Furniture Glitches for Fun and Justice

Friends, I’ve seen a couple posts go around concerning some new furniture glitches in 4.1 with the storage feature, but so far no detailed English compilations. So here’s a few I’ve found.


- Make sure you have Display Preview turned on, otherwise these won’t work.

-To use glitches #2 and #3, you are going to need to bind the Subcommand function to a key/control. 

- I am reproducing these via PC and keyboard/mouse. This should not change how the glitch works, but may mean your interfaces look and/or function differently.

-No items are duplicated or lost through the course of these glitches. We’re simply messing with where we get to put them.


1) Placing items directly from storage
2) Floating items off a wall
3) Floating items on any horizontal architecture

Keep reading

Why the Disney guys are great

ERIC: He loves his dog. He plays the flute really well and that’s hard to do. Really gentle and sweet. When he found Ariel on the beach he took her home and took care of her. Great smile. Is a chill guy but will also not hesitate to stab and kill an evil sea witch with his boat.

PHILIP: Hears a pretty sound and follows it. Great singing voice. Never realizes that the girl he fell in love with is the princess he’s supposed to marry. Falls so in love that the first thing he does is go to his father and tell him. Has that goofy little hat with a feather. Fought a motherfucking dragon on a cliff.

NAVEEN: Immediately takes off his royal suit into a civilians outfit and disappears playing ukulele. Even though he’s turned into a frog he’s still oozing confidence. Can only mince food, doesn’t know how to do anything else. Made a ring out of scrap even though they’re frogs. Is willing to give everything up as long as Tiana gets her restaurant. Has that nice curl that falls onto his forehead. Unplaceable yet charming accent.

HERCULES: His strength too big for his goddamn body. Goes from zero to a hundred real quick. Even though he can deck a monster in a minute flat he has no idea how to talk to girls. Socially awkward. Good with kids. Can do a push-up on one finger. When told to use his head he took it literally. Punched his uncle, the god of the underworld, in the face.

FLYNN RIDER: Sarcasm galore. The Smolder. Drop dead gorgeous looks. Doesn’t mind that he’s on a wanted poster but does mind that they can’t get his nose right. Is the only one who sees it’s weird to randomly start singing. Can’t fight for shit, barley manages to make do with a frying pan. Has the most ridiculous birth name in Disney history. Got stabbed in the gut but cut Rapunzel’s hair to save her, not at all caring about himself. First words after not dying aren’t “I love you” but “I have a thing for brunettes” because of corse they are.

ADAM: Swooshes his cape around in the shadows like some kind of wannabe batman. Is extra as fuck. Still acts like a child sometimes. Has had no social interaction for years but is trying his best. Gets easily confused. Doesn’t know what to do when he realizes he has feelings for people. Is too shy to tell Belle he loves her. Feels bad the second after he scares Belle away. Would literally rather die then live without the girl he loves. Has the most extra transformation back into a human while everyone else doesn’t.

MAUI: Gets scared easily. Amazing hair. That little face he makes when he can’t use his hook right. Was building a statue of himself in his cave like a dork. Magic tattoos. Can’t fish to save his life. Gave humans fire and wind and coconuts. That smirk he does, you know the one. Great sense of humor. Did everything he could think of to make humans happy so they would like him. Was a total puppy when he got his hook back and fixed.

FERDINAND: So fucking sweet and gentle. Has a name that tells us he doesn’t even need Snow White for animals to follow him around. Sings to Snow White when she’s on her balcony like a modern day Romeo. Knows when Snow White went missing because he kept visiting and goes to look for her right away. Is literally heartbroken when he finds her, thinking she’s dead and is overjoyed when she wakes up. A good boy, a soft boy. Literally has done zero things wrong in his entire life.

ALADDIN: Tricked the genie right off the bat. Jumped right in to help Jasmine with the guards. Steals food but ends up giving it to orphan children living in the street. Is the most selfless person in Agrabah. Quick thinker and can outsmart anyone. Is one of the only Disney princes who actually know how to sword fight. Has matching hats with his pet monkey.

LI SHANG: Sexuality crisis. “You fight good”. Turns a bunch of losers into warriors. Rarely ever wears a shirt for some reason. Tries out his new title of captain alone in his tent all exited like a little kid. Doesn’t give up, not once, on anything. Would literally die for Mulan. Fine as hell.

CHARMING: Gets bored at his own ball. Is a hopeless romantic. Doesn’t care for people who gush over him because he’s the prince, and in fact took interest in Cinderella because she was the only one not doing that. Jumped out a window for Cinderella. Is a super supportive husband. Went door to door looking for Cinderella, determined to find her no matter what. Good dancer.

FELIX: Doesn’t know how to be mean. Considers totally harmless words bad language. Ridiculously short. That video game sound when he jumps. Thinks that by saying Ralph’s catchphrase it will give him Ralph’s power to wreck stuff as well. Can speak qbertese. Dripping with southern farm boy charm. Is a shit dancer but that’s what makes it fun to watch. After accidentally triggering Calhoun he respects her making him leave and never uses the phrase again. Pulls Vanellope back from danger on the rainbow bridge and then makes sure she stays behind him. “Do you think they’ll stop there?” “YES!”

(( If I missed any that you want to see, just let me know & I’ll make a part 2! ))

when men look at me i want them to be filled with a sudden, inexplicable icy dread- a vague, unplaceable, prehistoric terror that reverberates through their bone marrow and makes them want to shutter themselves inside their homes and never, ever leave, not because i’m physically intimidating or threatening or even particularly remarkable in any way, i just want this haunting shivery aura of male fear to pulsate around me at all times, i want to be cloaked in something that makes them instinctively avoid looking directly at me without knowing why or even registering that they’re doing it, i want to be the Unpleasant Thing in the corner of their eye that quickens their pace and shoos them away, in my presence i want them to feel what every woman feels walking to her car alone late at night, what every homo feels walking past a group of them, chest-tightening, hyperaware, fists clenched, i want them to feel like prey, i want to radiate the energy of the primal thing that lives under the stairs

“I know who you are,” Yuuri whispers, huddled into himself as the pirate gazes towards the horizon, hand held over his eyes to look for the King and his hunting party. “With your talents, you can be no other.”

“Is that so, Highness?” The pirate returns his gaze to Yuuri. “And who is it that you think I am?”

Yuuri straightens up, forces his chin up into a challenge. “You are the Dread Pirate Nikiforov, are you not? Your manner and cruelty seem to imply it, sir. You have the countenance of one whose lips have never uttered a kindness.”

