covering hole

I always think about how if Hopper cut open wills body and it didn’t turn out to be fake that would have sucked so bad. Like oops sorry lol I thought this was an exact fake replica of a dead boys body placed by corrupt government men trying to cover up a hole that leads to another dimension that was opened by a telekinetic eleven year old girl but it turns out I was wrong, okay bye!

youtube

Watch Ryan Adams Cover Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” in Tribute to Chris Cornell

Vivisepulture

I buried it
Dug deep, hands in the soil
in the soul
Clawed my way down
Pushing past, cracking bones
Put all traces in the hole
Covered over
salted earth
Left alone
Convinced it was dead and gone
Even while constantly
checking for growth
Gnawing thoughts that
won’t let go
Attention drawn back to the grave
where my love lies
Knowing I’m haunted by something
still alive

TW blamethebutterfliespoetry

Headlines read: POKÉMON GO AWAY; POLICE ISSUE WARNING NOT TO POKÉMON AND DRIVE;  MAN QUITS JOB TO CATCH POKÉMON FOR TWO MONTHS

My mother sees this and shakes her head. My friends squabble about it. Internet comments read: you all need to get a life, aren’t you too old to play children’s games, wish millennials would hunt jobs instead of imaginary animals, I’m so ashamed of this generation

I’m so in awe of this generation and everything it has to carry. I am stunned by the way we persevere, by the way we find comfort and peace in such small packages. MAN QUITS JOB TO CATCH POKÉMON. Man indulges in nostalgia. Man leaves home, travels. Man pursues happiness, finds it in strange places.

Pokémon: Indigo League aired in 1999 on Kids’ WB. Picture: an alarm set, two pairs of tired eyes, TV trays and cereal, volume low because mom’s sleeping off her night shift at the bar, theme song lyrics printed out and sitting on the floor. I was eight. I never recall my father in these memories. He’d either already left or I’ve blocked out his face the same way my mom used family photos to cover up fist-sized holes in the walls.

Pokémon Silver and Gold were released in the US in 2001. Picture: anthrax, terror alerts, news footage looping, smoke and screaming, teachers crying in classrooms, the way fear can permeate an entire country and my small body the same way without ever having to name a reason out loud. I was ten. I was scared all the time, but I was also spending my weekends running around outside with my brother and the neighbor boy, throwing imaginary Poké Balls at squirrels.

It’s not that I didn’t know what was going on. It’s just that sometimes when things are loud or angry or hard, especially when you’re young, the best thing you can do is keep your head down.

2016: terrorism, police brutality, student loan debts, depression, anxiety, Brexit, the US political landscape. Pokémon Go begins rolling out its release around the world and there are days, at twenty-five, that I still need to keep my head down. I know there is immense privilege in being able to put the rest of the world on hold for a while, to step back from the things that hurt us; but I also know this brief respite is important. Whether it’s turning off the news for a few days or reading a book or taking a vacation or augmented reality as self care. It is hard to live full time in a world that always looks like it’s on fire. It sits so heavy on the chest. It is easy to look out at all this trauma and forget to look back at yourself.

What I mean to say is, I might not quit my job to roam the country and catch Pokémon, but when it comes to pursuing my own happiness, no matter the means, “I wanna be the very best…”
—  LIKE NO ONE EVER WAS by Trista Mateer

Black Holes & Revelations cover: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. 

Muse decided to modernize the four horsemen into their own vision of much more evil spirits, going as following:

- Intolerance: the one wearing the suit with religious symbols on it with a mind-controlling tool on his head.

- Narcissism: the one with the suit covered in wide opened eyes, meaning he only looks at things/people on their surface.

- Paranoia: the one with the suit covered in mirrors that deveive people through hysteria and fear with its reflections.

- Greed: the one wearing the gold suit, that corrupts everything with his greedy touch.

source: Muse - Love is our Resistance 

heaven is a place on earth (m)

↳ crossroads demon au

pairing: shin hoseok | reader
genre: fluff, slight crack, smut.
word count: 10,669
description: “Hey there sweetheart, you called? How may I help you today?” Calling upon a crossroads demon might’ve been the best decision you’ve ever made in life. At least until it involves pizza.
author’s note: this was too tempting to write… thank @jiminscreaming​ for convincing me to do it.

