knew suppressed anger when she heard it.

She narrowed her eyes. "Why? You're not gonna...let it all out, get all cathartic on me?"

His jaw clenched visibly.

"Personally, I think it's reassuring to see him cuffed and guarded," Marthe added, eyeing up the picture on the screen.

"...swapped his disciple's robes of pink for fetching penitentiary facility orange..."

Jerott said nothing, but took three long strides to the far wall and yanked the TV plug from the socket.

Marthe rolled her eyes and swept the remote off the bed so it clattered to the floor. "Oh, Mr Rock and Roll. Gonna throw it out the window, too?"

Jerott got into bed and yanked the sheet over his body without turning to face her. "Good night, Marthe," he snarled.

She stared at his back for a moment and then made a sound of exasperation and got up to brush her own teeth.

It wasn't like she'd wanted to watch the programme anyway, it was just that any talk of the Rajneeshees wound him up so much, even now. Marthe, of all people, could well understand another's bitterness about the wasted years of their life - but Jerott's bitterness was always special. He couldn't accept that anyone else might have regrets about any number of things, oh no - nothing compared to the victimhood of the boy who had run off to join a cult instead of going to med school, who had run off to med school instead of joining a band with a man he was clearly deeply, obliviously in love with. He was evidently the first guy on earth to find out he was attracted to a man and feel conflicted about it, the first person in the history of mankind to have his illusions shattered about someone he'd trusted.

Marthe brushed her teeth and hair angrily in the dark bathroom and got back into bed with a heavy landing on the mattress, with deliberately exaggerated kicking of the sheet, plumping of the pillow, and fidgeting until she was comfortable.

"Good night, Jerott. Good gig today. Sleep well."

[zerounotvadri]

Reseña de Rat Wars de Health

por Loma Vista Recordings

El disco ya está disponible en esta liga: https://i.hlth.band/ratwars

Rat Wars, el nuevo álbum de Health, banda de rock industrial de Los Ángeles, es el más violento pero vulnerable de su carrera. De alguna manera es apropiado que una colección de canciones tan brutal sea al mismo tiempo su declaración artística más completa.

Los detalles de producción meticulosamente agresivos chocan con confesiones dolorosamente personales y una extraña gracia salvaje se combina con un humor gélido y negro... sorprendentemente, aún con todo eso es increíblemente divertido.

Con Rat Wars, Health se une al linaje de bandas heavy innovadoras como Nine Inch Nails y Ministry, que volvieron a trazar las fronteras entre el metal, la electrónica y la música pop. También habla directamente de la joven y ferviente subcultura en línea de la banda.

Podría ser el “The downward spiral” para personas con al menos dos monitores y deficiencia de vitamina D.

Escrito durante el período más difícil a nivel emocional de la vida de la banda, el álbum se basa en sus caóticos pero revitalizantes años de pandemia. En ese tiempo, Health grabó docenas de temas con héroes y herederos como Nine Inch Nails, Lamb of God, 100 Gecs, Poppy y Pertubator en DISCO4.

Rat Wars captura toda la furia y ambición a la que hasta ahora han aspirado sus LP. Es su declaración más audaz sobre la locura y la insipidez de la vida contemporánea. La grandeza del arena-rock de “Demigods” da paso al nervioso techno de “Hateful” (coescrito con el artista español de EBSM Sierra) y al despiadado gabber-thrash de “Crack Metal”. “Children of Sorrow” (con la guitarra de Willie Adler de Lamb of God) y “Sicko” (que usa un sampleo de “Like Rats” de Godflesh) se deslizan con la

amenaza gótica de los noventa. “Ashamed” es un R&B corrompido con Pop, mientras que “DSM-V” es el momento cumbre del Blood Rave. Nacidos en la embriagadora suciedad de la ruidosa escena del centro de Los Ángeles, el cantante y guitarrista Jake Duzsik, el bajista y productor John Famiglietti y el baterista BJ Miller se propusieron generar división mientras creaban canciones filtradas a través de pedales de guitarra. Pero ya desde Get Color de 2009, todos sabían que esta banda era algo diferente. Tocaron en importantes festivales globales como Coachella y Primavera Sound, y después de un breve descanso para componer el innovador título de Rockstar Games, Max Payne 3, regresaron en 2015 con el esperado Death Magic. Ese LP aprovechó al máximo las herramientas de producción digital, injertadas en su ruido estridente y paisajes sonoros de vanguardia. El álbum se convirtió en un punto de entrada para una nueva generación de fans, encontrando audiencia tan fácilmente en clubes góticos como en estudios de producción de dormitorio. Vol. 4: Slaves of Fear de 2019 se ganó a los fanáticos de la música heavy con sus riffs de thrash que se disuelven en melancolía ambiental y ritmos de hip hop, mientras que en la era del encierro, Disco4 exploró completamente la composición colaborativa con amigos de los mundos del metal, rap, electrónica, y rock independiente. Este arco profesional largo y deliberadamente poco convencional se ha fusionado en Rat Wars. Son, por fin, una banda que se siente cómoda con su propia incomodidad.

Agradeciendo Información a

Bajo Tierra Prensa Luis Jasso

[elizzatron]

"Those demigods With their nine-inch nails And a little fascist panties Tucked inside the heart Of every nice girl" -tori amos

[bloodwithoutflesh]

Those demigods

With their nine inch nails

And little fascist panties

Tucked inside the heart of every nice girl

[writer59january13]

Trumpeting and mythologizing deranged deplorable basket case as demigod

Any idea regarding who unnamed individual earned such lofty title? I offer a clue, that averred person unknown to many others within the webbed, wide world, and familiarity limited to smattered kith and kin. Lemme know if dead giveaway ala handy dandy blues clue prompted that "aha" realization. Hero worship in the age of cynicism baffles one disillusioned eccentric, who prides himself (without prejudice), bolstered courtesy his sense and sensibility self actualized ex post facto compliments of nasty and brutally destructive

purblind (in retrospect,

raffish, selfish) endeavors nearly devastating, harpooning

cocky eye looey fella,

lopping, et cetera

pledged troth July twenty fifth nineteen hundred and ninety six

made when unbridled marital covenant accepted,

scuttled in favor of liberating libidinal longings largely licensing licentious liaisons simultaneously, permanently, and majorly compromising, jeopardizing, violating once especially cherished bonds

between father of two darling daughters, (the eldest - a recent

University of Pennsylvania alumni approaching her twenty eighth birthday December 22nd, 2024 - once upon a time hashtagged as daddy's girl) cut himself down to size of raw bits particularly indecorous flagrant callousness emotional and financial niggardliness he lavished with paltry

acquired scant monies acquired courtesy family beneficence (chump change received such as for mine birthday and holiday gifts - cashed treasury bonds before maturity) spent acquisition or borrowed currency on meager trappings for yours truly where (barely able,

nay impossible mission) to meet costs

of living social on the MainLine

within Lower Merion School District offered superlative public education - to challenge first born GIEP student and second offspring, who exhibited developmental delay, thus whose IEP pared down so she could rally approbation in the form

of attagirl, kudos, stickers, et cetera) slightly more manageable, yet being chronically unemployed

