#(new working title who dis)

[c0rpsedemon]

it's soooo fucked to think about how everything that's ever happened in your life is connected, no matter how mundane. what do you Mean my 5th grade teacher's seating arrangement is the reason i lived past the age of 13

[pertinax--loculos]

Word Find Tag

So, @winterandwords tagged me to find the words small, work, see and outside. I’m going to be using my new WIP for this, because it turns out that even with only a few scenes written I actually have enough to hit all these words. :D

Small (Maddie POV)

Verreynne chuckled. It was a truly unpleasant sound. “Fuck you.”

“If you don’t help us, you’re going to die.”

A moment of silence. Verreynne sat back slightly, tension creasing his eyes momentarily as he shifted his shoulder. Then he said, “That a fucking threat?”

Maddie’s heart skipped a beat. It took every ounce of training and experience she had not to quail under the hissing, implicit promise of violence. “It’s merely a statement of fact, Mister Verreynne. Locked up in here, you’re vulnerable. At least if you’re out with the rest of us you might have a fighting chance.”

She wasn’t sure how long he stared at her. Probably it was only seconds, but they seemed to stretch into epochs, time bending and yielding in the too-quiet, too-small space. Maddie worked to keep her face neutral and her breathing even.

She might have even succeeded, because Verreynne finally tore his gaze from hers and fixed it on Flack.

“I will end you for this,” he said.

Work (Maddie POV)

“Scan our surroundings,” she said. “I wanna know whether there’s anything out there we’re gonna hit.”

“What does it matter? We’ve got a compromised hull with fourteen people about to start using a whole heap of oxygen we don’t have. We’re talking minutes here, Fletcher, never mind hours.”

Maddie shoved [Harrison] in the shoulder, turning him back towards the panel. “Scan our surroundings,” she gritted out through her teeth. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

Harrison muttered and started tapping at the panel. It would be harder work than if they still had a bridge, but he was clever enough to be able to patch into their remaining external sensors.

What was she doing? Harrison was right. Their deaths were guaranteed. Would it make anything any better, knowing how it happened?

Maddie shook the thoughts away. With the rest of the bridge gone, she was the commanding officer. She’d do what she could right up until the last minute.

See (DJ POV)

Kathleen’s eyes were wild. Her focus was somewhere on the room behind him, and the emptiness that leant her gaze was only underscored by the too-clear sheen of tears, gathering at the edges of her eyelids and dripping down her face. No undertones brightened her complexion, just the ashy look of shock. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

“Oh god,” she moaned. “Gracie.”

Her daughter. The one she was going to see after all these years. What had she said, appearing like a ghost in the haunted hallways of this deathtrap, to make Kathleen so desperate? What lies had she whispered that made Kathleen believe shooting [Redacted] was the right thing to do?

No. DJ shoved the questions away. Kathleen was sick. She was his patient. He had to treat her. That was all.

Outside (Verreynne POV)

With none of the normal engine noises, it was easy to hear footsteps coming down the corridor. Verreynne tensed, and the thing in his shoulder grinded again. He closed his eyes for a sec. Swallowed down the sickness grumbling in his belly. Fuck. No idea how many hours it’d been since they’d been out of cryo. Enough. Too many.

Something clanked or clicked on the outside of the door, and that fucking rage he’d felt when he’d first seen that sick smirk on fucking Flack’s face lashed at him again. They’d cuffed him, tied him, dragged him to this pathetic spit of a closet in a ship he didn’t know, and they’d locked the fucking door. Suppose he should be grateful Flack was giving him so much credit. It was an empty sorta consolation.

I’m gonna tag back @winterandwords, @oh-no-another-idea, @thegreatobsesso, @blind-the-winds, @artdecosupernova-writing, and @crosswise (not sure if you’re into tag games? If not, ignore!) to find the words bleak, yearn, fall, alive and knowing.

[omgthatdress]

Sooooo ummmmmmm this is something that's probably going to piss a lot of people off, but I feel like I really need to say it.

If you get a message from an account claiming to be a Palestinian fundraiser, it is a bot. It is a scam. You need to report & delete the message and encourage others to do the same.

I know because I get messages on this account DAILY. I have a very high follower count and I'm pretty active and I interact with my followers a lot, and apparently that all adds up to one big bot magnet.

Bots following and messaging this account was a MASSIVE problem before Tumblr fixed its new account policies. I used to spend literally hours blocking and reporting the hundreds of bots that I would get following me each day.

I learned a lot about bots and how to identify them. The easiest way is with no avatar, "untitled" in the blog description (BTW if your avatar is still set to default PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD change it because you run a substantial risk of being accidentally blocked & reported as a bot).

One of the dead give aways of a bot was what I call "word salad" names. Three seemingly random words strung together making no sense, always adjective, adjective or noun, noun. If you reported a lot of these bots, you'd notice the same words kept showing up.

Nowadays, I am bombarded with fundraiser requests and sometimes, they don't even bother to hide the fact that they're a bot. The avatar is default, the blog title is "untitled," and the blog name is a classic randomly-generated word salad.

However MOST of the requests I get come from at least semi-legit looking accounts. There are pictures, a name, a story. Never mind that I've gotten that message three times from different accounts.

Sometimes, they claim to be vetted, but the whole vetting system essentially adds up to "trust me bro." There is no way of guaranteeing that this account isn't just lying about being vetted, claiming to be vetted by a false person, or are using the identity of a real Palestinian to scam people.

Previously, I've seen a lot of people getting attacked for raising questions about these fundraisers and getting attacked for being racist or for harming Palestinian families in danger, like Tumblr isn't a website famous for its scams and the words "The Arkh Project" "All or Nothing" or "Miss Officer and Mr. Truffles" mean nothing to you.

I personally have been scammed by people claiming to be charities on Tumblr before, specifically, The Leelah Project which used the name of a trans teenager who died by suicide to swindle people out of their money.

Luckily, there are actual, respected charities out there you can give money to if you want to help the cause:

Palestinian Children's Relief Fund

Palestine Red Crescent Society

United Nations Relief Works Agency

Islamic Relief

World Central Kitchen

Médecins Sans Frontièrs

One of the hardest things to accept about the situation in Palestine is that realistically, there is very little that your average outsider can do to change it. However, these large, well-respected and trustworthy charities are out there doing the hard work to keep people alive, and should be where the donation money is going

These scam bots feed on people's naïvety and need to believe that they are making a difference, and even worse, feed on the fear that by ignoring them, it somehow makes you a racist doing direct harm to a refugee family, when in fact they are using the suffering of Palestinians to take away money from those in need.

As far as fundraisers that don't send out random asks for donations, I honestly don't know. You'll have to do the work yourself and approach with much caution.

Be careful out there.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Happy Public Domain Day 2025 to all who celebrate

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/17/dastar-dly-deeds/#roast-in-piss-sonny-bono

In 1976, Congress set fire to the country's libraries; in 1998, they did it again. Today, in 2024, the flames have died down, and out of the ashes a new public domain is growing. Happy Public Domain Day 2025 to all who celebrate!

For most of US history, copyright was something you had to ask for. To copyright a work, you'd send a copy to the Library of Congress and they'd issue you a copyright. Not only did that let you display a copyright mark on your work – so people would know they weren't allowed to copy it without your permission – but if anyone wanted to figure out who to ask in order to get permission to copy or adapt a work, they could just go look up the paperwork at the LoC.

In 1976, Congress amended the Copyright Act to eliminate the "formality" of copyright registration. Now, all creative works of human authorship were copyrighted "at the moment of fixation" – the instant you drew, typed, wrote, filmed, or recorded them. From a toddler's nursery-school finger-painting to a graffiti mural on a subway car, every creative act suddenly became an article of property.

But whose property? That was on you to figure out, before you could copy, publish, perform, or preserve the work, because without registration, permissions had to start with a scavenger hunt for the person who could grant it. Congress simultaneously enacted a massive expansion of property rights, while abolishing the title registry that spelled out who owned what. As though this wasn't enough, Congress reached back in time and plopped an extra 20 years' onto the copyrights of existing works, even ones whose authors were unknown and unlocatable.

For the next 20 years, creative workers, archivists, educators and fans struggled in the face of this regime of unknowable property rights. After decades of well-documented problems, Congress acted again: they made it worse.

In 1998, Congress passed the Sonny Bono Copyright Act, AKA the Mickey Mouse Preservation Act, AKA the Copyright Term Extension Act. The 1998 Act tacked another 20 years onto copyright terms, but not just for works that were still in copyright. At the insistence of Disney, Congress actually yanked works out of the public domain – works that had been anthologized, adapted and re-issued – and put them back into copyright for two more decades. Copyright stretched to the century-plus "life plus 70 years" term. Nothing entered the public domain for the next 20 years.

So many of my comrades in the fight for the public domain were certain that this would happen again in 2018. In 2010, e-book inventor and Project Gutenberg founder Michael S Hart and I got into a friendly email argument because he was positive that in 2018, Congress would set fire to the public domain again. When I insisted that there was no way this could happen given the public bitterness over the 1998 Act, he told me I was being naive, but said he hoped that I was right.

Michael didn't live to see it, but in 2019, the public domain opened again. It was an incredible day:

https://archive.org/details/ClosingKeynoteForGrandReopeningOfThePublicDomainCoryDoctorowAtInternetArchive

No one has done a better job of chronicling the fortunes of our fragile, beautiful, bounteous public domain than Jennifer Jenkins and James Boyle of Duke University's Center for the Study of the Public Domain. Every year from 2010-2019, Boyle and Jenkins chronicled the works that weren't entering the public domain because of the 1998 Act, making sure we knew what had been stolen from our cultural commons. In so many cases, these works disappeared before their copyrights expired, for example, the majority of silent films are lost forever.

Then, in 2019, Jenkins and Boyle got to start cataloging the works that were entering the public domain, most of them from 1923 (copyright is complicated, so not everything that entered the public domain in 2019 was from that year):

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/publicdomainday/2019/

Every year since, they've celebrated a new bumper crop. Last year, we got Mickey Mouse!

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/15/mouse-liberation-front/#free-mickey

In addition to numerous other works – by Woolf, Hemingway, Doyle, Christie, Proust, Hesse, Milne, DuBois, Frost, Chaplin, Escher, and more:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/20/em-oh-you-ess-ee/#sexytimes

Now, 2024 was a fantastic year for the public domain, but – as you'll see in the 2025 edition of the Public Domain Day post – 2025 is even better:

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/publicdomainday/2025/

So what's entering the public domain this year? Well, for one thing, there's more of the stuff from last year, which makes sense: if Hemingway's first books entered the PD last year, then this year, we'll the books he wrote next (and this will continue every year until we catch up with Hemingway's tragic death).

