plume lips

Waking up without Tikki and with a small little blue bird-like thing snoozing away on Marinette’s pillow was definitely warranted screaming.

At least in Marinette’s opinion.

“A-aw no, please, d-don’t scream,” the little blue thing cooed, its lip trembling. “Y-you’ll make me…” it burst into tears, very glittery tears.

“Wh-who are you?!” Marinette tried to project as much patience into her voice as possible but it was hard when she didn’t have any.

It kept bawling, desperately wiping away tears. “P-Plume. M-My name is Plume.”

Marinette chewed her lip, fear for Tikki making her heart race in her chest. “Are you a kwami, Plume?”

Plume brightened, wiping away stray tears as she fought to smile. “Yes! I’m your kwami!”

“Y-you, but, I didn’t, but what’s- where’s the miraculous?” And Tikki, where’s my Tikki.

Plume’s eyes dropped. “Check your hair and your ears, Ladybug.” her voice was solemn.

Marinette hesitantly lifted a hand to her hair, finding the short dark hair elegantly pinned back with a peacock pin rather than in its usual pigtails. Her fingers at her ear, she noticed no earrings that marked her as Ladybug.

“I-I, when? H-How? Tikki?” Marinette could feel the prickle of tears.

Plume sighed, floating over to perch on her shoulder. “Tikki had some business to attend to, Miss Marinette. I promise, she didn’t at all want to leave. She put the miraculous in your hair as you slept. She gives you her love.”

“W-Will she be back?” Her TIkki, her Tikki was gone.

Plume’s smile was bright and radiant. “Oh yes! Soon, very soon! I am her stand-in! Plume, at your service. When you say ‘transform me’, you become Aviaire!”

Marinette was still wrapping her head around the fact that Tikki was gone. She had left, with no goodbye, no warning.

“Oh, Miss Marinette,” Plume gently brushed aside the tears that slid down Marinette’s cheek. “Tikki will be back very soon.”

Marinette sniffled. “Th-Thank you Plume. Now,” Marinette wiped the rest of her tears with the heel of her hand before putting on a bright smile. “Tell me all about Aviaire.”

Plume, Marinette noticed, was very… emotional. When she was happy, she seemed like her whole world was full of bright sunshine. When she was upset, the world seemed dark and dreary with no sunlight to break through the heavy clouds.

Plume was very pretty too. Marinette loved the deep blue color of her and her feathers were so lovely with their dots of red. The red dot in the center of Plume’s forehead reminded Marinette of the Hindi wedding fashion she had studied for her designs.

“So, urr that’s pretty much it. I don’t think I forgot anything.” Plume’s smile was beautiful. “That’s never happened before.”

Marinette smiled. “I know how you feel.”

“Are you feeling better, Miss Marinette?” Plume asked, with affection in her eyes.

“Just Marinette is fine. Yes, yes, I’m better.” As great as I could be without my kwami.

“Marinette! You’ll be late!” Marinette’s mother called.


Marinette didn’t even make it to school when she heard the screams.

“Already?” Marinette groaned. “Well, Plume, are you ready?”

Plume floated out of Marinette’s bag. “Absolutely!”

“Tikki, transform me!” Marinette called.

Plume stared at her, a little sheepish.

“Oh,” Marinette blushed. “Sorry, Plume, transform me!”

The transformation was different from Ladybug’s. Blue, rather than red, sparks covered her, leaving a suit in their wake. The suit itself was a work of art. Not as practical as her Ladybug suit but what could she expect from a peacock miraculous?

Two fans like rows of peacock feathers were attached to her hips. Marinette was cloaked, the clasp over her collarbone. The cloak fell behind her, designed like a peacock’s tail feathers. The suit itself slid from a deep blue at her shoulders to a light, sky blue at her hips where it ended in a skirt. Marinette could appreciate a good skirt but fighting in one could definitely prove to be a challenge. Her legs were clad in black, the same material as the part of the suit that covered her chest and torso. Three feathers shot out from the middle of Marinette’s blue mask.

Sure, it was very pretty, but she would have to test its practicality.

As she ran for the akuma, the cloak billowed around her. Marinette could almost swear it was making her faster.