(and unemployable – before qualifying

for government largesse)

until I met criteria and bankrolled unearned income to receive social security disability, still sorely challenged person

writing these words

to meet paying rent and utilities, and also linkedin to significant mental health challenges

in tandem with faith no more, and abandonment of attaining potential smarts regarding accessing academic gifted aptitude thwarted, stymied, hijacked to Cuba, et cetera marked ambivalence toward self success nearly failed every grade

even kindergarten - ha and sustained behavioral pattern earning me poor marks when launching feeble

attempts to work, and managed to witness being terminated, thus accruing splendid curriculum vitae awash with horrendous, and deleterious feedback unflattering to say the least and unfavorable to college/ university admissions officials, plus being long haired pencil neck geek when doos more conservative),

a definite strike against unseen positive impression videre licet in the eyes of potential employer, whereby poor performance track record signaled a red flag accumulating over time to affect dark shadows qua nine inch nails scratching across outsize blackboard,

foo fighting, beastie boys bullying scaring the bejesus out of me unsure

outer limits of the twilight zone inhabited, where the wild things live hovering at the edge of night

subsequently spurring yours truly

to dejectedly slink along

the hallowed halls of higher learning to savor the sounds of silence

being secreted and sequestered

within bedroom inside domicile

of my boyhood, adolescence,

and emerging adulthood.

[goronska]

My Vermillion OCs character songs

Sitting late at night, chatting on Discord with some Tumblr creators yesterday, I was struck with the idea to compile a list of songs that for one reason or another would be character songs if I ever went with the Vermillion act further than the RP and some fanart/story spinoffs.

Without further ado:

===========================

Adam - "Two Men In Love" The Irrepressibles - that might be a problem later on.

Agat - "Devil's Worst Nightmare" FJØRA - "Just 'cause I look like a good girl // Don't mean I won't do things that hurt"; beware of the High Priestess, heathens.

Bashir Levi - "She's So High" Tal Bachman - when you are a slave, but you are sent a literal angel

Eodum - "Closer" Nine Inch Nails - Young Demi-gods are weird like this sometimes… Sorry, Eodum that you always fall for people that let themselves be hurt by you.

Larat - "Tranquilize" The Killers ft. Lou Reed - She doesn't "need a political process" and deep inside she goes insane, because she's afraid that "patiently, correction leaves us all alone"

Merah - "2 cm" Rie Fu - I wanted to pick a song about running from home and fighting for yourself, but… Her home is with Sydney. And she's so full of love to her.

Merahtua & Garura - "Rabbit Heart" Florence + The Machine - she made her "final sacrifice" to Ubisi while the King "held her so tight"

Opal - "Rain Down" The Fighting Temptations cast - She has that groovy gospel energy, but of course, it's hard to say whether she sings it for the demigod or the Red Goddess

Setia - "Oh no!" Marina and The Diamonds - He knows when you're good, he knows when you're asleep.

Shiroi - "Venus in Furs" The Velvet Underground - self-explanatory, I guess.

Ubisi - "Blood // Water" grandson - Ubisi famously sings this as a "lullaby" to Queen Merahtua...

[tohot4u]

Closer-nine inch nails

Flesh-Simon Curtis

Paralyzer-Finger eleven

Beutiful Is Boring-Bones UK

Sex with a ghost-Teddy Hyde

Sure hope these songs reveal nothing about me idk dude

@notsofrozt @glitchyko @chocolattekinq @the-crab-demigod

🎶✨when u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your favourite followers (positivity is cool)🎶

Wow..

1. Hayloft II (smashup) - Mother Mother

2. Taste - Skz

3. ITEM - Skz

4. Over you - idk

5. Breakin' dishes - Rihanna

@atlasprefects

@boiling-potato

@xenniboii

@yum-zlurplie

@alinorianddrago

@sayuri-does-skits

@devillemon085

@nia1sworld

@violetstellas-blog

@n0vatsu

[power-strength-appetite]

Candid or goofy photos of Robin with early NIN members

Robin and James Wooley, 1994

With Charlie Clouser, and with Josh Freese and Danny Lohner, Fragility era

With Jerome Dillon, Fragility era

At Charlie Clouser's 50th

And another reunion for Josh Freese's bday

[startrekpillowfort]

Solok headcanons (do not reblog)

Facts

Benjamin Sisko and Solok was in the same class at Starfleet Academy. Sisko drunk-challenged Solok to a wrestling match and ended up in the infirmary with a dislocated shoulder and two broken ribs. Sisko was drunk, Solok was sober.

... couple of thoughts:

☆ Surely a Vulcan, three times stronger, stone cold sober and at a general peak self-control, would be able to pin down a drunk human without injuring him that badly? I mean the level of damage suggests that Solok’s emotional control was slipping.

☆ During the ten years that followed, Solok wrote over a dozen scientific papers on how vulcans are superior to humans, each time analyzing that wrestling match again. That’s more than one paper a year. In his spare time. He quite literally never stopped thinking about that one wrestling match.

And that’s not counting showing up at Sisko’s workplace with the perfect, tailor-made setup for a rematch. I mean, that was bespoke.

But look. What blows my mind is that Sisko apparently read every single one of those papers. Interpret that as you will.

Headcanon time (under cut because it gets rambly)

So it’s pretty clear Solok has some kind of... I don’t even know. Obsession? Unhealthy hobby? Maybe it’s just what happens when an incredibly violent species exchanges massive aggression for passive aggression.

Either Solok is the biggest asshole that ever lived and a) injured a drunk human on purpose and b) genuinely thinks that species with emotions are worth less

I don’t think so. He wouldn’t have joined Starfleet if that was the case, and he certainly wouldn’t have made it to the rank of captain.

There’s a connection between Solok and Sisko. What kind of a connection is really up to interpretation. I think Solok, being Vulcan, was in a position to analyze it properly and failed spectacularly to do so. Instead of nurturing the potential of friendship (or who knows, even matehood) he chose to devote a lot of time to aggravate their relationship, if not actively sabotaging it. In my opinion, if you write twelve papers about the same thing, using the same material and largely coming to the same conclusion, your are trying to convince yourself of something.

Sisko, on his end, seems bewildered about the whole thing - which is understandable.

Wishlist

☆ I’d love for a thread with Sisko and Solok being forced to work together. Apart from the hilarity of it, hopefully also sort some things out and come to an understanding.

☆ I want somebody, vulcan or human, to challenge Solok’s perception and to make him reconsider his conclusions.

[chasingpj]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

"Bye, for now, puddles."

pairing: percy jackson x child of hecate!reader

words: 6,220

warnings: a little angst, missing a meal, death of a parent, i believe that is all.

timeline: post sea of monsters

if you want to be tagged every time I update this story, click here

a/n: hi hi! I'm so excited to finally get this chapter to you guys. I'm sorry this literally took a month. i was taking two writing-intensive courses this summer and i was just burnt out. i hope you enjoy it!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

A grunt escapes you; your contorted body weighs down the top of your suitcase as your damp fingers slip off the metal zipper. The unforgivingly humid weather provokes the heat of your efforts, adding to your discomfort. There’s urgency in your fingers, your frustration growing at each failed attempt to close your suitcase.

