moving sound

wolfandthief  asked:

ANGST HALLOWEEN PLOT: Jughead Jones died on October 31st, 2017. Leaving his girlfriend Betty Cooper shattered. But every Halloween on the anniversary of his death he returns to see her. Betty knows eventually she must move on, but she simply can't. Jughead Jones was her soulmate. The love of her life, and as long as he keeps visiting her, she'll just have to wait to be with him in the afterlife.

Thanks for the prompt, love! As it suggests there’s some major character death in this one, but also ghosts - and bittersweetness, I couldn’t leave you without a resolved ending. 

prompts are closed


On that night, when the veil is at its thinnest, he finds his way home.

~

She sees it in the way the neon light from Pop’s reflects in the puddle at her feet, turning it a vibrant shade of red. It ripples on the autumn winds, sending out concentric circles towards her toes.

~

“Juggie, please! Please, don’t go out there,” Betty whispered frantically, eyes wide and shining in the white lights the emergency generator had turned on when it kicked into action. The desperation she felt in that moment, willing him to stay still beside her, crouched under the table of their booth at Pop’s, was so strong she could feel it manifesting in her throat, a lump lodging itself in her airways and cutting off her oxygen supply. 

The apples of his cheeks were burning beneath her clammy palms, flush with exertion and anger. She grasped at his face, a little too hard she thought, her nails leaving white trails in his skin that disappear as fast as she could make them.

“It’s gonna be alright, Betts. I’ll be right back, okay? Right back,” he soothed, smoothing her hair back, sweaty fly-aways getting tangled between his barely trembling fingers.

“No. No, no,” she whimpered, eyes sliding shut as the tears falling down her cheeks decided his fate before it had even played out. Jughead pressed a linger kiss to her forehead, cupping the back of her neck delicately to hold her against his lips.

“I’ll be back. Stay here, don’t move – I love you.” With that he was gone.

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Wild Ride

Originally posted by jonginssoo

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun x Reader

Words: 1329

Genre: Smut


“That movie wasn’t even scary.” You say chuckling as you leave the cinema followed by your boyfriend. “I thought the movie was supposed to be scary but they really only made some obvious jump scares and some play with the music.”

“How do you not call that scary? I don’t think I saw all the scenes.” Baekhyun rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand and intertwines your fingers together. “There’s something really wrong with you.”

“Probably. Horror movies never really bothered me.” You shrug, walking towards your parked car in the dark parking lot. “Maybe next time we can come and see a whole different movie. I’ll let you pick.”

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So Long, Farewell

For @ferosa

Angst I guess? Basically Dany’s farewell to Dragonstone. 

Yes, yes, I know, it’s been a bit, school’s been killing me, but I’m trying. I don’t work at all this week so I should have time to catch up. 

Jon never thought he’d ever miss the cold and drafty castle on an even colder and draftier island, but now that the time had come to say goodbye he was beginning to think he might.

The morning light was gray and cold as he stuffed the last few pieces of clothing into his traveling trunk. A few of Dragonstone’s servants, both men and women with hard faces and stringy hair who were devoted to the Targaryen queen, had offered to pack instead but he’d declined; he wanted to pack for himself. It gave him an excuse to be alone for a while, an excuse to think things over. He didn’t know if he’d ever come back here, if he’d ever come back to Dragonstone again. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to, now that there were only two dragons soaring around the palace towers when there should have been three. It felt tainted by the memory of what he’d done.

He hadn’t seen the Queen in days now. Their paths never seemed to cross and he expected that it was intentional. He didn’t blame her either. He still had nightmares about being in the cold beyond the Wall, seeing Viserion fall from the sky again and again with blood trailing from his wings. He could only imagine how much worse it would be for her. Some nights he thought he heard someone crying, caught on the wind and whisked away, but he could never be sure that it was her. He always hoped that it wasn’t.

There was a knock on his door and Davos barely waited for him to call him inside before he stepped in. “Are you ready? Cersei will be expecting us.”

He tried to smile, but there was no humor in it. “Of course.” And then it would be off to Winterfell, north to whatever fate awaited him there.

The Targaryen flag ship stood resplendant in red silks, waiting quietly at harbor, its sails flashing in the dim light of early morning. The sail was painted with the three headed dragon; it was a ship befitting the Dragon Queen. The Stark flag ship looked slightly more dishevelled, but Jon supposed it wouldn’t matter; he would divide his time between the two ships. They sailed for White Harbor, and they would sail together.

Missandei rushed to meet him as soon as he reached the dock. “Have you seen Queen Daenerys?”

“Not this morning, no.”

“Hm. I’m surprised.” They’d taken to breaking their fasts together on the castle bulwarks, sipping cups of tea and watching the city of King’s Landing slowly come alive. “We have to get going.”

“Is she with the dragons?”