The akuma, it seemed, was putting the city of Paris to sleep. They glided down the streets leisurely in a beautiful dress like the night sky, emitting a perfume into the air. People in the vicinity immediately dropped, not dead, but asleep. The akuma hummed quietly, a lullaby-like tune.

“Hey! Your singing is awful!” Marinette- no, Aviaire yelled, trying to catch their attention.

The akuma turned slowly to her. “Ha, Ladybug, you are no match for… who are you?”

Aviaire rolled her eyes. “None of your business.”

“Well, whoever you are, I am Dreary Dream, and I shall take yours, Ladybug’s, and Chat Noir’s miraculouses!” Dreary Dream laughed, soothing voice gone. “Now come here, little birdy.”

Aviaire laughed. “In your dreams.”

She held her breath as she flipped over the akuma, searching and scanning for the akuma’s object.

“Who are you?!” Aviaire sighed. That was definitely Chat’s voice. How was she going to explain this.

Aviaire turned to see Chat who was standing very defensively, claws out, a near snarl on his face. “Territorial, are you, kitty?”

“No offense, but the last time we had a new ‘hero’ they turned out to be an akuma that nearly took my Lady’s miraculous.” Chat growled. “It’s not happening again.”

“Lucky for you, your Lady isn’t going to turn up-”

“Cease your banter!” Dreary Dream rolled their eyes. “Give me your miraculouses!”

Chat rolled his eyes before launching himself at the akuma, quickly bringing them to the ground. “Hard to fight in a dress, isn’t it? I was definitely better than you at it, though.” Chat grinned.

“Check the earrings!” Aviaire called.

She could see Chat grimace, reaching for the earrings that seemed to emit the perfume.

“Chat, look out!”

Chat dropped aside, very much asleep.

“That stupid kitten.” Aviaire muttered, fans wielded.

She held the fan up to her nose, waving it to ward off the perfume and headed over to the akuma who was struggling under Chat’s dead weight.

“Not today, Hawk Moth,” Aviaire smiled, breaking the earring in half and letting the akuma out. “Plume!” Aviaire buried her face in her hands. “You didn’t tell me how to cure!”

Aviaire caught the butterfly in her hands, already feeling its evil seep into her skin. “Um, uh, miraculous ladybug? Uh… miraculous paon? Miraculous peacock? Dammit, Plume- whoa.”

Aviaire’s words broke off as a light glowed between her gloves. The blue light faded away and she spared a peek at the little butterfly in her hands. It was white, pure and free of evil.

Aviaire sighed, letting the butterfly go. “Now how do I…”

Just hold your cloak in both hands and give a lil shake! Plume had said. Aviaire held up her cloak in both hands, and shook from side to side.

Sparkles flowed from the cloak, turning into white feathers as they swept up by the wind. The people began lifting their heads, eyes still full of sleepiness. The damage Dreary Dream had caused erased.

“Did you… just cleanse the akuma? Where is… where is my Lady?” Chat’s voice was quiet, still cold.

“Chat,” Aviaire sighed. “Look, I didn’t use my power and neither did you. Let’s meet at the Eiffel Tower in five? I’ll explain everything.”

“What if you kill me and take my miraculous?” Chat raised an eyebrow.

Aviaire rolled her eyes. “When has Hawkmoth ever sent out two akumas at once? He can only have one champion. I thought you would have more observation skills than that, kitty.”

“Don’t call me that.” his voice was venom. “I’ll meet you there but don’t expect me to trust you.”

lmao when did i write this peacock mari holy shit

Sabini’s girl: part 3 | Tommy Shelby

You’d spent that night with Tommy and several since. There was a little Inn that was a drive out of London into the country. He’d taken you there the first time and every time after. Not once had he tried to draw information from you and not once had you offered it up.

It wasn’t until days after it’d happened that you found out Darby had met with Alfie Solomons.

“The Jew?”

“He doesn’t like that, Princess. We don’t call him a Jew or a fucking Kike, it’s what he is, I know, but we don’t say it. He’s got people everywhere; it’s like Chinese fucking whispers. He can’t take a joke, sweet, and he’s delicate on the matter.”

“What’s he got to do with the Eden?”

You were straddled over Darby’s hips in your slip. He’d mentioned Tommy and the Blinders, so you’d subtly slinked yourself into the position to tease out more detail.