“Y/n! Hurry up!” Atticus shouts from outside of the Hermes cabin. As the zipper slips out of your grasp once again, you throw your head back in annoyance, hand coming up to push away wisps of hair that fall on your face. A familiar chuckle comes from the corner of the room, grabbing your attention from the wooden ceiling. Connor sits on the side of his bed; his comic book forgotten beside him as you fussing over your suitcase seems to be more interesting to him.

“It’s not funny,” you grumble, sitting onto your heels.

Connor rises from his bed, shrugging his shoulders with a smirk. He kneels by your suitcase, “It’s kinda funny.”

The corners of your mouth almost curve up, but you stop yourself, opting for a roll of your eyes instead.

“What the hades do you have in here?” The tips of his fingers turn white as he pulls on the little piece of metal. You shift your weight to the corner he works on, but it helps him as much as it helped you earlier.

“My brother’s left a bunch of books behind, so Lou Ellen and I split them up. She’s taking half, and I take the rest. We’ll study them and then exchange notes.” A hum of acknowledgment comes from Connor’s lips as he inches the suitcase closed.

“You guys are a bunch of nerds.” You squint at the other with a playful offense, and he laughs at your hardened features. “I bet you guys study more than the Athena Kids,” he teases.

“There’s a lot to learn,” you say simply, watching as he brings the zipper to the end. He leans back on his heels, and you move to take in the half-empty cabin.

The sight of the Hermes cabin being this tidy was foreign. There aren’t any sleeping bags on the floor; the belongings of your many cabin mates didn’t clutter the walls or the corners of the room as they usually do. It’s funny. There are always complaints of the cabin being too small, but it appears bigger without the mess.

“Will you and Atticus visit throughout the year?” Connor’s expression is hopeful. As the last day of camp approached, Connor’s wishes of a full cabin all year round became more apparent. The shift from a max-capacity cabin to a half-empty one must be a tough transition for social people like Stoll Brothers. If it were you, you’d be counting down the days of everyone’s departure.

You ruffle his brown locks, “we’ll probably stop by for, maybe, spring break?” Connor’s hopefulness begins to sag, and you frown. Spring break is pretty far from now, huh? “Depending on how mortal life treats us. You know, we might be back soon,” you add on quickly, hoping to lift his smile.

Though you wish to go home, you’re dreading all the supernatural activity you’ll have to deal with once you leave. Your father works tirelessly to protect the house, but entities always manage to get in. And if they can’t, they don’t mind hanging outside.

The hopefulness that faded from Connor’s face restores, and he gives you that famous mischievous smirk. “Well, I hope the ghosts bother you guys enough to come to visit early.” His tone is playful, but you can tell he meant some of his words. You laugh hesitantly and nod, rising from your suitcase.

“I’m glad you’re that eager to see us again.”

You thank him as he leans down, lifting the heavy suitcase from the ground for you.

“Y/n!”

“I’m coming!” You tug on the handle, glancing at Connor. “The year will go by fast, and soon this cabin will be bursting at the nails with new unclaimed people. Atticus, Lou, and I included. Anyways, you have your brother. You guys will find something to entertain yourselves.” You nudge him as you make your way outside.

“Yeah, you’re right. You will write to me, yeah?” Connor asks.

“Of course. I’ll send you snacks that you can’t buy at the gas station.” Connor’s arm pumps back to his side, hand in a fist as he hisses a “yes.”

The corners up your mouth hesitantly pull up as you push open the cabin door, finding Atticus and Travis talking on the porch. For the past week, the anticipation of your departure was killing you, but now that it was time to leave, you feel gloomy.

You knew the cause of your heavy heart was the uneasy tone of your going. Living day by day with the intention of moving on was hard. Because every time you look at their newly occupied beds, the sinking feeling in your chest returns. Every time you find yourself wandering in the forest, the memories of your often chaotic magic lessons flood your mind. You remember when Alice misaimed her wind spell, shooting Alabaster far into the trees. While you all rushed to check on him, Alice burst into tears because she was convinced she killed him only to approach a laughing Alabaster who shouted, “Right on!”

Every time you were in the Arts and Crafts center, you remember how you, Sage, and Lou would do Tarot Readings for the campers and how you would argue with the Apollo kids when they insisted your tarot cards are as honest as fortune cookies.

At the armory, you remember how Ambrose ran into James so hard, he stumbled and knocked down half of the shelves of weapons.

In the courtyard, you remember how Ernest, horrified by heights, produced the highest pitch scream he possibly could as he rode a pegasus for the first time under the persuasion of Alabaster.

All these memories, whether hilarious like your spell mishaps or bittersweet like when you and your sibling’s group hugged around Sage when she cried about her abusive stepmother, held a special place in your heart. Because the times where you laughed and cried together reminded you of the genuine bond, the family that was ripped away from you overnight.

“We'll see you guys soon. We should go. Argus will leave without us," Atticus says, relieved that Argus is still waiting for you on top of Half-Blood Hill.

“Have a safe trip, guys,” Travis says, patting Atticus’s shoulder before reaching out his arm and giving you a short side hug. You grab your things, hastily saying a final goodbye, and soon, you and Atticus are trudging up the hill.

Your free hand pats the pocket of your shorts, calming your worry of forgetting the necklace at the cabin. What rests in your pocket is a raw tourmaline crystal, now smooth with the help of Beckendorf, encased in a silver spiral cage.

You and Atticus carry protection crystals all the time, and they help with staying out of the radar of monsters and entities. After hearing Percy’s many stories of monsters bothering him, you figured he couldn’t be too cautious. Then after finding a spell in Alabaster’s many books that can dim down a demigod scent for a while, you decided to make him an enchanted necklace to wear.

You pack into the truck with Atticus right on time. Atticus sits in front of you, chatting away with Cecil as you make yourself comfortable in the back row with Ambrose. You frown; among the three other campers in the van with you, Percy isn’t one of them. Argus peeks into the back, doing a rough headcount. Great, now you’ll have to wait until next summer to give it to him.

Right, when you were going to chastise yourself for not giving him the necklace yesterday when you were done with it, a distant voice shouts, "wait!"

Argus halts in the middle of closing the sliding down and turns around. He shakes his head with disapproval while opening the door all the way, revealing out of breath Percy.

A smile widens across your face as he gets into the back seat with you, and you nudge Atticus’s seat.

"See, I told you we wouldn't be the last ones here.” You side-eye Percy, seeing the corners of his mouth pull up in amusement.

“Some people just don’t know how to get to places on time, huh?” Atticus says, and his eyes flicker to Percy before giving you a wide grin.

“Didn’t sleep in today, firefly?” There is a playfulness in Percy’s voice, and you smile proudly,

“Nope, not today.”

