#| ❛ this is not your destruction this is your birth. ❜ ( edit. )

[tremendum]

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Me and the Devil; i

(not my gif) .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·: Paul Atreides x fem!reader prelude next

word count: 5.3k

summary:  Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

warnings: blood/violence, family deaath, v brief allusions to smut/dubcon, reader is traumatized. pls lmk if i missed anything. not edited.

notes: thanks for all the love so far!!! here's the first chapter of the story - if you want to stay updated, i post on AO3 first :) just a quick first chapter to lay the scene before we jump into the engaging parts of the story. feedback is very motivating and highly valued, thank u all <33

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Penitent Crimes of Retaliation

In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed upon them. This action shall such be labelled as "Penitent Crimes of Retaliation". Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences, ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041. 

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There was once a time when green was your favorite color. 

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it; Peridot, Jades, the velvet green of winter dresses, the tall, mighty green the sacred Pine. The woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon the grey armor your parents wore to train you. 

When the men of one other Houses Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same pine-colored satin, an elegant dress, as she waved good-bye to you for the last time. When the ice would melt off the lower glaciers for those three months every year, the lakes would thaw to a deep emerald green, and your brother, sisters and you would play in it; servants and soldiers alike yelling and pulling you out, shivering to your bones. 

Even at your sister's funeral. The green of the casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet by a man who'd never truly loved her. The women of your House, wearing a veil of mourning in that sacred pine satin as you said good-bye to her. Killed by the birth of her first; a son. Your parents had been proud - You became the oldest of your siblings that day.

You can barely stand to look at green anymore. No, instead, you mostly see black.

Black, white, and red. 

They'd sent you away to make for your house a Fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter - but this place... it crawls with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles; most in the form of your betrothed.

Your na-Baron. 

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year; he, freshly eighteen. He had been as cordial as you'd ever seen him, escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious but mouth less than offensive. He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. And, in fact, you can consider yourself lucky; perhaps for your bloodline, or for you yourself, Feyd-Rautha took special care of you. Maybe he did care for you -in the ways that he could. 

After that, he taught you all you needed to know about the rest of the world. In these final days together, he has admitted furiously that he waited too long to claim you as his wife - four years was much too long for you to wait, even if your purity was claimed by him long before then. 

The accusations had come from his uncle, the Baron; House Bourbon was stealing their precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along their exportation route. Perhaps, he thought, you were the one to plot it against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knew better - knew that you'd never dare betray him. He was the one to demand a public execution of your family - but also the one to redirect your sentencing to a mere prisoner. As if you weren't one already. 

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet? 

After all the sparring, each time you drew that precious blood from him, and you still haven't been able to kill him. If you'd had a blade, you would have, right there in the stands. 

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies had hit the sand fast; You'd never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning. The black sun couldn't hide the blood that had seeped from him, nor from your mother's throat. You'd swallowed thickly, wishing you could look away, gasp - cry; but you had to hide your pain. Your na-Baron would've loved it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard; forcing your chin to stare up at him. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger. 

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another - in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power.

He'd snarled, slapping your cheek hard enough for you to groan. His breath hit your face, you're mine to keep - there's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

He'd held your eyes open as they'd slit your father's throat; then both of your sisters, and your brother's. Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state - the Harkonnens are rutheless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly behind you, your head in his hands, caressing your shaking cheek - but the neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms. 

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat. Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp as he sucked a mark just behind your ear, watching as you clenched your palms so hard, your own ruby blood beaded out, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing - centuries of your House, melted away.

Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat. 

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall - not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change. 

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. Pulling the sheets closer to your body, your hand finds the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be, still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room. "I must not fear. fear is the mind-killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me."

Your voice shakes. Few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This is one is a relic.

There is a loud noise just outside; blades. 

For a moment, you imagine there is a hand on your arm. It is strong, ghost-white, and possessive. His voice rumbles in your head. Don't look so sad, my pet. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again. 

You almost wish he will. 

When you look down to the weight on your arm, you do not find the hand of your once-betrothed, but the remainder of his ownership, a handprint of a bruise that will not fade even as the soldiers in Atreides armor deliver you to the next planet.

You rise from your bed, preparing your sore body for a fight that will surely end before it even starts. You don't stop your old prayer, in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. Even as the doors give in. 

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing - only I will remain-" There are soldiers that burst through.

The way one of them fights strikes a faint memory from a lost childhood, and it fills you with rage. 

Why did you wait so long to rescue me?

You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become in your captivity. You will fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left. 

Your blade falls within minutes.

You're taken by the man from your past not a minute after. 

You're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear, in an hour. 

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"My Lady."

You don't realize the worker addresses you until you snap out of it, flushing behind your veil as you step out of the aircraft.

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty. 

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds an umbrella above you, shielding your elaborate dress from the water as you walk up towards where the members of the House await you. You stare down at the dress - green velvet. A texture you have not felt in years; your skin looks different not wrapped completely in black.

Your eyes strain to take in the grand entrance to the castle from the hangar which Duncan Idaho had escorted you, ignoring him as he turns to glance back at you momentarily. You can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you, now.  

He looks the same - maybe less tall, but that has more to do with it having been six years since you last saw the man. You, however, are not the same girl you were when he knew you on Sabberon. Fear, panic, and wrath rage within you while your gaze smolders daggers at the back of his head. 

He walks just slightly in front of you and despite yourself, you slide just a bit closer - the only semblance of comfort you can allow yourself to feel as you take in the largess of the castle. The air is thicker here than you've ever felt; salty, windy, like you can taste the sea in the rain... it clings to your skin, but it feels clean. You'd been changing into your robes when you entered atmo - you've heard many things about the ocean, about Caladan. 

Something within you yearns to witness it yourself. Subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse; nothing in the near distance but the walls of the castle and high cliffs. 

You nearly trip as Duncan Idaho stops just a few paces from where the members stand at attention to greet you and your retinue.

Duke Leto Atreides, regal and composed, stands at the center of the room, his presence commanding your attention. Beside him, a woman wearing a deep cerulean gown - Lady Jessica. Easily, from behind your own veil, her gaze penetrates you; A cool sensation down your spine as you seem to feel her words in the back of your head as she watches the Reverend Mother who'd travelled with you per High Court orders.

 Hello, sister.

You purse your lips, looking on - there, next to his mother; Standing tall with an aura of quiet intensity, his eyes on you, is Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, you can see that he's handsome - lithe, hair curled and combed back to show his eyes. They are wide, penetrating like his mother's, but Maker, they are so green. 

There is no hunger in his eyes, nor hatred, nor anything but a mild curiosity; it strikes a chord of fear in your gut, wishing briefly to return to the na-Baron's sight. It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; They always made their intentions clear, and the na-Baron never wanted many to see you besides himself. You always knew what he wanted, and you could give it to him enough to control him. 

But Paul. His stare betrays no emotion but duty. If not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you could have mistaken him for his father. A Duke. 

Your name, boomed from the voice of Leto Atreides, pulls you back to the surface of Caladan. "Welcome." Duke Leto's voice resonates through the hall with authority as he addresses you, his tone measured yet warm. Your stomach twists and turns as the man nods courteously to you. Coaxing your body to move, you bow to him.

"We are honored by your presence." His voice is surprisingly humane, exceedingly polite towards you; someone who was just come from the protection (a laughable phrase) of their sworn enemy. 

Your throat tightens at this. There is no honor to your presence, not anymore. 

Though you feel the prickling behind your eyes, you force your head to tilt in acknowledgment, schooling your expression to respectful - perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat. 

"Thank you, Duke Leto, my lord." Your voice carries steel beneath its polite, quiet veneer, though you try to calm your heart. You turn to Lady Jessica to greet her.

"My Lady, it is a pleasure." You say, equally even. Lady Jessica offers a tight smile, something akin to understanding swimming among her irises. It's been quite some time since you were permitted to talk to a woman; Your servants on Giedi Prime were, of course, tongue-less, as na-Baron wished. "Thank you for welcoming me to your home." 

"We understand that these are trying times for you." She says softly, her words a gesture of solidarity as your legs stagger. You feel dizzy and tired, but you force yourself to nod, bowing again. Your chained headdress overlaying your veil chimes slightly with the movement, swaying with the rain.

For such an acclaimed House, you're surprised by the gentleness of their welcome. Perhaps, they'd thought that the groaning and echoing hallways of Giedi Prime might break you, that they'd be taking in some injured little dove, wings clipped by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her nameday. 

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side serves not as a reminder, but as fuel. It did not quell your spark. It ignited it, with a bloodthirsty rage for revenge.

Months of being thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that assassinated your family, no - this pit was smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself, and drugged concubines and servants with blades to service his na-Baroness. A place to watch his pets play. 

Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. 

Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

Lady Jessica is correct, these are trying times for you. You swallow as you straighten your back. Despite everything, there's a minor comfort in the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your traditional customary mourning traditions. Your family may be gone, but you can still have this part of them; as a way of saying good-bye. It's what they would have wanted. 

You turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

The Harkonnens had tried to show you the dangers of house Atreides; The poison of appearance, of trust. You are not foolish enough to have believed the Baron Vladimir and his webs of deception, but you are sharp enough to know that in times like these, nobody can be trusted. 

Your betrothed watches you, as if trying to see through your mourning veil. The green of his eyes sends a warmth through your stomach as you avert your eyes. "My Lord," you bow to him, your heart thumping in your chest, remembering how you might be rewarded for looking your formerly betrothed in the eyes during ceremony. Trying not to flinch, you wait to see what Paul's hands may do. But they do not strike you, nor grasp your jaw sharply. He barely moves. 

"My Lady." His voice is softer than you expected, and it strikes your heart with a cool unease. Distrust slithers around you like a daunting snake. He bows back to you. 

It's silent for a thick moment before Duncan Idaho - the man from a distant past - speaks from beside you. "We have much to discuss." 

Cutting to the chase, as always. Your eyes fall to the Duke, who nods. "Do you need to see treatment?" He asks the Swordsman, eyes assessing the soldier. 

Duncan laughs at this, gesturing to his arm, where beads of blood still slowly peeks through his the tunic he'd slipped on after changing out of his armor.

"Harkonnen blades are sharp. So are Lady Bourbon's nails."

The prickling of four pairs of eyes strike you as he continues, turning this time to address you full-on. "Your fighting is much different than I remember, Little Bourbon." 

What he doesn't say is clear to you: Much more savage than he remembers. Something between shame and pride licks at your cheeks and you avert your eyes; It had been a force of habit - rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

You clench your hand, your nails digging into your palms; you learned early on that sharper claws could keep Feyd tame for longer. 

The force of Duncan's old nickname for you, when you'd been young - it nearly knocks the air out of your chest. It's been over half a decade since you'd seen the man; too much has happened since then. Nonetheless, you smile toothless behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you'd just left behind. Of what cold life lies ahead. 

When you respond, your voice is frigid. 

"Sometimes adaptation is survival, Duncan Idaho. Threats demand evolution." 

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The rain is gone by the next day.

In the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. There must be a clock somewhere near, as the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. A cleared throat, a swallow of water. 

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

Your arrival last night held no such time for small talk - you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; Your old clothing and that of your sisters and mother - the few things the Atreides soldiers had salvaged from the ransacked Castle at Sabberon - had been washed thrice of rubble and smoke and were hanging, waiting for you, in the wardrobes. 

Barely awake, late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. There, sat across from Lord Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and the Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed - more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. Your eyes could not ignore the Lady Jessica, who stood behind the Duke, her fingers twitching to the others when you responded to a question asked of you. They had some kind of language, you'd realized, as they responded in their own subtle hand gestures. 

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night. 

Truthfully, you're breaking fast with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had found the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers.

You'd sat watching, cradling your chest with wide eyes, as the ghost slid onto his knees. How he'd crawled, smirking at the foot of your mattress, whispering to you with sharp teeth and beckoning fingers. The sweet promise in his eyes laid with blood and pain, coaxing you forward despite yourself - until something in the corner of your vision moved, and you'd screamed. 