“They haven’t returned from their hunt yet. She’s not waiting for them-I already checked. I suppose I’ll look in her solar again-”

“I’m passing that way myself. It’s no trouble. I can check-”

For a moment he thought that Missandei would dismiss him, say that he had overstepped his boundaries as a foreign dignitary. But there was a small smile on her face when she nodded and said. “All right. But do keep in mind, Lord Snow, we’re trying to leave quickly.” She brushed past him to oversee the packing of the ships; perhaps she was looking for the Unsullied commander. Jon had yet to learn his name, but the two seemed very close-in a number of ways.

For the last few days the castle had been filled with a bustling, restless excitement-but now the hallways were empty, traveling valises packed and food stored. Old, tattered tapestries hung on the walls and a new coat of dust had already begun to gather on the floors. It wouldn’t be long before the castle fell into disrepair again. He wondered who she would keep as the castellan of Dragonstone; it had always been a Targaryen castle and he assumed she would keep it that way.

His boots echoed as he passed the empty solar; a glass of wine sat in the center of the table, but it was empty. He looked for the usual signs that Daenerys had gone about her work-stands of ink arranged messily, old books open to fading pages. But everything had been packed away, and the room looked oddly formal.

He remembered a night when he’d come to see her, soon after they’d returned from Eastwatch. He’d wanted to ask her about the arrangements for the transportation of the Dragonglass, only to find that she’d fallen asleep at her desk. He knew that she slept less than she should but there had been something almost intimate about the moment; her braids had come undone and her head was pillowed on her arms. He’d wanted to tell someone but he didn’t want to wake her up; in the end he’d compromised on carrying her back to her room, afraid all the while that he was going to get yelled at (probably by the queen herself, when she woke up). But she’d slept through it all blissfully unaware-and when he set her down on her bed she’d simply curled farther into herself and slept some more.

It occurred to him to check her bedroom next. For a moment he wavered, simply because there was something about it that seemed too intimately personal..but he knocked anyway. There was a long moment of silence and then, just when he thought he’d guessed wrong and was going to walk away, he heard her say “Come in.”

The docks were still swarming with men, Jon knew, but from the master bedroom it all seemed very far away. He could barely hear them; the walls were a thick stone and muffled their voices. There was a desk in one corner, facing the window, but most of the room was dominated by a large bed draped in black and red blankets. Daenerys sat on the side of the bed, a breeze lifting the hair from her forehead, hands fisted in the bedclothes. She barely looked up when he stepped through the doorway, barely acknowledged he was there at all. “It’s time to go.”

For a few minutes she didn’t say anything, so he didn’t either. “My mother gave birth in this very bed, two-and-twenty years ago. A storm raged around her, her entire family dead except for her second son. And her only daughter. I thought that coming home, coming…here, I would feel something. It’s silly, I know, but the Targaryens lived here for time out of mind. It’s ours. And at first, I didn’t. All I wanted to do was leave, to keep things moving…but now that it’s time…”

“It’s strange,” he replied, closing the distance between them in a few quick steps. Something had changed in the long nights they’d spent on the boat back to Dragonstone, and he no longer felt uncomfortable around her. Or maybe he hadn’t felt that way in a while. “It’s started to feel like home. I felt the same way, when I returned to Winterfell. I’d lived there my whole life, but it never felt like my home.”

“Home.” She shook her head slightly, laughed mirthlessly. “It’s a strange word.” She didn’t look at him. “I wish we could stay longer.”

“You’ll like Winterfell. You’ll meet my sisters. You’ll like them.”

“I doubt they’ll be pleased with you for handing the North over to a foreign invader.”

“They’ll realize that it was necessary. And then they’ll get to know you.”

She still seemed a million miles away. “Sometimes I forget my brother’s face. It seems wrong. I knew him for more than half my life. Sometimes he was a good brother, but more often than that he was a torment. But I forget his laugh, or his smile, or the boy he used to be-the boy who grew up without his mother.”

He knew, instinctively, that he was seeing a part of the Dragon Queen that hardly anyone ever saw and he would have to proceed carefully because any misstep could send her back into her shell. “Family can be complicated and strange.”

“Best not to make sense of them.” She sighed. “Have they started to sail yet?”

“They’re waiting for the royal flag ship.”

She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers on the wood of the headboard-and when she opened her eyes again they looked remarkably clearer. “Will you walk with me?” She stood, straightening her dress, head cocked to one side almost tentatively.

“Of course.”