Originally posted by bunnywonho

Waiting for the pizza to arrive wanes on your patience, and much to your immense displeasure, you can’t help but pout on the floor, hoping that the damn pizza will arrive soon. Not that you would ever complain about Changkyun, but you were certainly considering it from the amount of time he’s been taking to arrive to your place. It isn’t even like he should get lost he’s actually been to your place to deliver pizzas more times than you’d ever admit.

But before you can dial the number to the pizza place just to ask about the status of your pizza, there’s a knock and doorbell at your door which you excitedly rise for and rush toward the door.

Unfortunately, the sight behind it is not Changkyun with your beloved pizza, but a silver and blue-haired demon that you can’t help but glower at despite the confusion you have at seeing him donning a red and white cap with the pizza logo on it or the fact that he’s holding a box of pizza in his hand.

“Wonho, what the hell? Where’s my pizza? If you do not quit your shit, I swear I will find a way to cut your tail off. I don’t even care if you don’t have one either. Grow one or some shit.” You growl the moment he appears in your doorway.

With that goddamn smirk curving on his lips, he replies, “Try it, sweetheart. I like it kinky.”

He’s a demon from your own personal hell, and this is literally speaking.

Keep reading

3

Shmi had often wondered if Owen had been part of the reason she had so readily agreed to marry Cliegg. […] Yes, she loved him, and deeply, and she certainly couldn’t deny her joy finally being relieved of her slave bonds. But despite all of that, what part had the presence of Owen played in her decisions? It had been a question that had stayed with her all these years. Had there been a need in her heart that Owen had filled? A mother’s need to cover the hole left by Anakin’s departure?

Guilty Kiss

( The reader teases Peter a little too much, and things get out of hand. )

A/N: My love for Peter Parker ( and Tom Holland ) knows no bounds. And I’m still sobbing over Tom Holland. TBH if I had a boyfriend like Peter, I would tease him every moment I get. Except that I’m usually the flustered shy one. Requests are open, BTW, so send them in!  

Taglist: @mainspidey | @x-wing-starwriter | @tomsleftbrow | @tryn25 


“Where is my evac, Clint?” Your voice is tinged with irritation as you switch on your comm-link. Breathe, (Y/n). Don’t yell. “Clint? Please tell me that you aren’t sleeping on the job.”

Your heels click against the tiled floor of a long, narrow passage. You’ve disabled the two guards stationed at the entrance of the archives before they could raise the alarm but there’s no telling how long it would take before someone competent realizes what’s going on.

“I’m here, I’m here. Sheesh, can’t a guy step out to get a cup of coffee for one second –”

Somewhere in the distance, an alarm erupts, screeching through the airways. Dang it. The patrol must have found the bodies.

“Not when I’m in blind in a Hydra facility. So help me, Clint –”

“Alright, alright, no need to get huffy with me. Besides, Spidey’s got your back.”

A smile flits across your face at the mention of Peter. The awkward, adorable boy is easy to be with, and is even easier to love, and you like him. A lot. You’re sure that Clint can hear the smile in your voice when you say, “He’s securing the perimeter. So no.”

“I’m in Wing C. I think.” Ripping the emergency map off the wall, you consider the corridors and say, “Yeah, definitely Wing C. Files are with me.”

“Nice job, kid. Get to the roof, and I’ll pick the two of you up from there.”

The affectionate nickname sends a wave of warmth crashing over you, and your smile widens. “Sure. See you in ten.”

“Peter, you there?” Turning off your comm-link, you pull your phone out of your pocket, dialling his number by heart. You hope he’ll pick up. “It’s me.”

He does. Peter’s voice sounds as though he’s holding his phone at arm’s length. He’s put you on speaker too; you can hear muffled screams and thumps on Peter’s end, but none of them sound like him. In fact, it sounds as though he’s having fun.

“Spider 1 to Agent 1. Copy. Over.”

You make a mental note to never, ever let Peter watch anymore James Bond movies. His “spy lingo” is downright atrocious.

And for the millionth time since the two of you had started dating, you start to laugh. “You have seriously been watching too many spy movies. Is the perimeter secure?”

“Hey, you watched them all with me! Over.”

He’s avoiding the question, you realize, and your smile falters the tiniest bit. “Peter?”

“Um.” His voice is sheepish as it floats over the speakers. “Um, yeah, it’s secure. More or less. Over.”