“It’s a miracle,” Percy mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you scoff. Atticus snickers and nods in agreement.

“We were supposed to gang up on him, not you two on me.” You stick your tongue out at Atticus, and he returns the action.

“It’s more fun making fun of you,” Atticus teases.

“Rude,” you mumble with a slight smile on your face. The two boys chuckle, Atticus turning more into his seat to tell Percy something about a new Marvel movie. Excited voices fill the van as the other boys join in the conversation, and soon they are debating if Batman is really a superhero or just a rich guy in a suit.

You had to admit, as the conversation became more passionate, you were pretty entertained, but as you catch sight of Camp Half-Blood growing farther in the distance, you’re reminded of the ache in your chest. It’s only a temporary leave, but when you return, things will never be the same, and the false hope of your siblings returning has been proven to be foolish.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

Following a ghost dog while weaving through the hustle and bustle of Grand Central is almost impossible. Atticus’s hand is latched to the straps of your bookbag as you move through people, trying not to roll your eyes at the way Ambrose turns to bark as if he was reprimanding you for being too slow. Easy for him to say when he can walk through walls and people.

“Track 28,” Atticus reminds you as your eyes find the number written on the tan bricks of the high walls. You make a sharp left towards the entrance of another hallway, ignoring the groans of a grouchy bystander that you may have cut off. The next hallway you enter is a lot less crowded than the main floor, and you slow down your pace.

“Where do you guys live again?” Percy asks as he jogs up beside you. He had insisted on walking you guys since his train departs in the same station.

“Sleepy Hollow.” Percy scrunches his face as if he recalls something, and you smile, waiting for the question everyone asks when you say you live there.

“Have you seen the headless horsemen?” Percy asks, half-joking. A snort leaves your throat, and you look at Atticus, who’s equally amused.

“Oh yeah, plenty of times.”

“Really?” Percy asks, his eyes wide with surprise, and you laugh.

“No.” Your response makes his face drop comedically fast, and Atticus bursts into laughter. “It’s just a story, but there’s a lot of history there, so the place is crawling with ghosts. We’ve met the guy who wrote the story, though,” you mention.

“No way,” Percy squints his eyes in disbelief.

“I’m serious! Atticus and I take walks in the cemetery sometimes. We leave drachmas on the graves of newly passed people, so their venture into the underworld is smooth, but some people like to wander.” You shrug. “Washington Irving is one of those people.”

“Cool,” Percy says with such enthusiasm that it makes you smile. Ambrose turns around and barks again, standing at the golden entrance that leads to the grey tunnel lit with fluorescent white lights where your train waits beside the concrete platform.

“He always rushes us,” Atticus complains, and Harvey lets out a coo that sounded close to a groan as if he agreed with him.

The marble floors turn to concrete as you enter the tunnel. The blue and silver train on your left hums as it sits dormant in its station. Ambrose trots ahead, peaking into the doors and windows to find an empty cart to occupy.

As you follow a few feet behind him, your fingers fiddle with the necklace resting in your pocket. You’re regretting not giving it to Percy earlier because, for some reason, the idea of giving it to him now was more intimidating than if you had done it earlier on the bus.

Ambrose decides on a cart, and Harvey jumps off Atticus’s shoulder, squealing happily as he follows the hound while completely ignoring a worried Atticus trailing close behind.

"I, uh, made this for you," you sputter, the words coming out fast like vomit. Your fingers pull out the crystal necklace abruptly, and you put it in the palm of his hand. "It's black tourmaline. It has protective qualities; good at keeping negative energy, negative auras, things like that. I put a spell on it to dim down your demigod scent for a while, so you catch a little bit of a break. It'll last for a few weeks, maybe a month or two if the spell caught on well."

You bite your lip as Percy studies the necklace resting in his hand. "Wow, really? Thank you, Y/n. This is great.”

Nervous, you shift on your feet under his bright, smiling orbs. "It's no problem. After everything that happened at camp, I think it’ll be good for you to have one.”

Percy nods, his features softening all of a sudden, and he shifts. “Thanks for protecting me,” he says, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks. “Getting rid of that thing became more than you expected. I felt bad that I couldn’t help. Swords aren’t really useful when it comes to demons, huh?”

A small laugh of agreement leaves your lips. “It was nothing. I wasn’t going to let you be tormented by that thing if I could help it.”

An announcement echoes in the hall, reporting the departure of your train in a few minutes. You glance over, catching Atticus, Ambrose, and Harvey with their noses practically pressed against the window as they witness your interaction with Percy. The amused smirk on Atticus’s face makes you roll your eyes; he’s definitely going to tease you when you get on the train.

"I should go.” You face Percy again, catching him securing the necklace around his neck. The stone rests a few inches under his camp half-blood necklace. "Thanks for walking us here. Be careful getting home."

"You too…” he trails off, noticing your brother looking out the window. For a second, he seems as embarrassed as you do and a nervous chuckle leaves his lips. “Your brother is waiting."

“He’s so annoying,” you complain, and Percy’s next chuckle doesn’t sound as hesitant this time. "Well, uh, bye, for now, puddles,” you tease, butterflies dancing in your stomach.

"Bye, for now, firefly."

You both awkwardly wave at each other before you turn around, getting on the train with Atticus. With your gaze fixed on the floor, you plop into the seat next to him. You don’t even need to look to know he is smiling teasingly at you.

"How cute,” he teases, nudging your shoulder repeatedly with his own.

"Ew, shut up.” You shove at his shoulder, your nose scrunching as he flails his arms against yours as if you were fighting. Atticus chuckles and a string of sounds come from your familiars as they join in to tease you, and you couldn’t help but laugh too.

☆’.･.･:★:･.･.’☆

The suburban streets of your neighborhood are filled with the chirps of birds and bugs and the sounds of cars that pass every once in a while. There isn’t much conversation between you and Atticus as you trudge up the hill leading to your dead-end street.

“Gods, I hope we can get inside without being seen,” you manage to say through your heavy breaths, lazily holding on to the handle of your suitcase as it rolls behind you. Ambrose’s nose nudges the back of your knees as if to encourage you, but it’s more cute than helpful.

“There’s no way that we are. Janie and Celia are always sitting on the neighbor’s porch.” You grunt in acknowledgment, knowing that Atticus is right. The neighborhood ghosts are friendly enough, but their company can be annoying.

As if on cue, you hear a delighted squeal from ahead the moment you reach the top of the hill. Two ladies wave their handkerchiefs in the air a handful of houses away.

Celia, the tallest of the two, wears a steel blue dress with a high neckline and a big bow tied on the base of her neck. She has a jacket button closed over her corset with a frill at the end of her sleeves. Her skirt is floor-length and complete, with ruffles cascading down its entirety. And, of course, no one can miss the high-crowned hat decorated with fake flowers, bows, and crimped fabric as it all sits on top of her blonde hair in an intricate updo. Janie, her sister, wears the same style of dress and headpiece only in a burgundy red. The resemblance between the two makes it clear that they’re siblings close in age. They have the same high pinched noses that jut in the air; both of their faces are regal like those in renaissance paintings.