The hallways were so quiet. Jon didn’t know where everyone was-probably out in the harbor, but the castle seemed echoing and empty without all of the people crammed into it at every hour of the day: ministers and advisors and Unsullied and hangerson. The history of the castle pressed down upon him more and more with every step-this was where the great dragon kings and dragonlords had lived for centuries before the Targaryens had ever thought of crossing the sea. How had Stannis been able to live here for so many years, if he felt even half as much an outsider as Jon did now? If he closed his eyes he could imagine he heard the rumble of a dragon’s roar or the beat of a dragon’s wings, see a blonde haired girl chase a blonde haired boy down a hallway until they both collapsed into a heap laughing, a baby’s cries in the air-a dying mother holding her baby in her arms, whispering to her to be strong and good and brave…and then her face morphed into someone else’s, a woman with dark hair and a face that was constantly shifting so he could never quite tell what it looked like.

“I’ve grown up with the dead.” Her voice broke the silence, and she pulled open a set of carved double doors. They opened onto her strategy room, the Painted Table looking up at them from out of the darkness. She placed the dragon and the wolf in the North, in the miniscule fortress of Winterfell.

The room where he had told her about the wights. The room where he had wanted to make love to her, more times than he cared to count. The room where they had discussed the mission that would change everything forever.

Her lips were moving but no sound was coming out. He would have thought she was praying, if she was one to pray. But she didn’t believe in any gods; only herself. There was something wonderful about that, and something terribly sad.

He knew they had to go but he gave her time to say goodbye.

Eventually they left the war room and went to her solar instead. It had been a close and cluttered room at one point, stocked with tapestries and scrolls and books that looked so old they could disintegrate in his hands, but now the most important had been packed away and there was a disused and forgotten air to the whole place. She ran her hand over the desk, over the drawer with a false bottom where she always kept a bottle of Meereenese wine, silently speaking again. Broken sunlight painted her hair in light.

Onto the library, where Jon had spent most of his time in those early days when he hadn’t been quite sure whether or not she intended to kill him. Half of the books were in Valyrian and he couldn’t read them, but there had been a few copies of old tomes that he’d thought had been lost forever. He’d traveled a different Westeros, where there were kings in the north and dragons in the skies. A sitting room, Tyrion’s solar, the grand dining room with its vaulting ceilings, a room still entirely covered in carvings of dragons. A room of jewels brighter than sunlight, brighter than Rhaegar’s rubies on the Trident and twice as valuable.

A silver crown, barely more than a tiara, studded with diamonds and what looked like dragon scales. Queen she might be, but he had yet to see her wear such ostentatious ornamentation. She held it for a moment, turning it over and over so it sparkled in the dim light of the torches, the glittering rubies and deep blue sapphires. Then she put it back on its shelf and looked away, moving on.

The top of the castle ramparts, with a clear view of the boats gathered below. He wondered if she’d stood on this very balcony and watched the boats of the Northmen come in.

Would he have seen her if he’d just looked up?

She sighed, as the wind tore at her tightly wound braids. “I suppose we should go, shouldn’t we?”

“They’ll wait for you anyway.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “Do you think we’ll ever come back?” We. Not I. It was a silly thing to think about, especially now, but he couldn’t help it. It felt like there was a contingency plan in place, like there could be a life after all of this.

“We’ll try.” That was the best they could do, wasn’t it? The best anyone could do.

She didn’t say anything else but she took a step closer to him, cape whipping in the wind. She rested her hand on top of his, just for a moment, her touch light as the wings of a butterfly.

Even as the rest of the world moved on around them, he felt remarkably still. Like the only thing that really mattered, that could really change everything, was this moment-right now.

I’m trash. Send prompts 

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Daniel’s in control.

This is probably one of the most challenging things I’ve created in a while.

Hope you guys enjoy!

@portalportalau

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During the Dribble & Spitz segment in WarioWare: Smooth Moves, a song called Tomorrow Hill plays. However, whenever the player fails a microgame, the song changes briefly to an alternate version, called Falling Off Tomorrow Hill, that ends every few lines with a “failure” sound and different, nonsensical lyrics. This is the full version of Falling Off Tomorrow Hill.

There have been a lot of weird, quirky one-off characters with stupid, ridiculous weapons in RWBY, but my favorite is still Flynt and his gun trumpet.

Look at this idiot

This is how he dresses to an organized fighting tournament between what are basically national military academies for people with superpowers. “Hmm, I’m going to be fighting highly-trained fighters who can summon explosions, move faster than sound, and control objects with their mind, what kind of armor should I wear to that…got it. Fedora, shades, and a vest. Oh, and an untied tie for good measure.”

That fucking trumpet is his weapon too. People in this show wield scythes bigger than themselves, gloves and boots that double as magical fireball shotguns, floating swords they can control with their minds, and this moron decided to take a trumpet, stick a trigger and grip on it, and call it a day.

And the dumbest part is it works

YOUR MAGICAL ABILITIES ARE NO MATCH FOR THE POWER OF JAZZ

MY SOLOS ARE LITERALLY ON FIRE

Like everyone else in the show, he has a special ability on top of his ridiculous weapon. What is his ability? Is it something musical? Something that has to do with waveforms? Something that makes sense? Nope, it’s him playing with himself.