“It’s about partnerships, relations. We go way back, me and Alfie. Old friends. We were just reconnecting over a mutual problem.”

That didn’t sit right with you, not when you knew Tommy and Alfie had been working together. He’d been buying bread, hadn’t he? Was Alfie about to double cross the Shelby’s?

“Tommy Shelby being the problem.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

MORE FEELS!!!! Companions react when Sole dies (whether by an enemy or by the aformentioned needle prick)

((For those of you who don’t know what they’re referencing, this is the link to the original reaction. And just so you know, this will be much more sad and angsty than the previous post. You have been warned.))

Cait: She wakes up in a bathtub of needles and liquor bottles, her head swimming in the heady aftereffects of so many substances. Sole still hasn’t come back. And somewhere, deep in her chest, she know they aren’t going to. Her eyes shut, and she licks her dry lips. Warmth rises behind her eyes, and a half-second later is joined by angry heat in her chest. The anger forces her to rise, stumbling, from the drug-and-alcohol ridden tub. Staggering to her feet, she runs a hand through her hair, feels patches missing, feels scratches on her skin. She can’t remember what she did last night. The burning behind her eyes and in her lungs comes in equal measure, her fury building along with her need to weep. But she doesn’t. Fuck that shit. She promised Sole she’d give all this up, the drugs, the drink - everything. But she failed them this time, failed them when they needed her most. Now that they’re gone… Now, she needs to make Sole proud of her. Even if they’re not there to tell her.

Codsworth: When weeks go by, the Mr. Handy still trimming hedges and cleaning rusted cars, the settlers at Sanctuary wise up, and realize what’s happened to Sole. They realize Sole isn’t coming back. It runs through the town like ripples across water’s surface, a brief disturbance before things go back to normal. People die all the time, and Sanctuary’s residents know this all too well. Sole’s death is unfortunate. Tragic, even, but there are crops to be grown and children to raise, and tears help no one. But Codsworth doesn’t have anyone to look after, not anymore. He’s spent two hundred years looking after a house for a family forgotten by time, and now he’s looking after it for a family that’ll never come. He reverts back to a state not unlike when Sole first emerged from the vault, a state of chipper denial. “Mx. Sole will return shortly, I’m sure,” he’ll say, if anyone tries to talk to him. “With Master Shaun in tow, of course. I’m just keeping the house tidy for them.” Sometime families are tempted to move into the house, tempted to try and get Codsworth away from the building. But no one quite has the heart to do it.

Curie: …What now? The synth girl is at a loss. Sole was the one who changed her life, the one who gave her life. And Curie couldn’t save theirs, in return. The thought eats at her, plagues her, aches in her heart every night she wakes up in tears. A life for a life - what a bitter trade! Such a terrible thing, life is. Such high highs, and low lows. Euphoric joy one moment, and torturous sorrow the next. A part of her wonders, had she remained a Ms. Nanny, if she’d feel so sad as she does then. She comes to the conclusion that no, she would not. This marvel of engineering, this human (synth) body, is both a gift and a curse. And she wouldn’t go back on it for a moment. Wiping her tears from her face, there’s a new determination in the woman’s eyes, a new guiding star born from loss. She sets up shop in the worst part of the Commonwealth, sharing her knowledge with anyone who’ll listen and healing anyone who asks, regardless of their race or creed or political affiliations. “Everyone deserves a chance at life,” she explains softly. “And I owe someone a great debt for giving me that chance.”

Danse: For a time, he struggles to understand why Sole’s death bothers him as much as it does. Sole was just another soldier; another brother or sister in arms, just another servant of the Brotherhood, just another body to fight alongside. But Danse has had companions before, and when they passed, he didn’t feel the ache so bad as this. He struggles with the idea of love and affection, whether that love is romantic or platonic. Love, somehow, dug its talons so deep into his heart that when Sole is torn away it feels like they tore his heart out along with them. He sits alone, apart from everyone and anyone else, thinking back on every moment he shared with them. He remembers every time he held himself back from saying their name, from sharing a smile with them, from telling them just how much they meant to him. He damns himself, and cries hot, self-loathing tears, calling himself a coward. Because only a coward would be afraid to share his feelings with the best thing that ever happened to him. Without Sole, he’s aimless, separate from the Brotherhood and lacking any real kind of purpose. He takes a long time to find his purpose again… if he ever does.