You’ve seen them around for as long as you can remember. They were two sisters who died of scarlet fever a year before their first courting season, which was a big deal according to their constant moaning and groaning about it.

You look ahead, your expression blank as if their high-pitched voices didn’t fill the streets and they weren't racing toward you with their skirts in their hands.

“My word! It’s the end of summer already?”

“Atticus, you’ve grown taller!”

“What a handsome boy! Y/n, your shorts are too short, don’t you think?”

“It’s quite bizarre how such clothing is acceptable these days.”

“How beautiful you’d look in a gown like ours!”

“Where’s Alabaster?” Janie asks, attempting to circle her arm around Atticus’s, but he raises his arm to push back his damp hair to avoid the contact. She scoffs at his rejection and sighs.

“Alabaster was sweeter to us than you guys!” Celia pouts. Your heart sinks a little at the mention of him. Of course, they’d ask about him, and of course, your father will ask too.

Gods! Your father will ask about him.

You had forgotten you’d have to break the news today. These past few weeks, you debated whether or not you should do it by letter, but it felt wrong. It was only right that he’d find out in person.

“We know you can hear us,” Janie huffs.

“I hope dad doesn’t work late tonight. Do you think Grandma will be waiting for us?” You ask. As annoying as it was having spirits follow you, it was a little fun ignoring them when convenient for you. Atticus nods,

“Probably-”

“No one’s home,” Celia cuts in, and Atticus pretends to shoo a bug away to conceal that he paused from her interruption.

“But I don’t think dad is going to take long. He said his last lecture ended at three,” Atticus continues, and you nod.

‘I hope grandma came by to visit. I missed her.”

“I just said no one’s home.” Celia snaps, and you press your lips together to hide your smile.

Atticus sighs. “I know, I’m dying for those moon cookies she makes us.” At the mention of those cookies, your stomach grumbles. You hope Celia was wrong because you’re suddenly craving your grandmother’s cooking and her company. Her funny stories and voice that’s always a little too loud for the indoors never fails to cheer you up. As short and frail as she is, her voice and personality could fill a room.

“Me too,” you say shortly.

“Hello?!” Celia waves her handkerchief in your face, and you persisted in ignoring her. Suddenly, a sound of disgust comes from Janie as she brushes off her skirt.

“Y/n, retrieve this monster of yours!” She squeals as Ambrose bites the fabric of her dress, tugging on it with a growl.

“Damn this dog,” Celia shouts, attempting to shoo him away, but yelps in surprise as Ambrose snaps his jaw shut near her hand. “Get this thing under control! Y/n!”

Your hand comes up to cover your smile even though the two are shuffling behind you and a stifled chuckle comes from Atticus. The sound of Janie’s heels on the concrete becomes louder as she rushes beside Atticus again, and your smiles drop. The sight of your house comes into view, and you tilt your head confused; your father’s car is parked in the driveway.

“You said no one was home?” You say out loud, and Celia gasps beside you,

“Now you speak to me?” She snaps, halting as you approach the fence. She stands tall, hands folded in front of her elegantly as Janie’s expression is gleaming like a child on Christmas. “Your father requested to keep it a secret, so I obliged his wishes. He canceled his last lecture today to make you both a meal. What a lovely man.”

Your hand finds the latch for the white picket fence as you smile at the familiar narrow victorian-style house ahead of you. A path of cobblestone leads you to the brick steps of the small porch.

Your home sticks out from the more modern American houses that surround the area. It’s an antique, a snippet of history, as your father likes to say. The house is a russet brown only because the bricks are so old they’ve darkened in color. The house accents such as the window trims, porch overhang, and columns are copper, and the hipped roof has brown tiles that look like fish scales. Beside the porch, the bay windows from both stories stack on top of each other, and above the porch roof is the dormer that’s a part of your bedroom.

Gods, you’re yearning to be in your room. You just want to pull out your Murphy bed from the wall and bury yourself in your sheets. The idea of being in bed puts a pep in your step, and you are careful to avoid the salt ring that surrounds your house.

A butterfly passes by your face, flying to the bunchberry bushes your father has planted in the front garden. Among the grass, there are various flowers and herbs that your father grows in the summer. You’ve inherited many things from your father, but his green thumb isn’t one of them. He takes his gardening seriously while you can barely keep the cacti in your room alive.

“Enjoy your meal! Come talk to us one of these days. We missed you two!” Janie shouts after you as you make your way up the stairs. You turn around, Atticus smiling at them.

“We missed you, girls, too,” he says as if he didn’t want to admit it. Janie squeals something about how handsome his smile is, and you scoff, amused as you grab the doorknob.

Once you push the door open, you're hit with a rush of deja vu. The history channel plays faintly in the next room as you take in the home you’ve missed dearly.

There are two bookshelves against the wall on your right, a wide ledge with pillows under the bay windows. A messy coffee table filled with letters and stacked with books sits in front of the comfy reading nook, letting you know that your father was recently hanging out there.

There is a brown mahogany staircase that ascends upstairs to your left, and right beside it is the altar for your mother. A statue of her rests in the middle of the rectangle table covered in a black table cloth. On top of it lies the many offerings for your mom. Herb-dressed candles burn beside bowls of fruit, bouquets, a crystal enamel wine glass filled with alcohol, feathers, and other things. You ignore the altar as you put down your stuff beside the door, following Atticus as he takes off his shoes.

“Kids?” You hear your father call enthusiastically from beyond the foyer, and you persist forward into the entryway ahead of you.

“We’re home!” Atticus announces as he enters beside you. Ambrose barks making a beeline to the right and behind the kitchen counter. He jumps on your father with so much force he stumbles back.

“Gods! Why does he look even bigger?” Your father exclaims through a laugh, fixing the round glasses that threaten to slip off his nose as his other hand grips Ambrose’s paw. He yelps in surprise as Harvey's claws rest on top of his head, clinging to his hair to steady himself.

The warmth and smell of home fill your senses as you catch your dad’s gaze. “Well, come here! Are you going to hug your pops or what?”

You rush over with Atticus. Both of you hug your dad tightly on either side of him, and you smile as he presses a kiss on your temples. “I missed you guys so much!”

“We missed you too!” The smile on your face falters as he looks up, scanning the archway as if he was waiting for someone else. You shift, not ready to be faced with the question, and you peer around his body to look at the food on the stove behind him.

Your father notices your interest, and he chuckles. “Come on, let’s eat. You guys came right on time.”

You shuffle through the kitchen with Atticus, making your way to the rounded table at the end of the kitchen.

“Dad, what have you been up to?” Atticus asks teasingly, and your father perks up.

“I've done a lot of things to keep me busy. I volunteered to teach summer classes while you were gone. I’m reading this book with a fascinating perspective of the shift from Paganism to Christianity in Rome. It’s an amazing read; I highly recommend it. Though, I don’t quite agree with it.” Your father hums thoughtfully. “Oh! And I bought gnomes for our garden! And the thrift store had this little house and this old lady figurine! I put it on the porch. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but she’s the official guard of the door," he declares proudly. "And…” He twists and turns before heading to the bookshelves in the living room area. He grabs something from the shelf then he showcases a cartoon Dobby bobblehead with wide arms. A high-pitched cackle leaves his lips. “It completes our collection!”