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water, and you'd asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; she must barely be twenty. You insisted on sharing a pot of tea with her, sitting in the silence but sipping shortly on your teacups. You didn't talk much, but instead breathed and felt the safety and of a woman's company, even if she is a few years younger than you. 

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your courting customs before your arrival - she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. 

And now you sit similarly - in the morning dining room, your hands perched in your lap, unsure what to do with yourself.

Your future husband, no older than yourself, sits across the table from you now, pushing his omelet around on his fork. The table shakes just slightly, jilting your glass full of water - he must have a restless knee. He chews at his lip, avoiding your stare, sharing slight conversation with his Lady mother. Her attempts to bring you into the conversation are met with polite answers and more silence, your voice shaky and cold. 

After a while, a woman enters, whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Though your stomach coils, you nod, "-if you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it."

His eyes find yours from behind the veil and you clear your throat. He's quiet but chivalrous; A nod, a glance sent back to his mother as she leaves. A short gust of air through the room and suddenly you can smell him. His hair, clean and glossy - healthy - glints as he faces a window, exposing the early morning sun to his bright eyes.

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched and his half-eaten. 

"Are you one of them?" 

Them?

You stare at him from behind the thin pine veil that covers you. It occurs to you that Paul may assume you are just as bald and sick as each Harkonnen; years of adapting, surviving off of instinct and placation, are over. With a jolt, you realize you are not a Harkonnen. And you will not be wed to one.

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today, ignoring the melancholy feeling in your gut. 

"I have hair." You state simply, looking down at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight - your skin, glowing with real melanin like the House of Bourbon.

You'd never spoken this freely on Giedi Prime besides in the sole company of Feyd-Rautha - stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either - but there is no home anymore. And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, its that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators. 

Paul is likely the same. 

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that, just as you couldn't help with Feyd-Rautha. They can dress you, insist in your traditional customs - but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder. You are more than the bones which hold you up; Meaner than the demons that kept you in their ghostly-grip for four years. 

His cheeks flush a peculiar pink, bottom lip captured between pearly teeth. "No," he starts again, eyes searching - trying to find you, beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. "Not Harkonnen-" he quiets after he says the name, as if worried to offend you. "I meant-" his eyes swim, "Bene Gesserit." 

Your stomach chills as you meet his eyes. 

After some hesitation, you shake your head. "No, my Lord."

When he blinks at your words, you feel compelled to continue. "I suppose I was..." you move your hand to pull on the sleeve of your robes.

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"or, I was supposed to be." your unemotional tone rings through the room. Paul doesn't say anything to that, biting back the suspicion that climbs up his throat.

He stands when you rise from your seat; Your mourning dress, unlike anything he'd ever seen before, flows like the leaves of a weeping willow as you push your chair in behind you. When he offers a stiff arm to escort you out of the room, you hesitate before looping yourself loosely to him. 

She is telling the truth. 

His mother had indicated, with flicks of her hand, during the meeting the evening before; you, sat before the Atreides' council, unaware that his mother was reading your honesty. 

But that could be a trick; you've admitted to being partially trained in the ways of the Bene Gesserit, perhaps you found a way to deceive his mother. As much as he trusts Duncan and his father, he can't shake the suspicion that you're a mere pawn in the Harkonnens' game.

But his father's words burn sharply into his mind. 

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future spouse. Love may come in other ways - but you will marry her, and together you will sire an heir when the time comes.

By decree, it was ordered you be wed to Paul, but he can't find it within himself to lose the feeling of distrust. He has spent hours learning about the Harkonnens - how they think, their strategy; and yet, from Duncan's account, the Baron and his nephew just let you go. It makes no sense to him. 

"I was supposed to be a lot of things." 

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, much more resolute than he'd expected. But you are extremely cold, and evidently unwilling. Polite, yes - it seems you've been trained just as he and every other young noble of the Great Houses have - but you are calculating, aggressive.

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl.

You walk with your chest out, back straight like a soldier; your words are cordial yet laced with steel and indifference - it only serves to deepen his unease. He guides you through the castle, murmuring quietly as he shows you along, introducing you to various members of staff who stop and bow in recognition. 

You don't say much until he escorts you to a path that winds down out of your sights; Below the castle, between jagged rocks, Paul finds himself concerned to no longer be surrounded by castle walls. Beside him, you take a deep breath, your footsteps faltering as you slow to stare at moss that sprawls across the cobblestone. 

Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy fields and rocks. Soon, as though an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. "Apologies, my Lord." You start to turn away. "I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person." 

Paul is suddenly struck by the realization that you may not have seen much of any flora nor fauna on Caladan. He knows what Giedi Prime is like; and your homeworld, from what he'd read last night before bed, was mostly full of Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. Perhaps you are interested in such things; the idea surprises him. 

So instead of moving along, he finds himself bending to pull off a bit of the moss from a fallen trunk. The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, the green bright against his skin. You watch him silently.

"It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water." He says it quietly, repeating what he'd learned in an ecological lesson, pushing on the spongy material with his thumb. "Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools outside the castle." 

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your short height - he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated. "Am I allowed to see?" You ask stiffly, your arms by your sides.

An initial wave of protectiveness over his home washes over him; remembering his father's words, he forces his shoulders to relax. He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. 

"You are to be Lady Atreides, one day." He tries to school his voice evenly, avoiding any hint of resistance to this fact. "You do not have to ask permission to see your own land." 

The wind from the sea whips around you; his stray curls fly in his vision. There are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat. 

"I do not feel well, my Lord." You say moments later, voice cordial but thick with the desire to be alone, "I believe I am sick from travel. Please, if you would excuse me." 

He is unsure if he had made you uncomfortable or if you are truly feeling sick; nonetheless, Paul escorts you to your chambers silently, calling one of the handmaids - Hestia, her name is - to check on you. He insists she bring you some bread and cheese, to draw you a bath if you please. 

His jaw clenches; he's to train with his mother soon, but he needs release. His muscles clench in repressed frustration and so Paul lets his feet carry him swiftly to the training quarters.

His fingers itch for a blade; his mind itches to forget about the last day, about the cold life that lies ahead of him. 

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follow @tremendumnotifs for updates.

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[punksocks]

Astrology Observations No. 8

*based on my personal experiences, take them with a grain of salt

-I wanted this to be my 18+ edition bc 8th house but I don’t have enough spicy observations yet lol

-Virgo placements & Scorpio placements having 100 invisible tests some has to pass before you let them get close to you

-Why yes my Jupiter is in my 3rd house. Why yes I did start recommending documentaries to documentary students because I watch that much educational content for fun.

-Cancer suns can beat out Leo suns for being the most charismatic one in the room and that’s coming from someone that loves Leo suns.

-Someone said to be a full time artist you either need the external structure of a rich sponsor/family with money/sugar daddy or the internal structure of being an earth sign and I love that lol (Idek how to explain how I got to the mad men zodiac roast where I saw that line lmao)

-Geminis lie but get so boldfaced they often contradict themselves a lot. And Cancers manipulate but often go so hard on it that it starts to become pretty obvious. Pisces can actually be the best at both, especially if they don’t have any earth placements, no energy to ground those illusions.

-Ok I’ve been googling birth charts to practice reading them (thank you for your dms I’ll reply soooon!) and I was surprised Robert j Oppenheimer (the guy that spearheaded making the atomic bomb) was a cancer moon because of all the destruction the bomb caused (and from the beginning they knew that was going to be a destructive endeavor) BUT Cancer’s are very nationalistic so I could see this being his rationale. Until all the violent consequences, of course. (Very specific but he may have been apart of the scientists that advocated for peace after the bomb dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki but I don’t know fs)

-Also a LOT of actors have aries moon and/or Leo mars (including aries moon for Cillian Murphy who’s playing Oppenheimer in that new movie, full circle connection)

-Virgo mars people can embody a certain gender fluidity. The women can dress in masculine clothing and carry a certain tinge of a masculine vibe and vice versa for feminine energy and virgo mars men. (Not sure if this applies to all mutable mars or not).

-Scorpio rising/pluto in the first house and wearing sunglasses on the streets just to avoid weird eye contact with strangers

-Saturn conjunction moon/Capricorn, Aquarius moon/Aquarius and/or Uranus 4th house - what was it like not having a childhood? (Gang, gang)

-*reads that Capricorn Mercury is straight forward*

Me with Capricorn Mercury rx:



[hana-no-seiiki]

ok Aeon of light Reader has piqued my interests, especially their relation with Nanook. Please make more about them please :D??? It's alright though if you don't want too

END OF A DREAM, BEGINNING OF AN ERA.

notes: OH GOD i forgot to edit the title of the second story. They’re supposed to be the Aeon of the Dream Path + Imaginary element. My bad! I also changed up the timeline there making reader way way more older since I found out Xianzhou residents live for long ass times.

Anyways, thank you! I honestly expected that fic to flop so I’m pleasantly surprised. I spent a long time researching gods to come up with a concept for reader’s path. Very long. Like long enough that I have this obscure fun fact about there being a god called Mama Killa. It partly was because the other Aeon’s concepts / powers are pretty vast (i.e. IX (Nihility) is the god of meaninglessness but can be considered the aeon of insanity and despair as well due to its powers)

[ here is the link to the fic we’re talking about / previous fic ]

YANDERE! NANOOK x READER (AEON OF DREAMS)

warnings: pseudo-incest/godcest, nanook is “born” from your inner hatred towards the universe before he ascended making them technically your child tho this fic can be interpreted as platonic, edgelord aeons, canon divergence. UNEDITED AND RUSHED AF.

I. Ad Somnum Pueri

Hatred always had and will have a root to its madness. Your endless entrapment since your conception ‘birthed’ Nanook. A loathing for existence. A passion for ending every one and every thing. In their path, their destiny, there will be no living beings, there will be no space or time. Only the void, you and the avatar of entropy.

But first they had to take down Yaoshi. After all, even Aeons had to face mortality and if that useless Lan wasn’t capable of keeping you safe in your cradle then it was clear Nanook had to put a hand down.

The Lord of Destruction prided themself for regarding everything — but you — as equal. Everything had to be erased, so there was no point to having favourites or a specific distaste towards another being.

However Yaoshi had broken the camel’s back at your kidnapping. Thus, Nanook decided against their ‘morals’ to give them a special opportunity.

To be the first Aeon whose reverent ichor is in their hands.

II. In Somno In Infinitum

Even after your ascended body was taken and locked away by Yaoshi. You could never argue with the fact that Nanook’s obsession with you remained the most powerful across the universe. You were an Aeon they worshipped vehemently as a young mortal up until now. It was as if they breathed only for you. It came to the point that they even owed their creation to you or not their biological parents.

You were incredibly flattered by such a fact in the beginning. Doting and showering them with blessings, assisting them in the goals in both the waking and slumbering world.

Sleepwalkers was what your scholars called the vessels you used to do your godly work. And Nanook was known throughout the realms to be your favorite.

But when they made a declaration to be a menace to the world, you withdrew all of your support and contact with Nanook. Utterly disappointed with what they have become.

That did not halt their fame and name as your chosen hero from spreading. Their sheer charisma overpowered your network.

Because if there was one thing that was stronger than dreams it was reality.

Indeed you pleaded with your followers never to follow the Lord of Entropy through their sleeping fantasies, but how could they deny Nanook’s efficiency? Their all-out, unbridled, unfettered adoration of you?

And thus, the Dreamcrawler Legion. Now also known by its other name, the Antimatter Legion, was established. With one goal and one goal alone.

Lay the world in a bed of flames and ruin. For when they everyone else goes to eternal sleep, you — their ever generous, loving Aeon — will be free.

III. Mundus Erit Terminus

You never visited Nanook after their ascension. You only ever loved their mortal self. Their path was something you could never hope or desire to follow. Sure, there was a phase of your life where you despised your eternal sleep. But what you learnt from living so long was that acceptance of your situation felt infinitely better than spending eternity filled with loathing.

But Nanook always visited you. While Yaoshi burdened themselves with the task of witnessing your body while asleep. Nanook enjoyed it much more when you talked, your words of guidance — though now reduced to silence — was what made them fall in love with the you who spoke, who moved, who looked at them with open eyes through dreams.