Deacon: He should never have gotten close. He disappears when the doctors declare Sole dead, dropping off the face of the earth, to the point where some wonder if he isn’t dead as  well. Don’t trust anyone. You can’t. You can’t trust everyone. He repeats the mantra to himself, screams it inside his head to drown out the sadness. It doesn’t work. His hands claw at his hair, but it’s not really his hair, and his wig comes off in his hands. The pain comes from deep inside himself, but he’s buried who he really is so deep that he can’t reach himself anymore. Off come the disguises, the sunglasses, the wigs and lies and jokes, all in a desperate attempt to find what hurts and rip it out. He should never have gotten close. He tries to hate Sole, but he can’t, because there was a reason he grew to care about Sole in the first place, and he can’t stop thinking about them. He tried so hard to get them to go away. The lies, the stories, everything he’d said and didn’t say, and they still stuck around. And he’d… he’d hoped, maybe, that this time around he’d learn to let his guard down and start to trust again. He should never have gotten close.

Dogmeat: It’s Mama Murphy, of all people, who comes for him, trekking across the wasteland all on her lonesome and finding him asleep beside Sole’s lifeless body. The dog whimpers when Murphy gently tugs on his collar, urging the canine to his feet. “Hey, there, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “I thought you’d be here.” Dogmeat doesn’t want to leave Sole’s side, but the Sightseer urges him away, petting his head and leaving Sole behind. She brings him back to Sanctuary, brings him back home to be looked after. Dogmeat likes the Sanctuary settlers well enough, and he likes Mama Murphy plenty. But sometimes, especially at sunset, he’ll sit at the front of the Sanctuary bridge, just sitting and waiting for Sole to come walking home. He’ll wait forever. He’s got no place to be.

Hancock: He comes in to Sole’s bedroom, a few days after they’ve been declared dead. He drops a bunch of hubflowers beside their bed, to replace the wilting bunch already there. “You know, Fred got in a new batch of Jet today,” he remarks, sitting down in the worn chair beside the bed. His dark eyes glance to the limp figure. “I didn’t buy any.” He shrugs, a little too casual to be genuine. “Didn’t feel right. I feel like I oughta be sad, like I don’t got the privilege of puttin’ something in my blood so I can forget about you for a little while. ‘Cause I don’t want to forget. I miss you.” He snorts. “I know. Corny. But you did a lot for me, y'know? Kept me from throwin’ myself into the gutter, headfirst. Even if I don’t always agree with you - or even if I do, you were good for me. Hey, I might not be so good for you, but you kept me around long enough, I figure I was doin’ something right.” He hesitates, the slight smile on his lips fading away. “Fahrenheit tells me I can’t keep you in here forever. Girl tells me you’ll start to rot, and that’s not gonna be pretty.” His gaze flickers down. He murmurs. “But sayin’ goodbye means saying goodbye, and I wanna make sure I remember what your face looks like when you’re in the ground.” He stands, affectionately squeezing Sole’s hand. “Sleep tight, brother/sister.”

Nick Valentine: He takes a long drag from his cigarette, feeling the warm tendrils of smoke curl around his circuits, a gray plume rising from his lips as he ‘breathes’ out. It’s so hard to tell what’s organic and what’s a simulation. Does he breathe anymore? Or does he just imagine it? Or is it somewhere in between, with the expansion of a false lung that gives the sensation of breathing? He’s had two hundred years to think about this, and he still doesn’t have an answer. He’s had two hundred years worth of loss, Pre-and-Post war, and mourning never gets any easier. Neither does the knowledge of another good person lost to the darkness of the Commonwealth, where good people are so few and in between. Whether his relationship to Sole was platonic or romantic, his reaction is the same - hide away in his office until another case comes in to distract him. There’s always someone that needs help, always somebody that needs saving by an unwanted old synth with nothing left to lose. Not any more, anyway. “Why not take me, instead?” he asks, staring up at the ceiling of his office. “They had more life left in ‘em than I did.” There’s no reponse. Just the hum of a fluorescent light, and the rumble of the coffee pot at work.