Nikiforov bows to him. “I admit it proudly, your Highness. I am the Dread Pirate Nikiforov, at your service.” There is a smirk on his face–it has the same familiar but unplaceable air of all his mannerisms. 

Yuuri turns his head away, feeling tears gather at his eyes. At long last, he faces the man responsible for taking his dear Viktor’s life. At long last, he has the chance to avenge his love–and all he is able to do is sit here, and weep. His voice little more than a raw whisper when he says, “That being the case, sir, I wish your inevitable death to be slow and painful.”

Nikiforov comes to him, crouching before his drawn up knees and lifting his face up with finger hooked under his chin. His eyes dart over Yuuri’s face until he says, “Why such cruel words from such pretty lips?”

Yuuri feels two tears fall from his eyes and makes no attempt to clear them. If he is to die here, at this instant or another one soon, at the hands of the same man who stole his Viktor from him–the let it be with tears for his love on his cheeks. He takes in a shaky breath and breaths, “You killed my Viktor. The only man I ever loved, and ever will.”

The Dread Pirate Nikiforov’s eyes would look almost soft, were he anyone else. His thumb traces across Yuuri’s bottom lip. “No love for your kingly fiance, then? For the man who would give you fortune and luxury?”

“I need no fortune,” Yuuri snaps, slapping the pirate’s hand away. “And the luxuries of royalty only stand to mock what I’ve lost!” Once again, Yuuri’s eyes go to the distance as Nikiforov rises and paces somewhere behind him, likely agitated. “Viktor and I would never have had a rich life. He was a poor farm boy, and I have nothing to my name but the Inn I will inherit from my parents on their death. But my Vitya–he was kind, and beautiful, and we would have been happy. I would have slept every night under nothing but the stars, if it were in his arms I laid.”

Nikiforov is silent for a long moment. Yuuri does not turn to look at him, only listens to the hissing of the grass in the wind and the slow and quiet thump of the pirate’s boots on the ground. At last, when he speaks, it is it to say, “I have killed many men, but I believe I remember him–your Vitya.”

“You do not have the right to speak his name,” Yuuri hisses, glaring over his shoulder with tear-stained cheeks and wild hair. 

“He died well, you may be pleased to hear.” Nikiforov turns his face to the steep and grassy incline not ten feet from their toes. Beyond it, the forest looms. Nikiforov, Yuuri is sure, intends to take him into those woods and kill him. Anger blooms in his body like a sickness. “Most people beg–scream, cry, shit themselves. He only looked at me and said…Please. I must live. I have promised my love I will return–and promises I do not break. Then he spoke of the beautiful boy with whom he was in love–you, I assume. He told me you were timid, and terribly fragile. That news of his death would surely destroy you. I see none of that in you as you stand before me.” Nikiforov tilts his head over his shoulder, so Yuuri can see smirking blue eyes and an almost-genuine smile. “He underestimated you, I think.”

Yuuri rises to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “How dare you tell me his dying tale, sir. How shameful, that he asked you for mercy and you gave him none. There is no place in God’s kingdom for you. And I? I was destroyed that day. You killed me as surely as you killed him. The person you see before you now is what remains when a man has nothing remaining to lose.” He yanks Nikiforov’s shoulder to spin him, cranes his neck up to compensate for the inches between them at this proximity. “If I’m to die today, at least do me the courtesy of revealing your face to me. Cease this cowardliness, hiding behind a mask as you steal lives. A person deserves to know his murderer.”

He anticipates refusal, perhaps even swift death, but what comes is a smile. Nikiforov reaches behind his head to untie the mask and, as it and the bandanna covering his hair fall away, he murmurs, “As you wish.”

As moonlight hair and high cheekbones are revealed, Yuuri can only gasp, “Viktor?” as his knees give out from below him.


summary: You love Tom but he seems to only think of you as a personal therapist.

warnings: angst, alcohol briefly mentioned

words: 1845

a/n: The title is a Portuguese word that roughly translates to “missingness” or “longing”, but means much more. Also, this is set pre-haircut because the floppy curls will always be my favorite.

part two

If only you had been able to fall asleep last night. You wouldn’t have heard him knock, and your heart would still be in your chest where it belonged.

Instead, you had been awake late into the night and into the early morning. The television was on and late-night cartoons were creating background noise to your thoughts. You were laying on the couch and your eyes were picking out shapes in the texture on your living room ceiling. You were awake for no reason, but you’d experienced this sleeplessness countless times before.

Keep reading

Back to the Top

This is an unofficial sequel to @evie-hyde fantastic Top Down Approach found here: https://evie-hyde.tumblr.com/post/150369137310/top-down-approach-extended-edition-lindsay

Hope she and you like it.

At first Cathy was livid that her uniform had been stripped from her by Mr Richter. The uniform had made her fell like such a bad bitch and she loved the way she could control the rest of the staff with just her impressive breasts. Once the uniform had been taken from her she reverted back to the flat chested nobody she was when she started decades earlier at the hospital. Mr Richter had commanded her to remove the uniform and even though she didn’t want to, he had some strange pull over her. The withdrawal was intense immediately after the uniform released her. She craved it like a junkie craving the needle. She pleaded with Mr Richter and offered to do anything he desired but he didn’t budge.

“No no Cathy you had your chance, I gave you all the power in the world but you squandered it and let the uniform grow weak. I think Lindsay will be a better fit than you ever were. You are fired effective immediately. Now leave before I have security escort you out”.

Cathy had left defeated that day but looking back now, 6 months later, she knows it was the best thing to happen to her. The power had corrupted her. Made her a craven evil whore who only thought about themselves. She now worked at a clinic for addicts. She could see a lot of what she went through in the patients that came through on a daily basis. She was happy helping people again. That was until one day…

She was reading the newspaper as she usually did on her lunch break and came across an article about the hospital she had worked for. The article talked about how the hospital was expanding and was taking over smaller clinics nearby. Unfortunately for Cathy this included her new clinic. Cathy started to fill with rage and fear. If the hospital took over her clinic that would mean that the new Head Bitch Lindsay would be her boss and Cathy knew all too well her methods. She had to do something. She couldn’t be a slave to Lindsay and her tits. Everyone would be under her control. Everyone, that was, except Mr Richter. How did he hold sway over whoever wore the uniform? Cathy soon got an idea.

Later that night she snuck into her old hospital by wearing old scrubs and a surgical mask to avoid being recognized. A pang of jealously hit her as she creeped around that the hospital and noticed it looked in better shape than when she was in charge. She finally reached Mr Richter’s office and knocked on the door. No answer. She slowly opened the door and snuck inside. Once inside she entered the small closet near the door and prepared. She has brought a special syringe that they used at the clinic sometimes. Whoever was injected would become groggy, but alert, and also would be unable to tell a lie. She hoped she wouldn’t have to wait to long and sure enough within a few minutes the door handle of the office began moving.