There are some big hits from our returning champions, like Woolf's To the Lighthouse and A Farewell to Arms from Hemingway. Jenkins and Boyle call particular attention to one book: Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, its title taken from a public domain work by Shakespeare. As they write, Faulkner spoke eloquently about the nature of posterity and culture:

[Humanity] is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance…The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

The main attraction on last year's Public Domain Day was the entry of Steamboat Willie – the first Mickey Mouse cartoon – into the public domain. This year, we're getting a dozen new Mickey cartoons, including the first Mickey talkie:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mickey_Mouse_(film_series)#1929

Those 12 shorts represent a kind of creative explosion for the Disney Studios. Those early Mickey cartoons were, each and every one, a hybrid of new copyrighted works and the public domain. The backbone of each Mickey short was a beloved, public domain song, with Mickey's motion synched to the beat (animators came to call this "mickey mousing"). In 1929, there was a huge crop of public domain music that anyone could use this way:

Blue Danube, Pop Goes the Weasel, Yankee Doodle, Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush, Ach Du Lieber Augustin, Listen to the Mocking Bird, A-Hunting We Will Go, Dixie, The Girl I Left Behind Me, a tune known as the snake charmer song, Coming Thru the Rye, Mary Had a Little Lamb, Auld Lang Syne, Aloha ‘Oe, Turkey in the Straw, My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, Habanera and Toreador Song from Carmen, Lizst’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, and Goodnight, Ladies.

These were recent compositions, songs that were written and popularized in the lifetimes of the parents and grandparents who took their kids to the movies to see Mickey shorts like "The Barn Dance," "The Opry House" and "The Jazz Fool." The ability to plunder this music at will was key to the success of Mickey Mouse and Disney. Think of all the Mickeys and Disneys we've lost by locking up the public domain for the past half-century!

This year, we're getting some outstanding new old music for our public domain. The complexities of copyright terms mean that compositions from 1929 are entering the public domain, but we're only getting recordings from 1924. 1924's outstanding recordings include:

George Gershwin performing Rhapsody in Blue, Jelly Roll Morton playing Shreveport Stomp, and an early recording from contralto and civil rights icon Marian Anderson, who is famous for her 1939 performance to an integrated audience of over 75,000 people at the Lincoln Memorial. Anderson’s 1924 recording is of the spiritual Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.

While the compositions include Singin' in the Rain, Ain't Misbehavin', An American in Paris, Bolero, (What Did I Do to Be So) Black and Blue, Tiptoe Through the Tulips, Happy Days Are Here Again, What Is This Thing Called, Love?, Am I Blue? and many, many more.

On the art front, we're getting Salvador Dali's earliest surrealist masterpieces, like Illumined Pleasures, The Accommodations of Desire, and The Great Masturbator. Dali's contemporaries are not so lucky: after a century, the early history of the works of Magritte are so muddy that it's impossible to say whether they are in or out of copyright.

But there's plenty of art with clearer provenance that we can welcome into the public domain this year, most notably, Popeye and Tintin. As the first Popeye and Tintin comics go PD, so too do those characters.

The idea that a fictional character can have a copyright separate from the stories they appear in is relatively new, and it's weird and very stupid. Courts have found that the Batmobile is a copyrightable character (Batman won't enter the public domain until 2035).

Copyright for characters is such a muddy, gross, weird idea. The clearest example of how stupid this gets comes from Sherlock Holmes, whose canon spans many years. The Doyle estate – a rent-seeking copyright troll – claimed that Holmes wouldn't enter the public domain until every Holmes story was in the public domain (that's this year, incidentally!).

This didn't fly, so their next gambit was to claim copyright over those aspects of Holmes's character that were developed later in the stories. For example, they claimed that Holmes didn't show compassion until the later stories, and, on that basis, sued the creators of the Enola Holmes TV show for depicting a gender-swapped Sherlock who wasn't a total dick:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/dec/22/lawsuit-copyright-warmer-sherlock-holmes-dismissed-enola-holmes

As the Enola lawyers pointed out in their briefs, this was tantamount to a copyright over emotions: "Copyright law does not allow the ownership of generic concepts like warmth, kindness, empathy, or respect, even as expressed by a public domain character – which, of course, belongs to the public, not plaintiff."

When Mickey entered the public domain last year, Jenkins did an excellent deep dive into which aspects of Mickey's character and design emerged when:

https://web.law.duke.edu/cspd/mickey/

Jenkins uses this year's entry of Tintin and Popeye into the public domain to further explore the subject of proprietary characters.

Even though copyright extends to characters, it only covers the "copyrightable" parts of those characters. As the Enola lawyers wrote, the generic character traits (their age, emotional vibe, etc) are not protected. Neither is anything "trivial" or "minuscule" – for example, if a cartoonist makes a minor alteration to the way a character's pupils or eyes are drawn, that's a minor detail, not a copyrightable element.

The biggest impediment to using public domain characters isn't copyright, it's trademark. Trademark is very different from copyright: foundationally, trademark is the right to protect your customers from being deceived by your competitors. Coke can use trademark to stop Pepsi from selling its sugary drinks in Coke cans – not because it owns the word "Coke" or the Coke logo, but because it has been deputized to protect Coke drinkers from being tricked into buying not-Coke, thinking that they're getting the true Black Waters of American Imperialism.

Companies claim trademarks over cartoon characters all the time, and license those trademarks on food, clothing, toys, and more (remember Popeye candy cigarettes?).

Indeed, Hearst Holdings claims a trademark over Popeye in many traditional categories, like cartoons, amusement parks, ads and clothes. They're also in the midst of applying for a Popeye NFT trademark (lol).

Does that mean you can't use Popeye in any of those ways? Nope! All you need to do is prominently mention that your use of Popeye is unofficial, not associated with Hearst, and dispel any chance of confusion. A unanimous Supreme Court decision (in Dastar) affirm your right to do so. You can also use Popeye in the title of your unauthorized Popeye comic, thanks to a case called Rogers v Grimaldi.

This all applies to Tintin, too – a big deal, given that Tintin is managed by a notorious copyright bully who delights in cruelly terrorizing fan artists. Tintin is joined in the public domain by Buck Rogers, another old-timey character whose owners are scumbag rent-seekers.

Congress buried the public domain alive in 1976, and dumped a load of gravel over its grave in 1998, but miraculously, we've managed to exhume the PD, and it has been revived and is showing signs of rude health.

2024 saw the blockbuster film adaptation of Wicked, based on the public domain Oz books. It also saw the publication of James, a celebrated retelling of Twain's Huck Finn from the perspective of Huck's enslaved sidekick.

This is completely normal. It's how art was made since time immemorial. The 40 year experiment in life without a public domain is at an end, and not a minute too soon.

You can piece together a complete-as-possible list of 2025's public domain (including the Marx Brothers' Cocoanuts, Disney's Skeleton Dance, and Del Ruth's Gold Diggers of Broadway) here:

https://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/cce/

[torpublishinggroup]

Celebrate Pride with Tor Publishing Group!

The Water Outlaws by S. L. Huang

Mountain outlaws on the margins of society, the Bandits of Liangshan proclaim a belief in justice—for women, for the downtrodden, for progressive thinkers a corrupt Empire would imprison or destroy. They’re also murderers, thieves, smugglers, and cutthroats. Together, they could bring down an empire. 

Now available in paperback!

Somewhere Beyond the Sea by TJ Klune

The long-awaited sequel to The House in the Cerulean Sea is a story of resistance, lovingly told, about the daunting experience of fighting for the life you want to live and doing the work to keep it. Welcome back to Marsyas Island—home to six magical and purportedly dangerous children. This is Arthur’s story.

The West Passage by @jpechacek

When the Guardian of the West Passage dies in her bed, the women of Grey Tower feed her to the crows and go back to their chores. No successor is named, and no hand takes up the fallen blade, so the West Passage—the ancient byways of the beast—goes unguarded. This is a weird and delightful journey across a deliriously medieval landscape where decay thrives in abundance and giant Ladies rule a palace the size of a city. 

Blood Debts by Terry J. Benton-Walker

On the thirtieth anniversary of the largest magical massacre in New Orleans history, Clement and Cristina Trudeau mourn their father and care for their sick mother. But their mother isn’t sick, they learn: She’s cursed. Cursed by a member of the same magic council over which she used to preside. Cursed by someone who will come for Clement and Cristina next. 

Now available in paperback!

Bury Your Gays by @drchucktingle

After so many years, Misha’s big Oscar moment is here. All he has to do? Kill off the gay characters in his long-running streaming series, “for the algorithm.” Misha refuses, but that’s hardly the end, because monsters from his old horror movie days have begun to step out from the silver screen and stalk him. 

The Brides of High Hill by Nghi Vo

The Cleric Chih accompanies a young bride to her wedding to Lord Guo, the aging ruler of a crumbling estate, but amid the elaborate courtesies and extravagant banquets, they realize something haunts the shadowed halls. As the big night nears close, Chih will learn that not all monsters dwell in shadows; some hide in plain sight. 

Remedial Magic by Melissa Marr

1) An unassuming librarian falls in love with a powerful witch. 

2) Previous librarian discovers she too is a witch…

3) …and that she must attend magical community college to learn how to save her new world from annihilation. 

Swordcrossed by @fahye

Part-time con artist / full-time charming menace Luca Piere didn’t expect to get blackmailed into teaching a chronically responsible merchant Matti how to wield a sword. He also didn’t expect to find his charge so inconveniently handsome, or to get so entangled in his tale of intrigue, sabotage, and matrimony. 

It’s important to read Swordcrossed because while you’re reading gay fiction, you can also study the blade.

Celebrate Pride with more titles from Tor Publishing Group here!

[possamble]

Needlessly close reading and long commentary on chapter 57 and how the audience actually has an extremely limited view on what Marcille has been like over the course of her life.

I am once again thinking about how pre-dungeon Marcille is so quiet and stoic that she seems like a completely different person. How jarring chapter 57 is for the audience. Like you have Marcille, who has been just the most blindingly expressive person with resting baby face

And then the chapter drops a title page of Marcille hearing from Falin for the first time in four years and it's like.

Who is that. Genuinely. Would you even realize that's Marcille without the context clues?

And then the chapter just keeps coming in with the sucker punches.