MacCready: “More liquor. No, seriously. Charlie, I’m- Just- ” The Mr. Handy sets down the bottle without a word, eyeing MacCready from over the counter. “I know. Look, just add it to the tab. Charlie, just give me the god damn-” Charlie informs the merc that his tab is long over-drawn. Ham’s firm hand lands on MacCready’s shoulder, and the smaller man shrugs him off, rising angrily from the bar and stomping away. He can already feel the buzz wearing off. Or maybe drunk is just his new normal? All he knows is that he’s sober enough to want to cry, and that alone pisses him off. He hates it, he hates thinking, he hates remembering, and he wants so bad to just fucking stop, stop everything, to slump over in a alley and choke in a pool of his own vomit. Real fitting end for a real piece of work, huh? But he won’t let himself. He won’t let himself give in to his own damn selfishness. Duncan needs him. And he won’t be honoring Sole’s memory by becoming even more of a piece of shit. No, he’s gotta keep going. He’s gotta be better. And that means paying off his goddamn tab and getting back to work, because there’s shit that needs doing, and he’s just the bitter old merc to do it.

Piper: She ends up publishing that obituary, the piece of work that took so many tearful nights to write. It ends up being less of an obituary and more of a memoir, taking up most of the paper as she recounts most (if not all) of Sole’s feats that she can remember. She tries drawing a picture of Sole’s face, if only to have something to remember them by, only to cry out in frustration and throw it aside. She’s a writer, not an artist. That’s what cameras are for. Why didn’t she take more pictures of Sole? Why didn’t she steer them clear of that damn needle? She releases a choked sob into the dim room of her office. After a few minutes of letting herself cry, Piper sniffs, stubbornly wiping her tears away and shuffling outside to the printing press, getting the next day’s paper ready before she heads to bed. Sole’s gone. Sole’s gone. She tells herself this, forces it through her thick skull, drills it into her thoughts so she can get out all the pain and crying before she drowns in it. Sole had believed in her, believed in her dinky little paper and her sister and her past and her dreams, and now Sole was gone. Another wave of sorrow washes over her. No. She can’t let herself cry. She’s got to be strong. Strong for Nat - and for herself. She had to be what Sole thought she could be. 

Preston: With Sole gone, there’s so much to be done, so many towns to protect, so many people that need help and so many resources to manage. He’s busy doing paperwork and training the newest round of recruits when a messenger comes, looking rather solemn. Sole’s dead, the boy says, his eyes wide. Preston swallows, gives him a tight nod, and sends him away. So this is it, he thinks. The last man standing, for the second time. But he blinks, and realizes that isn’t quite true. He’s not the only survivor of a massacre, looking after half a dozen shattered hearts in starving bodies. He’s got a fort. He’s got connections. He’s got honorable men and women that look up to him, countless families living in settlements under his protection, and hope. Hope. Something he thought he’d lost a long time ago. And he knows that without Sole, none of that would have been accomplished. Standing on the wall of the Castle, he looking out at the ocean, clasping his hands behind his back as he smiles softly. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

Strong: He’s surprised when the doctors inform him of Sole’s passing. “NO,” he says, shaking his head. “NO, HUMAN IS FINE.” Even when he’s shown Sole’s lifeless body, he still can’t quite believe that they’re dead. Within his limited thought processes, the mutant somehow believed Sole’d die in a big fight, with lots of explosions, and things to eat. Sole seemed too strong to die yet. After a while, Strong begins to understand that Sole has passed on, and what that means. He goes and sits out by himself for a while, just staring out at the sky with a solemn expression on his face. He sits there all night. The next morning, when someone goes to get him, he’s gone.

X6-88: He should have paid more attention. He should have kept them away from the needles. He should have known better. These are the thoughts that run through his head when Sole’s body is taken away. Before even an hour has passed after Sole’s death, he’s sent out on another mission. He bristles, protesting the reassignment so soon after his charge’s passing. “You’re a Courser,” comes the cold reply. “You do not exist to ask questions, X6. You serve a purpose. You do not form attachments. Go.” And before Sole, X6 might have agreed with such an assessment. But something dull and warm burns in his chest as he teleports out of the Institute. He’s spent too long serving others, being told he’s incapable of emotion, being told he’s a tool. Sole taught him to think, taught him what it felt like to be treated as an equal, taught him what respect felt like. With Sole’s death goes his last tie to the Institute, and it’s their face that flashes in his mind when he strips himself of his Courser clothing and removes his sunglasses. He vanishes into the Commonwealth, now his own man - and with Sole to thank.

