#⟨ ⋅ ✶ ˖ ࣪ 「 you built up a world of magic because your real life is tragic —— ❛ povs ❜ ⧽

[camcorderrevival]

do you guys know about her????

[starikune]

Tag Dump Part 4.

[ehlihr]

YOU BUILT UP A WORLD OF MAGIC BECAUSE YOUR REAL LIFE IS TRAGIC!

dungeon meshi animatic. a demon came over me. the whole song works so well ive been thinking about itttt

[quirkbeat]

TAG DROP: TODOROKI FUYUMI

[librababe99]

Healing Touch

cw: MDNI, 18+, Smut, Fluff, Young!Charles Xavier, Fem!Reader word count: 2.7K Summary: In the mid-1970s, Charles Xavier is a man haunted by loss and burdened by the weight of his own mind. When you, a fellow mutant, offer him not only companionship but a love he never expected, the walls he has built around his heart begin to crumble.

A/N: Since I wrote for Erik I felt that writing for Charles balances everything out <3 Forgive me if mentioning the cuban missile crisis at the beginning throws off the timeline in anyway, we don't have to jump into technicalities...lol! Anyways, please feel free to comment, reblog or like this <3 happy reading!

(Marvel Masterlist)

The 1970s had a way of weaving magic into the air—rife with a rebellious freedom, spinning off the back of a decade of upheaval. Amidst the intoxicating haze of civil rights movements, psychedelic music, and ever-changing fashion, there was something magnetic about this era, as if the world were in the throes of rediscovering itself. And in that same time, tucked away in the heart of Westchester County, Charles Xavier was a man rediscovering himself too—one who had seen the world both at its brightest and at its darkest.

The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning had become more than just a school. With the Cuban Missile Crisis a decade behind them and the threat of mutants still very much real, Charles had been pulled into a storm that had rocked him to his core. The man who had once been so full of optimism and hope had become someone else—someone hardened by loss, crippled both physically and emotionally. He had found himself retreating from the world, isolating behind the walls of his mansion, letting the noise of the outside world fade into a dull, muted hum.

But then there was you.

You had come into Charles’s life by chance, a fellow mutant with abilities that he couldn’t help but be drawn to. He had noticed you first because of your power—something akin to empathy, the ability to feel and manipulate the emotions of others. It was subtle, nothing explosive like fire or ice, but it was potent in its own right. In some ways, Charles found it even more fascinating, for it spoke to the heart of what he had always believed—that mutants were more than just their powers; they were people with gifts, capable of great good or terrible destruction depending on how they wielded them.

But it wasn’t just your abilities that caught his attention. There was something about you that stirred something long-buried inside him. You were strong, yes, but kind too—empathetic not just because of your powers but because of who you were at your core. And in a world where Charles had grown tired of fighting, tired of losing, you had become a beacon of warmth in the cold. Your presence began to thaw the ice he had encased himself in, and though he resisted it at first, that pull between you was undeniable.

It was a Friday night, and the mansion was quiet, the students having all gone off for the weekend. The air outside was thick with the scent of rain, the clouds heavy and swollen, but inside, there was a warmth that clung to the air. You had found Charles in his study, a glass of scotch in hand, seated behind the large oak desk that had become almost a throne for him. He was disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair slightly out of place in a way that made him seem more human, less like the esteemed Professor Xavier he had always tried to be.

You knocked softly on the doorframe, leaning against it with a playful smile. "You look like you could use a break."

Charles glanced up from his drink, his eyes settling on you in that way that always sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes—those sharp, piercing blue eyes—were tired, but they softened when they met yours. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "A break from what, exactly?"

You shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward him. "From thinking. From brooding. From being Charles Xavier, mutant extraordinaire." You reached his desk and perched yourself on the edge of it, your knee brushing his thigh as you did so. His eyes flickered down to the point of contact, and you saw the briefest hitch in his breath.

“I don’t brood,” he replied, though the smile that followed betrayed his words.

“Oh, you most certainly do.” You leaned forward, teasingly close, just enough that he could feel your presence in the air between you. “You sit in this big, empty mansion, all alone, with your thoughts and your scotch, and you brood.”

Charles chuckled softly, though there was something in the sound that was darker, more resigned. “Maybe I do.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes distant for a moment. “There��s a lot to think about these days.”

You watched him for a moment, your gaze softening. Charles had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, even before the accident that had left him in a wheelchair. But now, that weight seemed heavier, as though the world had taken too much from him.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his wrist, and the moment you touched him, you could feel it—a deep, aching sadness, buried beneath layers of composure and strength. It was like touching a wound that had never quite healed.

“I can feel it, you know,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles looked up at you, and for a moment, the walls he had built around himself seemed to crumble, leaving behind the man he had tried so hard to hide. “Feel what?” His voice was just as soft, but there was an edge to it, a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.

You smiled gently, your fingers trailing up his arm, barely grazing his skin. “Everything. The pain, the loss, the weight of all of it. You’re carrying so much, Charles. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he did. “And what if I don’t want you to feel it?”

“Then I won’t,” you whispered, your hand now resting against his chest, right over his heart. “But I want to help you carry it. I want to be there for you.”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he seemed to struggle with something deep inside him, as though he were warring with himself. Then, slowly, he reached up, his hand covering yours as it rested on his chest. His touch was warm, gentle, and yet there was a tension in the way he held you, as though he were afraid to let go.

“I don’t deserve that,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Your heart clenched at his words, and without thinking, you leaned forward, closing the distance between you until your lips were inches from his. “You deserve so much more than you think, Charles.”

And then you kissed him.

It was soft at first, tentative, as though you were testing the waters, waiting to see if he would pull away. But he didn’t. Instead, his hand tightened around yours, and you felt him respond, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that surprised you both.

The kiss deepened, the years of longing, pain, and desire pouring into it with a ferocity that neither of you had expected. You could feel the way his body tensed beneath you, the way his breathing quickened as he lost himself in the moment.

Before you knew it, you were climbing into his lap, straddling him as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. Charles groaned against your lips, his hands sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips as though he were afraid you might disappear if he let go.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice thick with desire and hesitation.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your forehead resting against his as you smiled softly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His response was a low, guttural sound that sent a thrill racing through you, and before you knew it, he was kissing you again, more desperate this time, as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and Charles let out a breathless laugh, the sound vibrating against your lips as you finally managed to push the fabric aside, revealing the hard planes of his chest. You ran your hands over his skin, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Charles let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that broke your heart. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his neck. “Then they’re all fools.”

His hands were everywhere, exploring your body as though he couldn’t quite believe you were real. His touch was gentle at first, almost reverent, but there was a fire behind it, a need that he had kept buried for far too long.

When you finally peeled off your shirt, you heard him suck in a breath, his eyes darkening with desire as he took you in. “God, you’re—” His voice broke off, as though he couldn’t quite find the words, but you didn’t need him to.

You kissed him again, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the way his body responded to you, the way he trembled beneath your touch. You could feel the tension between you building, the air thick with anticipation.

And then, slowly, you began to move against him, your hips grinding against his in a rhythm that had both of you gasping for breath. Charles’s hands gripped your hips, guiding you, matching your movements with a desperate need.

“Please,” he breathed, his voice ragged.

You didn’t need to ask what he wanted. You could feel it, the desire, the longing, the need for release that had been building between you for so long. You reached between your bodies, your fingers making quick work of the zipper of his pants.

When he finally slid into you, the sensation was overwhelming—an electric jolt that sent shockwaves through your entire body. Charles let out a broken gasp, his hands gripping

as he pulled you closer, his body trembling beneath yours. You could feel the tension in him, every muscle wound tight, as if he were barely holding himself together.

You both paused for a moment, the sheer intensity of the connection stealing the breath from your lungs. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this, like every nerve in your body had come alive, attuned to him and only him. Charles's forehead pressed against your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin as you both adjusted, savoring the feeling of being so intimately joined.

“God,” he whispered, almost reverently. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”

Your fingers slid up into his hair, cradling his head, and you pressed a soft kiss to the top of it, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his voice. “Then take me, Charles. I’m yours.”

That was all the permission he needed.

With a low, guttural sound, Charles’s grip on your hips tightened, and he began to move beneath you, slow at first, a steady rhythm that made you gasp with every roll of his hips. He filled you so perfectly, each movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. You matched his pace, rocking against him, savoring the slow burn that built between you, the friction pulling you both closer to the edge with every passing second.

Charles’s hands roamed your body, sliding up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, then slipping lower, his fingers digging into your skin with barely restrained intensity. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat.

“Charles…” you gasped, your head tilting back as you gave him more access.

His lips parted against your skin, and you could feel the groan that rumbled in his chest. “I can feel you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Every thought, every emotion—it’s overwhelming.”

You leaned back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with need, but there was something else there too—something raw, something so deep and primal that it made your heart race.

“Don’t hide from me,” you whispered, your hands cradling his face. “Feel me. All of me.”

Charles’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if letting go of the barriers he had so carefully constructed. And then, all at once, it hit you—the full weight of his mind brushing against yours, the flood of emotions crashing over you like a tidal wave.

It wasn’t just desire you felt—though that was certainly there, sharp and electric, searing through your veins. It was everything. His longing, his fear, the deep well of sadness that had haunted him for so long, and underneath it all, a love so profound it left you breathless.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as the sensation of his mind intertwining with yours sent a jolt of pleasure through you, heightening everything. The room around you seemed to fade, the only thing that existed in that moment was him���his body, his mind, and the way he was utterly consuming you.

Charles groaned, his hips bucking up into you with a sudden intensity that made you cry out. “I’ve never felt anything like this,” he panted, his voice strained, as though he were on the edge of losing control.

You could barely form words, the pleasure building inside you almost unbearable. “Charles, please…”

He understood without needing to ask. His hands slid down to your hips again, guiding you faster now, his movements more urgent, more desperate. You could feel the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring wound too far, ready to snap.

And then, with one hard thrust, you shattered.

A wave of ecstasy washed over you, white-hot and all-consuming, leaving you trembling in its wake. You cried out his name, your body arching against his, and you could feel him lose himself in the moment too, his hands gripping you so tightly it almost hurt as he followed you over the edge.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop, the only sound in the room your ragged breaths and the thrum of your racing heartbeat. You slumped against Charles, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you both came down from the high.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, as though afraid to let go. You could still feel the echo of his mind against yours, the connection between you not quite severed, and it brought a sense of intimacy that was unlike anything you had ever known.

After a long moment, Charles broke the silence, his voice soft and hoarse. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Neither did I.”

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes were still dark, but there was a softness to them now, a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You frowned slightly. “For what?”

“For reminding me what it’s like to feel something other than pain.” His voice was filled with a quiet reverence, as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a slow, tender kiss. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore, Charles. I’m here.”

He smiled, a real, genuine smile that made your heart flutter. “I know.”

You shifted slightly, still straddling his lap, and Charles let out a soft groan. The movement stirred something in you both, a flicker of desire reigniting as your bodies remained entwined.

“You know,” you said playfully, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, “we’ve got the whole mansion to ourselves tonight.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his smile turning into something more mischievous. “Is that so?”

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Maybe we should take advantage of that.”

His breath hitched, and you felt his hands tighten on your hips. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smiled against his skin, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “Then I’ll make it a night you won’t forget.”