It didn’t matter if you moved your target of hatred to them. Nanook’s love was unconditional and blind as his desire to seek destruction.

“My lord.” Nanook forced you into an embrace. Within their dreams, even when it was your domain, you felt as powerless as you did with Yaoshi. Their golden ichor bled unto your clothes.

They could see you. Your face, your entrancing features, just as he always had, just as he always wanted to. But it lacked a certain glow, a loss they attributed to Yaoshi digressions. Because they knew for certain that your love for them never disappeared. You were too benevolent, too magnanimous. “[Y/N]. My promise is soon to be fulfilled.”

“Every cage you have been trapped in will be gone.” Every cage but his love. Every chain but his arms.

“And you can finally feel the beauty of reality once more.”

A reality that was completely reset and build back up by them.

Translations:

Ad Somnum Pueri - Go to Sleep Child

In Somno In Infinitum - In Endless Dreams / Sleep

Mundus Erit Terminus - The World (shall) End.

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

[flutteringphalanges]

Aydith

Adam Warlock x Star Lord’s Sister/Reader

Summary: Adam and reader have a baby.

//I started working on one where the reader actually gave birth but put that on hold because I wasn’t sure if I should finish it. I may make this a series because I kinda want to explore dad!Adam more and uncle!Peter and the rest of a the Guardians as aunts and uncles. If people are interested. Anyway hope you guys enjoy! (next time I think I will do present POV and not past, but whatever lol!) EDIT: This is now a series. Here is a LINK to the master-post with links to all of the one shots.

                                             Aydith

You and your older brother, Peter, had practically grown up with Yondu and the Ravengers. Seen things, some being terrible at that. Found a new family with the Guardians. Experienced battles. War. The destruction of whole societies. Planets. But any of those old fears were nothing compared to what you were experiencing now. The heavy, nervous thumps in your heart as you stared down at the tiny being in your arms. Thumps that were equally as terrifying as this strange new feeling of overwhelming, unbridled love. 

Her skin was a brilliant shade of gold--something she had inherited from her father. What little hair she had was more so copper, but that could easily change with time. Even through her golden skin, the rosiness of her cheeks blushed like petals. And her eyes…for the past nine months you had been anticipating they would be his. But the very first time she opened them, they were the most intense shade of_____. Just like yours. She was beautiful. Far, far beyond that. She was yours. Both of yours.

“She’s so small.” Adam’s voice cut through the silence. “Is that…is she okay?”

You glanced over at him from where he sat on the edge of your bed. Everything had been a blur up until this moment. The birth had not been an easy one. A lot had happened. It was certainly unexpected. And the chance that something horrible could have come from it all was a fate no one wanted to think about. But you were safe, and more importantly she was, so in the end that was all that mattered.

“Yeah.” You assured him, watching intently as he gingerly touched one of her clenched fists. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?”

“More than anything in the entire realm of galaxies.” Adam agreed with a small smile, clearly mesmerized. “And she’s ours.”

“Yeah.” You breathed, looking at her. “She is.” Silence fell between you for a brief moment before a thought suddenly came to your mind. “Do you want to hold her?”

Adam blinked, looking at you in almost comical surprise. “I can hold her?”

It takes everything within you to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. Being exhausted and sore helped with that. “Of course, she is your kid after all.”

“What if I…” He hesitated, glancing from you to the baby. “What if something…”

“You won’t hurt her.” You promised, wincing a little as you lean forward to place her in his arms. “They aren’t as delicate as they look. Or, at least someone told me that…”

Adam took her gently, going rigid when she let a little noise. Slowly, you watch as his posture relaxes. The way he gazed at her, watching with such intent and adoration. You never thought you could love him more until now. You couldn’t help but question what you had done to deserve them both.

“I…I thought I was going to lose you, Y/N.” Adam said quietly, finally meeting your stare once more. “Back on the ship. I really thought…” And the way his eyes have begun to water causes a swell of emotion to find you. “All of us really, and if something had…your brother would’ve never forgiven me.”

“Hey, I’m okay.” You said softly. “Both of us are.” You paused, before adding. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more to get rid of me. We Quills are pretty resilient.”

Adam chuckled softly, stroking the top of the infant’s hand. “As I have witnessed.”

“You know, she kinda needs a name.” You reached over, lightly brushing your fingertips against the top of her head. “Any suggestions?”

He hummed thoughtfully, adjusting your daughter in his arms. “My mother’s name was Ayesha.” Adam began to talk faster as if he thought you’d interject. You wouldn’t. “I know she committed horrible acts and was not the greatest of all beings, but…she was wonderful to me and I loved her. I…can understand if you are against it, however.”

“It’s a pretty name.” You told him, giving him a smile. “My mother’s name was Meredith. I didn’t get to know her, she died when I was really young. But Peter talks about her, a lot more than he used to.”

“Meredith…” He mused, studying the baby’s face. “That is also a nice name.”

You took a moment to consider the two. One could easily be the first and the second a middle. The problem would be, in that case, which one you would call her. Suddenly an idea comes to mind, one that you hope didn’t sound too ridiculous.

“What about Aydith?”

Adam looked at you with a brow raised. “Aydith?”

“A combination of the two.” You explained, shrugging your shoulders. “We could honor them both…It doesn’t sound too funny does it?”

You watched as he glanced down at the baby, remaining silent for a moment. “Aydith…” He said slowly, as if testing out the name. “I like it. Aydith is a good name.”

You smiled softly, peering down into her little face as Adam leaned over.

“Hello, Aydith.” You whispered gently. “Welcome to the universe.”

[melodygatesauthor]

Chapter 10: Some Heroes Wear Ties

prof!Steven Grant-Jake Lockley-Marc Spector X f!Reader

Edited by: @welcometostayingawake

Mood Boards - Book Cover - Masterlist

Chapter Summary:

Your depression after the break-up has turned into self-destructive behavior. It's a good thing there's someone out there keeping an eye on you, making sure you're safe.

Tags/Summary (these are for the ENTIRE fic):

college AU, no powers/not in MCU/no Khonshu, talk of mental illness, Marc has DID, forbidden relationship, age gap, reader is 21y/o, Boys are 38y/o, reader attends college in America but isn't necessarily American, smut, sex, masturbation, p in v, creampies galore, reader is on birth control, dubious consent due to identity issues, ANGST, romance, fluff and smut, oral sex, falling in love, reader is not race coded, minor mentions of alcohol addiction and depression.

Word Count: 5.2k

SPECIAL WARNING - THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS THEMES OF ALCOHOLISM AND DUBIOUS/NON-CONSENT. READER DISCRETION ADVISED.

The next two weeks were a blur.

You made it to most of your classes, but you weren’t mentally present in the slightest. You felt a burning hatred for Steven, but even more for yourself. Every evening was filled with you drinking more than you could handle and being brought back to your dorm by either Layla or Cameron. 

Your first week away from Steven ended with you and Cameron sitting across from each other at a restaurant. He’d seen how upset you were while studying together in the library, the day after you’d noticed Steven wasn’t in class. Cameron was kind, and had always been friendly toward you, so when he invited you out for pizza and a couple drinks, you had a hard time saying no.

Two drinks in and you were feeling a buzz. Jokes were rolling off your tongue and you were laughing for the first time since the pain you’d endured on Monday afternoon. Cameron seemed to think you were funny too, either that or he was just being kind. You wished you’d put more effort into him in hindsight instead of going after Steven. Maybe if you had pursued Cameron instead, you wouldn’t be feeling the way you did right now.

Jake lit a cigarette on the other side of the street, keeping an eye on you while you finished off your fourth drink. If someone saw him right now, they might think he was a creep, watching you while you were out with a friend. Jake had no intention of doing anything, he knew Marc was right about keeping their distance from you while they tried to get Steven to return, but he needed to make sure you were okay…that you were able to move on.

He noticed that you didn’t take a bite of the pizza slice you put on your plate. Over the last week, he observed that you didn’t eat much at all. You weren’t focusing on school work either. This was the kind of self-destructive behavior Jake recognized all too well. Marc had gone on a bender a time or two, leaving Jake and Steven as passengers on his harmful path. He wished he could let you go; that he could just walk away, leave you to your own healing, but he couldn’t. He just needed to make sure you were okay, and then he would leave you alone.

You weren’t okay. The second week without Steven you spent even more time with Cameron. It wasn’t the time with Cameron that was the problem, it’s what you were doing with him that was most concerning. Jake didn’t care that you were smoking weed, in fact, that was the least of his worries. He didn’t like that you seemed to be neglecting your studies in favor of this new lifestyle you’d adopted. He knew he couldn’t interfere, but he couldn’t just stop watching you.

Marc was unaware of his alter’s actions, spending his days trying to coax Steven out. Like you, he kept finding himself in the bottom of a glass bottle most days. Even though this was mainly Steven’s fault, Marc couldn’t help feeling some guilt for the things that had transpired. If he and Jake hadn’t done everything they did overseas, then the repercussions of Steven’s actions wouldn’t be so damaging.

Steven’s phone buzzed on the second weekend of him being gone. Marc looked at it and groaned. You were texting again, and you were still angry.

You: Just so you know, I did terribly on my history test this week so thanks for that.

Marc ran his hand down over his face in frustration. He knew he would have to block your number eventually if you didn’t stop, but he also felt terrible for the things you were saying. Most of the time your texts were angry, but sometimes you came in pleading for Steven to meet up and talk to you. Each notification felt like salt in the wound.

You: Going out to get trashed tonight. Maybe another loser will fuck me and leave me.

Layla was watching you put on more makeup than you usually wore and pushing up your tits in a tight red dress she’d never seen you wear. You’d bought the dress earlier that day with the intention of finally trying to get over Steven in some way. If you drank enough you knew you’d have the confidence to go home with anyone.

“What’s gotten into you lately?” She asked, raising a brow at you.

“What do you mean?” You asked, applying a deep red color to your lips, matching your dress.

“I know you’ve been drinking, you’re hardly ever here.” She crossed her arms over her chest, “you reek of pot half the time.”

“Oh! Yeah, just trying to find myself or whatever.” You kept adjusting your makeup in the mirror, trying not to pay her any mind.

“Well, I’m worried about you,” she said softly, “this isn’t like you.”

You turned and looked at her finally. You appreciated that she cared about you, but you didn’t need her to. She was your friend, not your parent.

“Well don’t,” you muttered, grabbing your purse and pushing past her.

“Will you at least promise me that you’re being careful?” She called to you while you reached for the doorknob.

“Promise,” you said in a snarky tone before leaving.

You took a cab out of town, riding into the city. Layla had every right to be worried. You were a young woman, going out alone, with the intention of getting so drunk you could hardly remember your name and possibly going home with a guy you hardly knew. That wasn’t like you. Then again, you’d never felt emotional pain like this before. All you wanted to do was find someone else to fill the void that Steven had left behind.

You spent hours at the bar, drinking everything some desperate guy bought for you. No matter how much you tried to flirt with the various men who were there, you found yourself losing your initial fervor. You were still going to tell Steven that you were going home with someone, even if it wasn’t true. You hoped he would read it and feel the pain in his chest that you’d felt every moment of every day for the last two weeks.

You: I hope yous happ Steven I got a boy brings me home 2 nite

You made your way outside, deciding you were ready to call a cab to take you home. You were dizzy, and the lights of the cars were blinding as they drove down the street. There was a man who approached you. You recognized him as one of the guys from inside who had bought you a few drinks throughout the night. In your blurred vision he looked fairly attractive. He smiled and placed a hand on the small of your back.

“Hey sweetheart, you lost?” He asked, snaking his hand to the other side of your hip.

“Need a cab,” you muttered in your drunken state.

“Oh, course you do. There’s one right over here.”

The man’s grip was starting to hurt, even with the way the alcohol in your system numbed everything. You followed him though, knowing that you weren’t in the right mind to call a cab. When he pulled you down into an alleyway you felt cold all of a sudden, a sinking feeling entering your gut. This wasn’t the right way.

“W-wait,” you tried pulling back but he wrenched you forward instead.

He used his forearm against your throat to pin you to the wall. You gasped, realizing that you’d made a mistake going out that night, realizing that you should’ve just stayed in your dorm eating Ben and Jerry’s and watching bad romantic comedies to fight the pain. Layla was right.