Mr Richter entered his office and immediately opened the closet to put away his jacket, that’s when Cathy sprung to action. She jumped out at him like a lion pouncing on its prey and jabbed the syringe into his neck. Mr Richter’s face dissolved from anger to apathy and his limbs began to relax. Cathy moved him to the chair in front of his desk and sat him down.

“Hello Mr Richter remember me” Cathy said as she removed the surgical mask and a look of recognition crossed his face. “Now you are going to tell me all your little secrets about that special slutty uniform you made wear for 20 years”.


Head Nurse Lindsay was being ‘serviced’ by an intern when she heard an familiar yet unplaceable voice over the intercom asking her to report to the Managers office. She pulled the young interns head out of her tight pussy and pushed him aside. “Out of the way worm” she said coldly as she strode away confidently. These past six months had been the best of Lindsay’s life. She never knew she had such an aptitude for being an evil bitch but she had loved every second of it.

She knocked on Mr Richter’s door. Again she heard that familiar voice beckoning her in. She pushed the door open and was greeted with Mr Richter tied and gagged on the chair in front of the desk. She rushed over to begin opening his restraints when she heard a voice from the chair behind the desk tell her to stop. She wanted to help Mr Richter but he was feeling compelled to stop. The chair swivelled around and she was face to face with a plain looking woman wearing hospital scrubs. There was something familiar about this woman Lindsay thought, then it hit her. She smirked and crossed her arms.

“Cathy, long time no see. If you are hear to beg for your job back you can see the position has already been” she took a long moment to stroke her hands over her giant tits “filled”.

“Oh I’m not here to get the uniform, I am here to destroy it once and for all. You see Mr Richter and I had a nice long chat about where the uniform came from and how he controls it and the wearer.” Cathy held up her hand and a bright ring beamed from her ring finger. “You see with this ring I control the uniform and as a result I control you and we are going to end it’s evil reign once and for all.”

The confidence had drained from Lindsay’s face as the thoughts of loosing the uniform were just not something she could accept. “NO! You can’t do this! For the first time in my life I have been the Alpha Bitch, I have made men and women bend to my will and it has felt so delicious. At the snap of my fingers I can have anyone in this hospital drop what they were doing and lick my amazing pussy. Do you how if feels to have that power?”

Cathy did and she had to admit to herself that Lindsay was sparking so some dark memories in her and her own pussy was starting to need the help of an intern. Cathy fought against that urge though and commanded Lindsay to remove the uniform. Lindsay did as asked and placed it on the desk in front of Cathy. Lindsay, like Cathy six months ago, pleaded with Cathy but she wouldn’t listen. She told Lindsay to be silent and she obeyed, the control must last for a little bit of time after the uniform is removed, Cathy thought.

Her plan was to bring the uniform to the incinerator in the basement but when she picked it up she felt a rush she hadn’t felt in months. Her pussy instantly flooded and her body tingled all over. “Oooooooo fuck its been too long since I felt this power. NO! I have to fight it. I must fight it!” Cathy’s mind raced with images of her past life, where she was the Queen of the Hospital and it made her so horny. Dark thoughts entered her mind as Cathy thought to herself that with the ring and the uniform she could not only control the Hospital but maybe the world. As if sensing approval the uniform started to attach itself to Cathy once again. “No! Stop it! I don’t want this… mmmmmmm… oh fuck but I do” Cathy said with a smirk and the uniform started to take over more and more of her body.

Her body started to shift and change as the uniform took hold. Her hips flared out and her tits started to ballon up several sizes. Her hair tied up in a sexy ponytail, her nails extended to sharp claws and heavy makeup appeared on her face. “Oh fuuuuuuck” Cathy threw her head back in ecstasy “why would I ever want to give this power up? This was made for me, I was destined to be an evil bitch”. Previous thoughts of helping people were now replaced with images of people bowing before her, lining up to fuck her and lick her pussy. “I will rule this world, but not as a nurse but as a Queen.” With the power of the ring Cathy could change the appearance of the uniform, and make it in to something else. She closed her eyes and pictured a tight black corset to really make her tits pop and a short blue pencil skirt to make access to her pussy easier. She topped it off with 8 inch black heels and when she opened her eyes it was exactly what she was wearing.

With the transformation complete she admired her self in the large mirror to the side of the room. “Oh I look like such a fucking evil bitch, I love it”. She pushed her tits together a little which really made her wet. She was so horny she could explode but thankfully there was someone in the room who could help her. “Lindsay I have been waiting a long time for this” Cathy said as she shoved the young nurses face into her tits. Her tits were so powerful now that Lindsay didn’t struggle at all. Cathy sat up on the desk and spread her legs wide. Lindsay didn’t need any instructions as she went to work straight away. 

“Ooooo fuck yes that’s it. You will be rewarded Lindsay, I will make you my second in command. You will lead my armies of sluts to take over this pathetic world. However every good general needs a uniform and thanks to Mr Richter I know exactly where to find some.”

NOTHING NATURAL by Diana Hurlburt

They call him Prosper, a measure of mockery for each measure of awe.


You know the road to the laboratory blind, could walk it in your sleep—have, because sleepwalking is telltale of the godborn, so your mother says and touches your ankle in rare affection where it rests on the porch rail, one foot on the earth and one in the realm of spirits.

“Spirits,” she repeats, gesturing to the road below, the spindly pine woods and the yellow haze of heat and pollution that makes up your horizon. “He controls the spirits.”

There are no spirits, only neighbors: Men and women and half-made machines given to rust, the detritus of civilization. A plot of bloodless jackdaws, midway between flophouse and refugee camp. You know that part of her statement, at least, is true. The weak and weak-willed, the dying, the once-dead, the discarded and useless, the flagrant all require direction. Seek strength. Are used by those stronger.

Sicaria laughs and makes her crooked cross, murmurs her oblique prayer.

“Get out,” she tells you in sudden rage, “go to your master. Get out of my sight, you unworthy and unclean thing, you who have forsaken the ways of God, you who cleave to the machines. Your eyes see only falsehood.”


It is fifteen years since your mother was cast out. It is your lifetime that has been spent in wasteland, the between-place, the unplace beyond the pale. It is a pine island that shelters you, a fanatic who raises you, a scientist who uses your hands and your back and his daughter who considers your mind.

Your mind. You know you have one. All creatures do, born or made. It is the First Law of Being.