“What’s less?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and bracing for bad news.

“Less as in one of the guards may have called for backup before I could stop him. So prepare for incoming. Over.”

“Thanks, Spider 1,” You drawl out sarcastically, your voice rising above a symphony of rapidly approaching footsteps. As yet unnoticed, you duck behind a now abandoned security desk, keeping your voice hushed. “Now could you please get over to Wing C? Our ride’s waiting.”

“Copy that. Spider 1, out. Over.”

There’s a loud commotion. A group of men whisk past you. Six go down the hall you’d come from, and one mutters, “We aren’t paid enough for this.” Some enter the elevators. They’re all dressed haphazardly, as if they’ve been roused from sleep and had had to hurry. There must be a facility close by. Like army barracks, maybe. You’d have to be careful to avoid it.

You gaze longingly at the doors to the stairwell leading to the roof.

Two men stay behind and assume their positions, forcing you to inch your way around the desk to continue to hide your presence. You sit for a moment, trying to decide on your next move.

There’s only one thing to do, really.

Crawling to the end of the desk, you peek out around the edge, noting the exact positions of the guards. Yanking your ICER ( ‘Incapacitating Cartridge Emitting Raygun’ ) out of your thigh sheath, you cock your weapon and fire. Sticky pellets containing 50,000 volts find their way into bare skin. Their bodies perform involuntary twitching dances; they’re unconscious by the time they hit the ground.

Your heels click as you stride forwards, picking your way over motionless arms and legs. The door to the stairwell flies open, a black-clad figure appears in the doorway. Oh, well. Too late to hide now. Shrugging, you walk closer, but no one else comes to stop you. Fixing a pleasant smile onto cherry red lips, you ready your ICER.

“Hey, baby,” The mook leers, eyes lingering far too long on your chest and legs for your liking. “Did you come here to play?”

Gross. Your smile slips. You’ve just taken out two of his underlings, and that’s the best he can come up with? Forget the ICER; you’re going to enjoy beating this guy up. You aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, you tuck your ICER back into your thigh sheath and shift into a defensive position.

“That’s funny, babe. Where did you learn that? On TV?”

Okay. One response. A stinging anticipation winds through you as you stalk forwards. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

When he makes his next move – a punch that practically oozes contempt and confidence – you’re ready. You duck, avoiding impact, and he swipes air. You deliver a vicious kick, buckling his knees. As he goes down with a yelp of pain, you elbow him in the back of the head. Yeah. Forget honour. You’ll go with dirty.

He attempts to rise. You waste no time in leaping onto him, planting yourself on his neck and pinning his shoulders to the floor. As far as most deaths go, this one isn’t all together unpleasant; at least this creep is being suffocated by the thighs of a girl, which is more than he deserves.

“My name is not babe. I’m (F/n) (L/n), and I am this close to crushing your misogynistic skull with my thighs.”

His face is turning a funny shade of puce. You let him suffer for a few more seconds before you pull out your ICER and stun him.

“Holy shit.”

Peter’s soft, awe-filled whisper catches you completely off guard. From your place atop of the Hydra mook, his face still crushed between your thighs, you offer Peter a wicked grin, which makes his heart stutter in his chest. He gulps audibly, a gesture which does not go unnoticed by you.

Relax, Peter,” You purr, looking up at him from under thickly dusted lashes. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to see you crush him with your thighs,” Peter manages, his gaze ping-ponging from the mook unconscious on the floor to your unconventional seat, your face radiant and flushed and pretty. “I don’t know why I rushed over.”

“Because you love me?” Batting your eyelashes, you smile a sweet, sweet smile, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. “And your life would have a noted lack of (Y/n) if I wasn’t around?”

Much to your surprise, Peter actually nods. You can’t see his face under his mask, but you know Peter’s smiling over the blush that paints his cheeks. Huffing out a laugh, you release the male from your clutches, straightening your skirt and thigh highs. Unlike Agent Romanoff, who prefers skin-tight spandex during combat, you’re particularly fond of skirts, which allow for ease of movement.

That, and it’s easier to take down people when they’re busy ogling your bare legs.

Peter’s trying not to stare. The operative word being ‘trying’. He’s manfully covered the eye-holes of his mask, but his fingers are splayed too widely for them to truly be effective at blocking your figure out.