“Come on, I bought you like four drinks babe, don’t give me a hard time.”

He’d never get the chance to even start making a move. In a sudden motion, he was pulled from you, and you felt the pressure release from your throat. You put a hand up against it while you caught your breath. The man who assaulted you was yelling while your savior was hunched over him. He was holding the assailant’s collar while beating him relentlessly. All at once your assailant was silent, and you watched the man who saved you drop him into a bloody heap on the ground. 

Jake kept his face hidden by his flat cap. He took off his coat and wrapped it around your bare shoulders and used a gloved hand to escort you out of the alley. He didn’t want to get his hands messy with you, but when he saw you go down that alley with that jerk’s hands around you, he’d put out his cigarette immediately to follow you. It was all too obvious that you were completely wasted when that man had taken you there. Damn Marc to hell if he thought Jake was going to just stand by and watch something bad happen to you.

You felt warm having the jacket around your shoulders. Was it dangerous to follow this new person? He had saved you, how dangerous could he be? When you got to the street, he opened the back door to a sleek black car and helped you inside. You felt dizzy and confused, but followed him regardless. He went around to the front and got in the driver’s seat before pulling away from the bar. A realization hit you through the fog of your drunkenness. You were in a car with a stranger. You’d traded one bad situation for another. You wondered how stupid you had to be to put yourself in danger twice in the same night.

“Who are you?” You asked, scowling at the man who abducted you, if you could even call this an abduction.

He did just save you. Perhaps he was bringing you home, but it occurred to you that he had no idea where you lived. When he didn’t answer you, you felt uneasy and started panicking. You didn’t know what to do. You were drunk in a stranger’s car. His eyes peered at you in the rearview mirror, stern with a furrowed brow. You felt a chill down your spine. You felt in your gut that he might have the same intentions as the man in the alleyway, and you needed to make a quick escape.

“I need you to let me out!” You said loudly, panic clear in your tone.

Jake could see you starting to freak out, just based on the way your chest was heaving and your eyes were darting all around the car. You were looking for a way out, and then he saw your hand on the door. Slowly, you were reaching down on your right and you unlocked the car door. You grabbed the handle, flinging it open.

You’d never seen someone move so fast. The car was pulled over and stopped on a dime, and you grabbed on to the seat in front of you for support. It could’ve been your drunken state, or maybe he was just quick, but the man seemed to move unnaturally fast to your right in the open door. You slid out quickly, holding both of your hands up to defend yourself. You started walking backward, and he continued advancing.

“Listen, asshole…” you started as he got closer. “You saved me, so thanks for that but now you’re–“

He stepped forward into the light of the streetlamp above and you saw his face. You froze.

“S-Steven.” You said as though all the air had left your body. “Steven?”

Something was off about him, but there was no question. That was Steven.

You couldn’t believe your eyes. There he was, in the flesh. You remembered seeing that outfit in the back of his closet all folded up, but you weren’t sure what it was for. This wasn’t even the same car he’d driven you in before. You felt uneasy recalling his words to you, “you don’t know a thing about me. I’m not the man you think I am.” Was this what he meant? Was he some kind of vigilante or something in the night, going around saving drunken women at clubs? That would certainly explain why he was tired all the time. 

Jake could see how shocked you were, and he expected you to give him an earful, thinking you were talking to his other alter. Steven still wasn’t there. Part of Jake thought that seeing you might bring Steven back to the front, but it seemed that he was still dormant. Jake knew how to fake a British accent in a pinch, but he knew you were too smart to be fooled by it. He thought it better to just stay silent.

You walked up to him, charging forward before striking him across the cheek. He hardly reacted. He clenched his jaw when he looked back at you. Of course, Steven knew he deserved it. You thought about doing it again, but it wasn’t going to help you feel any better. Your drunken gaze fell on his lips, and while you wanted to continue giving him an earful, a stronger part of you wanted to feel him touch you again, make you feel like he still cared. When you were sober you would give him hell, but right now you just wanted to kiss him, and so you leaned in. You tried to kiss him, but he pulled back away from you. You felt tears immediately threatening to fall from the blatant rejection.

“Y’know what, fine, if you’re gonna act like that then I’m walking home!” You turned around and started walking away, not even aware of the direction you were going in.

Jake wished he could just let you go, but you were still so trashed. He doubted you even knew where you were. Letting you walk away now was dangerous, and he wasn’t going to let anything happen to you. He just wanted to keep you safe, drop you home and hope you forgot about the whole thing in the morning. He grabbed your arm and spun you around, gripping both of your shoulders in his large hands.

“Steven, you can’t just treat me like this and then start fucking manhandling me! Piss off”

Jake brought you to the car silently, and in your state you couldn’t put up much of a fight. You grumbled at him and he sat you down in the front seat this time. He thought at least then he could keep a better eye on you. You tried to push him back and get out, but he wasn’t budging.

You were stuck in the passenger’s seat of Steven’s new and shiny black car. He still looked so different, but you couldn’t put your finger on why. It didn’t matter to you, you had missed him, no matter how angry he’d made you with his absence. You leaned in again, and you thought he’d push you away, but he didn’t this time. You reached a hand up, grabbed his tie and pulled him closer.

Two weeks, it had been two weeks since you’d felt Steven’s lips on yours, but now they were on you, soft as ever. Something felt a little different, but you brushed it off as your own drunken passion. It tasted like Steven, in your mouth and in your lungs. You reached a hand up behind his head, stealing a soft moan from his lips.

“Steven,” you whispered.

Jake’s body was buzzing with excitement. This was wrong for so many reasons. You thought he was someone else, you were young, drunk, and vulnerable. It wasn’t like him to do something like this, but you were so desperate, and you really thought he was Steven, giving yourself to him so willingly. You brushed your tongue over the seam of his lips, and he readily parted them for you. You entangled your tongue with his hungrily, arching your chest into his and he felt his own chest puff up with the excitement of finally feeling your lips against him.

“Let’s go somewhere,” you said, breathing heavy.

Your words broke Jake from his trance. He couldn’t do this. Marc had been right when he told Steven to break things off with you so many times. You were in danger if you stayed with them, and vice versa. He had to put a stop to it now.

“Yes, home.” He said firmly in the best British accent he could muster.

“Of course you’re going to bring me home.” You shoved him back and then conceded to accepting the ride, pulling your feet back into the car and slamming the door in his face.

You were acting like a brat, and Jake liked that fiery side of you. He vowed to keep his hands to himself, but he couldn’t help the swelling in his chest that he’d never felt before. He was really starting to understand why Steven had fallen for you. They all shared a brain after all, it made sense that some of those feelings might seep into his mind as well. He shook the thoughts from his head before getting into the car next to you.

You kept your gaze out the window and your arms crossed over your chest. That kiss sparked your body alive with the desire you’d missed after he left. Watching the city pass you by, another thought occurred to you: Steven must’ve been nearby to be able to save you the way he did. Was he…watching you? Surely if he’d broken up with you, he wouldn’t be stalking you, unless he really did miss you. Was this an attempt to see you in secret? You wondered why he wouldn’t have just said that in the first place.

“So, are you just done teaching? If you’re not gonna teach anymore then there was no point to break up, you know…unless you really did just want to fuck me and leave me.” You hoped that stung, but you weren’t going to look over to see his expression.

It did sting. Jake knew how this all looked, and he knew how you must’ve felt when Steven broke things off. He was quiet when it happened, but he saw the look on your face. He’d watched the disappointment fall over you until your bottom lip was quivering in your attempt to keep your composure. Now you were angry, and that was good. You could use the anger to move on. You had every right to be, and Jake hoped that Marc would feel the burn of your slap in the morning and wonder how that happened.

“Fine, don’t talk to me if you don’t want to. Just gotta…take care of something real quick.”

Jake tried to keep his eyes on the road, but you were pulling up the skirt of your red dress around your hips. You’d worn black lace underneath, clearly with the intention of some loser taking them off. When you stuffed your hand into the waistband of your panties and started moaning, Jake felt his own arousal growing behind the seam of his pants. What the fuck were you doing?

That kiss had made you worked up, despite the anger you felt. Not to mention you were still completely wasted, not caring if what you were doing was considered ridiculous or not. All you could think about was Steven and the memory of how he felt inside of you. You weren’t sore anymore, not after a couple weeks of giving your body a rest. Now you wanted more, you craved it, but you didn’t think you’d ever have the chance again. Maybe if he remembered what he was missing he’d reconsider. You weren’t opposed to taking him back, but you were going to make him be the one to ask you to come back, you weren’t going to beg.

“Stop,” Jake said coldly, the wet sounds your cunt made was deafening to him.

“St-stop what?” You asked with a soft moan to punctuate your question.

Jake couldn’t take it. His cock was aching in his pants, aching for release. He shifted in his seat, trying to mimic the friction he desperately needed. You were making such pretty sounds and all he wanted to do was make you come undone, the way he’d watched Steven do a few times over. He didn’t mean to get caught in the television that day while you were on Steven’s lap in his flat, but Jake wanted to see you so badly. He pulled down a dark and poorly lit road. He parked and got out of the car, dropping his hat in the seat before slamming the door.

Jake took a moment to breathe, thinking about the consequences of the next move he wanted to make. It would be so easy to just stand there and wait for you to finish your business and then bring you home. Hell, he could even get back in the car and drive you home, painful as it may be, and then relieve himself later. Either way he wanted to take a minute to himself.

But you just had to get out of the car, didn’t you? You just had to walk around to him, grabbing on to his white button down and step on your tippy-toes to brush your nose against his. Your breath was hot against his face, reeking of alcohol. He would’ve been fine, he could still push you away, but your right hand trekked down his abdomen and slid over the bulge just under the fabric of his pants.

It was over for Jake at that point, he couldn’t deny you any longer. He cupped the back of your head and melted into you in a flurry of passion. He was emptying every emotion he’d pushed away for the weeks after you and Steven started seeing each other. You tasted like the booze you’d been drinking all night, but beneath that he tasted the essence that made you…you, and it was delicious.

You noticed that Steven even kissed differently, and you wondered if he was just nervous, or maybe this was him letting loose. You didn’t care though, it felt so good to have him touching you again, to give you that attention you so desperately craved from him. He lifted you and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He was so fucking hard you let out a breathy moan just from the feeling of him brushing against you.

He opened the door to the back seat and put you down, climbing in over you. The seat was surprisingly spacious. He didn’t stop kissing you, groaning while he rolled his hips against you. You brought your hands into his dark locks, reveling in the way they felt against your fingers. You’d missed him so much you could hardly stand it. You thought you might start to cry, but then you felt his gloved hand start tugging at the waist of your panties.

“I got it, let me,” you helped, toeing them off.

Jake let you work on his button and zipper, shuddering the moment you grabbed around his thick cock and pulled it out of his boxer-briefs. His breath was shaking while you guided him to your entrance. He looked down and seeing the way his length sat between your thighs made it twitch eagerly.

“Fuck me, Steven,” you said in a soft whisper.

Jake gritted his teeth, the sound of the other alter’s name reminding him of the fact that you thought he was someone else. You brought his face back to look at you though, eyes darting between his. When you kissed him again, he forgot all about his prior reservations and thrust forward harshly, your pleasure-laced gasp was like music to Jake’s ears.

You gripped the back of Steven’s curly head tightly in your ecstasy, continuing to melt into him with sloppy drunken kisses. It felt so good to have his cock inside of you again, stretching you out and filling you deep. You tossed your head back, and a guttural groan rolled up through your chest.

Jake had so many things he wanted to say to you, but knew he’d better not. He wanted to tell you how good your tight little pussy felt fluttering around his length. He wanted to tell you how much he loved the way your skin tasted under his lips. Mostly, he wanted to tell you how much he wanted to hold onto you and never let go, how much he wanted to keep you safe and smiling. Your fingers were intertwining with his hair, such a small gesture, and yet it was one of the most intimate things he’d felt in…he wasn’t even sure he could recall ever feeling anything so intimate.

“Fuck, Steven–yes.”