We have SEEN Marcille meet strangers. It was never with this understated of a smile.

literally who the hell is this. the few times the audience gets to see some Signature Marcille Faces that they're used to is when she finally gets to see Falin again

when she's testing out her new spells

(and when Laios and Falin are fantasizing about her being their damsel in distress, funnily enough)

And then finally. Finally you get to a fully recognizable Marcille when she fucking DIES and comes back to life to geek out about necromancy.

We know she loves magic. We know she loves Falin. So it's not so surprising that she wouldn't be able to keep a mask up when thinking or talking about the things she loves. But why the mask in the first place? Where does it come from? It's tempting to think that, maybe, Falin's departure just hurt her so much that it turned her into a quiet person.

But that's only half true. If you go back, the first instance you see of this incredibly mild personality is actually introduced much earlier, in chapter 17.

What if she was always like that. What if her default after her father died was to hold people at arm's length, to never really emote past being polite and friendly. What if Falin was the first person who was able to bring her out of her shell, and when she left, Marcille just went back to how she was.

And when comparing her detached demeanour with someone else...

It's not exact, but wouldn't you say there's a resemblance? Wouldn't you think she might be trying her best to imitate what she saw of her own mother working as an accomplished mage?

It would certainly explain why she's hiding behind her portrait in her nightmare, at least.

We aren't told that Marcille has been distancing herself from everyone around her using a mature and dignified personality she modelled off her mother. But we sure as hell are shown it, I think.

[thinkinonsense]

Bewitched

˖⋆࿐໋ james logan howlett ✦ bridgerton au series

bewitched masterlist

cw: 1800s mentality on marriage and women, pinning, bickering, enemies to lovers

pairing: viscount!logan howlett x fem!reader

a/n: as of right now, i'm not sure how long this series will be but i'm so excited for it! i tried to make the reader as universal as possible but i did have to give her some sort of last name, so if that isn't your thing, you can always change it to fit. after the set up, i'll probably drop the last name.

bridgerton lore: ton (high society), debuting (when you begin dating/looking for a partner), spinster (an unmarried woman)

main masterlist

in early june, everyone returned back to england for this season and whispers of a french woman joining the ton spread around. one morning at breakfast, marie howlett was reading one of the gossip columns aloud to her family when her eldest brother, james walked into join them at the table.

"it says she's staying with her aunt, lady worthington. she is four and twenty and the only child. her passions are literature and painting. apparently, the queen has one of her paintings in her home..."

"she sounds lovely. doesn't she, james?" their mother said, hoping her boy was listening.

"she's a spinster." he says, eating some of the fruit on the table. "that's not viscountess material."

"the queen seems to find her to be diamond material." marie jabs.

james has never fallen for one of the diamonds. sure, their beauty is prominent and sometimes they can hold an intellectual conversation but for the most part they are simply shoved forward so the queen can take credit for their marriage.

"i have more important priorities this season."

"well, this season you should prioritize finding a viscountess." their mother bit at him.

during this time every year his mother gives james the same speech over and over again. the marriage speech. ever since his father died during battle, james has been plagued with not only his grief but also the weight of replacing his father and eventually having to find a replacement for his mother as well. instead of focusing on marriage, james kept himself busy either working or traveling and keeping his family afloat.

"mama, i promise i will find a wife at some point." james sighs. "i just haven't met anyone that can handle being my viscountess."

"what about the red headed girl from last season? you seemed to fancy her quite a bit."

"she married lord summers this past spring."

"and the munroe girl?"

"she's interested in mister brooks."

all his mother does is sigh in response to the news. he takes this as the perfect chance to escape the interrogation.

luckily for james, there was always an excuse to avoid marriage. in the past he's gotten close to making that walk down the aisle but something always held him back. he's never believed much in love or marriage past it's convenience. sure, he believed it was the blueprint of life, to take a wife and start a family but his marriage is seen as a much bigger deal.

all the mamas in the ton were practically throwing their daughters in his direction. at balls, he's always forcing marie to dance with him because if not, he will be forced to socialize with these young unintellectual girls who only value him for his money and title. james didn't want to have to nurture these girls. he would take care of his wife but he wanted someone who was independent from him.

ever since his father died in the war, james has always been guarded of his feelings. especially, when it came to love. when he went with his mother to identify his father's body, james swore on that day that he would never let love destroy him like it did his mother.

"remember, marie is debuting tonight at the first ball of the season." his mother called after him. "don't be late."

"i wouldn't miss it." he smiles at his little sister before dashing out the door and back to his study.

˖⋆࿐໋

a rainbow of silks are spread across your bed as you try to figure out what to wear tonight. if your mother was here, she would know exactly what would look best on you. it's only been three months since her passing yet the ache in your chest grows stronger day by day.

"what are you thinking of wearing tonight?" your aunt asks, lingering in the doorway.

"i'm not sure yet." you sigh, picking at the pretty gowns. "i like the light blue one."

arguably, it was the prettiest in the pile. so simple, you hoped to blend in among the wash of colors in the room tonight. the boning of the corset poked the left side of your ribs a little but beauty is pain.

as you got ready, the nerves started to kick in. by now you should be on your second or third child and pregnant with the next. why was love taking so long to find you?

ever since you were a little girl, you were a hopeless romantic. dreaming of your first kiss and getting married to your knight in shining armor. back home, there was a cruel joke that you were the girl before the wife. you get just close enough before they end it. afraid that the curse would travel with you.

"don't worry." you aunt hums, brushing your hair. "the queen picked you as her diamond for a reason."

"i know, i know." you nod, avoiding your reflection in the mirror. "i just wish mother was here with me."

"i do too, dear."

"she should've seen me married."

a small tear rolls down your pink painted cheeks. it feels like you let her down by not taking a husband before her illness got worse.

men have it so easy. there's no pressure from society put on them. you can marry at fifty to a nineteen year old if you so please because you know that they will marry you out of fear and desperation.

"who says she can't?" your aunts smile reflected in the mirror. "she's still looking down on you, probably working on sending you a lord or a duke for a husband as we speak."

"amusing." you giggle.

"imagine a viscount or a prince!"

both of you laugh at the possibility. viscounts and princes were usually swept up quickly in high society. all of them probably have pregnant wives by now.

"don't get too ahead of yourself."

˖⋆࿐໋

the queens ball was unlike anything you had ever seen. beautiful gardens, bright lights, and people gathered everywhere. inside the ballroom, the chandelier lights almost blind you.

like a hawk, lady chamberlain spots you two. she is an older lady and a close family friend. you haven't seen her since you were a little girl, surprised that she was able to recognize you.

"lady worthington and miss bowery, lovely to see you here!" the woman smiled, wrapping her arms around both of you.

"hello, lady chamberlain." you smile, feeling slightly at ease seeing a familiar face here.

"you look marvelous, sweetie." she smiles, taking in your appearance. at least someone appreciated all the bells and whistles that went into your dress for this evening. "truly like a diamond."

"thank you." you curtsy. a warm rose color rises to the surface of your cheeks at her compliment.

"let's go find that viscount i've told your aunt about." she says.

suddenly, she's pulling you and your aunt over to meet everyone.

quite some time has passed and yet you've only met barton's and a few lords. from one eligible bachelor to the next, it was the same process. you introduce yourself, dance, ask a bit about each other, jump into talks of marriage and children. it was all a bit overwhelming to say the least.

there's no news on a prince yet but lady chamberlain was holding out for a viscount while your aunt held out for a duke. meanwhile, you just needed someone with charm and charisma to save you from these godawful men of the ton.

"i'm going to get a drink." you announce, one the music ends.

in one of the dim corners of the room there was a refreshment table where you poured a hefty amount of wine into your glass and down as much of it –in a very unlady like manner– as you could before another person could find you.

it wasn't long until someone behind you clears their voice loudly.

"i was unaware that they taught women to drink like soldiers in france..."

you spin around quickly to face the man in front of you. he is gorgeous and... huge. dawned in white puffy shirt and a tight black vest with detailed buttons. he towered over you intimidatingly with a small smirk creeping on his lips from shocked expression.

"i-i deeply apologize, my lord. it was just grape juice." you laugh nervously, avoiding his piercing stare.

"hm..." he hums, lifting his hand up and letting his thumb swiftly glide under your lip to catch the bit of liquid there. you watch in awe as he licks the bit of wine off his thumb with a soft groan. "they must make 'grape juice' different in france."

never in your whole life have you been left so speechless. a gentleman has never done more so than touch your hand, let alone act so scandalous. with a satisfied smirk, the man walks away to join a small group of young women. thank goodness that no one seemed to have noticed.

"miss bowery!" lady chamberlain called after you. "i want you to come meet the howletts."

swiftly, you get back to her as she approach a mother and daughter. both of them were stunningly and wore expensive looking gowns with luxurious jewels. lady chamberlains wide smile only made you grow more anxious.

"meet lady howlett and her daughter, the honorable, marie howlett." lady chamberlain introduced.

"lovely to meet you." you say, bowing gracefully before them.

"where is viscount james?" lady chamberlain asks.

"oh! he should be around here somewhere..." the woman looked behind the two of you until she flagged someone down. “there he is!”

the moment that you looked up at the viscount, you feared your heart might explode right then and there. silently pray to the gods above that he won't mention your previous encounter.

"miss bowery, this is my son, viscount james logan howlett." lady howlett announces proudly.

"what a pleasure to meet you, miss bowery." james smirked, trying to get a rise out of you.

"as is it for me, my lord." you curtsy politely, feeling hot under his gaze.

a cloud of lust fogs james mind at the words, my lord fell from your pretty, slightly berry colored lips. the lower his eyes drift from your face, the tighter his trousers get. every exquisite curve is highlighted by the way that the silk fell on your frame, reminding him of the goddesses he had only seen in the finest of paintings.

"might you wish to accompany me to a dance?" he asks, extending his hand to you.

you nod, offering him your gloved hand in return.

the two of you make your way to the dance floor with everyone else. the orchestra begins and you quickly fall in sync with each other.

"how are you enjoying england?" james asks.

"it's quite lovely." you lie.

"better than france?" he questioned with a small tilt of his head.

"no." you giggle softly. "nowhere on earth is better than home."

"i suppose i cannot argue with that."

"have you journed to france?"

"once. when i was younger, i went with my father. he loved france."

"that's why my mother left england. she fell in love with my father when she visited france."

"they must be true romantics."

"oh, most definitely." you smile.

carefully, logan spins you twice. never letting you stumble over your own two feet like most men would.