“Woah! Where did you get it? We went to three different places for it, and we couldn’t find it.” Atticus matches your father’s excitement, and you snort at the two.

“I went to a mythology convention in Boston a few weeks ago. There was a game stop across the street from the center, and I thought, ‘why not?’ I went in, and I saw this little guy by the register.” Your father is giddy as he nudges the head and watches it jiggle in his hands.

You think of what your grandmother’s reaction would be if she saw all the things he bought on his trip to the thrift store. She’d definitely complain. She always said that even growing up, your father had a liking for knickknacks. On your shelves and counters, there are always little trinkets lying around. It even extends to the walls, a variety of paintings and diagrams are neatly hung beside each other. From the state of your house, it’s clear your father is a maximalist in its purest definition.

“Wow! That’s awesome!” Atticus reaches out his hand for it as your father brings over his entire collection of Harry Potter bobbleheads, the toys huddled in his chest before he places them on the dining table. “The whole gang can hang out with us for dinner.”

“I hope they like pasta,” Atticus comments, lining them up as your dad retrieves the pan of food.

Your stomach grumbles at the sight, and you’re quick to serve yourself as Atticus and your Dad talk about anything and everything. You guys discuss what your grandmother has been up to, how your father’s classes were going, which led your father to ramble so much he formed a tangent on top of another. The conversation was going so well that you were sure he wouldn’t ask about your summer, but you had assumed too soon.

“So enough about me! How was Camp?” Your father chirps, and you shift in your seat.

You smile with confidence to hide the wariness you felt. “It was great!” You figured if you keep your answer short, you could move past it quickly.

“Yeah, the usual. Fun as always,” Atticus adds.

Your father’s eyes flicker between the two of you, and the first thing he notices is the way your smiles don’t reach the rest of your face.

The clanging of metal utensils on glass plates fills the room as the both of you fixate on your food but neither take a bite. The camp was never a touchy subject. The sudden unwillingness to speak about it makes his eyebrow cock up in suspicion. His eye averts to the empty dining chair beside you and the dinner place settings that remained untouched. Alabaster was supposed to join your return home. At least, that’s what he had assumed.

“Did Alabaster decide to stay at his foster home?” There’s caution in his tone, and he’s taken aback at how both you and Atticus tense up. The clings of metal halt abruptly, and slowly, you move to glance at your father.

“Dad, something happened at camp this summer.” Now, it was your turn to have a tone laced with caution. Alabaster lived with you for months and quickly became a part of the family. Your father saw him as his second son, and you were afraid to break the news that he may never see him again.

“What happened? Did he get into trouble?” You frown at the sudden edge in his voice. Atticus shifts beside you,

“He took the others to go fight for the Titan Lord.”

“What?”

“Mother came to speak to him and told him that it was best to fight for the other side since their chances are better,” you say slowly. “They left at the end of July. Only Atticus, Lou Ellen, and I stayed at camp.”

Your father’s expression darkens, grief written all over his face. “And you haven’t seen them since?”

You shake your head, not wanting to delve into the details. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing them again in a while and not in the best circumstances.” Your father nods, understanding the implication in your words. “Mother promised that she’d take care of them if they fight for the other side. I didn’t want to go; it wasn’t right.”

“That must be why everything is rotting,” your father mutters more to himself. You furrow your eyebrows.

“Rotting? What’s rotting?”

“Our offerings to your mother,” he clarifies. “All the fruit I leave on her altar goes bad in a few days. The flowers wither quickly too. The garden, in general, hasn’t been doing well either. I didn’t understand why.”

Your focus returns to your plate. Suddenly, you weren’t that hungry anymore.

She must be angry, you think to yourself. A part of you wanted a sign from her to let you know if she was bothered you didn’t join. When the sign didn’t come, you assumed she didn’t care; that, in a way, you were dead to her. It didn’t dawn on you to ask how the altar or the garden your father dedicated to her was doing.

“Can I be excused?” You strain, your face a little hot, and you’re not sure if it was from your anger or from the tears you’re blinking away.

“Of course.” The warm smile on your father’s face fails to budge the dread you’re feeling. “You can be excused as well, Atticus.”

You miss the way your father and Atticus exchange looks as you stood up. There wasn’t a verbal agreement, but Atticus stands up tall, determined to make you feel better. He trails behind you, and suddenly, he slings his arm across your shoulders. “You know what’s one of the things I missed at camp?”

“What?” You ask, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest.

“Beating you at Tekken,” Atticus teases. Your lips curve slightly; his playful nature manages to brighten up your mood a little bit. “Let’s play. I’ll go easy on you, but I’m sure you’ll still lose regardless.”

“You’re on,” you nudge him, and Atticus chuckles, walking ahead of you and up the stairs. Your hand grips the railing, and you walk up a few steps before halting, and your eyes find the front door.

“You don’t get it!”

“I don’t.” You shrugged, amused at the way Atticus’s eyebrows knitted in disbelief. He ignored you, grabbed the remote, and played the Star Wars movie again. You groaned, seeing the slanted letters move up the TV screen. “Atticus! I can’t watch this!”

“Why not?!”

“Well, first off, my dyslexia won’t let me read that quickly, and if a physically written prologue is needed before a movie… it’s not a good movie!”

“How dare you!” You threw your head back as a laugh bubbled in your throat. The exasperated look on his face was too funny. You had no desire to watch these movies, and you figured if you bothered him enough, he’d give up trying to show them to you. The shrug of your shoulders made him scoff. “Just watch it!”

A huff left your lips, and unwillingly, you returned your gaze to the screen. Suddenly, a hollow knock came from the front door.

“It’s late,” you said, but Atticus was too caught up in the beginning battle of the movie to pay any mind to you. Rarely did you get visitors, definitely not past midnight on a Friday. Cautiously, you rose from the couch and moved toward the door.

Rain erratically hit against your curtain-covered windows; the wind and cold made the walls around you creak as they adjusted. Whatever waited for you at the door, you just wished it was a person, not a weird ghost or monster. Your finger latched on the side of the curtain, allowing you to peek through the glass of your front door.

A gasp left your lips. Alabaster, soaked from the ruthless rain outside, was the last person you expected to see. But even though you didn’t expect him, you had an inkling as to why he was here.

Hastily, you unlocked the door and flung it open. “Al?” You sputtered; his green orbs were surrounded by tired eyes and puffy skin.

“He died this morning,” he strained. Your expression softened, and before you could say anything, Alabaster stepped forward and hugged your shoulders tightly. The raggedness of his breath, the shutter of his body, sent your chest a weight of sorrow. You couldn’t imagine being in his shoes and losing your father to a long battle with cancer at 14. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes; the person you looked up to the most was breaking down. You never thought he would need your help for anything, but it seems that you were wrong. “I’m sorry. You guys live the closest to me, and I didn’t know where to go-”

“It’s okay,” you interrupted. “Oh, Al, I’m so sorry,” your voice cracked, hands rubbed his back as a sob left his lips. A creak of a floorboard caught your attention, and you turned to see a confused Atticus emerging from the living room. With a sad look, he understood what happened, and soon his expression was mimicking yours.