((Thanks for the ask, anon!))

The Signal

Loud static cut through the air, jolting your mind away from whatever train of thought it carried, focusing upon the subtle sound of fluctuating frequencies that managed to warp and distort the static fuzz. At first, it came in chopped syllables that were impossible to make out–but slowly the message became clearer as the frequencies continued to tune closer to the source. “W.. rning… BzzZZT… ot a t…” As the signal continued to grow clearer, you could feel the temperature around you dropping–a notable prickling at your skin, causing gentle bumps to rise in defense. Your surroundings seemed to muffle into a still quiet, the static all your ears could seem to focus on–until the message soon blurted out  in clarity, although static still hummed in the background. The message was repeated, overlaid onto one another as if it were being played through multiple sources at once, jumbling together in an unsettling mixture of sound.

“Warning, this is not a test. I repeat–this is not a test. Warning, this is not”

“ot a test. I repeat–this is not a test. Warning, this is not a test. I repeat, this”

“Is not a test. I repeat–this is not a test. Warning, thi”

“rning, this is not a test. I repeat–this is not a test. Warning, this ̴i̧̘̬̥s͔̠̜ ̺̲n͕o͍͎̪̯̫͎ţ̠͎̻ ̕a͇̺̺͓̦̯͡ ̜̯͚̪

The message repeated over and over for a minute or two before the voices abruptly silenced, static humming through the air as the chill grew stronger. Milky plumes escaped your lips with each breath, a gentle chattering setting at the back of your teeth. Changing the channels of frequency did nothing–even trying to cut off the signal failed. And the mere attempt brought the sound of laughter through the feed–barely noticed behind the static.

The chill was almost unbearable now, physically burning at your skin while the pain ached through your bones. The static was almost deafening, not a single sound audible through its scratchy fuzz. A headache began to form, pulsing and thumping beneath your forehead as a thought sank into your mind. An itch at first, steadily sinking deeper. Clawing. Stabbing. Scorching, until you finally indulged it. Look up. The thought was so strong, you couldn’t tell if it was in your mind, or if it was being screamed through the static signal.

As you complied, your vision broke. That was the only way you could think to describe it–breaking. The scenery cracked and fragmented, colors began to fade and bleed into one another, draining from your sight–until all that was left was darkness. Despite the lack of any visual queues, you continued to stare up–locked in place, as if you instinctively knew something was there. And sure enough, a light broke through the darkness. A giant, white orb of light flooding in through a sudden treeline between you and the source. 

You couldn’t recognize where you were–what wooded area this seemed to be. A crimson tint almost seemed to hug the shadows of the barren trees, their lack of leaves already seeming strange given the season. As the clouds began to shift, you expected to see the moon shining back towards you–but it wasn’t. Instead, it was a ball of shifting white light, almost vapor-like in movement. Crackles of aurora-tinted sparks clashed against the milky white, a strange yet mesmerizing spectacle. So entranced were you by this glow in the sky that you almost didn’t notice the static had shifted into singing. Almost.

A chorus of childlike voices sang in unison through the signal’s feed, distorting and fading in and out along with the static and fluctuations that laced the signal.

T͏win͟kl̢e, tw͠inkle,͠ lit̨tl͜e͟ ͏s͡t͡ár  ~ ͡ Ho͞w I ͞w̕o͢n͏d̵er̨ ̸wh̨at ͝yo͘u͜ ̛are

̨Up̢ ̛a͞bov̵e͏ ̸t͞hé w͜o̶r̡l̷d̕ s͢o h͟igh  ~  ͜Li҉k͟e ҉a día̧mo̵nd̶ ̶i̶n t̕he͜ s͏k͠y̴