"i truly am sorry for earlier, my lord. that was completely unacceptable for a–"

"it's alright, sweetheart." the viscount cut you off with a chuckle. "your secret is safe with me."

james looks down to see your big round eyes sparkle up at him with great appreciation. there's a unique feeling blooming deep in his chest that he can't quite put his finger on.

"i heard from some mamas that you are seeking to wed this season." you say, looking elsewhere as the two of you pull apart.

"seeking is such a complex word." he sighs amusingly.

"i imagine it would be difficult to find a future viscountess."

"you have no idea."

all around you, you can see the women openly fawning over the viscount. some fan themselves while other clutch their jewels with either anger at you or lust for him. any of those women would duel to be in your shoes right now.

"do you have a desire to be viscountess?" his question made your heartbeat increase, pounding in your chest.

as a young girl, you watched your family struggle in order to survive so it would be a lie to say that you don't dream of having a title. you have a father back in france to take care of in his elderly age. but love was your main desire. you would marry a sweet common man as long as he loved you.

"i desire to be loved." you tell him.

the answer caught james off guard. the women of the ton had no issue telling him to his face that they want his tittle or money. none of those women actually cared about love.

"well, my darling, you are quite the fool to be seeking out something as pure as love in a place such as this." james says, pulling you so close that you can feel his heartbeat in his chest and his eyes darken.

"don't be so cock-sure, viscount howlett. i am no fool at all." you glare angrily up at him. "i wish you well on your journey to find such a bird-witted viscountess."

the song ends and you are quick to make an exit. hot on your heels, james follows you outside. perhaps you shouldn't have insulted the viscount to his face but you didn't quite care anymore. this night has been a bust and you aren't any closer to marriage then you were before walking in here.

"miss, bowery..." a man calls, capturing your attention. "would you accompany me to a dance?"

based on the man's appearance, he seems even more important that the viscount. he was definitely the opposite of james. this man wore light grey in places where james wore black. this man had a sweet smile where james had a scowl.

"her dance card is full." the voice behind you threatened.

the gentleman's face fell a little.

"actually, i have one last spot open on my dance card." you smile, showing him the tag tied to your right wrist which had exactly one spot open. "i would love to accompany you..."

"prince harrison." he grins.

you hum, offering your hand. the prince leans down and kissed your gloved fingers before sweeping you off to the dance floor again.

james fumed as he watched you walk away with the prince. lady howlett spots her son alone and walks over to him.

“please tell me that you did not scare off this seasons diamond, james.” lady howlett asked in a low whisper.

“i’m gonna call a carriage” he growls, annoyed.

“dear!”

his mother called after him but he couldn’t care to turn around and stay here any longer.

˖⋆࿐໋

on the carriage ride alone, james is stuck with the image of you. your beauty and the pain in your eyes when james called you a fool. oddly enough, james enjoyed the way you bit back at him. he just wishes that he hadn’t offended you.

apparently you must not be that hurt if you accepted a dance from harrison of all people. not because he wanted to court you but because harrison was barely considered a prince and was a poor excuse of a man. never having to lift a finger a day in his life. never knowing a single struggle. the prince was insufferable.

perhaps it was in james best interest to forget about the beautiful woman he met this evening. she is this seasons diamond after all, desired by too many. james wasn't known to chase the things he desired.

──★

tag list: @v3rdee @squishyfruitloop @caswithdasas2021 @espressopatronum454 @brittdead @fake-bleach @blossoming-hotch @hotbisexualmess @imaginecrushes @wh0re4steelblue-eyes @b0nes-n-all @tvdelrey @prettyoatmeal @speedyvoidlove @lunavelha @merrul @bubblegumholland @divinesols @seasonofthenerd @adoredire @gl0wingsl0wtown @imithicwolf @charityjoy22 @sun7lowxr @melsunshine @internetitgirl17 @tsumukei @dolliestprncess @st4rrlighttt @crypticcowboys @mirrorballpalo @princessanglophile @planetxella @battieshroomz @tonyhawkstits @shinyshayminflower @babey-fruit-bat @oraclic @glnnnhaps @criminaly-supernatural @pxrwinkle @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @tighrenicotine @midnightvitality @loonalockley @notbaldy420 @squishyfruitloop @summer-343 @reidshearts @marii-ren @fictionalmen-dilflover @brisingamenwearer @pedrohoe04 @taextannie @jrihensjd @tumharisakhi @readerofallthingss @etmoisara @paladinshenanigan-blog @hauntedwombateggmug @i-am-not-a-morning-person-83 @zaggprincess2 @atjlovverr @fallingfromjupiter @cards-and-daggers @reidsworld @imsuperbored @golden-ebony @joyfulpeanutsalad @mysticalmarvelousmagpie @thighridinglogan @pieuui @fanficcrow @alsoprettyinpink @rooroen @barbecuetiddy @potato-painter @milfhunter69sstuff @bel20blog @hypermarvellove @modicum-ofnothing @gemofthenight @laureniswolverine @d3ad2you @goldphish @mxtokko @ovohanna24 @i-voluntears @cherrypieyourface @petrichor-incorporation @csigirl3137 @justannie18 @yxtkiwiyxt @maddielovesurmom321 @madscape @mesopotamism @multifandom-boss-bitch @tecolote2755 @ririkacchi @crownofdecit @snow30285 @lenoradarkstriderr @willybillyletsgetsilly @sleepilysworld @mynatureworld @biiolumii @phantombaby @natlovesu @tumharisakhi @lokiswify @saph-cyare @burntsaltsblog @shedobeclownin @itsjuwulia @hazelwebster @cake-and-umbrellas @aureliusbrutus @loving-barnes @valorant-v @annagraceevanss @opheliaas-stuff @louisymomo @midnightvitality @ricespy123 @livingonsillylovesongs

[op-sys-chaos]

DPxDC prompt (demon twins au)

A video from your son, the email was titled. Bruce was confused. Which of his kids would send a video to his public work email??

Bruce clicked play.

On the screen was a boy who look a lot like Damian, but most certainly wasn’t him.

“This video is for the eyes of Bruce Wayne only.

Hi Dad. I’m Danny. You likely don’t know I exist, and if you’re receiving this, I’m already dead. Well, more dead than I already was. Maybe it’s cruel of me to send you a message post-mortem, but you deserve the truth, and telling you earlier would’ve put you in danger.

This email is set to automatically send if I haven’t opened my computer for 3 days. I sometimes set it longer if I’m on vacation or expecting trouble, but I’ve mostly likely been away from home for a bit over three days if you’re receiving this.

I don’t know who killed me. Obviously. I’m recording this in advance. But it was probably either the GIW or my adoptive parents, the Fentons. I half-died at 14 and became a local ghost superhero, but they never realized I was trying to help and kept talking about tearing ghost-me apart molecule by molecule, so I bet that’s what happened. There will be nothing left of me to bury. Sorry about that!

The rest of the story is this. I was raised in an assassin cult, eventually escaping at the age of 6 when they sent me on mission and I successfully faked my death.

My biggest regret is that I escaped alone. And that’s the reason I’m reaching out to you.

You’re a civilian. If you know too much about the League of Assassins you’ll be in danger. But I need you to save my twin Damian. He’s likely still there after all these years. He never wanted to escape; he took pride in being the heir to the league. He’s probably going to be stabby; he’s an assassin after all. But it’s not his fault. Ra’s - our grandfather - brainwashed him a lot more than he brainwashed me because Damian was more susceptible to it. It’s not his fault. Please. Save him. I’m begging you. My biggest regret is leaving Damian in the league. You have a chance to save him. Please, please do it.

I wish it would’ve been safe for me to get to know you. You seem like a cool dad, from what I’ve seen of you on the news with your oldest kids. I bet you’re like that with the youngest you hide from the public too. I wish you all the best. Thank you for listening.

Your long lost almost certainly dead by now son, Danny Fenton.”

Bruce took a second to process this, then picked up his phone and dialed his youngest’s number.

“Father.”

“Damian, did you have a twin named Danny?”

“…Who told you?”

Bruce hung up and sent Damian the video. He needed a minute to process this anyway.

Damian called back a few minutes later, after watching the video.

“Father. I do not care what state he is in. We must discover exactly what happened to Danny. Even if there is only a single molecule left. We must discover the truth.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Damian.”

Dealer’s choice on whether Danny is alive. The few ideas I have for this are:

- they find him mid-vivisection and rescue him

- they find what’s left of him post-vivisection and post his core being crushed

- he’s perfectly fine and just forgot to open his computer (maybe clockwork made sure he forgot?) and now he’s panicking about the fact that his family knows about him and could be in danger. He wanted them to know he existed, not make themselves a walking target for the league by finding him and trying to bring him home!

- Jazz found the automatic email and, deciding to meddle in her brother’s life and him back to his family and maybe get a good parent for herself as a bonus, sent it early

- Technus decided to start shit and sent it while haunting Danny’s computer

- Clockwork screwed with time to make sure it got sent

Lmk what yall do with this!

[agoodflyting]

Why Aziraphale is completely ridiculous in the Bastille scene (and I love him so much for it)

A while ago I posted a comparison of Aziraphale and Crowley's costumes in the 1793 flashback in Good Omens and I wanted to add these little tidbits. (Because they haunt me.)

I feel like most people know this but IF YOU DON'T, Paris in 1793 is right in the middle of something called La Terreur.

HISTORY LESSON If you didn't learn this in school the French Revolution was when, after years of escalating social tension, a coalition representing the working classes of France revolted against the monarchy, violently overthrew King Louis XVI, and declared France to be a republic.

The new National Convention governing France ruled that King Louis XVI and his wife Marie Antoinette were traitors to the people of France because of how they had spent ridiculous amounts of money on luxuries for themselves while vast numbers of the lower classes were literally starving to death. (keep the bold in mind - wealth and class disparities were one of the key causes of the whole-ass revolution)

In 1793 (year of the flashback) both the King and Queen were executed by guillotine for their crimes.

This kicks of something called The Reign of Terror (La Terreur if you want to be French about it). A multi-year-long period in which the National Convention goes on a bloody witch hunt for any and every member of the middle or upper classes who could even possibly be considered a traitor by those same standards.

If you A) had money or privilege, and B) had ever used your money or privilege to treat yourself, you were getting executed. Over 25,000 people died during the Reign of Terror, half of them by guillotine. In fact, the iconic guillotine was used because it was physically impossible to keep up with the sheer number of people they were executing in Paris every single day.