With that, you began to move again, slow and teasing, savoring every moment of the night ahead.

[thatwritergirlsblog]

Advice for Creating a Magic System

As a fantasy author, I thought I'd share my 5 tips for creating a captivating magic system.

1. Are you writing low fantasy or high fantasy?

Firstly, it's good to know from the get-go whether you're creating a magic system for a low fantasy or high fantasy story.

Low fantasy doesn't necessarily mean there are less fantastical elements or that the story has to take place in a version of the real world. Low fantasy simply indicates that the fantasy elements/magic is not commonplace in that world. Magic and other fantasy elements exist, but only a privy few know about it.

Examples of low fantasy stories include Harry Potter by She Who Shall Not be Named, the Mortal Instruments by Cassandra Clare, Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo, Twilight by Stephenie Meyer and my book To Wear A Crown.

High fantasy, on the other hand, indicates that the fantastical elements and magic are known about and commonplace in that world. The people of the world know that magic exists, that there are fantastical beings, other races etc.

Examples of high fantasy stories include Eragon by Christopher Paolini, Crescent City by Sarah J Maas, The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R Tolkien, and Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard.

2. Hard magic systems vs soft magic systems

The next thing that's vital to decide is whether you're creating a hard or soft magic system.

A hard magic system has built-in limitations. There are certain things that magic can do and that's it. Examples of stories with hard magic systems include Avatar: The Last Airbender and Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo.

A soft magic system doesn't have inherent limitations in relation to what it can achieve. Examples of soft magic systems include Eragon, Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings.

3. What can magic do?

Now that you know whether you're writing low or high fantasy, and whether you're working with a hard or soft magic system, it's time to create some magic!

This is the part where I can't give you too much guidance, because it's all about your creativity.

What do you want magic to look like in your story? What do you want magic to be able to achieve? How big of a role do you want magic to play in the story and your characters' lives?

Do you want different classes of magic wielders, each with mastery over their own element? Do you want magic to be a flexible tool that can be used to achieve almost anything? Do you want your magic to be limited to telepathic actions or creating portals? Do you want different people to have power over different aspects of nature or different magical disciplines?

Can wielders use magic without any tools, or do they need spells, runes or rituals?

The possibilities are endless, but it's important to establish exactly what magic is capable of in your world.

4. How does it work and where does it come from?

Now we know what the magic can do. Next up is why it can do those things. Where does the power of the magic come from and how do wielders command it?

Does the power/force of magic come from within the wielder? Does it draw from inner life force and energy? Does it draw on energy from another realm or dimension? Does it pull from the surrounding natural elements? Does the power come from a deity or from demonic forces?

Identify the source/origin of the magic.

From there, elaborate on how it works. How does a wielder access the source of the magic? Is it through strength of will, incantations, selling their soul etc.?

For example, let's say that the power of your world's magic comes from the cosmic energy of another dimension. In order for wielders to access that energy, they draw specific sigils on their skin and these sigils act as portals to that world. Once the sigil is complete, the cosmic power flows into the wielder and they can now command it.

5. The limitations

Very importantly, you have to be clear on the limitations of your magic system. Fantasy magic systems often fall flat because they don't have clear confines.

If you're writing a hard magic system, this step is a bit easier, since there are inherent restrictions on what magic can do. With soft magic systems, you have to decide just how much magic is capable of.

But whether you're writing a hard or soft magic system, you need to consider the cost of using magic.

Does the use of magic drain the wielder's energy? Does each instance of using magic darken the wielder's soul or deteriorate their body further? Does using magic damage the natural world around the wielder or drain others of their life force?

Magic without a cost, limitations or consequences just isn't as captivating.

Reblog if you liked these tips. Comment with your own advice. Follow me for similar content.

[r0-boat]

MC naked & afraid featuring 7 idiots Headcannons

(What in hell is bad! survival Island headcannons)

Based off of my whb survival Island poll

Author's notes: I'm watching a documentary right now This shit made me laugh so hard imagining these demons becoming feral

It was supposed to be a cruise Mammon was testing out his new cruise ship but something horribly wrong happened where you and the seven kings were stranded on an island in the human world. Their powers unable to work for plot reasons.

They're not stuck forever They can go back home but a rescue team will take a month to arrive.

Satan

Satan somehow got a campfire running. He got so angry he lit the fire based off of pure anger. Because Leviathan was bullying him that he didn't know how to start a simple fire and asked him to hand over the sticks. Satan said "NO! FUCK YOU PUSSY BITCH I GOT IT!"

Satan is a really good hunter, like an exceptional hunter. And he quickly goes into his role. It's been 2 days and now He wears the pelt of his latest kill. Hey sharpens his own tools and he looks like a savage according to Leviathan.

Satan has gotten a thrill for the hunt and for some reason he keeps staring at you....

Mammon

For an hour he's been looking around this deserted island it is populated with native animals and foliage as well as fresh water. You know what he's thinking about... Turning this island into another one of his villas.

When he is not checking out this island as if he's trying to purchase real estate He's actually helping you with building a shelter. Tino's absolutely nothing about building shelters but he's glad to be your heavy muscles and tools for whenever you can't do something.

Following Satan His deconstruction of a civil man has begun but the only thing that really changed is his shirt came off that's it... Only because It got ripped when Satan and him had a fight.

Leviathan

He hates this he fucking hates this. Everyone's running around like headless chickens and he's the only competent devil (except for Lucifer)

He's been better... He was actually a lot worse when you first crashed on the island You had to actually calm him down from his panic attack and when he did finally calm down He has been clinging to you like his life depended on it. Using you as some kind of strange therapy. Becoming more possessive over you.

Anything you're doing he is doing with you no questions ask if anyone were to question it he will take a sharp rock and stab them right in the eye.

Beelzebub

As soon as you woke up in the sand Beelzebub. You wanted to search for him But the other kings we're not worried for him at all.

Before the sun goes down he does turn up with a stick sharpened into a spear and food. Beel is an exceptional hunter. He is the reason why All of you aren't starving. Beel can literally eat anything But that doesn't mean you and other devils can't. So if he tells you not to eat something don't need it.

Beel and Satan have some kind of dick measuring competition with killing and hunting prey. Satan comes back with a rabbit, Beel catches a wild boar, Satan comes back with a big fish, Beel comes back with a crocodile.

Lucifer

Oh my god finally a competent devil. Lucifer is the most important devil since he can heal injuries as well as sicknesses. Even though his magic isn't in effect he still knows a lot of natural plant remedies. He knows every plant species that God has made.

He looks at you with an odd look, while you follow his instructions closely on how to build a proper shelter.

He takes this chance to study you as if you were his science project every time you get a bump I scrape or scratch He studies you meticulously how your human body heals naturally slowly. His fingers delicately tracing each scar you've ever had.

Belphegor

Motherfucker is either asleep or jacking off while you guys do the work. He's so lucky to have all these hard workers working for him and with the shelter built he could finally... It's not comfortable...

He knows that you guys are doing your best and what not but damn sleeping on the ground sucks ass wipe. He wants to find natural soft moss or bedding just for a better sleep.

Because of Belphegor The shelter in looks more and more comfortable with his additions which he always adamantly reminds you. Every time you go in there's new shit added and it looks more like a nest then a shelter.

Asmodeus

Oh yeah the clothes are gone... Are you surprised? This demon has become full feral and he loves it. An island paradise for you and him and of the other 6 would like to join they're more than welcome to.

This uncivilized natural land spark something inside him that you don't want anything to do with.

After you literally threatened not to have sex with him for 2 months until he puts his clothes back on He decides to use leaves or vines instead now he just looks like PornHub Tarzan...

Bonus:

This devil is the king of lust, He has been eyeing this human potential mate for a while now...

The human bathing in the crystal pool catch a sight of him, They seem weary but content with his presence.

This is his chance The devil puffs out his chest showing off his horn it is a devil's way of showing strength and virility.

In his usual habitat He would be the undisputed king. But now his territory is shared. And another eyes his prey.

The human looks into the foliage before jumping back a splash of water fills his vision he hears warning hiss as his opponent comes in view a devil of envy, He has already laid claim to them and he will not back down.

Unlike his one horn this male has two, two against one is hardly fair but that doesn't mean he'll stand down without a fight.

Before these two demons can fight for this potential mate, the human screams "STOP FUCKING AROUND!! I'M TRYING TO BATHE GET OUT!!"

[writingwithcolor]

My alternate universe fantasy colonial Hong Kong is more authoritarian and just as racist but less homophobic than in real life, should I change that?

@floatyhands asked:

I’m a Hongkonger working on a magical alternate universe dystopia set in what is basically British colonial Hong Kong in the late 1920s. My main character is a young upper middle-class Eurasian bisexual man.  I plan to keep the colony’s historical racial hierarchy in this universe, but I also want the fantasy quirks to mean that unlike in real life history, homosexuality was either recently decriminalized, or that the laws are barely enforced, because my boy deserves a break. Still, the institutions are quite homophobic, and this relative tolerance might not last. Meanwhile, due to other divergences (e.g. eldritch horrors, also the government’s even worse mishandling of the 1922 Seamen's Strike and the 1925 Canton-Hong Kong Strike), the colonial administration is a lot more authoritarian than it was in real history. This growing authoritarianism is not exclusive to the colony, and is part of a larger global trend in this universe.  I realize these worldbuilding decisions above may whitewash colonialism, or come off as choosing to ignore one colonial oppression in favor of exaggerating another. Is there any advice as to how I can address this issue? (Maybe I could have my character get away by bribing the cops, though institutional corruption is more associated with the 1960s?) Thank you!

Historical Precedent for Imperialistic Gay Rights

There is a recently-published book about this topic that might actually interest you: Racism And The Making of Gay Rights by Laurie Marhoefer (note: I have yet to read it, it’s on my list). It essentially describes how the modern gay rights movement was built from colonialism and imperialism. 

The book covers Magnus Hirschfeld, a German sexologist in the early 1900s, and (one of) his lover(s), Li Shiu Tong, who he met in British Shanghai. Magnus is generally considered to have laid the groundwork for a lot of gay rights, and his research via the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft was a target of Nazi book-burnings, but he was working with imperial governments in an era where the British Empire was still everywhere. 

Considering they both ended up speaking to multiple world leaders about natural human sexual variation both in terms of intersex issues and sexual attraction, your time period really isn’t that far off for people beginning to be slightly more open-minded—while also being deeply imperialist in other ways.

The thing about this particular time period is homosexuality as we know it was recently coming into play, starting with the trial of Oscar Wilde and the rise of Nazism. But between those two is a pretty wildly fluctuating gap of attitudes.

Oscar Wilde’s trial is generally considered the period where gay people, specifically men who loved men, started becoming a group to be disliked for disrupting social order. It was very public, very scandalous, and his fall from grace is one of the things that drove so many gay and/or queer men underground. It also helped produce some of the extremely queercoded classical literature of the Victorian and Edwardian eras (ex: Dracula), because so many writers were exploring what it meant to be seen as such negative forces. A lot of people hated Oscar Wilde for bringing the concept to such a public discussion point, when being discreet had been so important.