Your name. If Sicaria gave you one it has been lost. It was only after Prosper’s carelessness that anyone else tried—his accident in the lab, though he would never call it that, surely you were at fault, your clumsy hands too broad for fine work and your elbows always in the way. Acid scattered from a flask, droplets caught in sun. You did not scream; it wasn’t the worst pain you had felt. In the washroom Miranda’s hands were gentle, washing, salving. They slowed after the initial motions and your pulse followed. You examine your two faces in the mirror. If you had ever displayed beauty it was gone now, Miranda’s heightened by your face now scarred. Her luminosity beyond the human and your coarseness, a sun and its shadow.

Her hand stayed on your cheek after its necessity had lapsed. She traced the remnants of acid, specks and splotches, long fingers black and velvet like the touch of night. You believe her grasp could shift moons from their orbit.

“Calvaluna,” she said, a cantrip reshaping your vision of yourself. “I read it somewhere—where? I have never read a book. I don’t need to, Father put his knowledge into my head before he activated me. But I hear it.” She tapped her forehead, then yours. “I hear it. It means you. It suits you. Calvaluna.”

It was prettier than you, you knew that, a beautiful name. Prettier than most things. Not prettier than her.


When Prosper leaves the laboratory it is less a retirement for the evening and more retreat. He would never call it that but you believe him fearful, after all. The powerful always are. He swings himself like a cudgel upon exit, he shouts for Miranda to attend him and cuffs you, a passing blow, thoughtless. Brutality is his lever, rarely compassion.

You know his laboratory better than he does, you think, wiping down counters. You know his daughter, made in his own image but ultimately fathomless. There’s a phrase in Sicaria’s Bible that makes you quiver when you apply it to Miranda.

It is full dark when Miranda comes for you. Your laboratory is Prosper’s in miniature, piecemeal and theft-built, squirreled away in a shed in the woods south of the pine island on which the best of the unplace’s hovels are built.

“It was a citrus packing house,” Miranda says as she always does. Touches the frame of the door right and then left, stretches to her full height to brush its top. It’s a ritual the way your mother’s prayers are, her prostrations, her rages. “Before the Laws took effect there was an industry here. Fruit. Citrus fruit.” She looks at you, a delight on her face that would fire the darkness. “Can you imagine it, Calvaluna? Whole stands of trees with fruit on them. Wild fruit, just growing. Imagine taking fruit off a tree and eating it.”

Your imagination is not that good.

She goes to the single table in the laboratory and stands before it in a manner you’ve thought must be like that of the Israelites in the Holy of Holies. You are not supposed to know what that means. You are not supposed to have holiness in your life. She looks at you briefly, with mischief, and draws down the shroud you have used to protect the R.E.L.’s shell from rain.

“I think we’re close,” she says. Her eyes are fascinated, distracted; her hand reaches for you. “Come here, Calvaluna, tell me if this is calibrated properly.”

“You have your father’s knowledge,” you say. But you go and look at the R.E.L. with her. You’re proud of the effort, the work of your joined hands. You are not supposed to have pride, either. There is no pride in being raised beyond the pale. In being the offspring of a hanged woman, a witch they would have called her in days past, a lawbreaker too iconoclastic to be allowed in the city and too ineffectual to be executed, spared for her belly to the tune of mockery. Certainly there is no pride in your form or your face.

“I think he’s almost ready to revive,” Miranda says. Her joy is the only light in these woods. The sun exists, you know, in theory. Miranda’s face is your only evidence thus far, fifteen years alive and far from those spaces left which thrive in natural sunlight. She links her fingers in yours, her thumb rubs the calluses on your palm; she points with your hands to the R.E.L.’s blank and staring eyes, his half-human head, his chest with its missing heart and its new core of wires. “Oh, Calvaluna! I’m nervous. Are you nervous?”

Nervous is not the right word for what you are.


“Calvaluna,” Sicaria repeated the day you told her of Miranda’s gift. She scraped the tip of her ritual knife between her teeth, grinning. “An appropriate name for you, my aborted dream. I should have exposed you as a sacrifice to God.”

There is no god but human will. This is the Second Law of Being.


Your fellow-spirits are all will-bound to Prosper’s caprice. He makes the cogs of the community turn, greases the paths of food and potable water and herbs plucked at the witching hour that make life slightly less… life-like. Thus he is obeyed.

“Daughter,” Sicaria echoes. She spits at the trash heap beside the back gate. “Blasphemy. Blasphemy. Such words I hear from your lips, my burden. Who was it gave you speech, that you fling curses in my face? I think maybe you’re the worse for your time spent in that man’s house. I see you confuse craft for birth.” She broods, her fingers twitching at the strand of beads beneath her wrapper. “But there’s no more to be done. How else are we to live?”

Once, and only once, you suggested that perhaps her god might see to living arrangements, if she did not like how you were turning out under Prosper’s tutelage.

“Go.” She waves to the wood path. “I heard tell there was meat today.”

If there was meat to be had, you suspect it’s long gone now. Your fellow-spirits are avaricious. What have they but base pleasures?

“He’s in a gloom,” Miranda says, her face round and open as a poinciana pod. “He’s made me clean the laboratory twice over, and asked me to cook… something. I didn’t recognize it, Calvaluna. Lentil soup? What is a lentil, do you know?”

You know of lentils.

“You can’t make lentil soup,” you tell her. “He shouldn’t ask you to do things he knows are impossible.”

“He believes anything is possible,” she says. You love and hate to see her countenance. You remember a time when she would have spoken the same words in hope and affection. You know it is your fault, the way she is changing, her will a canker on the face of beauty. You wonder what Prosper will do when he realizes it. You ponder in the night, sometimes, this scholar whose eyes perceive all but the truth.

Perhaps you will be gone before he awakens.

“Race me,” Miranda says, but she takes your hand.

“How am I to race if you keep me beside you?”

“A race doesn’t have to have a winner,” she says, and begins to run.

She times these things impeccably. She runs so that you can almost believe the light follows her footsteps, that she leaves no mark on the earth. Dusk springs up behind you. You prefer night, its honesty; you prefer the real dark that would cover most of your world if not for artificial day. The unplace is a hive of night creatures. Your fellow-spirits are easiest perceived in dimness, their proclivities hidden and their countenances smoothed.

Miranda keeps your hand in hers and runs, runs, fearless and laughing. She runs like a dart flung toward the center of the south woods, the pine cloven by lightning looming over your laboratory. The pine grows despite the wound at its heart. It is where you found the R.E.L.—one of Prosper’s cast-offs, what he termed a failed experiment—half-dead and crumbling piecemeal to rust in dank rainfall.