Some things that could get you killed (actually and completely seriously) during the Reign of Terror:

Implying in any way you were sympathetic to the monarchy

Having a noble title

Having expensive things

Wearing expensive, luxurious clothes (*cough* AZIRAPHALE)

helping or sympathizing with anyone who did any of the above

a working-class person saying you were mean to them once

And then there's this bitch...

I AM NOBILITY PLEASE KILL ME So we have established that Paris in 1793 is in the middle of a frenzied, state-sanctioned bloodbath in which the working classes are massacring everyone even remotely nobility-adjacent. And in the middle of this frenzy, Aziraphale proceeds to roll up in Paris in this outfit:

How will this outfit get him killed? Let me count the ways...

First off- at this point everyone with even the tiniest shred of self- preservation is hiding the fact that they are in any way associated with the monarchy. The wealthy are straight-up abandoning mansions. The middle-class are plastering over decorations to make their house look 'poor'. The only people dressed remotely decent are the guys leading the National Convention and that's just because nobody can stop them. Everyone else is in 24/7 peasant cosplay or else they are covering themselves in cockades and sashes on to show they're pro-Republic.

Aziraphale is basically a giant shiny white sign saying I AM NOBILITY PLEASE KILL ME.

First off the lace jabot and lace cuffs are both associated with the old-school wealthy in the 1790's.

His coat is also decorated in gold braid and silver buttons, which are both marks of wealth and luxury.

He basically looks like he works for Louis XIV - not just rich, but old school rich.

We know it's his natural hair color, but hair powdering (with clay and starch) had been a big trend with the rich all throughout the 18th century to get that clean white venerable look . To someone who doesn't know it's natural, it would very much look like he's wearing hair powder.

He's wearing shades of cream and white, which are very hard to keep clean and clearly states that the wearer is rich and can afford the upkeep necessary to keep an outfit like that stain-free.

He's wearing white knee-breeches and stockings, also called culottes. See above about laundry and how rich you had to be to wear white, but also working-class men wore long pants like this:

A large faction involved in the Revolution were the Sans-Culottes (no-culottes aka we wear long pants LIKE GOOD OLD WORKING MEN). Culottes are specifically associated with everything the revolution hated. That's right - Aziraphale is literally wearing The Fanciest of Fancy Pants in a city where a group called The Men Against Fancy Pants are running around murdering people.

And then there are his shoes.

Oh god his shoes

I could do a whole post about Aziraphale's blessed little white satin pumps and how ridiculous they are.

Actually I might just do that because this is getting so long and I still have to talk about the brioche.

So I can't remember if it's in the script book or if it's from Neil Gaiman's tumblr, but it's apparently canon (?) that Aziraphale was going around in that outfit asking people where he could get crepes and brioche when he was arrested.

The Affair of the Brioches

So... uh... we've all heard the line attributed to Marie Antoinette- how when she was told that her people were starving because there was no bread left in Paris, she famously said...

It's morphed into 'let them eat cake', but the line is first recorded as, "Then let them eat brioches."

While it's unlikely she ever actually said it, the important thing is that... people in 1793 would have thought she said it. It was used as political smear to show how arrogant and out of touch the monarchy was. Marie Antoinette in particular was reviled by the people of France, who thought she was the main cause of their economic problems. That's why she was executed too.

Bread and brioche and the lines between poverty and privilege were a big thing in Revolutionary France. There was a lot of political connotation to what you ate. The French Revolution came about because of decades of suffering among the lower classes of France. It wasn't something that some dudes just decided to do. The people of Paris have been through years of the absolute worst, most oppressive poverty and starvation you can imagine, all while watching the rich throw money around crazy.

So let us recap.

Aziraphale is dressed so ridiculously posh that he looks like a joke parody of a nobleman... and he is bumbling around Paris during the Reign of Terror. Asking people. For brioche. How I imagine everyone looked at him:

It is so astoundingly tone deaf and tactless. He is basically cosplaying as Marie Antoinette and then going around asking the poor for cake.

I just.... Aziraphale. babygirl. no. oh no. You're lucky they even bothered to take you to prison. I am amazed Crowley ever let him live that down.

I have no conclusion other than this. Aziraphale is ridiculous and I love him so much.

YES YOU REALLY SHOULD SIR.

[dalishious]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Familiar Faces and Factions

The trailer for Dragon Age: The Veilguard has dropped, and I couldn’t be more excited. It’s like a new breath of life has entered my lungs!

Within the trailer, we now have confirmation of who our seven companions are going to be, and among them are a few familiar faces from the book Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights. We also have some name-droppings of a couple factions featured in the same book and the comics, Dragon Age: The Missing. So, here is what knowledge is established about these faces sand factions.

Neve Gallus & The Shadow Dragons

Neve Gallus was first introduced in the Tevinter Nights story, “The Streets of Minrathous”. She comes off as a no-nonsense and a little intense kind of person. Neve is a Tevinter mage who works as a private investigator. For example, if someone wants some detective work done but doesn’t want the public to know, they would hire Neve. On occasion, she’s even been hired by the templars, who act like just regular cops in Tevinter – and yes, that includes their corruption and primary goal of simply protecting the elite – but Neve prefers to work alone because of that corruption, and has a personal grudge against the order for taking bribes to cover up crimes.

Neve has a prosthetic leg below the knee, made of dwarven-crafted metal.

In The Missing, Neve says she is friends with the Shadow Dragons. In the article shared by EA, as of The Veilguard, she is officially a member. The Shadow Dragons are a group of concerned Tevinter citizens who help those in need. This includes supporting escaped slaves, for example.

Emmrich Volkahrin

Emmrich Volkahrin was first introduced in the Tevinter Nights story, “Down Among the Dead Men”. He is a necromancer from Nevarra, and therefore naturally a member of the Mortalitasi – specifically, a professor in the Mourn Watch. The Watchers serve as elite guardians of the Grand Necropolis. Emmrich is on the eccentric side, personality-wise, but kindly and informal.

Emmrich has a skeleton assistant name of Manfred, who helps him with different office tasks. He also has friends in Myrna, a fellow Watcher, and Audric, a dead guardsmen who looks after the library.

Lucanis Dellamorte

Lucanis Dellamorte was first introduced in the Tevinter Nights story, “The Wigmaker Job”. He is the favourite grandson of Caterina Dellamorte, First Talon (leader) of the Antivan Crows. As such, he was raised from birth to be the perfect assassin in a ruthless and torturous environment, knowing only cruelty from his family. This has led to him feeling less like a person and more like a living weapon – and he is treated like one by everyone who knows of him. He has “the Demon” as a nickname.

I know a few people are curious about the “mage killer” title in the trailer. Rest assured that Lucanis specifically kills evil blood mages. In his own words: “If someone wants to pay me top coin to kill a bunch of racist blood mages—who have it coming—I’m not going to complain.”

Where his cousin Illario has a “silver tongue” as Lucanis puts it, he himself is a lot blunter. His reputation of a killer is spotless, except for one small problem: He has a heart under all that black leather.

Lucanis and Illario get along quite well, except for the fact that Lucanis is destined to be the next First Talon, after Caterina dies. Illario wants the job far more than Lucanis, but Lucanis isn’t sure he’s capable of making a decision for himself that goes against the wishes of the Crows.

The Veil Jumpers

The Veil Jumpers were first introduced in The Missing #3. They are a group made up of primarily Dalish elves, though also inclusive of other folks of any walks of life willing to help, working to try and control the new threats within Arlathan Forest. The forest has become a ground of chaotic magic, with the Veil so thin that time and place is jumbled together. Thus, the Veil Jumpers move in and out of the spots that bleed into one another.

The Veil Jumpers do have a headquarters called “The Sanctum”, but we know nothing else about it.

The Lords of Fortune

Despite the Lords of Fortune being mentioned in more than one Tevinter Nights story, as well as the show Dragon Age: Absolution, we don’t know a lot about them. The only concrete information provided is that they are a loose group of people who collect trinkets and glory. They come out of Rivain. They typically wear a lot of their collected trinkets like badges of honour. That’s really all there is, so I can’t wait to learn more.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Defending His Lady

Feyd-Rautha x wife!reader

Summary: Both Feyd and your son take issue with the people of Giedi Prime not accepting you as their Lady. Part of the His series

Notes/Warnings: Based on a request. It's a little bit different. Typos, probably.

Words: 1250

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Years ago, when you imagined your future, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t on this planet. It wasn’t with the husband and child you have. It wasn’t with the title you obtained from your marriage. You imagined light glowing through an open home, frilly gowns, a stuffy Lord, and a daughter who would be treated like a princess. It wasn’t necessarily what you wanted for your future, but it was what was likeliest to be. You’d be a foreign Lady on a new planet, yet respected just as much as their home-grown Lord.

You learned rather quickly that that’s not always how it works. And while you wouldn’t trade the life you have—not your husband, not your son—for anything the universe could offer, you can’t deny the difficulties that come with being the wife and mother of the Harkonnen line of Giedi Prime. 

The people wanted Feyd to marry one of their own, certainly not the concubine their na-Baron once took. They wanted purity. To them, you are tainted blood, and despite your status on this planet, many cannot resist treating you like a parasite. In the five years that have passed, you’ve taken the poor treatment and whispered words with as much grace as you can, knowing Feyd is always there to end the lives of those who step out of bounds, but it’s harder to ignore now that Fionn is no longer a baby.

Your son is growing. His ears catch more than you’d like. He notices how his father reacts to the harsh words directed at you and how he never sees the people who speak them ever again. He’s gathering the pieces that his mother is often disrespected, and that is the last thing you want.

—

“He sees it,” you tell your husband as you slip into your nightgown.

“He doesn’t see it,” Feyd says, pulling back the top layer of covers on the bed and settling under the sheets. When he reaches out his hand, you snuggle into his embrace. His arms are snug around you. His lips press a kiss to your hairline. “You worry too much.”

You hold in your huff of frustration. “I do not. He asked me as I put him to bed if bad people are hurting me and if that’s why Daddy keeps making them disappear.” Feyd pulls back to look down at you, his brow furrowed. You nod. “He sees it.”

Feyd exhales heavily through his nose. As a father, he’s been diligent, so very careful with how he leads his son; a surprisingly delicate guidance—something he didn’t have growing up. What started from Feyd’s fear of your son being too much like him died as the boy showed only love, but Feyd has continued his intricate training. He has trained so that even at the age of four, Fionn is vigilant, particular with his words, and practical in his choices. He trains so that outside factors are not as influential. He trains so the boy can think for himself. And it shouldn’t be a shock that he notices what happens in his own home. 