He reached up and covered your mouth, muffling your moans. He couldn’t stand to hear you moaning someone else’s name while he continued grinding his hips forward, thrusting his length into you deeper. Your hot breath could be felt huffing through your nostrils against his gloved pinky.

He’d never done anything like that to you before, you thought that he normally liked to hear you moan and say his name, but you weren’t going to question it. The change in breathing was hurdling you closer to the edge than you anticipated. You wondered where this idea to cover your mouth came from. It didn’t really matter, you were just so happy to have him back, to have him touching you the way he had before. Except it wasn’t quite like before. Even in the fog from the alcohol, you could tell that something was different about the way he was thrusting into you. It was more forceful, intentional and like he wasn’t holding back his strength. Even before, it felt like Steven was trying to restrain himself, despite being sloppy about his actions. Now he was relentless and tactful, pace never wavering.

Jake kissed your neck, dragging his tongue over the soft skin there. You took in a deep breath, chest arching up to brush against his. Fuck he wanted to feel your breasts, but with one hand over your mouth and the other keeping him from flattening you, he couldn’t. Next time, he thought.

He shouldn’t be thinking about a “next time”, but he was. He was already thinking about how he wanted to bend you over the center console and watch your pussy splitting over his girth; or how he wanted to put you in his lap, back resting against his chest while he fucked upward into you. There was no end to the ways he wanted to feel you come undone, and that was in his car alone.

You let out a sharp scream that frightened him so he removed his hand quickly. You drew in a sharp breath and that’s when he realized that you were coming. Your cunt squeezed so tight around his cock that he had to grab the back of the seat to stop himself from falling over.

Fuck that feels good, so fucking good.

His hips stopped rutting into you and he started moaning heavily in your ear while his cock pulsated hot ropes of cum inside of your still clenching walls. 

You couldn’t believe he was finally back, after two weeks of suffering, you had Steven back. He didn’t kiss you after he pulled out, in fact, he didn’t seem interested in the usual post-sex intimacy as he tucked himself away.

Jake had to get you back quickly now, feeling the guilt wash over him as clarity came through. He’d just slept with you, under the guise of Marc’s other alter, while you were plastered. Of all the terrible things Jake had done, this was up there on the list. He closed the door, leaving you in the back seat before getting in the front and peeling off the dirt road.

You didn’t say anything to him, not wanting to push any further. It was exceptionally clear that he was still trying to keep his distance, and you felt like you were on eggshells. If this was going to continue, you knew that you had to play by his rules, whatever they may be. When he pulled up to your dorm, you leaned up in the seat and kissed him on the cheek.

You stopped at his ear to whisper, “please don’t leave me again.”

You made your way to your dorm, cleaned yourself up in the bathroom, and then went to bed without waking Layla. You sent a quick text to Steven, and in a moment’s notice you’d drifted off, satisfied with the conclusion of your night.

----

Jake parked his car in a parking garage down the street from Steven’s flat. He had to keep it from the other two, or they would know he was leading a secret life separate from theirs. When he got inside the apartment, he took off all his clothes and neatly placed them in the closet, exactly where they’d been before. He put on the outfit Marc had worn to bed before crawling under the blankets himself.

Steven’s phone lit up on the end table, forcing Jake’s heart to stop in his chest.

You: Thank you for saving me tonight. When can I see you again?

The truth was that Jake wanted to see you again, despite knowing it was immoral. He thought that maybe if you saw how good he was to you, that you might not be too upset when he was able to finally reveal himself…if he was ever able to finally reveal himself. His heart was deafening in his chest thinking about you. You were so pretty tonight, the way your dress fit your body, and the way your big eyes had looked up at him before you kissed him.

Your words rang through his mind so clearly, please don’t leave me again.

No one had ever looked at him like you did. No one had ever looked at Jake with so much love and yearning in their eyes. He’d never felt such passion, and now he didn’t know how to just let it go, even if it was the right thing to do. Even if the love you felt was for someone else, he could look past it for now. He just knew he couldn’t go without seeing you again.

Steven: Don’t text me anymore. I’ll reach out to you when we can see each other again.

Steven: If you want this to be able to continue, I need you to keep this a secret. Don’t talk about it, and don’t ever text me.

Jake deleted the texts that the two of you had sent, and put the phone back where he’d found it. When Marc woke up in the morning, he’d never have a clue that his body had wandered about while he slept.

----

When you got up in the morning, hangover be damned, you saw the texts from Steven. He was willing to keep it going. You could cry, you were so relieved. Steven was back, and he was yours.

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[erijuice]

My Revision of Wish

As someone who loves the concept of Wish, I thought it was a decent addition to the Disney Animation Canon. I enjoyed the songs, the gorgeous hybrid artstyle, and the homage to Sleeping Beauty's wide cinemascope aspect. Unfortunately, the more I think about Wish, the more disappointed I was with the final product. For what was supposed to be a celebration of Disney's legacy, it ended up being shot with the blandification ray by the studio itself, because they had a lot of interesting concepts planned for the film. It's just impossible for me to hate Wish like everyone else on the internet, because I know there's passion behind this idea, it was just muddled and screwed over by the despicable corporate side of Disney.

Now, while I did love the final product and was also simultaneously disappointed over what it could’ve and should’ve been, I wanted to showcase my version of the film with a heavier emphasis on the wishing star’s untold origin story. This is actually an updated/edited version of my original draft, and I added a little bit of characterization as well.

SPOILERS FOR THE ACTUAL FILM BTW

Wish (in my version) is fully 2D-Animated, and contains music, orchestration and lyrics from Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz, with additional output from Julia Michaels.

Cast:

Alycia Pascual-Peña as Asha

Chris Pine as King Magnifico

Amara Le Negra as Queen Amaya

Roman Banks as Orion (Star)

Summary: 

“Have you ever wondered how the legendary Wishing Star was born?… Set in a time centuries before Snow White wished by the wishing well, or Geppetto wished for his little wooden puppet to become a real boy, Wish takes place in the medieval city of Rosas, a fantasy kingdom off the coast of the Mediterranean Sea where your wishes can literally be transformed into reality. The kingdom is ruled by King Magnifico (Chris Pine) and Queen Amaya (Amara Le Negra), respected by all as the kingdom’s sole wish-granters. They live happily in peace with their royal daughter named Asha (voiced by Alycia Pascual Peña), who was set to take her parents’ throne once she turned 17. 

Princess Asha is sharp-witted and wildly smart beyond her years: a young philosopher in the making, who believes that the stars are always there to guide her. She's a shy bookworm who is very creative, she draws animations in her notepad and paints with watercolors all over her bedroom, much like Rapunzel. Asha also wants to be a musician and to inspire the people with her music. While being devoted to her goal to ensure that everyone gets their wish to come true, Asha also struggles with poor leadership skills, and she doesn't know how to be a good leader to her friends, or her kingdom. Her parents seem to make it look easy, and sometimes Asha prefers to rely on them to make her dreams come true. However, Asha believes that a bigger and stronger wish requires a much more difficult journey, and in order to achieve her wish, she must confront her own parents, two of the fiercest and most powerful villains the Disney universe has ever known.

King Magnifico is almost the same as his canon depiction, except he has no backstory of him losing his family to destruction which would've make him more sympathetic, and does not mesh well with him being a villain. He uses his magic to remove wishes from people's hearts and keeps them in his own "wish orbs" for personal keeping, but we don't find out what he does with them until the first act. Before he praticed magic, he was a philosopher who believed in the power of the stars in the night sky, inspiring Asha to develop her belief that there is magic in the stars.

Queen Amaya is a female villain who is madly in love with Magnifico and pressures Asha to be a perfect royal daughter, much in the vein of Yzma and Maleficent, with shades of Mother Gothel. She is a black dark-skinned Latina, and Asha's birth mother. Queen Amaya owns has a pet cat assistant named Cleo, who is a callback to Maleficent's crow Diablo, or Lady Tremaine's cat Lucifer.

Alright, now back to the story!

On her 17th birthday, during a beautiful royal ball, Asha notices that her parents have wondered off from their thrones, and she uncovers a dark truth about both of her parents and how they want to keep the wishes of the people for themselves. Even worse, she peaks through the cracked door of the throne room to witness that the King and Queen are crushing the people's wishes, and infusing their energy, in order to make their own magic more powerful, and thus manipulating the townspeople and giving them the false hope of their wishes being granted. Asha tries to keep what she saw a secret from her parents, but she argues that the wishes must be free and sent back to the people. After a heated argument with her parents, she runs to the forest and makes a passionate cry for help to the stars, in the hopes that they will give her guidance and strength to help her entire kingdom. (‘This Wish’ is staying btw, but with adjusted lyrics) Her plea pulls down the brightest star out of the sky and transforms it into a glowing ethereal humanoid being without a name.

Here is where we meet Orion. Orion is THE wishing star of legend. He is a glowing, Black-coded, humanoid boy around the same age as Asha. Newly formed, he has no name and no sense of right or wrong, much like Pinocchio, but he reveals himself to be a powerful shapeshifter with magic celestial powers. The starboy is aided with the tiny, Luma-like canon version of Star, named Little Dipper, as his personal companion. Little Dipper is more mischevious than Orion, but it's also a powerful wish granter in a tiny celestial body. With a reworked, more orchestral version of "At All Costs", Orion takes Asha on a gorgeous flight, explaining his purpose to help Asha, as the duo sings in harmony above the stardust-sprinkled woodlands, with Little Dipper setting the scene. After the song ends, Asha tries to name all the constellations off the top of her head, and ultimately names the starboy Orion (serving as a subtle callback to Kiss the Girl). Asha brings Orion back to the kingdom, and she tries to teach him how to grant the peoples’ wishes. As the two plans to give the wish orbs back to the people, Asha notices that her parents are angered over the townspeople praising Orion’s descend, hoping that he will grant the wishes of all the people. Feeling threatened by Orion’s presence, the King and Queen scheme to use dark magic to kill Fate and steal her magic, so that they will remain as the only wish-granters in Rosas, but at the risk of permanently being surrendered to the dark side. (This Is The Thanks I Get, except it's reworked into a grand, badass, orchestral villain duet with Magnifico on the first verse and Amaya on the second verse)

Desperate to warn the kingdom about her parents’ true colors, Asha disguises herself (a la Sleeping Beauty) as a peasant girl, while Orion tries to disguise himself as a normal human boy. As the two try to grant the wishes of the townpeople who haven't given their wishes to the king and queen, the town descends into chaos with some wishes spiraling out of control. While it is a moment of hilarity, Asha and Orion come to a realization that some wishes should never be granted in the first place, as they're more likely to cause harm and chaos than pure good. The two comes across a group of seven teenagers modeled after the Seven Dwarfs, Asha's longtime team, and Orion starts to get to know each one of them, before planning a rebellion against her parents, and yet, Asha is secretly hesitant to disobey her parents, she confesses to Orion - in a short reprise of At All Costs - about how she used to be perfectly obedient and a perfect princess to her people. Meanwhile, Orion reveals to the Seven Teens that he’s still learning to grant wishes, but they also end up horribly wrong, but he comes to a realization that he shouldn't grant wishes that could cause harm, no matter how much they beg for it. The Teens make a promise to Asha that they will protect her secret, as well as Orion's. The duo and the teens team up to stop the King and Queen, with a reworked version of "Knowing What I Know Now."

During the epic climax, Orion and Asha create a diversion, with Asha freeing the wishes with her team and learning to be a good leader in doing so, while Orion shapeshifts into multiple forms to battle the King and Queen and distract them away from the castle, but they capture Little Dipper into the scepter, and use Dipper's magic to transform their cat Cleo into a giant dragon (akin to Maleficent's dragon form) that flies them to the top of the castle, with Orion chained up. The parents chain Asha to the top of the castle where the battle occurs, and they force their daughter to watch Orion suffer. Engulfed by the pain of losing her protector, Asha breaks into the This Wish reprise, as do the other residents of Rosas. The King and Queen try to push Asha off the castle to her death, but the townspeoples' voices lift her up, as does Orion's, and he uses his magic to make her float above in mid-air. Everyone's hearts beginning to glow and attract their wishes back to their hearts as they sing in unison. Orion transfers most of his celestial powers into Asha, who uses her temporary celestial powers to free Little Dipper from the scepter, and blast the King and Queen to their death, while Orion simultaneously creates a powerful sword to throw into Cleo's heart, killing her as well. After a moment of silence, Asha breaks down into tears and feels bittersweet that she’ll never have her parents again, but more optimistic about being the ruler the kingdom desperately needed - someone who will choose only the best wishes to come true. Orion comes down to Earth to comforts Asha with a hug, and the kingdom rejoices with the evil King and Queen gone for good.