She drops to the base of the pine and pulls you down and points up.

“I know of stars,” she says, her eyes searching as though Heaven might reveal itself. “The Southern Cross, the Swan. The Pleiades. Many more names my father gave me.” She touches her forehead, as she does when she speaks of Prosper’s knowledge, planted in her like seed corn. She is godborn more surely than you can ever be, gleaming divinity. She touches your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I think they must look like you. The stars beyond our sky.”

She traces the scars and specks and splotches. She draws new constellations and names them, her fingers a warm trail on your skin, her breath a promise.


Just once you asked your mother if you would ever leave the unplace. You did not then understand that no one came to the salt-strewn plots of land on the city’s outskirts by choice—no one laid eyes on the pine island and thought, I am home. It is far more difficult to leave a place you have not happened upon by choice.

“He’ll be a protector,” you say, pliers in one hand and cording in the other. “His new code will require defense. Otherwise…”

You look at Miranda and think of what might happen to her if the R.E.L.’s defensive code does not run as planned. You picture yourself and remember Sicaria’s dark jibes, her reminiscences of city life. You rub your upper arm where the contraceptive block had been implanted. It only prevents some things, can halt neither the heady mix of desire and aspiration nor flat violence.

“Defense,” Miranda says, her face solemn in its thinking pose, unaware of your thoughts. “Defense, financials, new birth records and identification…”

Her voice skips along, almost merry, a fertile stream in which to seed possibility.


The Third Law of Being is the inviolability of life. No one has ever explained to you whether the Law covers all life.


Light explodes behind your eyes when Prosper’s hand meets your skull. Or, you realize a little belatedly, it is the fault of the lab table, the edge of it kissing your temple. Air rushes from your lungs. You stare at the vault above the shed in the woods, its ceiling gaping in sections to reveal leaves, the white sky of noon.

Miranda flies at him, her face dressed in horror. You have never kissed her, you think. You would prefer not to die unkissed; you’d prefer not to die at all.

“Ungrateful wretch,” Prosper says. “Twisted ape-child, spawn of—how thought you?” He smashes his hand across the table. “How thought you to betray my kindness? To turn my own blood against me?” He lifts one of the R.E.L.’s arms, almost delicately. “Whore and daughter of whores. Thief.”

Small comfort to think his rage stems from fear, but it’s enough. Prosper would not be angry if he didn’t believe the R.E.L. was sound.

“You.” He points to Sicaria in the doorway. One of your fellow-spirits has fetched her at his command and she is in a state, white-eyed and gagging on anger. “Take your mooncalf in hand, I never want to see her again. Corruptor.”

He catches Miranda and snares her arms, wrenches her close, covers her head with his hands as though she is innocent. As though healing and reviving the R.E.L. were not her idea. As though a child can be born of only one parent. The R.E.L. is your inheritance, legacy of unnatural issue, a being greater than the sum of its creators.

“This abomination will be destroyed,” Prosper says. Sicaria prays in the doorway, her eyes not on you nor on the R.E.L. but searching, seeking. She hates the sight of machines. Had the city not cast her out for improper worship she would have repudiated them anyway.

“He is an R.E.L.,” Miranda says. You stare despite the throb in your head, the blood in your eyes. Her voice remains soft, wondering, a caress on the cyborg’s clinical name. Aerial, a creature of movement and possibility. “Robotically Enhanced Lifeform. Give him his name, Father, lend some pity, even if you thought nothing of flinging him into the trash when he failed to serve you.”

“Abomination,” he repeats. “Homunculus, deformity—daughter. Listen. Calvaluna has done wrong in her ignorance but you… you are not ignorant, Miranda.”

You marvel at the blindness of the learned man, the man cast out for his learned ways, the man who has made the wilderness blossom in decay. Lord of chaos, king of the misruled.

“God be with me in this hour,” Sicaria prays, her hands on either side of the doorframe. “God be with me in my pain, God give me strength for the task before me, God grant me…”

Me, you mouth. God be with Sicaria, and science with Prosper, and neither passionate belief nor dispassionate prowess sustain them. Miranda looks at you from beneath her father’s hands. Her smile is your signpost, her trust your life raft. Your fellow-spirits are like unto you only in substance: Crude matter, blunt usefulness. Miranda is your true equal, beloved of your soul. Her eyes remain open.

Your eyes must remain open. You must get up. There are but two steps between you and the table, one step in the scientific process, a bare nudge of your fingers at the master switch. Miranda’s being is in your hands.

On the table, the R.E.L. casts off slumber and rattles to life.

anonymous asked:

‘Use more creativity’ ok hun how about this: You know that feeling when your walking down a street and you can feel the sun beating down on the sidewalk and there’s a gentle breeze and the day just feels like is going to go well? I think an in person conversation with you would feel completely opposite to that: threatening, cold, damp and mildewing, and leaving the recipient with unplaced dread for tomorrow sourcing from the words you used to describe their favorite color




I was at Goodwill the other day buying pictures to cannibalize for their frames (fun fact- the mat in this one originally cost twice what the frame cost me) and normally I just toss what’s inside… but not this time. This is Sandy, I guess. The painting’s an original watercolor of a dog. I’m not sure how it ended up at Goodwill. It’s not old, it was done in 2014 according to the back, and it just… I dunno, it feels kind of wrong to throw away a painting that somebody did of either their beloved pet or somebody else’s beloved pet. Whoever Dpisano (D. Pisano? Pisono?) is, they put a ton of work into this and it just feels… weird to toss it. 

So this is my new fake dog. I’m eventually going to come up with some kind of absolutely over the top backstory for why I own a painting of this dog. Did “Sandy” save my life? Is she a famous dog actor? Is she the dog my estranged great-grandmother, the eccentric one with the unplaceable accent, left her vast estate to? WHO KNOWS. That’s the beauty of Sandy.

(And for the curious, the picture that’s going IN there… i’m super stoked about it, it’s this gorgeous painting of a unicorn and girl, third from the top on the left here.)

What up we got a lame Reddie first kiss thingy

He tasted like cigarette smoke and bubble gum.


“Give it back, I really mean it!”

Richie put on his best pout and looked pleadingly at his friend, who had swiped his brand new action figure in the middle of his boasting about it just to rile him up.

Eddie held the toy above his head and smiled smugly, leaning away so far that he threatened to tip the log the two were perched on in the club’s favourite forest clearing.

“Nuh-uh! Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?”

“Come oooon!!” Richie whined, as Eddie held the object of his desire even further from his reach.