“It’s time he understands then,” Feyd says.

Your eyes go wide and you let out a light gasp. “Feyd, he’s four.”

“There’s no point in hiding what happens to them if he’s already curious. He’s as stubborn as you are,” he tells you. “And he’s old enough.”

—

“Mommy, where are we going?” Fionn asks, his little hand tugging on yours to get your attention. 

You take a deep breath, sucking in the dank air that leads to prisoner cells. You’re not sure how this is going to go, but you agreed and you need to let it play out. “Daddy wants to show you something.”

Fionn’s head turns to Feyd. “Is it a bad man, Daddy?”

Feyd pauses halfway down the hall and crouches in front of his son. You release Fionn’s hand so he can fully face his father. 

“Yes,” he says. “It’s a bad man.”

“He hurt Mommy?”

“Some of our guards heard him talking about your mother. He said rude things, called her names. He wished for harm to come to her.”

Fionn makes a soft noise of surprise. Name-calling—he considers that one of the worst of crimes, knowing what it got him when he insulted the little Lady of House Kenric. 

“But why?” he asks. 

“It doesn’t matter why,” Feyd says. “What matters is that we protect the ones we love, yes?”

“Yes,” Fionn agrees with a sharp nod.

Feyd looks up at you, silently commanding that you stay here. The last time you entered a cell to face the one who insulted you, more abuse was hurled at you until it tapped into a well of internal shame. It took you three days to shake that off, all the while your husband begging for you to return to your natural state of uncaring. 

You’ve always cared though, to some degree. It doesn’t matter that they like you so much as it matters that you’re not a stain on Feyd’s reputation. After all, he’s the Baron now, and one day, his son will be. If the people of Giedi Prime cannot forget where you come from, you worry they will never forgive Feyd, and worse, that they will never accept Fionn as their ruler. 

Feyd takes your boy’s hand once again and leads him the rest of the way. They stop at the correct cell and when a guard turns a key, they head inside. 

Inching your way down the hall, you halt just outside of it. Your finger goes to your lips to ensure the guard does not give you away, and with your back to the stone wall, you hear Fionn.

“He did it?”

The man is silent, likely knocked unconscious from Feyd’s earlier visit. You suppose he’ll be awake soon enough. 

“Yes,” Feyd tells him, his voice dropping an octave, “He did.”

“Did he apologize? He should apologize to Mommy.”

Feyd releases a sigh. His son is much more diplomatic than himself. But your husband can’t fairly be bothered. That’s the point of his parenting: to raise a better Baron than both he and his uncle have ever been. 

“Son, we do not let men like this apologize. We do not let them near your mother.”

“Oh.”

“So what do you think we do with them?”

Fionn hums, and it’s so much like his father that it’s as if he has stood on the sidelines of every death your husband has executed. The way Feyd hums as he plays with his victims. A fake hum of consideration, of contemplation. What should I do with them? How should they leave this world? Questions he pretends to ask as if he hasn’t planned their deaths out from the moment he was informed of the crime. And that’s the hum your son gives. He hums like a natural monster in the making. You wouldn’t be surprised if the boy is tapping his finger against his chin as he thinks. 

You feel an ounce of pride. There’s more to him than a kind heart, lovely as that heart is. He will be a fearsome Baron, but one that will show mercy when mercy is fit. However, here, now, mercy is not fit, and his father has made that clear.

“Would you like the first stab?” Feyd asks. “Top of thigh.”

The shing of metal scraping against Feyd’s sheath fills the space. A small blade. Good for Fionn’s hand.

“Which thigh, Daddy?”

Feyd chuckles. “You choose.”

[tmamcufnafandutareonmymind]

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE THEORY

I THINK I KNOW WHO THE OPERA WOMAN IS!!!!!!!!

so if you haven't listened to mama, or if you haven't seen the trailer titled "opera" then i suggest going and doing that first, because these will be the center of my theory, however i am going to paste images of what im talking about here, so you can get away without it.

the facts

now mama by my chem is about a soldier with a strained relationship with his mother and trying to apologize before he dies, we can glean this from these particular lines

and of course the mother feels the same way

and this line is specifically delivered with a classical singing style, you know what's a classical singing style

opera.

and this woman

looked like she was going to sing opera to the men in front of her, and her mouth made the movement, but instead we hear a distorted semi terrifying scream instead.

we also know that this city got destroyed in a war, but the question is a war with who?

now i specifically want to draw attention to the phrase "starved to death in a land of plenty"

in the words of MoonBoots4600 on reddit "Its actually a direct copy of a banner carried in the 1931 Unemployed March when families were dying despite being in the "land of the free""

(original banner)

the new tour trailer have imagery reminiscent of fascism, if this fascist government was limiting people rights, and causing the death and starvation of civilians, there would be an uprising? would there not. so i prepouse this.

the theory

i believe that the mother of the narrator in mama is actually the opera woman. the opera woman works for the government, and the son is apart of the rebellion. when the son dies this affect the rebellion strongly, and the mother must report this to the men seen in the video. the screaming is a metaphor for her grief as she tell the government what has happened, despite her neutral expression, she is angered for her son has died.

(i normally don't ask for reblogs but on this i am begging, i need people to see this and give me some second opinions. please reblog)

[anonymous-existences]

"For the first time, it's as though the coldness of the rain is warmer than the touch of my family."

Prompt:

Danny Phantom in a world where jazz died in a crossfire fight with pariah dark, although he inherited the crown he's not yet old enough for the throne and only titled the crown prince, Maddie and Jack would be alive and mourning their daughter's death, they'll completely start focusing more on killing phantom more than ever and forget the Human Danny Son they know. Out of grief and self-blame he runs away therefore ripping himself out of his own haunt, heading to Gotham, he'll probably stay homeless but eventually find a job using his ghostly powers to feed himself 90% of the time and possibly having been taught by wulf on how to open portals to the ghost zone so he can process ectoplasm in his system and such.

In Gotham he does minor vigilante work such as bringing down muggers and protecting innocent people or basic stuff such as helping a cat out of a tree for a kid.

There he unfortunately comes across one of the bats, and they out of... Batsy Curiousity and Wariness start trying to hunt him down trying to figure out who he is and Bruce being Bruce Trying to adopt the kid vigilante.

In the end the bats don't succeed but perhaps Alfred manages to get the little hero's trust after being 'saved' by the little hero. To pay the little hero back Alfred decided to bring him home and then.

Shenanigans ensue, trope will be found family, angst with comfort and Fluff, identity reveals and also the overcoming of grief and how grief affects a person overall especially a child and Danny getting adopted into the Wayne family in the end. I'd think he's younger than Damian for more new baby bat effect.

:3 hope someone likes this prompt cuz I can't find any that's like this.

[boypied]

THE COCKPIT

pairings: stefan salvatore x male reader x klaus mikaelson

summary: stefan and klaus go to a highly exclusive strip club where they catch the male reader on one of his working days, they pay upfront for his 'special treatment'

requested by: anonymous

word count: 1,597

warnings: smut, hair pulling, ass eating, cum swallowing.

Stefan's blindfold begins to slip off his face, revealing the street lights as Klaus speeds up. "Where are we actually going?" Stefan says cautiously as he doesn't like to be in the dark about something, Klaus just chuckles slightly, very obviously excited. "A stripclub," he says bluntly with a very serious tone so that Stefan doesn't think he's joking, he turns his head to face Stefan with a smirk on his face whereas Stefan's eyes widen as he realises he's not joking then he rolls his eyes, "why?" Stefan asks bluntly as he waits for Klaus stupid answer "because...I'm horny and you're just SUPER uptight, " he says with a smirk on his face before Stefan can even defend himself Klaus shouts out excitedly "WE ARE HERE!" He jumps out his car and drags Stefan out the other side.

"Do we have to?" Stefan pleads with Klaus as he practically drags him from the car towards the club, as they get closer and their eyes adjust to the bright neon lights, Stefan's eyes dart up to the sign. "The Cockpit," he says, dumbfounded, whereas Klaus bites his lip at the name basically bricked up just from the title. Once they manage to get past security and the metal detectors, they finally make it inside to where the music is blasting from, "Did they really need all that security?" Stefan says, turning to face Klaus, whose eyes are locked onto the male strippers who are dotted around the club.

The Cockpit's boys are always treated with respect by the customers unless a customer has paid to degrade one of the boys, which he would've fully consented to. A twink in a bunny costume walks over to the two men, "you guys must be new, I haven't seen you around here" he says with a smile on his face, Klaus smirks at him slightly as he checks him out "yeah we're new, heard about this place from one of my friends. They said its the best." He says, his huge smile not dropping off his face once. The bunny-twink chuckles as he adjusts the tray in his hand "well you heard right, you might wanna go get a seat. The new show is about to begin, and he's the club favourite. The music dies down as the male stripper on stage struts off as the dj begins to announce the new on-stage dancer.

"Give a round of applause to the club favourite..." The dj shouts out, getting all the men in the crowd excited. Once all the clapping quieted down, the dj continued; "Sweet Cheeks." The spotlight circles the curtains as you tease your leg through the curtains, making all the men hollar out excited you pull open the curtains to reveal yourself completely. "WOOO!" One group of men yell out, causing you to smirk as you get down on your knees and crawl down the stage as your cute bikini-cut briefs hug your ass perfectly. You have suspenders connected to your briefs as one falls down your shoulder as you crawl to the centre of the stage while your bunny ears wobble.

Klaus and Stefan's eyes widen as you crawl across the stage practically towards them, Stefan digs his nails into the clubs chairs as he stares at you with hungry eyes. Not hungry eyes as in he wants to eat you but hungry eyes because he wants to beat the shit out of your hole, Klaus bites his lip as he grips the imprint of his cock. You lean back on your knees and fall on your back having your cock imprint on display causing all the men to scream and throw dollar bills to you.

You throw your body forward onto the money and arch your back, showing off your bubble butt, I grip onto all the money, pulling it up against your body. Causing all the men hollering out to you saying lewd comments about what they would all do to you. Once you finally finish your performance, you scoop up some money and strut off stage and put all the money into a box for later, since you had finished your performance you had to strut around to see if any of the men wanted a lap dance or something more... sexual.

The moment you step out of that side curtain and onto the main floor, Klaus and Stefan are right in your face, asking you so many questions, practically drooling over you. You eat up every moment of it, you do a little spin for them showing off your full body, and you notice their dick prints twitch with excitement. Klaus hands you a wad of cash, and you flick through it, letting your eyes naturally dart up to meet their eager eyes. "Follow me boys" you say in a seductive tone as you walk into the private suits. The lights change from purple to deep red, leading them into one of the curtain rooms.