You keep a neutral, pleasant smile on your lips as you stand, the one that Peter hates because he can’t tell what you’re hiding. An idea is forming in your head, the gears in your mind turning. You feel a bit mean for what you’re about to do, but the desire to see Peter squirm wins out.

Slowly, deliberately, you hitch your skirt up so that it settles high up on your hips, revealing the wide gap of skin between your stockings and your skirt. Your tongue darts out to swipe across glossy lips as you walk over to Peter, swaying your hips strictly more than necessary.

You’re rewarded with a strangled squeak. He’s given up his charade of “a little peeking”, and is unabashedly staring at every shimmy and shake of your hips. You’re sure Peter knows exactly what you’re playing at, but he doesn’t have it in him to tell you to stop, it seems.

Peter’s stammered protests are swallowed up when you push up his mask to press a kiss to his lips. It starts slow at first, but soon speeds up into something wild. His hands settle on your hips while yours try to tug his shirt off – only to remember that he’s in spandex, not cotton. You groan in frustration, Peter hastily untangles himself from you and hastily backs away.

(Y/n)!” Peter sounds scandalized as he tries to protest again, his voice dazed and accusatory all at the same time – although he doesn’t sound all that mad that you’d technically seduced him into an impromptu make-out session in a Hydra base. “We’re still – We can’t!”

“I know, I know,” You say on a laugh, giving him a last, quick peck on the mouth before Peter tugs his mask back into place, hiding cheeks tinted pink. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t resist.”

Dropping your voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll take care of your, ah, problem later at home, okay?”

You dance off down the hallway with a laugh, your skirt still hitched up high, swishing around your thighs as you go. Peter groans from behind you, and you wave cheerily at him over your shoulder.

You can’t wait to get back home.

butteredonions  asked:

Micro fill? A la Routine Maintenance, Shiro's arm is troubling him again - but this time it's entirely the mice to the rescue.

Shiro scowls at his prosthetic, thoroughly fed up with it.

It’s been bothering him all morning, ever since his morning solo session against the Gladiator. He’d blocked a strike from the robot using his arm, and with some extremely bad luck, the robot’s staff had managed to catch him just beneath the connection point and right on one of the prosthethic’s panels.

At the time it hadn’t felt like much. He’d been wearing his armor, and while getting hit so close to the point where metal met flesh always stung, he’s gotten used to that brand of pain by now. He’d finished his training session, showered, and moved on with his day without thinking twice about it.

But he’d started to notice an odd rattling sound inside the prosthetic, and around the same time it had become less responsive. And as the hours pass, the sensation gets worse. He can’t flex his metal fingers very well at all, now, and the whole thing feels like it’s starting to get heavier. The remains of his right arm are starting to throb, and the whole experience is just downright uncomfortable.

He thinks something had probably been shaken loose, or gotten stuck on the inside of the prosthetic, around the point where the Gladiator had hit him. And normally this wouldn’t be too much of an issue, when safely on the ship, and not in the middle of a mission. The easiest solution would simply be to go to Hunk for maintenance, just like any time it needs serious work beyond routine cleaning and care that Shiro can’t handle himself.

Unfortunately for Shiro, Hunk is planet-side for the day, doing some major supplies shopping with Coran as he stocks their kitchen. And Pidge, the logical second choice for arm troubles, had also gone planet-side to get a few technological upgrades for her computer. Keith is still in the Castle, not particularly interested in the market crowds, but he’s no engineer. Shiro has no intention of making him help with this, even if Keith probably would in a heartbeat.

So Shiro does what he can to deal with it himself. Hunk’s shown him some of the more useful tools he can use for his prosthetic, and given him his own set to store in his room for emergencies. Using them and Hunk’s lessons, he manages to pry open the panel on the upper bicep of the prosthetic, and his probing fingers can definitely find a few loose wires, and something that feels like it’s jammed into a gear. That probably explains the lack of mobility, or maybe it interferes with the function that lets him move such a heavy piece of equipment easier. The weight of it is starting to get painful.

Unfortunately, although he’s identified the problem, fixing it is something else entirely. He struggles to plug the wires back in properly, or to remove the lose bit of metal jammed into the gear. But it’s an awkward angle, trying to reach into the back of his arm at all, much less trying to fix or replace things by feel alone. He curses, but he can’t quite manage it no matter how hard he tries.