“Y'know it’s real cute that you think you can get away with this ‘cause you know I could never hurt your precious little porcelain face, but you are not exempt from wet-willies, do you hear me, Eds?” Richie stilled and locked eyes with Eddie before suddenly lunging for the toy, toppling both boys onto the ground and eliciting a delighted little squeal from Eddie as they fell. They tousled for the little plastic man until they forgot that it was the reason for their grass-stained bout, and it lay forgotten beside them as they continued rolling about.

Eddie eventually got the better of his friend, rolling them over and pinning Richie’s arms above his head as the taller boy struggled half-heartedly, giggles and laughs punctuated by those little snorts that Eddie so adored bubbling from his lips.

Faces flushed and chests heaving as they caught their breath, their laughter finally quieted. Eddie looked down, preparing his triumphant gloating, but his voice caught in his throat.

Richie beamed up at him, his deep brown eyes glowing like amber in the setting sunlight, his bangs matted in little strands to his temples where his freckles met his ears, and his unruly hair fanned out in a messy, black halo around his head.

Fuck, the poor kid had it bad.

Subconsciously, Eddie released one of Richie’s wrists and righted those unruly locks, brushing his fingertips carefully across Richie’s forehead. Richie laughed again, light and with a shuddering little sigh, jostling Eddie a bit as he straddled Richie’s hips. Because he was happy, and because they were so close all at once, Eddie stopped thinking entirely. He blinked down at Richie, that face adorned with flushed ears and lop-sided smile, and swiftly leant down to press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. He tasted like cigarette smoke and bubble gum, a truly horrid combination but Eddie was intoxicated by it. It tasted just like he’d pictured - just like Richie. Eddie’s fingers found the hem of Richie’s t-shirt, where it rode up on his chest from their tousle, and ran idly along the soft fabric. His other hand grasped Richie’s, still trapped beneath it, and he threaded their fingers together.

Richie almost instantly went pliant beneath the smaller boy, and their noses bumped together as he clumsily reciprocated the awkward kiss. His free hand rested uselessly beside his head, and Eddie swore he could feel him tremble just slightly.

When Eddie’s eyes finally fluttered open and he pulled away for a moment to look at Richie, he was a bit alarmed by the unplacable look he received in return. The taller boy’s glasses lay crooked across his nose, and his eyebrows knit together as he regained precious breath through parted lips.

Suddenly, the reality of his impulsive action came crashing back to him and Eddie was terrified. He scrambled to dismount his friend, directing his gaze anywhere but on the other boy and bracing himself for the worst. Richie probably hated him now. He had to be disgusted at the very least. What was he thinking? Best case scenario he would never speak to him again, worst case scenario, well, Eddie didn’t want to think about that. He felt his throat tighten and tears threaten to spill onto his cheeks.

The two sat, facing each other in silence while Eddie wished his hardest for the ground to swallow him up. When it was clear his wish would go unanswered, he spoke up. “I-… gee, Richie I don’t know what I was thinking…” he squeaked, hands worrying at the hem of his polo, but when he braved a look, Richie was already looking right back at him all starry-eyed. Like Eddie had given him the universe.

“Neither do I, but I sure am glad you thought it!” He exclaimed with that familiar charming smile, scooping Eddie up in his arms and tipping them both back into the soft grass. He peppered tiny kisses all over the smaller boy’s face -cheeks, forehead and so gently on the tip of his upturned nose- until Eddie squirmed and giggled and all his terrible thoughts were kissed away by Richie Tozier.

“Stopit, I can’t breathe!!” Eddie squealed amidst the onslaught of affection, his sides aching dully from exertion and laughter.

“Is it because I take your breath away, Eddie my love?” Richie winked, and batted his eyelashes, and Eddie playfully shoved him.

“You’re so dumb.”

“And you’re so cute.”

The two lay where they landed until they were found by the rest of their friends, who trickled into the clearing in ones and twos to meet up for the evening. Several eyebrows were raised at the sight of their friends basking in the sun, covered head to toe in grass and dirt, faces still flushed to their ears and fingers locked together as if someone could try to pull them apart at any moment.

anonymous asked:

AU where everything’s the same but Megamind is an Aquarius instead of a Capricorn ..

(this is the thing about AUs; everything is never the same; you change one thing and all kinds of other things change in consequence…)

–if Megamind is born in February, then he’s almost a year old when his parents put him in that escape pod and he has a much clearer conception of exactly what is happening when his planet is pulled into the black hole.

On the one hand, he has more memories of his planet and his family, but on the other hand, he also has a lot more trauma.

He’s screaming as they put him in the escape pod. He’s sobbing and heartbroken and terrified and in shock for the entire trip to earth, and even Minion can’t comfort him.

He’s old enough to be afraid when strangers pick him up, move him around.

He’s able to talk by the time he lands on earth in this world. He’s terrified, later, of forgetting his own language. He practices the words over and over again, every single one that he remembers.

His unplaceable accent and odd way of speaking english are even more noticeable.

His birthday is around valentine’s day, instead of christmas. He gets to be bitter and miserable during three holidays, as apposed to just two: christmas, his birthday, and valentine’s day–losing his family on christmas and being unloved on his birthday when the entire world is decorated with hearts and roses, then the extra kick in the teeth that’s valentine’s day.

It takes Lil’ Gifted a little longer to break him, to make him decide that he must be evil. And when he does decide that, he feels like he’s failed his parents and his people. He’s got a more nuanced view of his planet’s concept of fate, so he blames himself even more for being ‘evil’.

He remembers more about his planet’s technology, so the things that he builds are even more advanced. Possibly he even remembers information about Metro Man’s planet and species, which could definitely change things, and make their battles a lot more evenly matched. 

Maybe he even knows Metro Man’s real weakness.

Which means he knows the skeleton on the day of the death ray is fake.

So where does he go from there?

Catch Of The Day Part 4

1 || 2 || 3

Lance looked up at the sky, small, cold droplets showered down on his face, hitting hard like glass pellets on soft skin. A storm was brewing. Literally and metaphorically.

Lance felt it, knew something was going to happen. Something big, but he wasn’t too sure if it was good or bad. He just hoped for the best, currently the best would be to go home.

He knew it was within his grasp, close enough he could taste it. But now there was a huge obstacle before him- hindering his return- in the form of the billowing clouds rolling in ominously. The storm’s dark head seemed to growl warningly at Lance and Lance shivered at the threat. Lance knew it was silly, but he couldn’t see this as anything but a test. Maybe a test of courage, maybe of bravery, maybe of worthiness. But to Lance this was a test, it was simple, if he passed he could go home. If he didn’t….. well Lance didn’t want to think of that.