They take a seat on the black couch as you stand in front of them, "get naked for me boys. Don't take your eyes off of me" you say in a sultry tone as they stand up and eagerly strip off naked in front of you, while they're undressing you slowly pull down your boxer briefs revealing your black thong that perfectly hugs your ass and hips. Stefan and Klaus slowly sit down with their raging boners on display, you get down on your hands and knees and slowly crawl over to them. You get down on your knees inbetween Klaus and Stefan and take both of their cocks in each hand and you begin jerking them.

You've become a pro at this because of how often you do it, at first it was hard doing it was your less dominant hand but now it's like it was meant to be. Both their moans echo throughout the soundproof "love room" as some people call it. You quicken the pace making them feel the utmost pleasure, you pull away "who gets to be inside me first?" You say seductively. You get into doggy position having your hole on display as Stefan comes up behind you and places a condom on and uses that lube to slide in. "AH!" You gasp out in shock at his size, you've never had one that size before.

Klaus watches from the couch the way your eyes flutter back and your body bounces back and forth, He slowly wraps his hand around his cock and begins jerking it off to you. It's like a live porno, he thinks to himself. Stefan pounds away at your hole getting every penny he put into that wad, he grips onto your hips watching the way your ass jiggles with each thrust. His eyes look up at the way your cheap Halloween store bunny ears wobble with each thrust of his cock.

"H-Harder" you whimper out in pleasure as his cock hits your g-spot. Normally the boys at The Cockpit don't jerk off while being fucked but something about this felt necessary to jerk off to. "So tight!" Stefan groans out with each thrust of his cock edging closer and closer to meeting the end of his pleasure, you jerk off your cock while he pounds out, they become sloppier and sloppier until he shoots his load filling up the condom he put on, he thrusts a couple more times before pulling out and tying up the condom. He gently slaps your ass as he sits back down on the couch watching as Klaus gets up and walks over.

Klaus rips open a condom and rolls it onto his cock, the size condom is large so you know your in for a treat. He grips onto your hips and pushes himself into your gaping asshole, Klaus groans out as inch by inch your hole clings onto his cock. You bite your lip hearing his moans, Stefan pulls out his phone and begins recording this encounter "don't worry this is for his private collection" he says to you as Klaus grips onto your hair pulling it back as he pounds away into you. Your eyes roll back as his cock twitches with each thrust.

Klaus has been edging all day at the thought of fucking one of The Cockpit boys and he got the best one in the house, Klaus' grip in your hair tightens as he pounds faster and faster you jerk off your cock quicker and quicker matching the rhythm of the way he fucks you, Klaus gets closer and closer fucking you roughly like a slut until he comes undone and nuts inside the condom as he continues to pound his way through it, he pulls away and pulls off the condom throwing it onto the floor. You breath heavily as you smile at them "hot" is the only word you can get out as Stefan and Klaus chuckle while they get changed.

Stefan and Klaus both look at eachother until Klaus speaks up "we'll be coming here again that's for sure" you blush as you've just earned yourself a new customer. Stefan agrees with Klaus' remark watching the way your bunny ears wobble as they both say their goodbyes and they leave The Cockpit. You clean up the used condoms, put your bunny costume back on and you leave the love rooms, walking into the break room packing all your stuff up and leaving for the night.

"best fucking night ever" you mumble to yourself wondering if any guy will ever top what they done to you.

taglist ~ @starboye @mailmango @ghostking4m @kingchaospostsstuff @crispysoup318 @inhumanshadows @its-ares @gayaristocrat @cronaaaaaaa @irlsamcarpenter

[sweets-library]

The quiet hours

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 4.2k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU.

content warnings: spanking, punishment, rules, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline

-

You're not allowed to watch the news when Shouta's not home. It might seem harsh, but after that one awful night—when you spiralled into panic attacks and wore yourself down to the bone over a fight that didn’t even involve him (“Underground pro moved to intensive care after brutal battle—”)—he laid down the rule: no news unless he's there to reassure you. And now, well, you’re breaking it.

Your fingers are raw, nails torn from anxious chewing as you follow the chaos unfolding on-screen. The fight rages on in an area Shouta patrols, and the pit in your stomach grows with every minute that passes. You search the screen, desperate for any sign of him—a dark figure amid the blur of heroes, villains, police, and civilians scrambling in the streets. The news helicopter captures the madness from above, and you try to convince yourself he’s fine. He’s always fine. But after an hour, when the villains are finally subdued, Shouta is nowhere to be found. Instead, you watch helplessly as bodies are loaded into ambulances, and worse, some are dragged away, lifeless.

It’s 3 a.m. now. Another rule broken. Shouta hates it when you stay up for him—he says it leaves you exhausted, strung out for no reason when you could wake up beside him, safe and sound. He’d be livid if he knew, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s your boyfriend, your partner, and every day he risks his life out there. Of course, you worry. Who cares if you can barely keep your eyes open at work tomorrow? At least you'd know he made it home.

The coverage is still playing when you hear his key in the lock, and your heart leaps into your throat. You quickly fumble for the remote, switch off the TV, and dive under the blankets on the couch, pretending to be asleep. He’s not going to be thrilled that you didn’t make it to bed, but at least he won’t think you’ve completely ignored his rules.

You hold your breath, listening to the familiar sounds of his boots hitting the floor, the clink of his goggles landing on the table, and the soft swish of his capture weapon being hooked by the door. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he makes his way into the living room, pausing when he spots you curled up on the couch. There’s a heavy sigh—he’s fondly irritated, you can feel it—and for a moment, you brace yourself for a scolding.

Instead, his arms slip gently under you, lifting you without a word. You instinctively snuggle into him, heart pounding with relief. He’s home. He’s safe.

“Missed you, Sho…” you mumble, your voice thick with genuine exhaustion now that he’s here.

"Hm," he replies, the stern edge in his voice making your heart skip. "Were you waiting up for me?"

You don’t dare look at him. “No,” you lie, nuzzling into his shoulder as he lowers you onto the bed. “I was just watching a movie and fell asleep.”

You feel his eyes on you in the darkness, scrutinizing. "Makeup down your cheeks," he notes, swiping at the streaks with his thumb. "Must’ve been a real tearjerker, huh?"

"Yeah…a dog died," you murmur, barely able to suppress a yawn. His quiet chuckle sends a wave of relief through you—he bought it, or at least, he’s letting you think he did.

“My little crybaby,” he teases, but you can hear the affection in his voice.

"At least kiss me before you start being mean," you grumble, pulling him down for a sleepy, lingering kiss. He hums against your lips, then pulls back.

"Go to sleep. I’m gonna shower and come to bed."

You smile, snuggling deeper into the blankets, eyes heavy as you let the relief wash over you. Somehow, you actually got away with it. You listen as Shouta moves around the apartment—showering, heating up his dinner in the microwave, and finally settling onto the couch. The familiar sounds are comforting, grounding you in the safety of knowing he's home.

And then, you hear it. The soft click of the TV turning on.

Your heart skips a beat. The news. The coverage of the attack is still on. You cringe, suddenly wide awake, the comfort of a few minutes ago evaporating as panic flares up again. You strain to hear every detail, anxiety pooling in your chest as you imagine the look on his face when he realizes what you've been up to.

The clink of his plate hitting the coffee table snaps your attention back, followed by the low groan of the couch as he stands. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, pad toward the bedroom. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, willing yourself to look peaceful, and innocent—hoping against hope that you can delay the inevitable until morning.

But you’re not that lucky.

"Sit up." His voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

You hear him, but you stupidly ignore it, keeping your eyes shut in some desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. The air grows tense, and you hear the sharp click of his tongue, a sound that makes your heart stutter.

“Little girl, you do not want to make this worse than it already is,” he warns, his tone laced with quiet authority. The moment those words hit, your body moves before your brain can even catch up. You sit up, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, trying to steady your breath.

He steps closer, his presence looming as he positions himself in front of you. You don’t dare look up, but the weight of his stare presses down on you. Then, his fingers grip your chin, not harsh, but firm enough to force your eyes up. The moment you meet his gaze, your stomach drops.

He’s pissed. His dark eyes are locked onto yours, filled with disappointment and frustration.

"I'm going to give you one chance to tell me how you spent your night," he says, voice low and steady, "and so help me, if you lie again, you'll be getting bedtime spankings for a week."

The threat sends a chill down your spine. This isn't your boyfriend Shouta right now. The warmth and gentleness are suddenly punctuated by the stern, unyielding side of him that leaves no room for games.

"I—well," you stammer, your voice small. "I was watching TV... and I stayed up too late. I'm sorry." The apology slips out in a mumble, barely audible, as his hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you in place. He leans in, his presence overwhelming.

"Sorry, what?" His voice is firm, a quiet demand that makes your heart race.

"Sorry, Daddy..." you whisper, heat rushing to your face in embarrassment. It feels vulnerable to say it out loud, especially now.

"Hm." He lets go of your chin, crossing his arms over his chest. His forearms strain against the fabric of his sleeves, muscles flexing as he sizes you up. The air between you is heavy with his disappointment, but despite the weight of it, a small flutter stirs in your stomach. You hate how his sternness affects you like this.

"You were watching what on the TV?" he asks, his tone pointed, his gaze never leaving yours.

You sniff, nervously playing with your fingers, unable to stop the tremble in your hands. "I... I was watching the news," you finally admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I was just so worried, and it was so late, and they were in your area, and I just—"

"Enough."

The word snaps the air like a whip, and your mouth shuts instantly. The tension in the room feels almost suffocating as you stare up at him, waiting for the inevitable.

"So," he continues, his voice even and measured, "not only did you stay up far later than you're allowed, knowing full well you have work tomorrow, but you also worked yourself into a panic over the news. And then, you lied to me about it." He pauses, eyes narrowing as if daring you to challenge him. "Do I have that right?"

Your throat tightens, and your stomach feels like it's sinking. There's no way out of this, no excuse you can offer. He expects an answer, and there's only one.

"Yes... Daddy," you whisper, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking under the weight of it all.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration before rubbing his tired eyes. The sound of his exhale fills the room, thick with disappointment. You can feel his exhaustion, his worry—this is not how he wanted to end his night, and it makes your chest ache.

“We talked about this,” he says, his voice firmer now, frustration seeping into each word. “We have this rule for a reason, so you don’t spend your nights like this—crying over something that’s not even happening!”