͡Twin̷k͢l̨e, ͡t̀win̶kle litt҉le̢ st̨ár  ~  ͘How ̸I͝ ẁon̸der̨ ͝wh̢ạ͘̕t̤̣̭͕͜͠ ̞̯̙͙̯̝̞ͅy͚̯̺̗͖͕̰ͅo̵̴̳̣̜u͙̳͍̪̺̳͍͕͡ ̥̟͉̜a̳̣̰r͈̼͇͖̖̗̖̗͔̀͟è̸̖̭͕̞̬͇̘͟

As their singing came to an end, they broke out into innocent laughter. Laughter that soon began to distort and meld into ungodly screeches and monstrous roars. The sounds were unlike anything you had heard before, something you doubted even your worse nightmares could be capable of manifesting. The abominable bellows alone were enough to cause your stomach to churn in a peculiar mixture of dread, panic, and disgust. The dark forest that surrounded you began to bleed–yes, bleed into your vision. Crimson shadows overtaking the dark, barren branches and animating them to reach for you. The brilliant white glow continued to hover in the sky before you, shifting into the form of an eye–watching with glee as the branches skewered and burrowed through flesh and bone alike, tearing you to fleshy ribbons in a matt̷e̞r̭͕̥̘͍̙̼̀ ͝o̵̜̩̳͓͎f͡ ̝̦̰͞ş̯̺̮e̜̟̬̼͡co̰̟̮̭͜ņ̙̦–̦̬——

Loud static cut through the air, jolting your mind away from whatever train of thought it carried, focusing upon the subtle sound of fluctuating frequencies that managed to warp and distort the static fuzz. You were freezing, despite the otherwise moderate warmth of this summer night–which only seemed to make it worse. A song was stuck in the back of your mind–why? Why was it there?

Twinkle, twinkle, little star..

This post is an optional “prompt” for the Falling Star. Use it in your story, respond to it personally, or ignore it entirely. The signal can apply to communication devices of any kind, both electronic and magical. Use this as a dream, a vision, or an actual occurrence. Whatever you want to do, the choice is yours.

[ NEW RELEASE !!  ] 

RELEASE: 17.11.2017
GENRE: Dance
LANGUAGE: Korean, English
LENGTH:  3:09

[ Love Letter feat. Dalia ]

Note: podział tekstu Plume-Jinsoul, Dalia-Kim Lip,

Yun Yun:  DaMe slaying us all ♡♡♡
Nyah-Young : This song make me wanna eat their voices! It’s too beautiful 😢 Brunette Queens ♡ Gorgeous Angels ♡
Doodleboy:  That intro sent chills down my spine.
lalolalo lelilulo: HI I’M LESBIAN 

Two // M

Two – Ft. Park Chanyeol
// Contemporary Romance
// Adult Fiction
// Sexual & Explicit Language

A/N: This contains content for mature audiences. If you are under 18, I am not responsible for the imagery you will read. :)

Chanyeol’s nimble fingers loop themselves within the tangles of my hair, gripping them tighter and harder while his form presses into my own. His left hand rakes around my waist while mine cling onto his forearms, feeling his blood course through his beveled blue veins. His nails knead into my back as if the thought of being skin to skin won’t be enough to quench his animalistic hunger for a taste of my body. With each touch, his kisses obey his carnal instincts. There’s a tug, a sliver of a lick, and then a taut nip against my budding lip causing a moan to breach from the well of my lusting heart. 

The wicked glimmer in his smile means he heard it and there’s nothing more he would want than to drag me into his bedside chambers to fulfill all of my guiltiest pleasures. His forehead connects with mine, his teeth biting on his lower fold before whispering a deep, throaty command. “Follow me.”

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I can see your warm brown eyes
and feel your dark plumed lips
for a moment
You’re squeezing parts of Me I despise most.
Our hands find each another
your bronze body is against my sparkling skin.
Every touch
Every movement
The sparkles latch onto you
Expressing how much you’re attached to me.
—  Attached / Leyla Mahramnia

anonymous asked:

I'm so ugly like really I've got braces glasses and extremely oily acne infested skin it's really red and makeup doesn't even change how bad I look and my eyelashes are white I'm extremely pale my lips are warped my nose is huge and crooked and numb my eyes are tiny and I have no eyebrows and my pores are huge the spacing is all off and I'm such a vile human idk what to do