Lance watched cautiously as the clouds grew thicker and the rain grew heavier. The wind harsher. He ducked his head under the water of his tank as his face grew numb from the cold. He looked around in slight concern. The two humans were making sure everything was proofed before they hid in the bottom. Lance wasn’t sure what to do, he might lose them if he went into the ocean but he also might get hurt if he stayed aboard.

He knew the best option was to leave and try find the ship once the storm passed, but he didn’t want to think of what would happen if he once again got lost. But… for his own safety, for his own life he’d have to. There really was no other option. So, with his heart heavy Lance slipped out of the tank, pausing for a moment, contemplating if he should wait and tell the others his plan but the flash of lightening and the all too familiar rumbling that never failed to strike fear in Lance had Lance high tailing it off of the boat and into the water.

He swam down, looking for a place to take shelter close to the ship. In the distance Lance could make out the blurry dark hole that a cave usually barred and swam closer to get a better look.

But, before he could think of it logically a chill ran down Lance’s spine and Lance felt his muscles contract on their own, forcing him into the cave a few meters away in hiding. He swam into the darkness with not a moment of hesitation, his blue eyes illuminated in the dark shade of the cave and Lance looked around at the walls, rocks.

Thats all there was, rocks. The dark walls receded backwards before coming to an end with gagged rocks sticking out of the walls, the cave left Lance feeling cold, but it was better than the fear he felt while out in the open. During a storm…  

Lance peered outwards at the vast ocean flooring, shivering as a looming shadow passed by, the creator somewhere out of his vision, Lance didn’t want to know what the source was. Too frightened to pop his head out Lance reversed further back into the cave, trailing along the protruding rock walls in search of anything that could aid his stay.

There was nothing except the random littering of shells that wouldn’t be of much help to Lance, he’d just have to go a cold, hungry night tonight. In the morning Lance would try his luck with going back out but with the roaming shadow Lance didn’t want to risk it, not yet. So, he hunkered down next to the back cave wall and lay on the floor, getting comfortable in the fetal position to keep warmth. He tried to sleep to pass the time, but with his nerves and adrenaline at a high Lance found it difficult to even sit still.

Lance sighed and stood back up, he swam to the entrance and once again peered out, a smaller shadow from before seemed to be frantically zooming around in search of amnesty. Lance prayed that, whatever it was, it didn’t spot the cave, Lance’s only safe place.

Unfortunately for Lance fate seemed to be pitted against him as the figure immediately began to swim to the cave. In a panic Lance squeezed himself into the furthest corner of the cave and tried to blend in with the wall as much as possible. With a noisy entrance the… merperson?… banged to the ground with a sickening crunch.

“Oof,” The person groaned and sat up, rubbing at its arm in pain. Lance went unnoticed.

The… thing… was unlike anything Lance had ever seen before, long white hair, an oddity in itself, swept the persons back delicately. It had a large tail, bigger than any he’d ever seen before, a majestic black with a purple sheen that had Lance entranced. The most stark thing that put him and Lance in difference was the skin tone, while Lances was a lovely dark creamy colour this persons skin was a rich purple. It reminded Lance of the purple coral bed that he and Hunk loved to swim along as children, a place long since forgotten, their hidden hide out.

The thing looked back out of the cave and sighed an apathetic chime, an unnoticeable sign of relief washing over their face. Lance grew curious at the show of emotion, or lack there of, peering closer at the persons face, high cheekbones, sharp jaw. Handsome. The person sluggishly glanced around the cave, eyes piercing the darkness and Lance shrunk into it even further, trying to vanish from the raw power omitted from the being.

“Seems I have company,” The voice reverberated through Lance and his lips betrayed him, a low sigh making its way out and Lance squeaked, bringing his hands to cover his mouth. “I hope it is fine of me to seek refuge in your cave but if you don’t mind could you reveal yourself?” The stranger demanded in a commanding voice and Lance shrivelled in fear at the pure pheromone the person excreted.

Obediently Lance swam out, a moment of silence passed between them as they stared at each other. Spluttering, Lance panicked.

“What are you?” Lance found himself unable to keep the question to himself. Blanching as the blunt question filled the tense silence. Yet they merely chuckled. Unfazed.

“I am Prince Lotor, of the Galran tribe,” The person, Lotor, elegantly yet sharply stated. Lance glanced at the bag in Lotor’s hand, wondering its contents. “I am currently in search of my squadron but have been forced to find shelter. I hope you do not mind me staying.”

Lance shook his head and sighed, swimming closer to Lotor. “I’m only here for shelter too, I just hope the storm’ll pass soon enough.”

“In a hurry?” Lotor asked and Lance paused, unsure both of the question and the answer.

“Yes.” Lance simply stated after a short hesitation, not wanting to elaborate Lance asked a question. “What is the Galran tribe? I have never heard of your people before, are you a secluded tribe?”

Lotor looked at Lance with an unplaceable emotion, as if searching him. “We Galran are wide spread, situated all across the globe.”

Lance frowned in disbelief.

“What of you? What tribe are you of?” Lotor asked and Lance hummed.

“My tribe is very small, consisting of not even 300 people. We are an ancient people and go by many names, our most common name is Altaea.” At the name Lotors face transformed into something akin to a pleasant surprise.

“Quite intriguing,” Lotor sat down his bag against the cave wall. “What of your name?”

“Oh, I’m Lance, a Paladin of my people.” A menacing looked covered Lotors face but it vanished as soon as it came, leaving Lance to believe he simply imagined it.

Paladin.” Lotor tested along his mouth and Lance shivered, knowing it wasn’t a question.

There was something unsettling about Lotor, a glint in his eyes that spoke of thousands of mistruths, thousands of hidden motives. Lance, in this moment, wanted nothing more than to leave, be out of Lotors hollowing gaze.

Lotor watched as Lance instinctively moved away in minuscule movements. A wicked smirk lit Lotors face and Lance stumbled back once again.

Lotor began to make his advance. Lance could do nothing but brace himself for an attack, tensing his muscles in wait. Yet, all Lotor did was let out a breathy laugh, Lance felt the hot breath fan across his face.

“Seems the cavalry is here,” Lotor snickered and right then Lance heard the shouts of a few people outside. Lotor swam towards the cave entrance, swooping up his bag. He sent one last look over his shoulder and laughed.

“Farewell, Paladin”

Hands to Yourself

Jon x Sansa fic for @ricewithfries. Thank you for your donation to fight Nazis!