But come the 1920s, people were beginning to wonder if being gay was that bad, and Mangus Hirschfeld managed to do a world tour of speaking come the 1930s, before all of that was derailed by wwii. He (and/or Li Shiu Tong) were writing papers that were getting published and sent to various health departments about how being gay wasn’t an illness, and more just an “alternative” way of loving others. 

This was also the era of Boston Marriages where wealthy single women lived together as partners (I’m sure there’s an mlm-equivalent but I cannot remember or find it). People were a lot less likely to care if you kept things discreet, so there might be less day to day homophobia than one would expect. Romantic friendships were everywhere, and were considered the ideal—the amount of affection you could express to your same-sex best friend was far above what is socially tolerable now.

Kaz Rowe has a lot of videos with cited bibliographies about various queer disasters [affectionate] of the late 1800s/early 1900s, not to mention a lot of other cultural oddities of the Victorian era (and how many of those attitudes have carried into modern day) so you can start to get the proper terms to look it up for yourself.

I know there’s a certain… mistrust of specifically queer media analysts on YouTube in the current. Well. Plagiarism/fact-creation scandal (if you don’t know about the fact-creation, check out Todd in the Shadows). I recommend Kaz because they have citations on screen and in the description that aren’t whole-cloth ripped off from wikipedia’s citation list (they’ve also been published via Getty Publications, a museum press). 

For audio-preferring people (hi), a video is more accessible than text, and sometimes the exposure to stuff that’s able to pull exact terms can finally get you the resources you need. If text is more accessible, just jump to the description box/transcript and have fun. Consider them and their work a starting place, not a professor. 

There is always a vulnerability in learning things, because we can never outrun our own confirmation bias and we always have limited time to chase down facts and sources—we can only do our best and be open to finding facts that disprove what we researched prior.

Colonialism’s Popularity Problem

Something about colonialism that I’ve rarely discussed is how some colonial empires actually “allow” certain types of “deviance” if that deviance will temporarily serve its ends. Namely, when colonialism needs to expand its territory, either from landing in a new area or having recently messed up and needing to re-charm the population.

By that I mean: if a fascist group is struggling to maintain popularity, it will often conditionally open its doors to all walks of life in order to capture a greater market. It will also pay its spokespeople for the privilege of serving their ends, often very well. Authoritarians know the power of having the token supporter from a marginalized group on payroll: it both opens you up directly to that person’s identity, and sways the moderates towards going “well they allow [person/group] so they can’t be that bad, and I prefer them.”

Like it or not, any marginalized group can have its fascist members, sometimes even masquerading as the progressives. Being marginalized does not automatically equate to not wanting fascism, because people tend to want fascist leaders they agree with instead of democracy and coalition building. People can also think that certain people are exaggerating the horrors of colonialism, because it doesn’t happen to good people, and look, they accept their friends who are good people, so they’re fine. 

A dominant fascist group can absolutely use this to their advantage in order to gain more foot soldiers, which then increases their raw numbers, which puts them in enough power they can stop caring about opening their ranks, and only then do they turn on their “deviant” members. By the time they turn, it’s usually too late, and there’s often a lot of feelings of betrayal because the spokesperson (and those who liked them) thought they were accepted, instead of just used.

You said it yourself that this colonial government is even stricter than the historical equivalent—which could mean it needs some sort of leverage to maintain its popularity. “Allowing” gay people to be some variation of themselves would be an ideal solution to this, but it would come with a bunch of conditions. What those conditions are I couldn’t tell you—that’s for your own imagination, based off what this group’s ideal is, but some suggestions are “follow the traditional dating/friendship norms”, “have their own gender identity slightly to the left of the cis ideal”, and/or “pretend to never actually be dating but everyone knows and pretends to not care so long as they don’t out themselves”—that would signal to the reader that this is deeply conditional and about to all come apart. 

It would, however, mean your poor boy is less likely to get a break, because he would be policed to be the “acceptable kind of gay” that the colonial government is currently tolerating (not unlike the way the States claims to support white cis same-sex couples in the suburbs but not bipoc queer-trans people in polycules). It also provides a more salient angle for this colonial government to come crashing down, if that’s the way this narrative goes.

Colonial governments are often looking for scapegoats; if gay people aren’t the current one, then they’d be offered a lot more freedom just to improve the public image of those in power. You have the opportunity to have the strikers be the current scapegoats, which would take the heat off many other groups—including those hit by homophobia.

In Conclusion

Personally, I’d take a more “gays for Trump” attitude about the colonialism and their apparent “lack” of homophobia—they’re just trying to regain popularity after mishandling a major scandal, and the gay people will be on the outs soon enough.

You could also take the more nuanced approach and see how imperialism shaped modern gay rights and just fast-track that in your time period, to give it the right flavour of imperialism. A lot of BIPOC lgbtqa+ people will tell you the modern gay rights movement is assimilationalist, colonialist, and other flavours of ick, so that angle is viable.

You can also make something that looks more accepting to the modern eye by leaning heavily on romantic friendships that encouraged people waxing poetic for their “best friends”, keeping the “lovers” part deeply on the down low, but is still restrictive and people just don’t talk about it in public unless it’s in euphemisms or among other same-sex-attracted people because there’s nothing wrong with loving your best friend, you just can’t go off and claim you’re a couple like a heterosexual couple is.

Either way, you’re not sanitizing colonialism inherently by having there be less modern-recognized homophobia in this deeply authoritarian setting. You just need to add some guard rails on it so that, sure, your character might be fine if he behaves, but there are still “deviants” that the government will not accept. 

Because that’s, in the end, one of the core tenants that makes a government colonial: its acceptance of groups is frequently based on how closely you follow the rules and police others for not following them, and anyone who isn’t their ideal person will be on the outs eventually. But that doesn’t mean they can’t have a facade of pretending those rules are totally going to include people who are to the left of those ideals, if those people fit in every other ideal, or you’re safe only if you keep it quiet.

~ Leigh

[jaythes1mp]

Escapism

You often dreamt of them. Of how they would come and sweep you away from reality, taking you into their incredible world, where you'd fit in seamlessly among the chaos of their everyday lives. How perfectly you’d fit into their little family.

But it was all just one big vivid daydream, an illusion created by the pixels on your screen. The characters, as captivating as they were, existed only in the realm of fiction. You longed for connection, for belonging, for them. But each chapter read, each game played, each show watched, served as a poignant reminder that they weren’t real.

It hurt.

Escapism, she had called it.

They were your escape.

Perhaps it was for the best. Those who advocate for moderation have always preached that too much of anything can ruin the experience.

After all, the allure of the fictional worlds was derived from the fact that they were fictional. The very absence of reality was what made them so exhilarating, so tantalising. If you were to suddenly be thrust into that universe, the magic would be ruined. The illusion shattered. They say, after all, that nothing ruins things more than familiarity.

Maybe, in some twisted way, this was better.

It sounds amazing, it feels incredible, you want it, you crave it, and it will be all you can think about... but if you had it... you'd only wish for more.

It's a never ending cycle of want, wish and hope. A never-ending quest for a perfection that doesn't exist. You yearn for it, but at the same time, a part of you knows that if you were to gain it... you'd only be left with an insatiable desire. Because once the initial amazement and shock wears off, the reality of things would sink in. The novelty of it would fade, and you’d be left with, well, just another life.

And then what would you do?

Flee back to reality in search of the comfort of familiarity?

Search for respite in another fictional being?

What you have will never be enough.

Even when given everything you think you want, you'll still be left with that hollow feeling inside. Because when reality sinks in, you discover that what you had built up in your mind was just an illusion. A dream.

You feel full for a little while, satisfied even, but then again, the hunger pangs start, and you're back to square one, chasing that next 'high' to fill the void inside.

It's a vicious cycle. So why bother wishing for things? Why not just content yourself with the life you've been dealt?

Because at the end of the day, you're only human.

And although we often like to say that more doesn't equal better, we all yearn for that extra bit that makes life worth living. We crave those more special moments. We're not just content with the ordinary, we aspire to be extraordinary. We want to live.

We want that little bit extra. And that's not a fault.

It's human nature.

「Is it not?」

Comments, reblogs, asks, and messages are all very appreciated and encouraged!

Currently working on new fic called ‘Shallow’. Anyone want to guess what it’s about?🦖🦖

[sgiandubh]

In Jake Norton's words...

Among domestic clearer political skies (yes, thank God, it's improving greatly!), it is with much interest that I read Jake Norton's first blog entry about the Everest trek with S and team. You can find it here: https://jakenorton.com/reflections-on-hunku/

Here are the excerpts I found most telling, but I do encourage you to read it all. It is genuine, it is honest and it is real. This guy does not need to sugarcoat anything, indeed - not that mountaineers were this particular type, either.

'An adventurous soul with a heart of gold', who 'rose to it all, never flustered or bothered, always interested and engaged and inquisitive.' Remember (ROFLMAO), this is not Tash, the Twitter Sparkle Lounge madame, speaking from her fangirling mirador at a random OL con. This is what a man with a 30 years experience of high-altitude trekking has to say about his unlikely, but enthusiastic travel companion. And to make the unintended (but honest) Slap-an-Idiot operation even more resounding, he then proceeds to explain why this is not even remotely an indulgent judgement of the character. He could not be clearer about it:

'And, to be honest, my little coffeeshop meeting was both to suss out his interest and let him meet me (and judge me) in person, but also, more importantly, to feel him out. Guiding for me is not simply an economic thing, transactional, but about time and people and experience. I’ve done too many “off-the-shelf” trips in the past to have zero tolerance for sharing the mountains with people whose goals and values are misaligned with mine. It took but minutes with Sam to know our worlds, while vastly different, were built upon similar ideas and ideals and approaches.'

He guided S the only possible way one must travel through Asia: with an open mind and an even more open heart. They deliberately ran away from five-stars accommodation (this blogger always combines the humble and the glam, with a noted preference for the genuine 'humble') and graciously responded to the local people's enthusiasm - something that will always be the most beautiful surprise to any traveler who successfully unlearned how to behave like a tourist:

'Unfortunately for Sam, I don’t really believe in the sugar-coated version of Nepal; fancy hotels and windowed views of life are little more than television with smell. I want people to see the real Nepal, wander the back streets, immerse in the smoky incense of dawn on cobbled streets, bells chiming and dogs barking, ambling through the visceral reality that is Pashupatinath, taking in the respite of Bodhanath, embracing the comforting chaos of alleys and backways of Lalitpur.'

Reading this made me both feel nostalgic and itchy. For even if you might find me enjoying high tea, in the Bangkok Mandarin Oriental's Author Lounge, my heart will always, always fondly remember the magical nights in a humble Hmong thatched hut at Ban Somsavath, somewhere midway from Vientiane to Luang Prabang. But that is personal and I wouldn't dare mix it up with someone else's experience, so I won't insist. What I can tell you, though, is that I absolutely believe S is honest when he says he will be back: for it is not the traveler that chooses Asia - it is Asia that carefully, deliberately chooses the traveler.

These sounds are mine. They will always resound loudly in my soul, for too many reasons to list here in tearing haste. Why did I add them, though? Because once your plane crosses the Everest, the magic begins in earnest:

[oh-no-its-bird]

Look all I'm saying is that if I were going to make a minecraft movie.