Cut to a few months later with Asha hosting her first royal ball for Rosas, and dancing with Orion, similar to the endings of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast. Before Orion flies back to the night sky to become the Wishing Star, he gets Little Dipper to create a magic wand and grants her the role of a honorary Blue Fairy guardian, transforming Asha’s purple queen gown into a beautiful, glittering, baby blue gown. Orion informs to Asha that Asha will be reincarnated into a true Blue Fairy after her time on Earth comes to an end, but Orion will descend back down to Rosas every now and then to help Asha. As a final gift, even though he admits his magic is not perfect just yet, Orion finally grants Asha’s wish and creates a lute for her to play for her people, but Asha realizes what her true wish was all along: To be a good leader to all of Rosas.

After Orion forms into the glimmering Wishing Star in the night sky above Rosas, Queen Asha looks down on the townspeople of Rosas with hope in her smile and she looks up at the wishing star above her, with a hope that everyone will have a wish to come true, because now, Queen Asha knows that there is no force, no magic more powerful than the power of a wish, for a wish is more powerful when it’s inside your heart.

Cut to a few nights later, after the credits have rolled, when Asha walks out onto the balcony above the kingdom. She pulls out a music sheet, and begins to play ‘When You Wish Upon A Star’ for the stars, as an homage to Orion.

My version of Wish will also contain hundreds of Easter Eggs that all pay tribute to ALL 61 FILMS in the Walt Disney Animation Studios library, all worked seamlessly into the context of the story, not just containing the ones that inspire the film like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. Anyway, all I’m saying is that Disney should’ve hired me and put me into the writers room, because as a Disney fan, I know how to make this story work and how to make it even better, and I hope you guys love this version of the story! Oh, and also, screw Disney for donating to a genocide. Goodnight Kingdom of Rosas!

[snotsloth]

Probably one of my better quotes from my chat with @physicalvocalist today, "If I had a nickel for every time Marvel gave me a skinny white* boy who could change the fabric of reality itself, I'd have at least three nickels, which isn't a lot, but it is weird that it happened THRICE!"

We were of course talking about the narrative parallels between Franklin Richards, Quentin Quire, and Wiccan. Phys is a huge F4 fan and I have X-Men brainrot. So, of course while discussing Franklin's currently suppressed powers, and the "he is/he isn't" back and forth about his mutant status, I had to also bring up Quentin and Billy.

Just, the fact that there are three of them, relatively close in age, that are all so overpowered that Marvel continuously has to nerf or sideline them during major events because at full strength any one of them could just FIX it is just wild to me. AND they all have a different flavor of power. Wiccan is Magic, Quentin is Celestial via the Phoenix Force, and Franklin is Science via Mutation.

I think they all definitely have some Icarus DNA to them, a young boy is given an amazing gift and warned not to take it too far, too high, or he will fall. Each of them have been warned in one way or another not to express the full range of their powers for fear of failure/corruption/ironic unforseen consequences/etc.

On top of that each of them also struggles on a more personal level with identity. Billy early on struggles with his queer identity, but also with the fact that he started life as a figment of his mother's imagination that gained sentience. He fears becoming like his mother and causing more problems than he fixes.

Quentin constantly struggles with his own hubris. His powers set him apart even from other mutants and he struggles to connect with his peers on a personal level, which only drives him to be more standoffish and egotistical. Plus there's all of his subtextual gender shenanigans. I won't go into detail about it here because this post is already long enough, but I HC Quentin as a stealth trans boy (and I have so much textual evidence).

And then there's Franklin, who literally had his Mutant identity ripped away from him just as he reached adolescence, the period of life where you build much of the foundation of your self-image. He has artificially aged himself once and then reverted back to his original age. He met a future version of himself that time travelled to save the universe. He knows he will most likely survive the destruction of this universe and witness the birth of the next one. As of the most recent retcon, he has suppressed his mutant powers and abilities to the point that even he remains unaware of them except for one night a year where he basically does a check-in on the overall state of the Universe and then goes back to sleep and forgets it all again. So his sense of identity might be the most convoluted of the three.

Basically, I think they should all hang out and save the universe or something. They'd have a lot to talk about and Quentin would drive Billy up the wall in frustration. I know the last thing Marvel needs is a major event centered on three skinny miracle boys but I think there's a lot of potential in actively making them foils to each other.

*EDIT! Billy, as an anon very politely reminded me, is not white. He's of partial Romani and Jewish descent (depending on the current retcon status of whether or not Magneto is his actual grandfather). No matter how much most Marvel artists whitewash both him and the rest of his family, Billy isn't white.

[sdyd]

* THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. sentence starters from mary shelley's novel, frankenstein ; or, the modern prometheus. from the original manuscript, the original published edition, & the 1831 revision. feel free to change pronouns / terms / tense / etc.

do you understand this feeling ?

I desire the company of someone who could sympathize with me.

I shall do nothing rashly.

remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, & prudent.

will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound ?

I have lost everything, & cannot begin life anew.

you may easily perceive, [name], that I have suffered great & unparalleled misfortunes.

with what interest & sympathy shall I read it in some future day !

the world was to me a secret, which I desired to discover.

it was the secrets of heaven & earth that I desired to learn

no youth could have passed more happily than mine.

do not waste your time upon this ; it is sad trash.

I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers.

have you really spent your time in studying such nonsense ?

I am happy to have gained a disciple.

remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman.

a resistless, & almost frantic impulse, urged me forward.

you must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected.

how can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe ?

how glad I am to see you !

it gives me the greatest delight to see you.

you look as if you had been watching for several nights.

how ill you are !

what is the cause of all this ?

oh, save me ! save me !

I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip.

are you always to be unhappy ?

my dear friend, what has happened ?

even cato wept over the dead body of his brother.

I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome.

I do not know what you mean.

no one believes it, surely ?

did the murderer place it there ?

I cannot go alone.

I did confess, but I confessed a lie.

I hope you do not believe I am guilty.

I cannot live in this world of misery.

Do you think that I do not suffer also?

men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood.

I would sacrifice my life for your peace.

devil ! do you dare approach me?

begone, vile insect!

I expected this reception.

all men hate the wretched.

abhorred monster !

be calm ! I entreat you to hear me.

have I not suffered enough?

I do not wish to hate you.

I was benevolent & good ; misery made me a fiend.

make me happy, & I shall again be virtuous.

you, my creator, abhor me ; what hope can I gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe me nothing ?

cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light !

relieve me from the sight of your detested form !

I ought to be thy adam, but I am rather the fallen angel.

I stared back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror.

was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled, & whom all men disowned ?

cursed creator ! why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust ?

pardon this intrusion, I am a traveler in want of a little rest.

I thank you, & accept your generous offer

at length the thought of you crossed my mind.

to whom could I apply with more fitness than to him who had given me life ?

I do not intend to hurt you.

I am content to reason with you.

if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.

I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of your birth.

this is what it is to live !

where does he now exist ? is this gentle & lovely being lost forever ?

does it now only exist in my memory ?

I could pass my life here.

I had rather be with you.

hasten then, my dear friend, to return, so that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence.

had I the right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations ?

what is it that you intend ?

do you dare to break your promise ?

I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you.

beware ; for I am fearless, & therefore powerful.

I will be with you on your wedding night.

villain ! before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.

why do you answer me so roughly ?

why did I not die ?

are you better now ?

I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery & horror.

can I do any thing to make you more comfortable ?

on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.

persecuted & tortured as I am & have been, can death be any evil to me ?

a fatality seems to pursue you.

do you not love another ?

it is your happiness I desire as well as my own.

if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, I shall need no other happiness.

you are sorrowful, my love.

this night is dreadful, very dreadful.

why did I not then expire ?

I am satisfied, miserable wretch ! you have determined to live, & I am satisfied.

for many months this has been my task.

my reign is not yet over.

learn from my miseries, & do not seek to increase your own.

do you think that I was then dead to agony & remorse ?

you throw a torch into a pile of buildings, & when they are consumed you sit among the ruins, & lament the fall.

but it is even so ; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.

you hate me ; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself.

soon, I shall die, & what I now feel will no longer be felt.

[laufire]

I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my archenemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of your birth.

Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft. FRANKENSTEIN or The Modern Prometheus (Uncensored 1818 Edition) (pp. 94-95).

[mywifeleftme]

364: Various Artists // Israfel

Israfel Various Artists 1997, Ape

A 1997 vinyl benefit compilation of mostly Middle American grindcore / powerviolence / emo acts, assembled in an edition of about 1000 by Bloomington-based DIY label Ape Records (active 1995 to 2002), in handmade sleeve with a recent release catalogue, a substantial zine, and a few priceless gag inserts (incl. YOUR HARDCORE SELL OUT DECODER RING). I’m not an aficionado of any of the genres Israfel covers by any means, but you’d have to be a real head to know most of these: in terms of notoriety, the Locust (who contribute a 47 second blast of lo-fi outrage) are basically Led Zeppelin compared to the rest of the acts, most of whom topped out with a couple of EPs and compilation appearances.

Of course, hearing music that would otherwise be basically lost to time is the appeal of taking a flyer on a comp like this. One of my favourite tracks is “Untitled” by Roanoke, VA’s the Weak Link Breaks, supposedly the first thing the band ever wrote (and, judging from their discography, nearly the last too). It begins with a very, very quiet spacy-Fugazi-style amble (the vocal harmonies couldn’t be more Ian and Guy) that explodes into a brief screamo-style D-beat section, and then some big heaving riffs that make me want to exaggeratedly lift and stomp my feet like a giant trying to keep his balance. I also dig Murfreesboro, TN’s Serotonin, an emo / post-hardcore act with a steely '80s shred band guitar tone who play like they want people in the pit to twirl around ecstatically instead of slam dancing. A lot of the other nasty yowling cat speedballs on Israfel don’t really catch my ear, but that’s okay—I’m weirdly proud of them 27 years after the fact for being themselves and getting out whatever they needed to get out through this violence.

The package’s tone is all over the place. The zine opens with a haunting description of the compilation’s beneficiaries, the family of a pair of little girls with spinal muscular atrophy (a common birth defect) whose condition worsened until they perished, leaving their parents distraught and financially ruined—and the 21-year-old compiler racked with guilt that he didn’t somehow do more to help. From there, it whips through his heterodox thoughts about the hardcore scene (despicably self-absorbed; unresponsive to requests from label operators); the state of emo (too abstract); the best way to bring about change (working within the capitalist system); rape (it’s bad; consent is black and white; can we stop litigating this in the scene?); calling the cops (fine to do); disrespecting the American flag (played out; tacky); and drinking/drug use (“when did self-destruction become rebellion?”). After he finishes up, each band (that got their artwork in on time anyway) gets a page to talk about themselves. This section is full of old school punk zine/leaflet treasures, with designs that mimic motel newspaper ads, postcards, messy handwritten perzines, and Xeroxed 7” grindcore sleeves.

It's funny reading his scornful words about pseudo-rebellious drunkards stumbling toward “the day when punk rock is shelved for an 8 hour workday, Budweiser, and television” and then finding his LinkedIn, where he describes himself as “driving omnichannel excellence” and as “whimsical (after coffee).” You wouldn’t believe it from the splenetic angst of the Israfel zine, but the guy seems like he turned out happy and normal, with a few kids and a successful career. I wonder how the 21-year-old would see the 48-year-old, if he’d call him a sell-out or feel relieved that things worked out; if the 48-year-old would pity his former self, or feel ashamed about losing his edge. More one-time zinesters and hardcore kids end up looking square from a distance than you’d think (I certainly do if you catch me during the workday), because you usually stop hearing about them when they drop out of the scene. For most, the quiet part of life is the larger portion by far. It’s your choice whether to embrace that, mourn it, or seek your own alternative. But if Israfel reminds us of nothing else, it’s the importance of having a good scream at least once in your life.