Request: spies (playing off this drabble)

“How about you keep your hands to yourself?” Jon says, giving Baelish a shake. He’s light, easy to manhandle. That’s why the guys call him Littlefinger.

Staring back at him with her arched brow and pursed red mouth, it doesn’t look like Sister Stone will thank Jon for the intrusion—what he thought was a rescue, when he rounded the corner and found Baelish pressing her into the White Stag’s clammy stone wall. His blood is up, but even he can see she’s unimpressed. Annoyed even. Somehow he’s ended up the jerk.

Keep reading

and to the winner goes the spoils

Pairing: Elizabeth/Henry (The White Princess)
a/n:  Guess who is trash for a new show !! Tagging @allisonswan per request and because I need to flail endlessly about this new enemies-to-lovers obsession of mine :)

He has seen this look directed at him before, but never by a woman. By men in battle, or by a deer in the woods as his hounds circled it. Fear is something he recognizes reflected in someone else’s eyes, but it is new seeing it in a woman’s.

Henry wasn’t expecting that, not from her. Elizabeth of York was all thorns, he had been told, not this trembling flower before him. He should feel relieved that this princess is scared of him, of his power and divine royal right. His kingship and very life depends far too heavily on her willingness to bow to him, and so for her to have that fearful sheen in her eye as they look upon one another for the first time should make his stomach unknot.

Instead, his gut clenches, in what he might almost call disappointment.

She isn’t looking at him anymore, not directly. Her gaze is locked on his chest, but still somehow unfocused. If she will not look at him, that is her choice, but he takes the opportunity to take a second look at her. Elizabeth is beautiful, that much his advisors had not gotten wrong. Even in these dark, sparse rooms–the ones given to shame her and her family–her white-gold hair shone like pure sunlight. He would feel better if he knew that beauty would fade with time, but one look at her mother, whose own looks had prevailed triumphant over age, and Henry knew that would not be the case.

The former peasant queen stood just beyond Elizabeth’s shoulder, a pale ghost that was far too real a reminder of how tenuous his position on the throne could be. That was why they were all here, after all. This unwanted union was something they all needed, desperately. And so, Henry takes a breath and does his duty.

“Good day, Princess Elizabeth.”

Her gaze flicks upwards, locks on his, and his chest tightens in anticipation, because it feels like he is finally seeing Elizabeth, Princess of York for the first time. The fear is gone, replaced by a maelstrom of emotions that flicker across her face too quickly for him to register. As she continues to stare–no, glare–at him, he realizes her shaking is not from fear. It is from rage, the type that is barely contained, and he wonders how he missed it earlier.

She is no flower whose petals are rattled by even a puff of summer breeze; Elizabeth is the storm itself, right before it breaks and lays waste to every living thing in its wake.

Storms do not scare him, however; he has battled rain, and thunder and lightening, and far, far worse to win his crown. If she was just one more storm to weather, then he could do it. He would do it, because it was indeed his crown now and no slip of a woman, no matter how enraged, would take it from him.

Before he can say anything else, however, his mother scolds her, and suddenly–fey thing that she is–Elizabeth changes before his eyes again. He can see it, as if in slow motion, that immediately after that single word–king king king–is uttered, she goes still. The storm calms, the rage burns away. Elizabeth bends barely low enough to be a proper address for a king, and greets him, finally.

“Good day, Your Grace.”

Her voice is even, pleasant, utterly neutral, and her face is blank as well. Such placidness shouldn’t inspire fear in him, but suddenly Henry feels a shiver go up his spine. The back of his neck goes hot. A flower he can coax to bend to his will, and a storm he can outlast and conquer, but she is neither of those things now. Just because of that one word–new to him and so very familiar to her–she disappeared before his very eyes, becoming the most dangerous type of enemy. He cannot fight what he cannot see, and so, for the very first time since that battlefield at Bosworth, Henry feels true fear.

And it is in fear that he glances away from her, but in the span of a heartbeat, his eyes find hers again. His stomach drops, because she was waiting for him to look her way once more, as if she knew that he didn’t have the strength to hide from her like she was hiding herself from him. Elizabeth doesn’t look away again, and neither does he, and something new begins to twist inside of him, something sharp digs into the deepest parts of his soul and makes a more desperate kind of fear take root.

That new, unplaceable sensation and the fear it elicits in him is why he takes a large sip of the offered wine, and why he deliberately pricks the princess’s pride with his dancing requests. With a single look, she has made him start to bleed from the inside out, and he is determined to make her do the same.

If it is a battle that Elizabeth wants, it is a battle she’ll get, Henry decides as he watches her stiffly dance before him. And to the winner…

He doesn’t take his eyes off of her the entire time.

anonymous asked:

Could I have the espada hearing their s/o's heart beating up close for the first time? I bet it'd be so strange for them. You're the sweetest, mun q 3 q <3.

(o゜◇゜)ノ Heyyyy, a fellow believer in the “Hollows literally lack hearts” headcanon!! (Actually, my hc is that it’s still there, just dead and cold and unbeating. Also, since they’re lacking hearts of their own, there’s an instinctive drive towards the sound of a human’s. Sort of an unconscious way of seeking out their own missing humanity.)


-While he’d technically been aware that humans had those things inside of them, actually hearing one is completely different. Something unplaceable about it is so alive he can hardly bear to listen. 


-Of course, she was aware that humans had living, beating hearts. That knowledge also does absolutely nothing to lighten the blow of actually hearing one, the most strangely captivating sound she’s ever witnessed. 


-For once, he’s visibly, obviously fascinated, somehow enthralled by the steady, deep sound. Humans are miserable, worthless creatures, yes, but this sound is calming in ways he never knew were possible. 


-The sound is both the most comforting thing he’s ever experienced, and the most viscerally wrong. He shouldn’t be that close to you, that content, perfect rhythm can’t be something Hollows are meant to hear. 


-It feels strangely, uncomfortably close to hear the rhythm of your heart, like he’s so much closer than he was ever meant to be. The sound itself is so shockingly strong, even and powerful and wonderful. 


-Scientifically speaking, he knew everything about the organ itself. The information about how his kind seemed to seek the sound was also known, but not understood until the very moment he heard it for himself. 


-He’s been in close contact with human heartbeats before, experienced the unnatural pull towards them, but yours is so much worse. The sound is so consuming, it would be impossible to willingly move away. 

Dancing in the Moonlight (m)

Word Count: 4,607

Warning: Namjoon smut

If there were a way for you to escape responsibility, you’d gladly accept, whatever the consequences might be.

“Now smile and hold your head up high,” the voice behind you says drowning with sternness and expectations.

“Yes, mother.”

Keep reading