Well, first off I'd put down the first person to even reccomend we do it in cgi. Not just because it looks objectively terrible and half of the magic and nostalgia factor of minecraft is in its texture but holy shit budget much??? You are literally looking at a situation where the cheaper option is also objectively the better option. What the fuck are you doing

But I mean, after that.

Second off, all my writers must watch popular smps and minecraft roleplays/let's plays to understand the "magic" of the game. That's how we're studying for this, not the game books or whatever. Those guys are clearly doing smthn right, and as the executive/writer who knows very little about mineraft that I am in this hypothetical scenario, I need to do my best to make money. And that means learning what people like about the game and community.

Maybe even bring on some popular (non controversial please god) smp writers for consulting. They literally make minecraft movies as their fucking job, they are the expert u need to consult

Story wise, you NEED to choose if you wanna play this straight or silly. I'm so sick of movies trying to be all emotional and "ohh this world is so beautiful,, if u could only understand,, woaa" with their epic sound track and dramatic lighting, but then the dialogue being ripped out of a stupid marvel knockoff trying too hard to be witty

Anyways. Give me a generic "kid has a hard life and uses [thing] to escape it but then their parent trashes [thing] to teach them a "lesson"" movie.

The thing is minecraft and this kid is totally in love with letsplays and smps and has a server with their online friends (get a sponsorship from discord for that good good film sponsorship money, have them play while in call)

The mom or dad or maybe both trash the kids computer for some reason (bad grades maybe or one of those shitty "you need to talk to us more!!! That computer is killing ur brain!!! You don't love us as much as you should and it's that damn games fault!!!" But like it's actually just a kid being a normal fucking kid and having normal fucking kid hobbies things and the parents are dicks)

They delete the minecraft world rip

Them boom, kid somehow gets stuck in the game

Switch to NON CGI FILMING IN MINECRAFT. If you really need to add your stupid shitty fucking cgi then at least make it look like an ACTUAL MINECRAFT ANIMATION holy shit

It'll save us so much money too

So main plot is this kid, being trapped in minecraft, actually falling through different minecraft servers.

We can have different cameos from popular smps and youtubers, get some old youtubers and gameplay in here too. Get fucking dantdm and the diamond minecarts og series with the lab thing, it'll make the old fans lose their fucking MINDS.

The youtubers themselves don't even have to show up, just shove the kid into settings that are clear references to smps and letsplays. Have them wander through Aphmau's OG minecraft diaries sets or Sundee's lucky block series

The best part is that as backdrops, you don't even have to fully commit to "you'll only get this/find this interesting if you know these guys" bc if your writing is good enough you can still make people care by just. Introducing it correctly. Don't present it as "Aphmau's old minecraft diaries series world" go "oh wow look st this cool village,, woah I wonder who built this ,," And have them interact with NPCs organically

Meanwhile the parents go into the game after the kid to bring them back and we do this whole world hopping adventure where the parents learn that,, minecraft can be fun? Actually?

They find the kid and the kid is like "nooo I'm having too much fun the real world SUCKS!!!" but then we do that "it's cool to have fun and indulge but you still need to be present in the real world and do real people things too in order to have that fun responsibly" where somehow the kid realizes that moderation is good for u.

Maybe they almost die in game fr fr? Every world they enter has its difficulty upped a little bit till they enter *gasp* a hardcore world (oh no)

So like the kid learns that you can't just lock yourself in the room and wish the world goes away while you play minecraft for 12 hours straight, and the parents learn that minecraft is cool and fun and can be a good outlet and outlets are important for adults and children alike. And also that they totally pulled a dick move and they need to try to understand their kid instead of just demanding the kid understands them

Somewhere along the way, the kid ends up in their friends server and the friends help to pull them out of the game w the parents

We end the movie with the kid making an effort to be more present with the parents, and the parents also making an effort to interact with the kid in ways that they know the kid will enjoy and respond well to— shown a family dinner scene where the kid very eagerly eats their food while talking about school, then they all go to play minecraft together

The end <3

Oh right and if you seriously want Jack Black there so fucking bad then make him either the dad or like. School computer teacher who helps the kid use Minecraft EU to learn science (shows off that some schools use minecraft for education purposes) who also helps the kids friends pull them and the parents out of the game

Overall, lots of themes not just about how the game is cool and can let you do cool shit, but also about how the community is cool, and how it's provided so many kids and adults outlets to express themselves and have fun together

That's how you do a game movie

Anyways yeah, minecraft movie looks shit. Hire me instead next time

[trumpkinhotboy]

honeymoon | j.b

pairing. jacob black x reader

type. requested (thank youu)

warnings. none

word count. ~ 2000

a/n. i just had a twilight marathon and uhm yeah 🧍‍♀️ my obsession with jacob black and this whole universe is very much so still alive lmao. got this request and it made me want to scream and cry and throw up because can you imagine marrying him??? RAAAH anyway, hope you all will like this mwah xx

Ever since you had said I do to the love of your life, a permanent smile illuminated your face. So much so that your cheek muscles felt sore but you wouldn't trade that pain for anything else in the world.

The reception had been everything you could have ever wished for. It was intimate, only your families had been invited, people from the tribe and a few friends. You had the wedding on the reservation, and Emily made sure the whole setup had been turned into a magical fairy ambiance and you danced the night away surrounded by your loved ones. Jacob seemed on top of the world, his eyes never leaving your face, pure adoration shining in them. When the night came to a close, your excitement only grew as you headed to your own little home. It was a project you had been working on all summer. A quaint house, built in the woods of the reservation, close to your family. It was the house of your dreams and your heart squeezed in your chest at the sight of it and the future it promised you. Jacob carried you in his arms from the party, bridal style, insisting on holding up with the tradition. You crossed the threshold and stared adoringly at the scene in front of your eyes. Your friends had decorated the whole house with flowers and little presents to make sure you would feel all their love and happiness for your union.

You looked at the man holding you up like you weighed nothing, his eyes already locked on your face. The softness and intensity in his gaze made your organs quiver. "Aren’t you going to put me down?" you asked quietly.

"I'm not quite ready to let go yet," he murmured with a little grin.

"We’re married now, I really can’t escape you anymore, you know," you teased but felt his hands imperceptibly tighten on your body at your words. You smiled softly, lifting your hand to cup his warm cheek. "Not that I would ever want to." He nodded before you brought your lips to his, unable to wait any longer. You melted into him, feeling his grip tighten as you deepened the kiss while your breaths synced perfectly. You felt him start to move and hoped he would bring you to the room of your desire. When you heard the door of your bedroom open and felt him sit on the bed, you smiled in the kiss. Softly he pulled away, his breath ragged and fast.

"You okay there hubby?" he nodded with his eyelids shut tight, as if he was trying hard to focus. "Jacob, look at me." He finally opened his eyes and what you saw in them wasn’t what you expected. Fear and uncertainty tainted his gaze. In a heartbeat worry replaced your prior elation. You wiggled in his arms until you were sitting on him, straddling his legs with your wedding dress trailing down. "Is everything okay? Are- are you happy?”

The twinge of uncertainty in your voice seemed to shake him out of his previous state. "Of course I am." He trailed his hands up your arms in a reassuring motion.

"Then what’s going on?"

"I can’t believe this is real. I’m still not grasping the reality of it, I think." Your hand wandered in his short hair, softly pulling at strands of it. "But it is real," you insisted.

"I know, but this is all I've ever wanted. Never in my deepest dreams have I ever thought I could get this, that I could get you."

Ever since Jacob and you started going out he had trouble believing any of it was real. You didn't mind, you would tell and show him over and over again how much you loved him. Even if you didn't think he would still doubt your feelings or the depth of your relationship on your wedding night, you understood what he meant. Even you felt that 'pinch me' urge a few times in the night. "I’ve been in love with you since I was old enough to know what being in love means. I also have a hard time believing this is real. But it is Jake, we have our whole lives in front of ourselves and I can’t wait to do it all with you by my side."

This time he initiated the kiss, his strong hands applying soft pressure on your shoulder blades to bring you as close as possible to his body. You felt his hand on the zipper of your dress and shivered at the thought of him undoing it but he waited and looked at you for a second before you nodded your agreement. Softly, he untied your dress. You stood as he helped you step out of it, leaving you in nothing but your white lace underdress. With his eyes glued to your body, he sat there motionless. You giggled and stepped between his legs to slowly undo the bow at his neck. Once that was done, you unbuttoned his shirt, loving the way his breath accelerated with every touch of your fingers on his tan skin. You softly kissed his neck and chest as you pulled the shirt from his body, feeling your core tighten at the sight of his muscular body. You wished to kiss every inch of his plush skin and promised yourself you’d get to do it.

"I- I've never done this you know."

You stopped to look at him, "Me neither but we can figure it out together."

He nodded at that, his hand trailing the curve of your back. "Are you scared I'm going to hurt you?" He stopped the movement to bring his hands palms up on his thighs. You slid your smaller ones in his. You always loved Jacob's hands. They were strong, diligent hands. Yes, they were able to break and hurt things if needed, but these were also soft and delicate hands able to give the best and warmest caresses and hugs.

"Not even a little bit." Bringing one hand to rest on your cheek, the other to your mouth, you closed your eyes and rested in the warmth they diffused. Jacob was completely silent, hypnotized by the frenzy every touch from you started in his body. "We'll guide each other, okay?"

"We can do that,” he agreed in a hushed voice.

Big hands slid down to grip the back of your thighs, bringing your chest flush to his titled up face.

One kiss on your sternum, another on your ribs, another on your belly. Shivers danced on your skin, head lolling back as you surrendered to his touch.

[such-expensive-mistakes]

Superpham AU (part 6)

Masterpost

Lois prides herself at being good at rolling with the unexpected. Unfortunately, all of her experience with aliens and supervillains and magic has not prepared her for Danny.

Danny has a disconcerting habit of dropping disturbing or traumatizing information in an off-hand way, seeming to not even realize the implications of his own words. It started with what he said about the dimension he'd grown up in discriminating against people with powers, then with what he'd said about the red son and the lack of superheroes, but it just keeps happening.

Lois tries not to call attention to it, because she prefers it to the alternative, which is Danny shutting himself up in his room and refusing to talk to any of them.

Lex Luthor is on the nightly news-- as he so often is-- and Lois has to explain the man's many crimes to Danny. (No, Jon, it is not a rant.)

"Oh," Danny says. "He sounds like Vlad."

"Vlad?" Lois asks.

"Yeah, Vlad Masters. He's my godfather. He's a total fruitloop who wanted to marry my mom and make me his son."

Lois carefully does not react. She wants Danny to tell her things. She wants to know what his life was like when she wasn't in it. "That sounds..."

"Yeah, he tried to clone me. Well, I guess he succeeded, but none of them were stable except for Ellie, and she wasn't really that stable to begin with."

"Ellie?"

"Yeah, short for Danielle. She went by Dani-with-an-I for a while, but she decided she wanted her own name."

That is not the part Lois was looking for clarification on. She goes with it anyway. "Tell me about her," Lois says, and tries not to be concerned about Danny’s descriptions of a teenage girl who apparently lives and travels on her own because she doesn't like to be stuck in one place. Ellie doesn't even get the full benefit of being quarter Kryptonian, living in a world with a red sun.