A loud squeak at his foot makes him start, and he winces when he pinches one of his fingers in the metal panelling of the prosthetic. The blue mouse at his foot lets out an apologetic-sounding chittering noise.

“Uh. Hi,” Shiro says, raising an eyebrow. “Did you…did you need something?”

The blue mouse—Chulatt—squeaks and shakes its head ‘no.’ The yellow one, Platt, skitters up next to it and points at its mouth, then gestures to Shiro.

“I…eating?” It shakes its head. “Oh, wait, I didn’t eat.” He glances at the clock—it’s past lunch time. “Yeah, I’ve uh…I’ve been a little distracted.”

The red and green mice have managed to crawl up on his bed to sit next to him, and stare at the arm balanced carefully in his lap. The red one, Chuchule, points at the arm and then gestures at his shoulder, before demonstrating with few massaging motions on Plachu next to him.

“No, I don’t need that right now—well. Maybe later, but now it’d be sort of pointless.” Shiro shrugs one shoulder awkwardly. “I’ll just have to wait until Hunk and the others get back, I guess. This thing’s a pain to lug around when it’s not working.”

The mice exchange glances, and then as one swarm up his torso, darting across his lap or shoulders to the prosthetic.

“Wait, no!” Shiro hisses in alarm. Letting them help with massage therapy is one thing—he doesn’t want to explain to Allura why one of her precious mice has gotten fried or cut up or who only knows what else because it was trying to fix something only a trained engineer should be working on.

He tries to cover the gaping open hole in the prosthetic with his free hand, but the mice are nimble and quick. The blue one has already slipped inside, tail whipping through Shiro’s fingers, before he can stop him. Shiro curses. “Get out here right now!”

The mouse doesn’t listen. Which just figures, really.

Platt crawls up on his shoulder and pats his neck in what Shiro assumes is supposed to be a reassuring way, as Chuchule and Plachu shove his fingers aside and also crawl into the prosthetic’s interior. Shiro scowls, but there’s really nothing he can do to get them out at this point. If he sticks his fingers in there to try and drag any of them out, he’s afraid he could shove them into other components that could get them hurt or killed. He’s still not sure how he’s supposed to explain this to Allura, or anybody else, for that matter.

There’s a sudden loud buzzing noise and a snap, not unlike a little crackle of electricity, and the whole prosthetic seems to jerk for a moment. Then it settles, and to Shiro’s surprise, he finds he has a little more mobility in his fingers. A second buzz-snap and another sharp twitching motion, and his whole wrist flexes much better than before. He stares incredulously.

Chulatt and Platt both crawl out of the interior of the arm, and Plachu sticks its head out and waves its tiny paws to Platt. The largest mouse bounds down to the opening in the arm, and its back half sticks out of the paneling as it shoves its head and front paws inside. There are several loud squeaks, and Platt’s tail wiggles back and forth as it seem to tug at something. Then there’s a sudden grinding noise, and the mouse snaps backward, falling out of the prosthetic’s open panelling with a squeak. Shiro barely manages to catch it in his left hand, and blinks when he spots the metal shard in the mouse’s teeth. The arm, to his surprise, feels lighter again, and he realizes the mice had pulled something out of the gears to let it function again.

Plachu crawls out of the prosthetic’s interior and up Shiro’s shoulder as well, looking smugly satisfied. Shiro sets Platt down on his lap, and probes carefully inside the arm with his fingers. The loose wires that had been there earlier aren’t loose anymore, and must have been plugged back into their original ports. He’s careful not to venture too close to the whirring gears, but everything seems alright inside, as far as he can tell.

“Uh…good job,” Shiro says, impressed, as he glances at the mice arrayed around him. He carefully closes the panel, and flexes his arm experimentally again. Good as new. “Thanks.”

The mice squeak, clearly pleased with themselves. Platt has a more immediate interest, and gestures at its mouth again.

Shiro laughs. “Okay, okay! I’m guessing nobody’s fed you, if everyone but Keith is planet side. Fine, let’s go get a late lunch. But I’m warning you, it’s just going to be food goo. I can’t do anything fancy, okay?”

The mice don’t seem to mind. They crawl up onto his shoulders for a ride, and Shiro heads for the kitchen, flexing his fingers again now that he can once more. He’ll have Hunk look it over again later just to be safe, but in the meantime, this isn’t so bad at all.