364/365

[moonchild-in-blue]

Sleep Token X D&D

An expansion of this post because je suis trés unhinged and I miss playing DnD. I'm not including homebrew content for simplicity sake, guiding myself through this website. Feel free to add or change as you will. I'll leave some links for each class specs in case you wanna read more, or aren't super familiar with it.

At first it would make sense for all of them to be different types of Warlocks or Sorcerers, with Sleep as their common patron. BUT I think that would be an easy cop-out, and I want to make things interesting. This is just my headcanon so yeah, don't mean, don't be weird. Let me know how you'd do it!!

(and if there are any DnD players who happen to come across this post and want to take inspiration on it, you're more than welcome to do so!)

Let's get to it, nerds 🎲2️⃣0️⃣

[cut because this is LONG]

Vessel

Race: Tiefling. A lot of room for inventiveness here, and you can change his appearance as you'd prefer. Maybe that's why he's always cloaked and masked. Maybe he gets even more disfigured every time he connects with Sleep. Class/Sub-Class: Warlock, The Great Old One (mysterious entity whose nature is utterly foreign to the fabric of reality). Obviously Sleep would be his patron. I like to think Vessel had an encounter with Sleep whilst not knowing who or what They were, and eventually became their servant. For the pacts, I had thought of Pact of the Tome, where the Book of Shadows would be his lyrics, but Pact of the Talisman is also great, because of the mask. @a-s-levynn had suggested The Fathomless for his sub-class, which is also AMAZING, especially if you want to lean into the whole tentacle/water horror aesthetic. Alternatively, Sorcerer, Divine Soul is an EXCELENT class for Vessel (actually, now that I'm editing this, I kinda prefer this one lmao). Read this and tell me this isn't exactly what Vessel is: Sometimes the spark of magic that fuels a sorcerer comes from a divine source that glimmers within the soul. Having such a blessed soul is a sign that your innate magic might come from a distant but powerful familial connection to a divine being. Perhaps your ancestor was an angel, transformed into a mortal and sent to fight in a god’s name. Or your birth might align with an ancient prophecy, marking you as a servant of the gods or a chosen vessel of divine magic. Yeah.

ii

Race: Lightfoot Halfling (yes I'm making him a hobbit, what about it?) Fire Genasi is also very apt. Class/Sub-Class: Druid, Circle of Wildfire (these druids bond with a primal spirit that harbors both destructive and creative power, allowing the druids to create controlled flames that burn away one thing but give life to another). This primal spirit, of course, would be Sleep. They are a bit of a mysterious entity. ii was the hardest to come up with. I knew I wanted him to be somehow connected to the land/elements, because I think that would be the best translation for his rhythmic prowess (drums wouldn't make much sense as a Bard). And that photo of him with the painted red fingertips reminds me of fire, so it seemed like a perfect fit. Some other alternatives: Druid, Circle of Dreams or Monk, Way of the Four Elements (monk would be SO good because of his silence, like LoZ Link, and the ability to harness his energy).

iii

Race: Obviously a Dark Elf. Obsidian-black polished skin, pale blond hair, pale blue eyes, slim figure. Need I say more? Earth Genasi could also be a good option, due to his golden vein-like paint. Class/Sub-Class: Ranger, Fey Wanderer (a ranger who represents both the mortal and the fey realms. As you wander the multiverse, your joyful laughter brightens the hearts of the downtrodden, and your martial prowess strikes terror in your foes, for great is the mirth of the fey and dreadful is their fury.) I quite like this because the options of how you acquire the magic are endless, and can be traced to Sleep or even Vessel (maybe he granted them?). iii is our favourite chaotic boy, but he can be so intimidating at times, this one plays off his duality quite well. Plus you get Otherworldly Glamour similar to iv which makes sense. A cool alternative could be Sorcerer, Wild Magic, as it has a similar base to Vessel and it draws magic out of chaos.

iv

Race: I thought about making him a Genasi or Half-Elf, but honestly I love him as a Human. I just love the idea that this human is sooo charming and talented, that even all these supernatural creatures can't help but be enthralled by him. Changeling or even Eladrin could also work. Class/Sub-Class: Bard, College of Glamour (these bards are so eloquent that a speech or song that one of them performs can cause captors to release the bard unharmed and can lull a furious dragon into complacency). I like that iv appears to be super low-key, but is actually insanely seductive (I see you mask pulling) and talented. So out of all of them, he was my obvious choice for a bard.

The Vesselettes

I think they could either be sort of like a greek chorus or muses but for Sleep, that appeared at key moments to help the party, or actual campaign members. Race: Aetherborn Class/Sub-Class: Clerics, Twilight Domain (The twilit transition from light into darkness often brings calm and even joy, as the day's labors end and the hours of rest begin. The darkness can also bring terrors, but the gods of twilight guard against the horrors of the night). It would be awesome to have them as healers and protectors of the party, who serve Sleep directly (if Sleep is evil, they could also be secret spies? To make sure the party does as Sleep intents). Or maybe they are protecting the party from Sleep (they can never sever their connection to them, but they will do everything they can to make sure the vessels won't go too far).

I'm not sure how they would all get together, but my [abridged] story would place them all as servants of this magical deity, called Sleep. Vessel was the first to encounter Them and lives as an actual, living vessel for them. They believe that Sleep, albeit mysterious, is a benevolent creature, who was wrongfully cast away from Their plane/stripped of their powers or divinity.

As the one closest to Sleep, Vessel can sense that something isn't quite right, but he's already so entangled and manipulated by them, that he doesn't even care.

So they fight all these people and creatures, believing they're doing something Good, but then it turns out that Sleep was evil all along? The people they have conquered and killed were actually good, trying to stop them from giving this awful, terrible being their power.

Sleep basically uses them to defeat their enemies and get back to whatever place or power they no longer have access to. Maybe the vessels turn their back on them? Maybe Vessel doesn't want to and they fight with each other? Or maybe they just keep serving Sleep?

Or, you know, Sleep could also be an actual helpful deity, and they are genuinely doing good by fighting in Their name. But maybe in the end Vessel can't let go of Them and drama ensues and everybody cries.

I don't know, this is just an idea. I spent WAY too much time researching for this, but it was fuuun. I love talking DnD.

[bears-ao3-blog]

(TF2 x TLOU) Dead Mann Walking - Prologue: When All Hell Broke Loose

(Edit: Small Clarification - You do NOT need to know anything about The Last of Us to read this fic!! I made sure to write this in a way that did not make that a requirement. Ok love you bye)

Chapter 1

CW: Implied Violence, Explicit Violence, Injury, Implied/Referenced Character Death

Mick didn't remember anything about Australia. No surprise, he wasn't even a year old when they moved to Massachusetts. The only pieces of his country of origin that he really carried with him were his shoddy accent - compromised by its mix with a Southern drawl - and borderline stereotypical phrases, both of which he picked up from his parents, of course. 

He was young – barely pushing on two years old – when  it  happened; when monsters emerged from the confines of their own homes, ripping the ones they love to shreds with snarls and howls and sobs. He didn't even remember the day of the outbreak, but he knew plenty. His parents were gentle souls, but they were also honest ones. So, when he asked, they told; even when the answers were far from pretty. They would often combat the grim knowledge they’d have to bestow on their only son with times before the infection. Tales of potlucks and kids playing in the street. Tales of stores filled to the brim with anything you could ever need one hundred times over. Tales of birthdays. Of his own birth. His short childhood before everything happened. 

He often wondered what his room looked like at the time. What color the walls were. What sort of childish paraphernalia littered it. He wondered what his favorite toy was. He wondered what it was like to live without that constant fear of death and destruction of not only yourself but the people you care about. Sometimes it provided solace but, more often than not, it simply made him sad.  

He wondered what life was like for Dell; before his grandpa was infected and he had to blast the old man's brain to bits with his own shotgun. Before he joined their family. He wondered if he was happy before the outbreak. For Mick, it's all he's ever known. His parents used to joke about how there's no reason to feel homesick anymore because things then weren't too different from the deep Outback. The isolation. The danger. The need to fend for yourself because there's no help around for miles. They used to say it was almost nice; "Like we're right back at home!"   

Mick knew it was all bullshit. They never would have immigrated to America in the first place if they wanted to live in a place like that. His parents’ experience proved fruitful, however, and it was their teachings that served as the only reason Mick and Dell had been able to survive so long on their own. Mick felt guilty that Dell wound up being stuck taking care of him. The man had barely been on the cusp of being a legal adult when everything happened. When his parents… 

He doesn't like to think about it, despite the watch on his wrist being a constant reminder. Just another piece of them to carry. It had been his dad's since before the outbreak. Cheap but effective. It even had a small hinge that revealed a compass underneath the timepiece. The images of those trembling, weathered hands pressing the cool metal into his own; that hoarse voice of his father’s telling him "Keep it. Reckon I'm not gonna be around ta use it meself."; his mother wrapping him up in a hug with trailing tears and quiet sobs; Dell adding another two to his list of “guardians I’ve had to shoot dead”: it's something he won't ever be able rid his mind of. Watching your parents die right in front of you is something no seven-year-old should ever have to go through, but that’s just life. The timepiece didn’t even work anymore, but Mick still got plenty of use out of the compass with the hours him and Dell spent scanning maps, looking for their next town and praying it hadn’t been stripped to nothing; praying they got to survive another week. 

And then, a whopping 8 years later, they finally ran out of luck. It had been a tough winter. The snow had been insistent, blanketing and pillowing every square inch of land their tired eyes could see. The chill was extra bitter, nipping at their skin, their flesh, their blood ; their resolve. The two very quickly began to feel the effects of improper sleep and nutrition once the shivers began to wrack their frames, desperate to find any sort of reprieve. They had miraculously stumbled across a town so small it may as well have been a village, and further on, an abandoned taxidermy shop. Mick remembered the beady little eyes of every creature in that old building, strewn about. Some half-hanging off the wall, some littering the floor; the pungent scent of chemicals that still lingered in the air despite none of them being put to use for over a decade, if not longer. He had asked Dell if they could find somewhere else to sleep for the night, but it was so, so cold, and the shop was the most insulated, even if that didn’t say much. So, they pulled out their thick blankets and plopped right onto the ground, and in mere minutes the two were out, the promise of safety from the elements and the things that went bump at night finally letting their bodies surrender to slumber. 

A slow, drawn out, crooning “Oh Mickyyy~. Time to wake uuupp~” had roused Mick from his deep sleep, and he had awoken to two lifeless, black orbs right in his face, surrounded by the old, grimy fur of a dead raccoon. It had scared him so badly he screamed, and in his panic, he had kicked the possessor of the dingy taxidermy, Dell, right in the leg with such force it had sent his kneecap right out of place with a sickening pop. Dell’s snickers were swiftly replaced by his own scream as he collapsed to the floor, holding his leg and breathing through his teeth. Mick’s blood ran cold and before he even had a chance to fully wake up he was scrambling over, his hands cupping the air around the other’s knee, horrified at what he had just done. Dell had just kept saying “its alright, Stretch. It’s alright. I’ll be ok, I’ll be alright. It’s alright-“ in that soft, comforting voice and it just made Mick angrier at himself. And then Mick heard it. That drawling croak that had been a source of white-hot dread time and time again: the clicking of a clicker. Dell and Mick had both looked straight at each other with wide eyes, and the two of them fell dead quiet in a rigid tensity. But it was too late, the damage had been done. The croak turned into a screech, and Mick realized in terror that it wasn’t just one. It was multiple infected. Mick looked over at the small window of the door and he watched as three figures sprinted towards them, janky and uncoordinated. Air was sucked into his lungs in a jarring motion as fear iced his bones over, freezing him in place. They were already so close- 

Dell had shot up, using the wall behind him as leverage, and grabbed Mick, tugging him close to harshly whisper as he began dragging the younger across the room. He kept nearly tripping on the taxidermized animals beneath his feet with his lame leg in his urgency. 