The four of them are sitting down to dinner-- pizza again; one of them should probably cook sometime this week, but Lois and Clark are both on deadlines-- when Clark asks Danny more about his adoptive family, the ones he grew up with.

He looks sad, the way he always does whenever his adoptive parents come up.   Lois can hardly blame him, when he lost them in such a sudden and traumatic way.  

"They're scientists," Danny says.  "Or they were.  They studied, um, the Ghost Zone and the things that live there.  They didn't really understand it at first-- they thought all the-- um, everything from there was evil and needed to be killed, but they learned they were wrong eventually."

Lois meets Clark's eyes and knows he is as concerned about what happened before that 'eventually' as she is.  Still, neither of them comment, not wanting Danny to clam up again..

Jon, however, has no such reservations.  "That's really messed up."

Danny shrugs.  "Yeah, kind of.  They came around, though.  And I think they blamed themselves for how bad the GIW got because they were the ones who designed the weapons."

"The GIW?" Lois asks, instead of what she really wants to know, which is: Your adoptive parents designed weapons to be used against beings from another dimension??? Did they know what you were? 

"Guys in White," Danny says.  "I don't think that was their real name, but they were from the government."

"Your parents built weapons for them?" Clark asks, his tone deceptively light.  "I thought they were scientists."

"They dabbled in a lot of things.  But they were fantastic engineers."  Danny segues into a story about some of the modifications his adoptive parents made to their car, which is a topic only slightly better for Lois's heart.

Later that night, Lois is sitting in bed, checking her emails on her phone, when Clark sits down next to her and turns on the white noise machine they keep on the nightstand.  (It's the only way to have private conversations when your child-- children-- have super-hearing.)

"I'm concerned about Danny," he says.

"No shit."  The more Danny tells them about the dimension he grew up in, the more Lois hates it.  "But there's nothing we can do now except be there for him."

"I know people who have traveled across dimensions, you know," Clark says.  "I could always ask for a favor."

"You won't," Lois says.  "Because if you do, I'm going to end up committing felonies in another dimension."  

Clark smiles humorlessly. "What makes you think I wouldn't be there with you?"

"Because you're a better person than I am."  Clark never believes her when she says that, but it's true.  Clark is a fundamentally good person.  Lois tries to be a good person, but there's a reason she's not a superhero.  

-----

Kon intended to stop by Metropolis several days ago.  Or at least call Clark back.  But he’d gotten sidetracked by an earthquake in Southeast Asia, and then by Dr Light causing problems in California.  

He gets a few hours of sleep back in Smallville, then remembers that he’d planned on dropping by Metropolis and meeting Danny days before.  He walks the last few blocks to Lois and Clark’s house— flying would be way too noticeable in their neighborhood— and lets himself in.  He walks up to the living room and spots Lois there, furiously typing on her laptop.  

Kon is man enough to admit, at least within his own head, that Lois kind of intimidates him. Sure, Clark is physically stronger, but there’s an intensity to Lois that Clark lacks.  She glances up at Kon, and even though she’s smiling, he still feels pinned under her gaze.  

Kon shifts uncomfortably, reminds himself that unless he turns into a corrupt businessman or something, he’s not actually in danger from Lois Lane.  

“You here to see Danny?” she asks.

“Yeah.”  Kon shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.  “I figured I should probably meet him.”

“He’s in his room,” Lois says.  “He’s not… It’s not a good day, but maybe he’ll talk to you.  He hasn’t exactly gotten the chance to be around anyone his own age since he showed up.”

Kon knocks on the door to Danny’s room.  

“Come in,” a voice calls from inside.

Kon’s first thought is that he looks more like Clark than Danny does.  Stupid; of course he does.  He’s Clark’s clone.  But then, Jon resembles Clark almost as strongly as Kon does, so maybe it wasn’t a completely stupid thought.

Danny is sprawled on his stomach across his bed, phone in his hand.  There’s a video playing on it— someone talking about the history of the Justice League— but he’s ignoring it, watching Kon with a wary expression.  The room is still as bland as it ever was; other than the clothes tossed haphazardly on the floor, there’s no sign a teenage boy lives here.

“I’m guessing you’re Kon?” 

“That’s me.”  They stare at each other awkwardly for a moment.  

“Have you actually seen any of Metropolis, or have you just been hanging out in here?” Kon asks.

“Lois took me shopping for some stuff,” Danny says.

“Okay, no,” Kon says.  “You have got to get out of this house.”  

“You don’t even live in Metropolis,” Danny says.  

Kon shrugs. “Doesn’t matter; I’ve spent more time here than you.” There’s an old-school arcade he’s been to a handful of times, and a couple of places to eat.  Anything has got to be better than Danny hanging out and brooding in this sad bedroom by himself.

It's a warm day outside.  The sun shines down on the two of them as they walk in near-silence toward downtown.  The awkward silence doesn't quite break until they're at the arcade, competing on an old racing game.  

"I don't think we have this one in my dimension.  The other dimension.  Whatever."  Danny says.

"Yeah?"  Kon speeds ahead of Danny in the game, just in time to cross the finish line.  Danny groans.

"Yeah, but this world doesn't seem to have Doomed, either," Danny says as they start another race.  "There's a lot of little differences like that."

"That's gotta be weird," Kon says.  

"Yeah, Clark kind of freaked out when I told him the sun there was red."

Yeah, Kon can see why.  They talk more as they play more video games, and Danny tells Kon about his friends and what they'd do when they were hanging out in his hometown of Amity Park.  The main people he talks about are his best friends, Sam and Tucker, and his older sister, Jazz, but he mentions a few others.  

"Wait, who is Ellie again?" Kon asks, after Danny shares a story about a prank she pulled on another kid at Danny's school.  They've left the arcade, and are hanging out at the diner a few blocks away.  It's not the coolest place-- in fact, it looks like a grandmother decorated it-- but Clark introduced Kon to it, and it has great food.

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" Danny asks.  "She's my clone."

Kon chokes a little on his soda.  "You have a clone?"

-----

Danny is probably being paranoid.

Scratch that, he's definitely being paranoid. Lois and Clark have been nothing but nice, and they're clearly used to weird things happening. Like, even aside from the whole alien superhero thing, Lois just saw a kid fall out of a portal and decided to help?  Plus, Clark is an actual superhero.  

Even his— the Fentons came around on the whole “ghost powers” thing.  Eventually.  But he’s gotten used to hiding, to trying to blend in.  

(And what had them accepting him done for them in the end?  They’re dead, the GIW killed them.)

He’d rather hide than suddenly discover that Lois and Clark aren’t cool with their long-lost son being half dead.

Some of his powers he can pass off as Kryptonian— super strength, flight, enhanced senses.  He knows Lois saw his ghost form, and though she hasn’t asked about it, he’s pretty sure it’s just a matter of time.  

These thoughts circle through his mind over and over, only leaving him temporarily when he’s hanging out with the Lane-Kents.  

His bio family.  

That’s not much better, though; there’s a sadness in Lois and Clark’s eyes whenever they look at him, although they try to hide it.  Jon just a kid, and clearly doesn’t know what to make of the whole situation.  Lois keeps saying they are going to introduce him to more people, especially people his own age, but Danny shies away from that.  He doesn’t want to meet more people.  He doesn’t want to get comfortable here.

Still, he’s glad he came out with Kon.  An afternoon of videogames and greasy food hasn’t solved any of his problems, but it’s a nice break, and Kon has already promised to introduce Danny to his friends— a whole team of teenage superheroes.

“I can’t get over how many heroes there are here,” Danny says.  “Like, why do you even need that many?”  Sure, it would have been nice to have some more backup when he was Phantom, but in this world there seems to be at least one superhero for every major city, plus some extra.

Kon shrugs. “Natural disasters, alien invasions, supervillains, street crime… No one can handle all of it.”

Out of all the things he’s encountered so far in this dimension, this might be Danny’s favorite.  Even more than the proven existence of aliens.  Back home, Amity Park needed Phantom, even if they hated him.  But the world here doesn’t need Phantom.  

It’s kind of freeing, and Danny hates it.  He doesn’t want to like anything about this dimension more than his own.  

Would it really be that bad?  You might be stuck here forever, a little voice inside his head whispers.  

He ignores it.

[bluemerakis]

┌──˚*❀*̥˚───˚*̥❀*˚──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━•❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃•━━┛

❝ white-haired devil ❞

⤷ Word count: 5.6k

!! 18+ ONLY !!

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WARNINGS:

Swearing, smut, power imbalance, mild sexual degradation/sadism, sexual "toy" use, choking, masturbation, fingering, gagging

‼️ DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THE ABOVE-MENTIONED WARNINGS ‼️

SYNOPSIS:

You always knew you'd marry one day—not in the way that every little girl dreams of, but because the knowledge of who you'd be marrying had been held over your head like a dark storm cloud since you were little.

When you'd been invited to dine at Malfoy manor with Abraxas and his son—your groom to be—Lucius, the reality became dauntingly real. But you never would have thought you'd find a euphoria of pleasure in your hatred for the white-haired devil himself.

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The entire foundation of our existence is built on one concept: an animalistic hierarchy.

The rich and the powerful are the predators. With their gold, status and excessive self-interest, they hunt the down the poor, the powerless and the insignificant. They close in on them until submission is the only acceptable choice. The magic world is no different. You came to understand that the moment you discovered that you had been betrothed to Lucius—pain-in-your-ass—Malfoy.

Arranged marriages were not uncommon, especially within pure-blooded families that wanted to maintain the importance of their self-forged status.

But this time was different.

Your groom-to-be, Lucius—cunt—Malfoy, is the son of a powerful witch and wizard. Your parents are renowned magic-folk, too, but here's where the circumstances differ: where Malfoy is a pure-blooded wizard, you're only a measly squib. That's right—the laughing stock of the magic world.

If it had been up to you, the Malfoys would have only existed in your nightmares. But you had not had much of a say in the final forge of the matter because you had not even been born yet.

You had only just turned six when you had met Lucius—and god did you hate him. Even at the tender age of eleven, Lucius was the biggest pain in the ass you had ever met. You had never wished a day to go by quicker than that very afternoon. When it was finally time for them to leave, you were more than happy to bid farewell. But everything had gone downhill pretty fast when your father and Abraxas Malfoy had herded you and Lucius into the same room to deliver the horrid news. Lucius had immediately objected and for once you found yourself agreeing with him. But neither father would have it. The deal was long done.

Even now—sixteen years later—you grew glum about the matter at least five times a day. You'd often find yourself mimicking a curse on your father for screwing up your life this way. You did it right in this moment as you watched the back of his head swivel to and fro in his attempt to navigate the winding hallways of Malfoy manor.

He ought to appreciate that I'm a squib, you thought defiantly, else he'd have had tentacles for legs right about now.

You balled your hands into miserable fists. You didn't know if they were trembling with anger, or anxiousness, but you weren't going to have your first impression after all these years be comparable to a sheep on death row.

The Malfoys had extended a dinner invitation as a pre-wedding icebreaker, though you hadn't had much of an appetite to begin with. Your stomach turned each time you heard footsteps clatter toward you, anticipating the appearance of a reserved Abraxas Malfoy. But you were only greeted by hasty house-elves determined to bring the manor to order. Though you didn't doubt the extra skip in their step was the result of a Malfoy threat.