Doll! Don’t say that about yourself, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’ve made it out to be. Everyones beautiful in one way or other. You. For your ache you can go and see a dermatologist and they will give you something to help clear it up. When it’s cleared up get a foundation which is for ache skin so it doesn’t start up any ache again. With oily skin in general you can use face powders and setting sprays to prevent to oils coming through. You said you have braces, in some time you will have perf teeth so dw about that. Your pores can be cancelled out with a pore primer like benefit pore professional, your white lashes can be made Darker with a mascara, you can draw brows on I recommend Anastasia Beverly Hills dip brow, I have real thin brows to so I make them thicker and bigger using that product, I pretty much draw new brows! Your eyes can me made to look bigger with eye shadows and liner, liner always makes the eye pop! You can get lip pluming gloss to make your lips plumper and bigger and you can contour your nose to make it appear smaller, there are countless tutorials on how to do this on YouTube. Girl all these things can be fixed. Your not ugly, cheer up and smile ok 😘

|| Is there something on my face? ||

The witch lounges along the concrete stairs to her building’s stoop, letting the milky clouds from the drag of her spliff plume from between her lips. “Don’t you come near me…” she flatly warns a nearby toad. “I’m warning ya buddy.”
Her cyan hues squint, testing the courage of the amphibian that was eyeing her from the railings above. “Don’t. You. Test!-” as the toad hopped in mid air, towards the spliff enjoying witch, it burst into a spray of amphibious carnage, splattering the witch and any nearby onlookers.
“Did you just see that!?” She jumped to her feet, “goddamn frog just exploded! What, now we gotta worry about terrorist frogs too. Shit-” she took another drag from her spliff as she smirked back at the few faces looking up at her toad splattered face.

When A Man Hasn't Been Kissed - Jeffrey McDaniel

When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, 
I walk behind well-dressed women 

on cold, December mornings and shovel 
the steamy exhalations pluming from their lips 

down my throat with both hands, hoping 
a single molecule will cling to my lungs. 

When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, 
I sneak into the ladies room of a fancy restaurant, 

dig into the trashcan for a napkin 
where a woman checked her lipstick, 

then go home, light candles, put on Barry White, 
and press the napkin all over my body. 

When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, 
I start thinking leeches are the most romantic 

creatures, cause all they want to do is kiss. 
If only someone invented a kinder, gentler leech, 

I’d paint it bright pink and pretend 
Winona Ryder’s lips crawled off her face, 

up my thigh, and were sucking on my swollen 
bicep. When I haven’t been kissed 

in a long time, I create civil disturbances, 
then insult the cops who show up, 

till one of them grabs me by the collar 
and hurls me up against the squad car, 

so I can remember, at least for a moment, 
what it’s like to be touched.

-“When A Man Hasn’t Been Kissed” - Jeffrey McDaniel

Can’t Wait

Stand before me and stare with those hungry eyes.

Slowly walk my way as you unbutton the buttons on your shirt.

Let your shirt part in the middle and as you come closer, slide your hands around my back and pull me into you.

Make me breathless and wanting as you do this, if you’re good, I’ll run my hands down your chest. 

Keep roaming your hands up and down my body, then let them rest on my neck as you gently bring me closer to you.

Close to your delicious and luscious plumed lips. Mhm, I can’t wait to kiss and bite them. 

If you aren’t too distracted, you are more than welcomed to unzip my dress.

Do it so I can feel your fingertips caress my skin as it slides down to the end of my dress.

Don’t stop kissing me though.

Once my dress hits the floor, I’m all yours for the taking. Be gentle love and then take me high above the clouds.

Mmm, I can’t wait!


You know the rule.

Long walks [closed]


Frisks boots crunched through the freshly packed snow, echo absorbed by the spindly trees that spread like an army in all directions. On her way home, the human had decided to take a detour to stretch her legs and let her thoughts settle. Having been weaving between the trees for some time now, that jacket was zipped right around her lithe frame to guard from the biting cold. Hands shoved into her pockets, clouds of warm breath curled in plumes from her lips before dissipating into the air.

One rare occasion she had decided to bring her headphones, the dull roar of music from her phone seemed to bathe the forest in a different light than usual, at least in her eyes. A soft hum in rhythm to the tune playing just for her rumbled through her slender throat, harshly audible under the breath. She always treasured these walks in Snowdin forest.