“I’ll wake dad and get clothes,” he said, then rushed upstairs.

Your father didn’t even hesitate to help Alabaster, opening the doors of your house to him. In his greatest time of need, the three of you stood beside him, and overnight, he had a place in your home and in your heart. The three of you spent so much time playing video games, getting into trouble around town, learning magic. All the good times you and Atticus shared with him, were they really worth throwing away to fight with Kronos? You realize now that his departure was never only a betrayal to the camp but to you, Atticus, and your father, and you couldn’t help but think perhaps, you guys didn’t mean as much to him as he meant to you.

A shaky sigh leaves your mouth at the thoughts persistent to ruin your mood. The desire to leave camp was to avoid all the things that reminded you of your siblings, but now that you returned home, you realize that running away isn’t as easy as you thought.

masterlist taglist: @xxyrr @nct127bee @mochabreezeee @minamisulemisa @yanfeisluvr @Slytherclaw-kitten @zhethugisa @-thatgirloverthere- @sanovr @passionswift @nanskidoodle @idk-bye-no @ilvermornyidiot @all-hailreyna @blackpopcorn @autmngirlworld @sunkissedskin1328 @Hermioneswifeee @quteez @hajigayy @aleksanderwh0r3 @drayshadow @tonyedwardstarkk @londoncherry @ashookykooky @lotusnegra666 @loverstyless @t0xicmuse @ohmydamgods @jordannfields @tomriddles-wh0re @chasingpj @pixietilly1924 @amy-writes-blog @muted-mayham @shawkneecaps @cbmelody @dreamerball @earthtokace @thehighladyofday @theverydramaticcabbage @lala-llama123 @tootsdoll @slytherindaughterofposeidon0 @black-rose-29 @somekidnamedkai @possiblylostchasecousin @silver-gemini @vodkavanity @hamdehlesmis @shadowsndaisies @cami05sworld @does-anyone-hear-me @scarlets-widow

if your username is bolded that means i can’t tag you ! you probably have your visibility settings on!

[power-strength-appetite]

It’s about a year since I joined Tumblr 🖤🖤🖤

[hexite-nightmares]

Song asks - 2, 7, 20!

2. This used to be my favorite for a while.

20. “Where the pretty girls are

Those demigods

With their nine-inch nails

And little fascist panties

Tucked inside the heart

Of every nice girl”

oof never fails to give me full body chills.

7. This made me think a lot lol.

[viiridiangreen]

playlist meme :3c

Rules: we’re snooping in your playlist. put your entire music library on shuffle and list the first 10 songs and then choose 10 victims.

No, you don't - Nine Inch Nails

Rattlesnake - King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard

My Sweet Prince - Placebo

Special - Mew

The Vapors - Baths

Black Milk - Massive Attack

Edit - Regina Spektor

Welcome Oblivion - How to Destroy Angels

Gold - Marina & the Diamonds

Imago - The Mars Volta

Not T-Rez showing up twice... and Bowie / Björk not showing at all?? wild

Tagging: @ezmads @spacedebris1993 @warderfromtheborder @homoeroticsubtextinspace  @uldrenssov  @night-dark-woods @thepitofheresy @the-light-finds-its-way​  & anyone else who wants to have a go!

EDIT: Somehow (maybe bc this is my first time Playing Tag Games bc i used my previous blog exclusively as a consciousness dumping ground lmao) I forgot to mention @synnthamonsugar​ tagged me 2 begin with!!! ty for that this was fun <3

rambling abt Musical Tastes & a bad meme under cut

So that list is pretty Comprehensive but I also like Rock Olds, Insufferable Prog Rock (Steven Wilson = poor little meow meow), late 90′s Br*t*sh triphop / downtempo, and whichever Sad Overarching Gay Music Genre stretches from like The Cure to Daughter <3

Stuff in Spanish is weirdly scarce but in my defense it does include notorious Argentinean demigod Gustavo Cerati’s Soda Stereo as well as his myriad collaborations, including the ones with Shakira, and I have a Soft Spot for The Cure But Mexican™ aka Caifanes, even if over the years they became weird spotlight hoarders and a national meme for their Bickering and Drama (which resulted in them hoarding the spotlights but Under Different Band Names)

Also I sure love the songwriting & vocal performances of:

[loner3535]

No one cared

To tell me

Where the pretty girls are

Those demigods

With their nine-inch nails

And a little fascist panties

Tucked inside the heart

Of every nice girl…

[sherrybaby14]

Final Hurrah

Request: Okay but like, can you do a sequel for oh i am, where reader finally fucks loki.

 Summary:  You fuck Loki after the battle of New York.  

 Pairing:  Loki x you

 Warnings:  Smut, little bit of blood, little bit of name calling, breding 

 Words: 1600

 A/N: Not a sequel.  You don’t need to have read Oh But I Am to follow this

                  “Come on, I’m an Avenger.”  You rolled your shoulders back with confidence.  “I need to see the prisoner.”

                 “But Mr. Stark left strict instructions…” the guard started his spiel again.  

                 “Who do you think sent me to check on him?”  Now for the hands on the hips. “It’s the middle of the night.  I can wake up Tony if you like?  I’m sure he will be thrilled that he has to get out of bed to approve something he sent a member of his own team to do.”

                 “Fine.”  The guard looked nervous and tired.  “But I’m locking you in.  Knock three times when you’re done.”  

                 “I’ll need at least an hour.  Maybe two.”  You didn’t want to look over-eager, but your body was almost humming with anticipation. “Might have to rough him up a little. For what he did to New York and all.”

                 “Give him hell lady.” The guard winked.  

                 That was the goal.  When the door opened you stepped inside Loki’s cell.  The walls were white and the light was on, illuminating the room.  The demigod sat up on the small cot and looked at you with shock as he rose.  

                 You smirked as the guard shut the door behind you, locking it tight.  

                 “What are you doing here little miss?”  Loki eyed you up and down.  “I don’t think I know your name.”

                 “That’s a shame.”  You saw the looks he was giving you earlier, no doubt that he was feeling this as much as you were.  “I guess you’ll have to get creative with what you cry out then.”  

                 You almost ran as you flung your arms around him, crashing your mouth to his.  He let out a UMPH and stumbled backward, catching himself before falling back on the bed.  

                 Loki’s hands went to your hips and he spread his fingers, pulling your body close to his as your tongues danced with one another.   Kissing a god was better than you anticipated.  Worth any moral hang-ups you had about fucking the terrorist.  

                 You both had too much clothing on.  You ran your hands down his broad shoulders to the bottom of his top, looking for a way to undress him.  You felt no zipper or clasps.  

                 He laughed into your mouth and you broke the kiss pulling away with a questioning look.  