You could just imagine Abraxas—if he was anything like his son—towering over the staff and tossing out all manner of condescending insults, threatening to torment the next elf who left a single fingerprint on the fine, black porcelain rim of his plate.

When your father came to a stop, you were dismayed to find yourself staring up at two double doors that stood way taller than necessary. Though you supposed everything needed to be scaled up in a rich person's world—to accommodate their massive egos, of course.

Your father turned to you. "The dining hall is just through there," he said.

"Are you sure those aren't the doors to hell?" You mumbled miserably and folded your arms.

"Don't be like that," he said gently. "Lucius is a perfectly suitable husband."

"But I'm not a suitable wife."

"And why is that?"

"You know why."

His lips pressed into a speechless line.

You turned your head to the side. "A wizard like him has no business marrying a squib. I'm surprised Abraxas even agreed to it."

"That's Mr. Malfoy to you," your father corrected sternly. But after a moment, his eyes regained their gentle touch once more. He called your name softly, "you are more than your magical status."

Not to the Malfoy family, is what you wanted to reply. But your father had been friends with Abraxas since they were in diapers. You were painfully aware of the bond the two of them shared and so you knew every complaint coming from your lips would fall on your father's deaf ears, leaving you trapped in a looped argument.

"Fine," you yielded.

Your father gave an appreciative simper. "Thank you."

You wanted to remain irritable, to make your displeasure obvious, but your father's smile always managed to bring a giggle to light. He always looked ridiculous when he smiled, so much so that you thought he did it on purpose.

"There's that smile of yours!"

"Stop."

"Come on." He offered the top of his hand, which you reluctantly placed your palm over, and with his other hand he knocked on the door.

Are we suddenly too good for handles, you thought bitterly. You still couldn't believe this was happening. For the longest time, you had hoped all this to be some cruel, drawn-out joke. But as the double doors suddenly creaked open, and you found yourself staring up at white-haired devil himself, the notion quickly dissipated within painful acceptance.

"Lucius!" Your father greeted cheerily. Lucius was dressed in an elegant black suit, his hair pulled back into a neat, low ponytail with his signature cane gripped in one hand.

The icy tundra of his eyes disregarded your presence entirely. "Mr Lee," he responded with a curt dip of his chin. "My father awaits you in his study."

"Ah—yes, of course. I do believe Abraxas has some relics he owes me the pleasure of seeing." He slipped his hand from yours and smiled at Lucius. "Will you take good care of her until dinner is ready?"

"I don't need him to take care of me!" you interjected.

Lucius paid no attention to you. It's as though you were nothing more than particles in the air to him. "Of course," he answered, stepping aside to let your father pass.

"I'll be back, dear," he said. "Stay with Lucius." With that, he hurried away into the next room.

You watched his back disappear into the next room before averting your gaze back to Lucius. "I think it's funny that you've got all these attendants, yet you're the one on door duty," you spoke up.

Lucius' head tilted down, and for the first time he glared directly at you. He lifted his sharp jaw, eyes narrowed disdainfully as his slender fingers moved to strangle the serpent head that crowned his cane.

"You're looking particularly sour today," he sneered.

"And you look sallower than usual," you retorted lightly, unable to deny the satisfaction tugging at the corners of your lips.

All the years you'd spent void of magic, you'd learnt to compensate for in your wit, and boy would you seize every opportunity to get under his skin. You brushed past him as you entered the room and you heard the doors click closed behind you. Lucius scowled and uttered your name bitterly. You hated the way it sounded on his lips.

"You're an embarrassment to the wizarding world," he said coolly. "You will do good to remember that before parting those crude lips of yours."

"Firstly," you started, turning to face him, "you'll be marrying this embarrassment, so please, do grow attuned to calling me your embarrassment," you said cheekily, lacing your hands behind your back. "Secondly, I'm rather fond of my lips. I've always found them quite perky." You lifted your face to his. "Don't you think?"

The white-haired devil sneered before lifting his wand from it's sheath and chanting, "Petrificus totalus."

In an instant and with a lack of control, your arms flew to your side, and before your legs could emulate the gesture, he propped his leg into the space so that your thighs straddled his knee. You went as stiff as a board, and panic thumped in your chest as you felt yourself leaning back. Just as you thought you'd hit the floor like a sack of meat, Lucius steadied you with a hand on your collarbone and pushed you flat against the polished wood of the door.

You wanted to wince as the door handle protruded into your spine, and Lucius, keenly aware of your discomfort, sought to worsen it as he gradually applied pressure to your chest.

"Not so gabby now, are we?" He rumbled lowly. His face was mere inches from yours. "Here's how this marriage is going to go," he murmured. "We have an appearance to uphold, so I do hope you know how to behave a proper lady in the presence of esteemed guests. Whatever squib-codswallop you indulge yourself in will happen behind closed doors, but whatever time you spend at my side, you will do it my way."

Heat began to pool at the tip of your ears. You hated the nerve of this man, to demand everything the way he wanted it, and in a way that explicitly stated he always got what he wanted. The knee wedged between your thighs began to trace small, slow circles. Occasionally, it would brush against the hem of your underwear. Your breathing deepened at the sensation, and Lucius extracted a faint smirk from the sight of your flaring nostrils.

Footsteps thrummed closer and closer to where the two of you stood, though Lucius didn't seem too concerned at the possibility of being caught in their position. When the footsteps halted, a dainty head popped up from behind the view of Lucius' shoulder.

"The food is ready, Mr Malfoy," the housemaid offered softly, evidently embarrassed at the sight of their tangled bodies. Lucius waved a dismissive hand, too busy glaring you down to spare the maid so much as a glance. She scampered away, and Lucius brought the tip of his wand up to your body.

"I do hope I have made myself very clear," he murmured. You glared at him bitterly. Go fuck yourself. It would have felt better to say it aloud. "Finite," Lucius chanted, and all control flooded back into your limbs.

You slumped against the door and his hand left your chest, but before you could snap at him, he pressed the nose of his wand into your throat. You glared up at him and he returned your attention with nonchalant eyes.

Slowly, he traced the wand up the expanse of your neck, and when he reached your mouth, he said in a low murmur, "I do rather like your lips."

"Lucius," a deep voice echoed throughout the dining hall.

Abaraxas, you thought horridly. You glanced past Lucius to glimpse your father fondling an expensive-looking object between his gloved fingers, and beside him stood Abraxas, watching the two of you with a cool yet dignified expression. They hovered at the doors to the study, and Lucius tucked away his wand rather tensely before leaving you in a hot flurry to meet with his father.

You cleared your throat and tidied the dress that had creased in various areas. The hem had managed to climb your thighs when Lucius had teased you with his own leg—you quickly pulled it proper before pushing yourself off of the doors. Your back throbbed where the handle had been buried only moments before. You cursed him for it. You cursed yourself for it; you hadn't hated it—the helplessness, his rough handling of you. You'd have let him continue had there not been an interruption, you knew that much to be true. Pathetic.

Your father called your name softly. You glanced up to see that he, Lucius and Abraxas had already gathered at the much-too-long dining table, all three had their eyes trained on you expectantly. Tensely, you made your way over to where your father stood, already reaching out a hand to pull out the chair beside his, but he quickly stopped you. You glanced up at him questioningly.

"Wouldn't you rather sit next to Lucius, dear?" He said gently. It was a demand, not an offer.

"I'd rather squat butt-naked over a wildfire," you replied discourteously, your gaze flickering over to Lucius, who looked enigmatic despite your comment.

Abraxas grew a scowl that almost seemed to speak for itself: why had he ever considered letting this ill-mannered squib marry into such a regal family. You couldn't help but smirk lightly, and your father's fingers tightened around your wrist, followed by the stern sound of your name.

"Do not start," he warned. This was the most serious you'd seen your father. It was quite unsettling, actually.

You snatched your hand from his grip and muttered a simple sorry before pulling out your chair. Your father cleared his throat and you glanced up at him once more. With the slightest flick of his head, he beckoned to where Lucius sat. You bit on your tongue and begrudgingly moved the seat back under the table before making your way over to where Lucius sat.

Upon your arrival, he stood from his seat and took the expected liberty of pulling out the chair for you, to which you dipped your chin in the slightest of thanks and sat down. Lucius propped himself down beside you, and his musky fragrance engulfed you in a gust. It was an enticing smell, and somewhere in the mix you could practically taste a hint of whisky.

If you were to be sentenced to his side for a lifetime, at least you knew you were in for drinks in good taste.

The dinner carried out rather uneventfully, and you spent half of that time praying for the hasty end of it. Lucius had gone back to dismissing your presence, he hadn't even spared you so much as a glance. Not that you cared. Because you didn't. Of course you didn't. Once everyone had finished eating, your meal had hardly been touched, yet you seemed the most prepared to take your leave.

Abraxas had stood and beckoned for the house-elves to tidy up the space while he and your father exchanged a few words. You glanced at Lucius, who had been watching the older men, though his attention shifted toward you as he became aware of your gawking.

"I'm bored," you said simply.

"Hardly my concern," he replied blankly.

"I could do with a drink."

"By all means, help yourself to the kitchen."

"I'm thinking stronger," you said with a dramatic finger to your chin, tapping away as though musing the subject. "Your father's sure to have some whisky in that study of his."

Lucius' eyes grew scathingly narrow. "Don't be foolish," he spat. "The only thing my father adores more than his wealth is his whisky. He'd notice if even a drop had left the decanter. And in any case, I hardly think you of all people could properly appreciate the sweet expense of the beverage."

Your composure collapsed fully at his words. Nothing more than a raging ball of impulse, you grabbed at his tie and yanked it harshly so that Lucius was leaned into you. "Come again?"

"I should have you thrown into the dungeons for your unbecomingness," he growled. His face was so close to yours that your lips could've brushed within the next breath.

You frowned cheekily. "I'd like to see just how daring you are, Mr Malfoy—"

"Don't call me that."

"Perhaps the rumours of your audaciousness are true," you continued with a glance at his lips. "And perhaps they are nothing more than rumours."

Your words sparked his interest. His bitter eyes thawed with a momentary look of curiosity, so faint but evidently present. "And just what are you insinuating?" He moved his cane to prop up your chin.

You winced as the steel python burrowed beneath your chin. It felt unpleasantly cold against your skin. A groan rumbled in the back of your throat and sent Lucius' conservativeness toppling over the edge.

"So fragile," he hummed, eyes gliding over your features. He was infatuated with your non-witchy delicacy. It meant you were powerless to him. You knew that. He knew that—and he loved it.

You practically held your breath as you glared up at him. His gaze flickered away from you and simultaneously, his hand moved to pry your fingers from his tie. He stood from his chair and you felt his cold fingers furl around your arm as he hauled you out of yours. You followed his searching eyes and came to realise that your father had disappeared, along with Abraxas. You had no idea where to, but you could hardly be arsed in this moment. Lucius hadn't given you a split second to speak before he began dragging you toward Abraxas' study.

You smirked as you stumbled after him. "Does this mean I'm getting that drink after all?"

Lucius tossed a swift glare over his shoulder, though he remained silent. When they reached the doors to the study, he extended his free hand to knock and waited for a response. When none came, he pushed the doors open and pushed you ahead of him.