HE TURNS INTO HIS OWN FUCKING BAND

IT’S BASICALLY A DELUXE VERSION OF BLAKE’S SEMBLANCE SINCE HIS CLONES CAN ACTUALLY FIGHT

JAZZ BAND MOTHERFUCKER

In a world of superpowered crazy people with giant illogically powerful weapons, Flynt Cole is a man with a trumpet, a hat, three clones of himself, and all the jazz his soul can muster.

I fucking love it.

Bring back Flynt!

sometimes I wonder what yall think about my hamilton

Headcanon that the reason why the information in the three Journals wasn’t separated between them in any sort of chronological order is because Ford kept losing one or the other of them and just scribbling things down in whichever one came to hand first.

Everyday I’m reminded of the beauty in the LGBTQ community.

I see it in the tear streaked faces of two young girls in the audience. Their hair is wild and their eyes electric and they kiss. They kiss with the unbridled syrup sweet passion you can only taste when you are young and in love.

I see it in the wrinkled hands of a man fastening a jacket he designed himself. He laughs and tells me if I care to hear it, he’ll tell me about the years he spent in the Lower East Side designing clothes for drag queens. The hours he’d lay on the floor and laugh while they sang and sauntered and how they looked 20 feet tall like gods among men towering in their heels through the wooden apartment floors. How they’d tackle every stair of a 6 floor walk up apartment in their stilettos and strip off the jackets he’d make them; leaving them safe on an arm chair.

I hear it on the dance floor, and the radio. Beats and movements curated and designed and popularized by gay clubs across the world, many like Pulse, in Florida. When the DJs knew they’d struck a hit once the bodies gyrated, and sweat, and interlocked across the floor.

I feel it in the swing of the songs that dominate my favorite playlists, all of them in some way spun from the spider web of the Blues; the music genre that laid the foundation for modern rock, hip hop, and pop. Lady lovin’ Ma Rainey sang the sorrows of her heart with such soul that moved across sound waves for generations since.

I see it in the smile of a young trans woman in the mirror of a department store on Melrose Ave. She runs her hands along the fabric of her dress and gives a half hearted twirl. Her friends cheer and whistle and laugh and she picks up speed. Her skirt goes round and round and she spins with vigor and with intention. She lands dizzy and stumbling in the lap of her friend and tells the salesperson with a grin “I’ll take it!”

I read it in the lines of my favorite authors. Men and women who knew pain unlike any other. Who felt the lightning strike through their bodies every night they slept away from their lovers. How it infiltrated to their fingertips and formed words and poems no one could birth without knowing the pain of being split in two. Ripped apart like thick alabaster pages and bleeding like ink from a quill.

I feel it to my core in memories of the first time I kissed a girl. It trembles in my nervous lips. I see it in her shiny red hair and it burst forth from every freckle across her nose. I smell it in the humid air fogging up the windows of a cabin in the woods. And it rustles through our soft breath shimmering through the kind of quiet you can only catch in the forest.

And so I shout it. As loud as I can. In my lyrics. In my art. In a rainbow flag waving across thousands of pixels across my stage. I shout it in the faces of the oppressors and I shout it hand in hand with both my beautiful young fans, and the queer folk that I look up to everyday.

Our beauty is in every corner of the world. In the fabric of our past. In the glimmer of our vibrant future. We are beautiful. And I am so in love with everything you are and everything you have ever been. This is my love letter to you.

- Halsey’s love letter to the LGBTQ community

i’m so emo about dan talking about the laundry situation again like what the FUCK

the way he described it, he said he showed up at phil’s apartment super late with a suitcase, and when phil opened the door and saw him, one of the first things he said was “did you drop out? are you moving in?” it sounds to me like phil was fully prepared for dan to want to drop out at some point and want to move in with him- almost like they had this planned the whole time.

there is already the theory that dan chose manchester uni specifically because that’s where phil was, and this whole thing just reinforces that. what if he and phil had been discussing moving in together for longer than we think? they always make it seem as though they moved in together on a whim after dan dropped out for convenience reasons. but my theory is that before dan was even at uni, he told phil his fears about going to uni and not knowing what he wanted to do with his life and not being sure about even wanting to go to uni, so phil told him that if he went to manchester uni, he would be waiting there for him with a home if he ever changed his mind about university. 

you would think that when phil saw dan with the suitcase he would assume he was just staying the night, but he asked specifically if he was dropping out, and he was moving in. 

i know that dan could have misremembered the situation, or told it completely differently than what actually happened because it’s been so long, but it’s just so cute to think about them having this entire plan for their future together for longer than we think :(

anonymous asked:

You're... you're almost 30 and live with your parents

(( OOC: Very astute observation. All of my siblings still live at home as well… all 67 of us. I’m also employed by my parents, so it works out nicely. ))