“We need to get the fuck outta here, now! Cmon, let’s g-“ 

The already weak door proved to be a meager safeguard as it easily broke off its hinges as the weight of 3 bodies slammed against it, the infected crashing onto the floor with cries and groans on top of the sad piece of wood. Mick barely had time to look around before a vertigo overtook him and he was being thrown into the back room across the hallway, his shoulder painfully nicking the doorway. Mick cried out quietly as his heavy knapsack thudded into his chest, his arms barely making it in time to catch it. He looked up to see Dell already turning to face his three opponents and wielding his gun and machete with a grim but determined look on his face. Mick felt his heart drop and bile rise as Dell turned back around and shouted. 

“Go! Run until ya can’t run anymore, ya hear me? Run! ” 

Mick would never forgive himself for his cowardice. He listened. He ran. He ran until he couldn’t anymore. And when he couldn’t, he walked. And when he couldn’t, he dragged himself until he saw the geometric outlines of man-made buildings once more. He collapsed as soon as he saw the figures of watchmen looking over at him.

He had stumbled across the Boston Fortress.  

He was finally safe for the first time in his life. 

And it had cost him everyone. 

[haggishlyhagging]

“Dr. Edward H. Clarke's book Sex in Education, or a Fair Chance for the Girls was the great uterine manifeso of the nineteenth century. It appeared at the height of the pressure for co-education at Harvard, where Clarke was a professor, and went through seventeen editions in the space of a few years. Clarke reviewed the medical theories of female nature—the innate frailty of women, the brain-uterus competition—and concluded, with startling but unassailable logic, that higher education would cause women's uteruses to atrophy!

Armed with Clarke's arguments, doctors agitated vociferously against the dangers of female education. R. R. Coleman, M.D., of Birmingham, Alabama, thundered this warning:

Women beware. You are on the brink of destruction: You have hitherto been engaged in crushing your waists; now you are attempting to cultivate your mind: You have been merely dancing all night in the foul air of the ballroom; now you are beginning to spend your mornings in study. You have been incessantly stimulating your emotions with concerts and operas, with French plays, and French novels; now you are exerting your understanding to learn Greek, and solve propositions in Euclid. Beware!! Science pronounces that the woman who studies is lost.

Dozens of medical researchers rushed in to plant the banner of science on the territory opened up by Clarke's book. Female students, their studies showed, were pale, in delicate health, and prey to monstrous deviations from menstrual regularity. (Menstrual irregularity upset the doctor's sensibilities as much as female sexuality. Both were evidences of spontaneous, ungovernable forces at work in the female flesh.) A 1902 study showed that 42 per cent of the women admitted to insane asylums were well educated compared to only 16 per cent of the men—“proving,”obviously, that higher education was driving women crazy. But the consummate evidence was the college woman's dismal contribution to the birth rate. An 1895 study found that 28 per cent of female college graduates married, compared to 80 per cent of women in general. The birth rate was falling among white middle-class people in general, and most precipitously among the college educated. G. Stanley Hall, whose chapter on "Adolescent Girls and their Education" reviewed thirty years of medical arguments against female education, concluded with uncharacteristic sarcasm that the colleges were doing fine if their aim was to train "those who do not marry or if they are to educate for celibacy." "These institutions may perhaps come to be training stations of a new-old type, the agamic or agenic [i.e., sterile] woman, be she aunt, maid—old or young—nun, school-teacher, or bachelor woman."”

-Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English, For Her Own Good: 150 Years of the Experts’ Advice to Women

[bring-forth-your-justice]

Can I request a fem!reader comforting Atsushi when he's feeling lime a monster? Please???

This took a little longer to put up, mostly cuz I got sidetracked but better late than never-

Note: might need a little editing

TW// Just sad thoughts

word count: 900

Kindness was something only afforded to the well-off, those who had a future, and those who had a choice. 

Atsushi was neither.

A boy born alone was destined to die alone and lay beside souls akin to his. That was the only thing that he was granted at birth. At first he had no demands, no autonomy and no desire for it either. In a way he was content; in the sense that he felt such depths of despair that he knew there would never be anything better awaiting him. 

No matter how many tears he would shed while in that deplorable excuse for an orphanage, he only chose to blame himself for ever being born. He could never ask to receive a sliver of kindness, not as long as he was who he was;

a monster. 

Such thoughts left a mixture bittersweet tastes on his tongue, one in which he writhed in. When it settled in his mouth, refusing to leave, he took it as another punishment he deserved for being born.  

How someone could love something as pathetic as him was a joke that even the lowest of scums would have dying in a fit of laughter. 

No matter how long it had been since he left that damned orpahnage, regardless of how many people he had found who showed him love and kindness, regardless of intent, he could never push aside his resentment for himself. 

He was born a monster, not a boy. At least if he were, he would be afforded that tiny grace. Instead, Atsushi would be damned for his entire life for being born as something that brought ruin and danger.

Constantly did he run a race against himself. Not only was he his own victim, but the monster that desired only his blood. A never-ending cycle; stretching on until the day he stops regenerating his limbs and elongating his own suffering.

He never asked for an ability that would bring destruction to everything and everyone nearby, including himself. It was the reason he wasn’t afforded even human decency. It was why no one dared to glance in his direction, yet eyes would continue to haunt him, watching him intently with judgment and the desire to watch him perish.

Sometimes all he wanted was to scream into a void of nothing,

 “I never asked for this-!”

Again and again and again until his voice would give in and he would have nothing left of himself.

How long had it been since he grew to think of such horrid thoughts?

Did he ever love himself?

It was almost as if his memories were a barricade of what the world told him to remember. The torment, the suffering, the loathing. Lest he ever love himself or that beast that took respite inside him. Where were those memories of peace and comfort? He wasn’t sure they ever existed; but if they did, he so desperately wanted them back.

To change was all he could do now. It wasn’t too late was it?

Even if the world wanted him dead, he wanted to fight for a reason to exist. Even if he felt his thoughts slowly comply to the orders of the world, he would fight with himself for the sake of them, for her. 

They say that only fools are satisfied, and he was no fool to give in so easily, not yet at least. Not as long as he basked in her brilliant grace which bubbled his heart away from the disgruntled waves that came to wash him away.

“Your ability is a grace my love, a grace made to protect you in the world. A gift only granted to you because only you can make peace with it.”

Her words rang out, a symphony awaking him from a self-induced trance. Her embrace assuring him that he had not yet departed from this world yet, and neither would he have to. 

“You belong in this world, should you choose to believe it or not. Even if you deny its validity, know that you’ll always have a spot next to me.”

Was he awake?

How long had he been trapped inside his mind? 

It didn’t really matter, not when those thoughts were as fickle and fictitious as the painted shadows he cast on those he was scared to touch. Once again, he chose to flip the page, one darkened by his mind, and carry on. Swinging her hand from side to side, he walked beside her, the shadows that trailed after him all burnt up and dried somewhere far behind him, to a destination unknown. 

No matter how many times he fell to his thoughts, and his memories, and trapped himself in the depths of his mind, exactly where the beast could degrade his status as a person, she always found a way through that maze right to him.

In the end, he knew that one day both of them would rot away like fallen leaves, but regardless, all he desired was to live on frantically.

Shouldering their lives together, 

Living on,

Even if he was hated by life itself.

[alexanderwales]

hy Mr. Welles love your work there an inspration here are some questions I have been meaning to ask sorry if these are too many btw

1.what ar your favorites superman stories if that's okay to ask.

2. uh have you read the Gothamite fic which is a para/internal to your fanfic here it is in case you haven't read it https://the Gothamite.net .

3. How has life been going for you in general.

4. what is your favorite piece of media.

5.what is your favorite marvel character and did you ever plan on making a rational fic for a marvel superhero.

6. speaking of fics what is your favorite Superman fic since you have made one yourself mine Gettine Eating Alive by tandrelmairon and Dc the Golden Age of heroes by Komradekgbeast.

9. what has been your favorite story to write.

10. what are your thought on the Jewish aspect of superman do you thinks it under utilized or dont care about it or what.

11. what are stories you want to write some day.

and that's it love your work Alexander wells just keep on writing your stories are beutifual and amazing have a nice day.

On a plane right now, so you've caught me at a good moment:

I'm a huge fan of Superman: Red Son and Superman: Secret Identity. Generally I like stories that examine Superman as a powerful entity who needs to figure things out, and especially those that have some kind of Superman/Clark tension. I also like Lois Lane a lot, and the brash reporter archetype generally.

I have not read it, no. I generally don't enjoy reading fanfic of my stuff, though I'm happy that it exists, because it means people are getting something from the work.

Life has been fine. Just getting back from a convention where there was a ton of social stuff, and I am very drained, but also missing my wife. I also have piles of work to do right now.

Uh ... that's too broad. Favorite game is The Witness, favorite movie is Primer, favorite book is The Time Traveler's Wife, favorite painting is Birth of Venus (Bouguereau, not Boticelli), favorite comic is Calvin and Hobbes, favorite TV show is The Good Place (minus the ending), favorite song changes a lot, but is currently Father of Mine. All answers subject to change on the basis of mood, but none of those are going to drop out of the top ten.

Favorite Marvel character is difficult, but I guess I would say The Hulk because he seems really thematically rich. I am planning to write a movie script for Multiple Man this year, it's one of my New Year's Resolutions. No fanfic writing planned at the moment, unless someone from Marvel or DC gets in touch with me, in which case it's not technically fanfic.

It's been years since I've read any Superman fanfic, so I have to punt on this one, sorry.

Favorite story to write is probably one of the shorts, since they're usually finished in a single frantic sitting. Eager Readers in Your Area or Instruments of Destruction.

So far as I understand it, most of the Jewish stuff comes from the Kryptonian religion stuff, which is just ... not that interesting to me? Superman was canonically raised either Lutheran or Methodist or something. I think if you wanted to examine it, having it be a parallel to someone who comes to their chosen religion late in life might be ... interesting? But I was raised Mennonite, not Jewish, so maybe I'm uninterested because I know there would be a ton of research to do if I wanted to write it, and if I was reading it, there's a lot that would go over my head. I think "Superman as immigrant" is much more fertile ground.

I've got a very long list of things that I want to write. The next one is Doomsday Pivot, a system apocalypse type thing that I'm editing up right now. But there are more ideas than I have time to write.

Sorry if the numbering got messed up.

[kazaligog]

“It is thus that often our progeny are our destruction, as fire consumes the wood from which it springs”

― Vishnu Purana

I reached over and pulled my hand across the rivets of this twelve mile long fence with a tender hand, imagining myself walking the line it created. 

I stood confidently on the center ring with my arms outstretched while every gust of sand tattered wind came to drag me through to the other side. My mother’s warnings rang through my mind like clock tower bells and every tug on the wrist would pull me through: into the world she thought I belonged to.

I thought of how she would see me as I turned my back on her and the world she slept through, turning to my father, dead where he stands, and walking on with eyes wide shut. 

My destiny was no longer a coin flip of my parent’s fates. It was mine to decide.

Fate was a game to my father. It was a plaything that chose for you which side of his war you were on. Fate made you where you stand but it was just as much a game, a roll of the dice by the hands of something you have never understood, as it was something that created your truth.

If my father had taught us anything, it’s that those fates are not gods or deities. 

They are men.

My childhood, like so many others, was cast off to the hands of those men who shape and mold your future, who you are "meant to be", in exchange for your true talent: your ability to simply be. 

The primal act of survival isn’t enough for the world anymore. 

Now, our parents, your guardians from birth till your ultimate debut, dress you up for a duty you can hardly comprehend and a fate driven by someone you know only by name. My father knew I wouldn’t matter and maybe I still don’t but I knew something about what he did to me. 

I search for his kind because they have woven into me something I cannot remove on my own: hatred. They dissect your nerves looking for recruits and once they puppeteer your life, you become what you hate: the man who became god's servant. My father's servant. 

A Plaster Saint.

Edit: You can send me asks about them too. I'll answer them to the best of my abilities since I don't want the whole blog to be an info dump about my children. <3 I also do art and am thinking about doing commissions?? Idk. I haven't gotten this far before.