You entered with an annoyed click of your tongue, but the rustic theme of the study stole your attention. A polished, deep-red wood—the entire room. One of the walls was lined with shelves topped with questionable collectibles and the room was furnished with red, velvety sofas. It definitely wasn't a taste you'd ever personally acquire, but you'd have to be blind to admit that it didn't hold some sort of charm. Straight ahead of you, an elegant, bricked fireplace was still bustling with a shy flame that burnt the room just the right shade of cosy.

Lucius released your arm and closed the doors behind him. You ventured a little way from his presence.

"Who knew Lucius had it in him to enter his daddy's study without permission?" You teased absentmindedly as you reached the fireplace and spotted a crystal decanter of whiskey. "Bingo," you murmured, picking it up.

"Put that down." A hand grabbed ahold of your wrist and yanked it roughly, causing you to drop the crystal container.

The whiskey toppled into the fireplace with a sickening slosh, and at the moment of contact, the fireplace burst into a hissing, spitting tornado. You narrowly avoided being nipped by the heat as Lucius pulled you toward him, though your dress was not as lucky. The fabric had caught aflame below your backside, but Lucius was quicker in acting. His hand snaked around your back and tugged at the zip. The straps of your dress fell past your shoulders and he slipped it down the curves of your body until it laid at your black heels and released grey squiggles of smoke.

You glared up at him. "Hey, asshole!" You spat, shoving at his chest. "I liked that dress—a lot!”

Lucius cocked an eyebrow at you and pressed the tip of his cane into your cleavage. Your breath caught in your throat like a lump of dry food. He said your name softly. You liked the way it sounded on his tongue.

"You've made a mess," he said, eyes observing the spill of alcohol that mottled the polished floor before glancing at you. He gradually began to press harder and harder into your skin until you had no choice but to back up to relieve the pain.

"Since when don't you like taking credit?" You shot back sarcastically. A dull coldness hit your back as you bumped into the fireplace, though Lucius continued closing in on the space between your bodies.

He said nothing, only glared at you with annoyingly incoherent eyes. You grew flustered now, grasping the situation. You were half naked and cornered by a wizard, and you had no magical means of defending yourself. You felt the heat of the fireplace begin to lap at your exposed skin. Your jaw clenched, and Lucius' gaze trailed down your neck attentively.

"The fire bothering you?" He asked lowly. You scowled. "Am I mistaken? Had you not mentioned earlier that you'd be more than happy to squat butt-naked over an open flame?"

"You're hilarious," you retorted before moving to shove him away, but his free hand moved to clutch your neck.

His other hand dragged the cane downward, slowly—first over the clasp of your bra, then across the soft skin of your stomach, before stopping short of your now-heated core. The fireplace couldn't take credit for that. You were completely and utterly overwhelmed now. Every sensation had become too much.

Lucius' grip on your neck tightened until your ability to breathe was at his mercy. With painfully exaggerated slowness, he brought his lips to your ear. "I must confess that the mere thought of ravishing a squib is unusually. . . exciting," he said in a gruff whisper.

You felt your expression twist at his words, and much to his satisfaction, too. He leaned away from you, his slender fingers leaving the flushed rim of your neck. His eyes swept over your posture, seemingly pleased with the way you had fallen tense under his control. Power. That's all it was about with him. He bathed in the power that came with any opportunity to completely and utterly dominate the lesser. You saw it in the way every action that earned compliance on the receiving end caused his lips to tug into a smirk. You saw it now as he glared at you.

Lucius' attention moved down to his cane. Slowly, he angled it into your skin and slid it under the waistband of your underwear. You sucked air at the cool sensation of the serpent head gliding down your skin and slipping between your wet folds.

"Lucius," you breathed through gritted teeth.

"Hm?" He hummed busily, his attention fixed on his cane that was now angled toward your entrance. He glanced up at you momentarily. "If you'd like me to stop, simply say so." He paused his movements and gazed at you impassively.

You glared at him in silence for many moments, only bouts of air whistled from your nostrils. Your breathing had grown shallow and quick at his touch. "I hate you," you said softly.

Lucius's lips stretched into a faint smirk before he roughly pressed his lips to yours. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself, moving one hand to mercilessly tug at his ponytail until it came undone in messy strands. He grunted against your lips and pulled the serpent head from between your folds. You hissed at his lack of caution. He lifted you into his arms and moved to his father's desk, where he set you down onto the fine wood—unpleasantly cold against your exposed skin. He leaned in and curled his fingers around the back of your neck to bring you into another series of rough kisses.

Your hands explored every inch of Lucius's suit. When you felt the hems of his black blazer, you lifted it up and over his shoulders, to which he aided the removal by rolling his shoulders back so that the blazer would fall to the floor. His tongue explored your insides roughly, you savoured the way he tasted. He still possessed a tint of red wine from earlier's dinner.

Lucius broke off the kiss rather suddenly, and you found yourself devastatingly disappointed at the abundance of space between your lips. You leaned back onto your palms, watching as he took a step back and lifted his cane.

"Do you ever not have that thing in clutch?" You asked pointedly.

"Be quiet," he demanded, reaching for your arm and yanking you from the desk. Before you had a moment to protest, he spun you around and bent you over the expanse of the table. Your entire backside was exposed to him, and you felt your face burn self-consciously.

"What are you doing?" You asked angrily, attempting to prop yourself upward, but Lucius held you down with a steady hand on the small of your back. You frowned. "If you think I'm going to let you fuck me like a common whore, you're wrong!" You felt the fabric of Lucius's shirt brush your back tenderly as he leaned over you and brought his lips to your ear.

"Whores don't usually talk this much," he said lowly before bringing his free hand toward your lips. "Spit," he demanded.

"I'm not spitting on your hand, Lucius," you objected. "You've got some weird kinks, you know—" you were cut off as Lucius pried your lips harshly with his middle and index finger.

You felt him push for the back of your throat, and even as you tried to yank your head away as a protest, he kept on reaching for your depths until you gagged around him. He removed his hand, and past your teary lashes, you saw his slender fingers painted in a slimy sheen.

Your back felt cold once more as Lucius straightened up. You felt the tip of his cane scrape your lower back as he hooked it onto your underwear and pulled it down your thighs, exposing your wet core to him. The fingers, coated in your saliva, traced a line down your back until it reached your arse and traced gentle circles around the entrance. A moan escaped your lips as he inserted a finger inside without the courtesy of a warning, and it was quickly followed by another.

You clenched around him at the unfamiliar, slightly painful sensation, but as Lucius proceeded to tease your folds once more with the serpent-crowned head of his cane, you began to melt into his rough fondling. It wasn't long until you felt beads of your arousal escape your main entrance and slither down the insides of your soft thighs.

Lucius noted this image, glorified it, even. "If this is what hate looks likes, I'd love to see what else your cunt would do for me once we're better acquainted," he commented in a low and sultry tone.

You laid with your cheek pressed against the table, your lips slightly parted and your eyes screwed shut at the feelings of ecstasy that now coursed through your veins, brought on at the sites where Lucius teased steadily. You were too far gone to retaliate as you usually did—no one had ever touched you this way. It felt like pure bliss, and now you didn't ever want to leave this manor.

A deep chuckle rumbled from Lucius. "Your asshole is tightening around me. Tell me, did you want something else from me?" He jeered. When you didn't answer him, he paused the movements of his cane and removed his hand from your hole. "Then I suppose we're finished here," he said, passing his wet fingers over the soft skin of your ass.

"No," you complained softly. Disgracefully. You didn't want this to be the end of it. You pushed yourself upwards, your underwear falling further down your legs until it lay a wet bundle at your feet. You turned to face him, your expression hardened. "You don't get to tease me like that and then leave."

Lucius tilted his head mockingly. "But a whore is merely a toy. It is hardly their place to complain when their master has finished playing, hm?"

You perked your chin defiantly. "I'm not a whore," you said scathingly.

Lucius took a step forward, his clothed leg pressed between your legs and forcing you back against the desk. "Then why do you leak like one?" He said softly, his eyes fixated on yours. You glanced down to see the dark fabric of his pants had grown even darker with your arousal. When you glanced back up at him, his eyes seemed to glint hungrily, and a satisfied smirk widened his lips.

He pressed a hungry kiss onto your lips, and you returned it without hesitation. He removed the knee straddled between your thighs and replaced it with his cane, which he slid against your clitoris and through your folds before pushing it inside of you. You gasped against his lips and swung your head back as you felt the steel teeth of the python lightly graze your insides.

"Lucius!" You said in barely more than a breathy moan. It hurt to have the item inside of you, but when he began thrusting it to and fro with slow, rhythmic motions, coupled with the wet kisses he littered upon your neck, it began to feel disgustingly right.

You fastened your hands around his neck for support, and he carefully hauled you onto the desk. His free hand made its way into your hair, and he tugged it harshly so that your neck was perfectly arched for him to exploit with aggressive love-bites. You felt the pit of your stomach grow tight in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and Lucius seemed to deduce this as well from your heightened breathing, so he pulled the cane from your entrance.

He tutted disappointedly. "I've barely had my fun," he said. "Don't finish until I say so." You lifted your head to him tiredly, barely able to discern his face. "Am I understood?" He prompted, his grip on your head tightening as he shook you lightly. You nodded, and he inserted his cane once more. Oh, Godric, you didn't want this to end.

It felt like hours had passed by as Lucius teased you with his painfully slow thrusts. He spent most of the time gazing at your face, gauging your every reaction at his movements, savouring the little mewls of pleasure you let slip every now and then. Encouraged by the sweet music you made just for him, he gave you permission to finish.

When he had finished having his way with you, he removed the cane from between your thighs, pulling with it a stream of your arousal. You felt the warm wetness pool around your bottom and leak into every crevice left between parts of your body in contact with the surface of the desk.

His eyes moved between your exposed lower half and your face. He lifted the cane to your lips. "Clean it," he demanded impassively.

You gave a chuckle. "Funny," you responded and pushed his hand back, shifting your weight to get up, but Lucius sat you down with a rough hand. You glanced at him in alarm. "You're serious?"

"Very."

You searched his eyes, waiting to find a glimmer of amusement, but anything he felt at this moment was incoherent to you. "I'm not doing that," you objected.

Lucius didn't seemed pleased with your answer. His hand moved down your body rather quickly. He moved between your thighs and inserted a harsh finger, which earned a shocked gasp from you. He seized that opportunity to slide the serpent head into your mouth.

"The decision is not up to you," he paused and wriggled the cane between your lips. "Wider." You shook your head and in response, he added every finger until his hand was fully submerged within you.

Tears brimmed in your eyes. The sensation was painfully pleasurable. There was no fine line between the two, you only knew that his touch was undeniably desirable. Obediently, you swirled your tongue over every intricate groove of the serpent head. The taste was unusual, but not unpleasant. You glared him down as you sucked on the cane suggestively, though Lucius' composure didn't seem to falter.

Once no slimy coating remained, you patted his arm and he removed the cane from your mouth, along with his hand from your entrance. You were mildly ashamed to see the sheathe of your pleasure around his slender fingers, but Lucius seemed satisfied in contrast.

"Proud of yourself?" You muttered.