                 “You know I’m a monster right?”  Loki reached up to his shoulder and waved his hand, the item of clothing split exposing his pale white skin.  

                 You nodded, enjoying the show.  Growing wetter as the image of his taunt thin body appeared before you.  

                 “And you want me all the same?”  Loki tilted his head.  “Humans are an interesting bunch.”

                 “Figure you deserve one last fling before Odin locks you up for good.”  You reached for the bottom of your top now and pulled it off, undressing the rest of the way while Loki did the same.  

                 “How generous of you little miss.”  His eyes took in your form as you discarded your bra and panties.  “Very pleasing for a final hurrah.”  

                 He peeled off the rest of his uniform and stepped away.  Leaving him naked with a bulging erection.   You let out a whimper at the size of him.  Godlike indeed.  

                 “Fuck me.”  You shook your head at the sight.  

                 “Oh I plan to.”  Loki grabbed your waist and picked you up, hoisting you like you weighed nothing.  

                 He slammed you down on the bed and jumped on top of you.  Your kissing resumed as he pawed at your body, his fingers finding your nipple. He started to tug and twist it into a firm peak.  You squealed into his mouth and arched your back, thrusting your chest into his hand. Unsure if because you wanted more attention or to lessen the tugging.

                 A finger ran up your slit and stopped at your clit.  He pushed down hard making you mewl into his mouth.  

                 “You’ve been thinking about this all day.  Haven’t you?”  Loki kissed his way down to your neck.  “What a little minx you are.”  

                 “Yes.”  You ran your pussy over his cock, wanting him to impale you with the thing.  

                 “What does your boyfriend have to say about that?” He licked your neck before clamping his mouth down and sucking, his fingers still torturing your nipple.  

                 “Not my boyfriend.”  You didn’t want to think about Steve while you were wiggling under the Asgardian.  

                 “Does he know that?”  Loki switched from sucking your neck to biting.

                  You let out a cry and dug your nails into his back, flexing your pelvis up, trying to get him to enter you at any cost.  

                 “Fuck me.  Please?”  You hated the way he was moving away.  

                 The strange position made you feel trapped, and he was almost floating, one hand teasing your chest, the other nothing but straight pressure on your clit.  

                 “Normally I wouldn’t tolerate such behavior.”  He bit down hard and winced, certain he’d broken the skin.  “But we don’t have all night.  Do we?”

                 “No.”  You stuck your tongue out and flicked it against his ear, before pulling the lobe between your teeth and biting down.  

                 His hand was gone from your clit and you whimpered, but then you felt his cock.  He was poking at your entrance, so huge.  You braced your legs and tried to relax at the same time.   The descent began.  Your chest heaved as he burned wonderfully.  An ache in your body satisfied with his large cock.  

                 “You are tight little miss.”  Loki grunted.  “A true delight.”  

                 You let your head drop and eyes close.  Trying to commit every inch of him to your memory. This scenario would be playing out alone with you and your hand in the future.  It felt too good not to.  

                 “Lovely.”  Loki kissed your forehead.  

                 You felt him poking your cervix.  Almost too much to take, but then his pelvis hit yours right when the pinch of too much happened.   Instead of pulling back he pushed forward, rocking his head against your internal parts.  

                 You yipped at the harsh feeling, your cunt so slick it didn’t matter.  You could take anything he was about to give you and you would take it with a smile.  

  ��              Then he started.  Not really moving out as much as deeper and less deep, the head of his cock threatening to breach any interior barrier to your womb.  The position meant each motion resulted in his pelvis rubbing against your clit.  

                 Soon the pain and the need were turning into one and you were rocking against him, wanting the attention on your clit.  It resulted in taking his cock deeper, igniting the pain of your womanhood, opening yourself up to the god.  

                 There was no doubt you were going to be bleeding after this exchange, but you didn’t care.  He felt amazing.  

                 “Maybe I’ll cum just like this.”  He pushed down hard.  “Make sure my final hurrah gives you a surprise nine months later.”  

                 “Shit.”  You were on birth control, but would that work against Asgardians.  “Don’t.”  

                 “Oh I think I will.”  Loki ran his teeth down your neck, his cock deeper than any mortal man had been.  “I think I would enjoy that very much.  But let’s make sure you enjoy yourself first.  I wouldn’t want to be selfish.”  

                 “Please.”  The word came out in a whimper.  What were you begging for?  To cum? For him not to?  

                 Loki was grinding down hard now, tormenting your bundle of nerves, torturing your cervix, igniting your brain with thoughts of carrying his child.  

                 “A pretty girl begging?”  Loki sucked hard on your neck and pulled away. “How could I say no?”

                 There was blood on his lips, no doubt your own, but he began flexing, grinding, rocking.  Every sensation you could imagine.  It was sending you in a desperate tailspin.  Soon you ignored everything else and were bucking against him like a madwoman.  No longer the least bit concerned about him hurting you or where he was going to cum. Only concerned with your own release.

                 A scream left your lips as your body started to shake, fire and ice spreading through your veins.  Euphoria spreading in as you came around his cock, your pussy convulsing and toes curling.  Your vision started to go black as your muscles went slack.  

                 Loki pushed down hard.  You felt the pinch inside and then true to his word his cock hardened and exploded.  Direct access to your womb.  

                 The dull ache of need replaced by an actual physical ache, but one that was delicious with pleasure.   Your eyes rolled back into your head as the need to sleep overcame you.  

                 “Don’t worry little miss.”  Loki kissed your cheek.  “I won’t tell the Avengers what a little slut you are.  Cumming on a monster’s dick.  But you’ll have to come up with your own story when a dark-haired little boy comes out of your womb next year.”

                 You hated it that his words sent a chill through you.  Why were you getting turned on again?  You didn’t care.  The urge to sleep vanished.  Loki was looming over you, his cock softening inside of you.  

                 “I think we have time for one more.”  You tucked his hair behind his ear.  

                 Confusion and shock was on his face, but soon morphed into a wicked grin.  

                 “Wonderful final hurrah.”    

[hyperstation]

Brand new in the same name.

Could it happen to anyone? When I let myself be Could have been anyone. I hate pretty girls, those raised cornflakes in green dresses. I resent Christian boys and their beautiful smiles. I want to kill them when they dare to beat me to it, I pretended I came and, they thought they were fucking Jesus.

Myself without the imagination is this self with a mask. A raw meat mindless acting like never saw a wolf.

I will scratch their faces with nine-inch nails, let them bleed. I still remember everything I know about wolves and Fascist socks as a disguise to demigods complexion, Girls trying to act as the other girls do, avoiding an elastic time Being less than a guest, letting the ones free of their mess I will scratch, then I will let bleed and, I will wash away.

I have been losing the records of old names, the ones, Once upon a time, I cried over something I can't recall what it was. Life has been getting clear, All I ever yearned for became a blur, I feel embarrassed like blood rose in the street.

Slightly angry about all the things I said, and they dared to steal. As if they were with them all long away from me I have no track of where my ideas went.