Lucius leaned past you and when he withdrew, you saw a fancy handkerchief in clutch. He first wiped his hand before passing the fabric over his cane.

"Generally, yes," he replied busily. He tossed the handkerchief onto your lap and leaned past you once more to pull out one of the draws. "Watch your tone," he said before lifting a bottle of whiskey to his lips and taking a gulp.

"Excuse me—" Lucius silenced you by pressing the nozzle of the bottle between your lips, and he began tilting the bottle upwards so that you had no choice but to gulp down the drink.

His slender fingers reached for your bra, which he violently tugged on until the fabric surrendered and tore at the clasps. The bra fell from your shoulders and left you fully exposed. He moved the bottle away from your lips and began pouring it between your cleavage, over your breasts and into your lap.

"What the fuck, Lucius!" You snapped.

"Language," he warned, setting the bottle aside and planting a kiss on your exposed collar bone. He turned for the door and paused with a hand on the handle. "Oh, and you best make yourself presentable," he said, pointedly glancing you up and down. "I do believe I heard the chatter of my father and Mr Lee beyond the study. Wouldn't want either of them to find you this way, no?"

You face went cold with horror. You fucking bastard!

"Tidy up the office while you're at it, won't you, whore? And make sure to lap up every last drop of that whiskey. It's rather expensive." You saw a hint of a smirk wind his perfect lips before he exited the study.

[darkpetal16]

So we've got mafiafell wingding and papyrus headcanons, but what about mafiafell sans? Even a crumb would be very appreciated

Oh man. I put these HC undercut for 1.) T/W for toxic relationship and 2.) Spoilers for one of his bad endings in the game.

Mafiafell!Sans is a hot mess and puts the yan in yandere.

Ooooo boy. He’s a walking, talking red flag.

He’s a Judge: a monster born with the Judgment ability. His magic is toxic to anyone with EXP or LVL (including himself, although he has built up resistance) and he can see the truth of anyone’s SOUL.

His ability awakened at a young age in an unexpected outburst that resulted in the death of one of Asgore’s Royal Guards. By consequence, in order to avoid execution, he had to become the newest Judge.

He, essentially, became a glorified hitman for the Dreemur family at a young age, with the added bonus of each of his kills causing magic whiplash and damaging himself in the process.

He’s seen a lot of awful things, and done a lot worse things.

It. . . Doesn’t sit well with him.

He never wanted to take a life. He never wanted to hurt anyone.

But he had that choice taken away from him, and now he’s in too deep. The EXP, in conjunction with his Judgment ability, has warped him in a deeply disturbing way.

He’s volatile, violent, and viscous. And bitter. So, very, very bitter.

He’s got a short temper, but how he acts on it depends on the severity of his rage. For “smaller” issues, it’s an instantaneous reaction of violence. For the big issues, it’s something he’ll stew over and take his time to seek retribution. Basically: If he gets loud fast, the person will probably make it out alive. If he gets quiet though? They’re dead. And they’re not dying easily.

His volatility is a big reason why he always has Papyrus or Wingding nearby for important events.

This does mean that early in the relationship, when none of them know how well he can control himself around you, all of your dates will be secretly chaperoned by either Wings or Pap. You’ll likely never see them, but they’re there for your (physical) wellbeing and Sans’ (mental) wellbeing.

After a lifetime of absolute garbage thrown his way, you are a desperately needed breath of fresh air. He was drowning in misery and you’re the lifeline thrown to him. He will latch on with a zealous fervor.

Any bit of happiness and affection you give him, he’ll greedily devour. The more you give, the more he’ll come to need you until he literally will not tolerate you out of his life.

So do not commit, do not engage, do not give this man any type of hope for a relationship unless you’re ready for that level of emotional dependency. Breaking it off once it’s too late won’t end well for either of you. Because he’s type who can love a doll as much as the real deal.

But if that’s your thing too? If this is what you need too. . . ?

He’s your guy. Loyal. Ferociously loyal. Would fight an army for you. Would go to war for you. Would break any law for you. He supports your wrongs and your rights equally, as long as he gets to be by your side in the process.

He didn’t have money growing up (all money earned had to go into paying back his “debt” to the Dreemur family), so now that he has it he likes to spend it. Especially on loved ones (you & his brothers). Shopping trips are a bi weekly thing, and they always end in a fancy dinner date.

He wants to travel the world, and he’ll gleefully take you with him. He wants to visit a place that’s always dark, and someplace where the sun never sets. He wants to see the auroras, and an endless sea of sand.

He’s always wanted to go to school to learn. Always wanted to learn physics, mechanical engineering, and astronomy. Never could, and he thinks it’s too late now. He’ll always brush it off if you try to encourage him.

But if you take him to college lectures on the stuff, he’s like a kid in a candy shop. You’ll see a glimpse of what he was like before he became a Judge; a childlike level of sincere happiness, and a small smile on his face.

Dates are extravagant. He knows he’s fucked in the head so he’s hoping to keep your attention by impressing you. Maybe if you’re wowed enough you’ll forgive his cracks.

Speaking of cracks, he’s got the most broken bones in the family. Most of the time, Wings or Toriel can heal such injuries but ones caused by his Judge ability don’t heal.

If you ask about them he’ll give you increasingly crazier stories. Anything is better than the truth.

Speaking of stories, he loves to tell them and loves to listen. If you’d like to read, he would genuinely love it if you read him. It doesn’t matter the genre, he just enjoys them with a pure sincerity.

And if you want him to read to you? That’s fine by him. Although you’ll probably have to pick out the books… And forgive him when he stumbles on words. He didn’t have a proper education growing up. What he knows is what Wings has been able to teach him in their very limited free time. 

He can sing! Specifically lullabies, because that was the only thing that could sue Papyrus when he was a toddler. It’s not something he likes others to know, however, he’ll make the exception for you.

He can also cook. Very well. He learned along side Papyrus as something for the two of them to do together. He didn’t have a lot of free time and he didn’t want Papyrus to feel lonely, so he would learn how to cook with him. 

Very good at reading people. Even without his judge ability, he’s an expert at reading, micro expressions, understanding someone’s tone, and interpreting body language. His intuition is above reproach, even Asgore trusts it. 

He learned sign language when Wings lost his voice for a few months. Sans thought it would be come permanently so he stayed up late to learn it and be ready to teach it to Wings. Thankfully, Wings recovered so it’s been a rarely used skill.

Quality time is important to him. If you have something important in your life that you want him to attend, absolutely nothing will stop him from being there. 

Don’t try to get him jealous. Not only will your suitor be killed, but if he thinks you’re doing it on purpose, he won’t let it go. He won’t lay a hand on you. . . he doesn’t have to to discourage you from ever thinking about doing that again.

He’s a hot mess. There’s no getting around this. There is no therapy in his time, and the toxic masculinity expected of him will prevent him from ever admitting his emotional vulnerabilities in any way that matters.

He’ll be tender for you. He’ll be soft for you. He’ll be kinder around you. He won’t raise his voice. He won’t lay a hand on you. He’ll support your dreams, financially and emotionally. He’ll start with you if you want.

But that’s the extent of what he can do for now, and for a long times

And that’s the best he can do.

PLAY IF - MAFIAFELL HERE FOR HIS ROUTE

HC MASTERLIST HERE

[comicaurora]

In your asks and other outside-of-comic statements, you seem to draw on parallels to programming a lot when talking about lacrimas.

And this makes me think as a programmer: the primordial rules that are used in Auroras to do magic and lacrimas are part of the primordial language. You are literally telling the primordial's dead bodies what to do, and they obey.

Yet, the difference that comes to my mind is that Primordial was at one point a language actually spoken. Used to communicate in day-to-day life by normal sentient beings. That's quite different from programming languages, which aren't meant to be talked in at all, and are built from the ground up purely to convey a series of precise instructions. They're very formalised and structured. There are no synonyms, no double meanings, no altering of word order, no redundant information etc. It's extremely rigid, much unlike languages people actually talk in, for which a degree of fluidity and ambiguity is essential.

And in Aurora it would seem the latter is being used as the former.

Have you ever thought about this tension/contradiction/conflict? How it affects the world, how it affects your writing, etc?

Or has this distinction never crossed your mind?

Or was this something you have noticed, but never really had the right knowledge to engage with much?

Or any other thoughts on the subject, really

So! This is an interesting thing I have actually thought about.

When the Elder Races were first created, they were born knowing and speaking a language innovatively called the First Language. Every new Young Race is also initially created speaking this language. The language then drifts over the generations, developing into regional dialects and then into separate linguistic descendants if given enough time.

The Ancients spoke a close descendent of the First Language for most of their time in existence, and made a writing system of their own very early on, which has no innate power. But in the early days of the world, the generally accepted story is that a god granted the three elder races knowledge of the written Runic language, which could command the elements. The Ancients acquired it late and used it very sparingly, only for the programming of lacrimas, but for the Elves and Humans living in the depths of the Caves, this was their first and primary writing system. It's even possible that a rare cave-dweller brave enough to venture to the surface was the one who taught the Ancients these runes in the first place.

It's posed an obvious question, of course. Why does this one specific form of writing manifest as a language of magic? Why can it command the dead Primordials? Why is it so well-suited to the phonemes of the First Language that every child of this world is created speaking?

The predominant theory - and, with two living primordials to check with, one which is potentially on the cusp of being proven - is that the First Language and its runic writing system are the language that the Primordials spoke. Its words, written or spoken, can be understood by the remnants of thought that still linger in the sleeping, dead-but-not-entirely-gone primordials that make up the world.

Primordial magic is different from programming in one key way: real computers are entirely unthinking entities. They are not in any way smart - not even smart enough to be stupid. A computer parsing a program cannot observe a missing parentheses and compensate like a human could do in their sleep - it simply fails to parse, because the mathematics don't work out.

Magic in this world is like what every programmer wishes programming could be. Tell the computer what to do, and it might be a little confused, but it'll get the gist. Tell Fire to burn in this direction - Fire, even if it's just running on an echo of a seven-thousand-year-old memory, knows what that means. Tell the wind to printf this statement to this recipient, it'll try to find them and send the message. Tell Life to make this body do what it's doing faster, it can do that. It's simple executions of simple commands, almost reflexive - things that require no complex higher thought from a being that is no longer alive enough to have them. They're not as unthinking as computers, and that means the nuances of language can actually have an effect on them. Some mages think more poetic and emotionally-charged spell invocations can lead to better, more efficient results - an appeal to a long-dead emotion might be easier for the Primordial to execute than an appeal to a half-forgotten complex thought.

When a mage takes direct control of a magical energy and funnels it into an elemental effect, their own higher thought allows the element to do more complicated things - Fire can't transmute on its own like it could when it was alive, but it can when bent to a mortal will. No need to translate a spell into the language of magic when the mage can simply use their own mind to shape the effect. This is the primary advantage mages have over lacrima-users - flexibility, complexity, and speed.

Another interesting factor. Alinua's dynamic with Life demonstrates what a living Primordial's living thought can do when in the hands of a mortal. A normal, simple healing spell cast by anybody but her just accelerates a body's own healing, but with Alinua's guidance steadying Life's hand, they can do much more complicated things of her own free will - things Life knows how to do that no mage knows how to command her to do.