You sniffle, your chest tightening as guilt floods through you. “But... what if something did happen? And I had no idea, and you were hurt, and alone, and—”

“Sweetheart,” he cuts in, gentler now but still firm, “if something happens, you’re the first person they will call. You know this. The hospital will notify you if I’m hurt. And if it’s anything else, the commission will contact Mic, who will call you immediately. You know all of this—we talked about it when we made this rule. Together.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly tired and frustrated. The exhaustion in his eyes, the strain in his voice, all hit you at once. He’s been working so hard, pushing himself to keep you safe, to keep everyone safe, and here you are, breaking the very rules you agreed on. The weight of it presses down on your chest, and the guilt gnaws at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick with regret.“I just... I worry. So much.” The words come out in a whimper, hoping for some sympathy, but Shouta isn’t swayed by the tears.

“Baby,” he begins, his voice firm but not unkind, “you have to trust me. I don’t want you sitting here, crying yourself hoarse every night over something that hasn’t happened. It’s not fair to you. It’s not healthy, and I won’t allow it.” His gaze is piercing, locking with yours, filled with concern but unwavering in its resolve. You know he’s right, but the ache of your worry feels so real.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment as he looks at you, clearly weighing his next move. Finally, he speaks again, and it’s not what you expect.

“I’ll call your work in the morning. You’re not going in tomorrow.”

“What? No—Shouta, I’m fine!” you whine, trying to push back against his decision, but he taps your cheek again, this time with a little more firmness.

“Little girl, I don’t think you’re in any position to argue with me right now,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding. “Trust me, you’re not going to want to go to work tomorrow. We’re working this out tonight. I don’t want to have this discussion again, so we’re dealing with it here and now.”

The finality of his words hits you hard, and you feel the sting of tears building again, pressing at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to deal with this—not now. Not like this. “Daddy, please, I’m sorry,” you plead, your voice fragile and trembling, but it doesn’t change his resolve.

Your apology falls on deaf ears as Shouta pulls the blankets from your legs with a swift motion, guiding you up with a firm but gentle grip. “Don’t argue with me,” he says quietly. “Come here. Now.”

You hesitate, but his firm tone leaves no room for defiance. He takes you by the arm, leading you to the end of the bed. He sits down, looking up at you with that same intense gaze, the weight of his authority wrapping around you. You stand in front of him, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Shouta, I—” you start, but his sharp look cuts you off before the words can even fully leave your mouth. You’re in no position to argue. You know this, but it doesn’t stop the nervous tremor running through your body as you shuffle your feet, feeling his gaze settle heavily on you.

“How many rules did you break tonight?” he asks, his voice calm but firm, waiting for you to face the truth.

You bite your lip, glancing down as the weight of your actions settles in. “I... I stayed up late,” you begin in a shaky voice, “and I watched the news... and I lied.” Your voice cracks on the last confession, barely above a whisper. “So... three,” you finish, the admission hanging in the air like a confession you’ve been dreading.

Shouta’s hands move to gently rub the sides of your legs, grounding you in the moment. His touch is comforting, a reminder that even now, when things feel so overwhelming, he’s here for you. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whisper, your voice breaking as a tear slips down your cheek.

He’s watching you carefully, aware of how hard this is for you, but also knowing this moment is important. You flourish under this dynamic with him—he knows that. It’s his responsibility to guide you, to redirect you when you stumble, and this is one of those moments. A slip. A mistake. One that he’ll correct, and when he does, everything will fall back into place and you'll feel better for it.

Shouta gently wipes the tear from your cheek, his thumb soft against your skin. "I know you’re sorry," he says quietly, “but this is why we have these rules. To help you, not to hurt you. And you know I’m going to make sure you learn from this.”

You nod, knowing deep down he’s right.

“Thank you for being honest with me, sweetheart,” he says softly, patting your cheek lovingly. The warmth in his touch eases some of the tension coiling in your stomach. “I think that’s enough TV for the rest of the week. You can read your books instead.”

Your heart sinks at the thought of being cut off from your usual distractions, but you suppress the urge to stomp your feet and whine. You know he’s not done yet. “And tomorrow after breakfast, I want you to write 50 lines in your notebook, telling me you won’t lie to me again,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nod slowly, knowing this is part of the process. It feels unfair, but deep down, you understand that it’s for your own good.

“Now for tonight,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “I think we will finish this discussion over my lap. Come here.”

With a mix of reluctance and acceptance, you shuffle closer to him, positioning yourself over his lap. It feels both familiar and daunting as you bury your face in your arms, the warmth of his body wrapping around you. The world outside feels distant, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your breathing, trying to steady yourself for what’s to come.

“What’s your safeword?” he asks, his hand rubbing your back comfortingly, a grounding presence in this moment.

“Red,” you reply firmly, the single word a declaration of your readiness, a promise of trust.

“Good girl.” His approval wraps around you like a warm blanket, but before you can fully absorb it, his hand comes down hard. Even with the cushion of your pajama pants, the sting is sharp, and a whimper escapes your lips as you bury your face deeper into your arms.

The initial shock of pain sends warmth pooling in your cheeks, and you brace yourself, knowing he’s just getting started. He begins to layer swats on your backside, each strike firm and unyielding. With every hit, you feel a mix of emotions—pain mingled with an odd sense of release. His hands fall without mercy, and in the back of your mind, you know this is only the warmup, the prelude to what’s to come.

Your breath quickens, and you focus on the rhythm of his hand, feeling the sting dissipate into a strange warmth that blankets your apprehension. Each swat brings you closer to a clarity that only he can provide, a reminder of the balance between discipline and care.

“This won’t work if we can’t trust each other,” he says, his voice steady and authoritative, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his hand striking your backside. The hits keep coming, a sharp reminder that you need to pay attention. You don’t bother to respond; you know he wants you to listen right now.

“I need to be able to go to work without worrying that you’re at home crying yourself sick over something that was completely avoidable.” The sting resonates in your skin, but it’s the truth in his words that hits harder. Each swat underscores his concern, reinforcing the message he’s trying to drive home.

“If you’re feeling nervous, text me, or Hizashi, or Nemuri. I can’t always answer right away,” he continues, his tone firm yet laced with care. “But I’d rather you reach out to someone for help when your anxiety is getting the best of you than turn on the news and make things far worse for yourself.”

His emphasis on reaching out wraps around you like a lifeline, and you begin to realize the weight of your actions. It’s not just about following the rules; it’s about building a foundation of trust and communication. You focus on his words, letting them sink in as each strike reinforces the lesson. Whenever he redirects you, his discipline feels less like punishment and more like an act of love, a reminder that you’re never alone in this.

The swats stop for the moment, but you know the routine, and dont bother getting excited. He eases your pants down to sit at your knees, and resumes the flurry of spanks while you cry and drum your toes into the mattress. 

“And under no circumstances is it ever okay for you to lie to me,” he asserts, his voice unyielding, filled with the weight of authority. “Everybody makes mistakes, but if you can’t tell me the truth, then where does that leave us? If I find out you’re lying to me again, I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap and give you lines every day for a month. Do I make myself clear?”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you choke out a sob, barely able to respond. “Yes, Daddy, m’sorry!”

“If I can’t trust that you’re making good choices, then there will have to be long-term consequences.” His tone softens slightly, but the seriousness remains. “Do you need me to set up a check-in schedule for you? Is that what it will take for you to behave?”

Your heart sinks, guilt washing over you as you realize he’s already stretched thin, so busy and tired, and here you are, adding to his burden. “No, no, I’ll behave! Please!” You cry, desperation tinging your voice.

“I’m happy to hear that, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he continues his steady rhythm. “But if that’s what you needed, then that’s just fine. We’ll talk about it another time.” His hand gently caresses your back, the warmth of his touch providing a comforting contrast to the stinging of your skin. “I love you, sweetheart. If you need more support from me, then you need to tell me.”

You can feel his gentleness in his words, even if he can’t see the tear-streaked cheeks you hide from him. A fresh wave of emotion crashes over you, and you can’t help but weep, overwhelmed by the mixture of relief and vulnerability. The pain lingers, but it’s softened by the assurance that he’s here, guiding you through the shadows of your anxiety. In this moment, you feel a flicker of hope—his love is a steady anchor, reminding you that you don’t have to navigate this storm alone.

“Love you, Daddy. I’m sorry; I can do it. I can be good,” you cry, your voice thick with remorse.

He lets out a weary sigh, the sound heavy with mixed emotions. “You’re always my good girl, baby. I love you so much. We’re almost done.” With that, he shifts the position of your legs, exposing your sit spots more fully for the next phase of your punishment.

As the final swats begin, you feel the sting intensify, but beneath it all, there’s a strange sense of clarity. His unwavering presence and the weight of his expectations create a safe space for you to confront your fears and anxieties. Each strike serves as a reminder of the lessons you need to learn, urging you to let go of the worry that spirals out of control when he’s not around.

Though the discomfort is real, it pales in comparison to the overwhelming love that underpins this dynamic. You focus on that love, knowing that it’s a guiding light leading you toward a healthier path.

"And you know very well that we’ve discussed this before—about how important it is for you to take care of yourself. You need sleep, especially on work nights, and I’m not going to stand by while you exhaust yourself for no reason." His voice is firmer now, just loud enough to cut through your sobs, but never harsh or angry. "I think tomorrow we’re going to have another talk about your bedtime routine. Clearly, I’ve been too lenient, and that stops now, little girl."

The words sink into you, a mix of dread and relief. Even as he speaks, the discipline continues, each strike a rhythmic reminder of his control and your need to listen. He never yells, never lashes out—just that calm, unyielding tone. It leaves no room for doubt: this is not up for debate. You don’t try to suppress your crying anymore, knowing the apartment is soundproof, and that in his arms, you are safe to let go of everything. The punishment is painful, yes, but the deeper ache comes from knowing you’ve disappointed him—and yourself.

And still, through the tears and the discomfort, you know that he’s right. You need the boundaries he sets, the safety they bring. You feel the weight of his words settle inside you, and even though you don’t want to face the conversation tomorrow, you know it’s for the best.

Your ass burns, the heat lingering even after the punishment has ended. You see now that it’s really for the best that you won’t be going to work tomorrow. His hands rub your back soothingly, the warmth of his touch a balm against the ache. Slowly, he shifts you onto his lap, wrapping you in his strong arms, the fabric of your pants slipping down one ankle as you bury your face into the comforting crook of his neck.

“I know, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he murmurs softly, his voice like a gentle caress against your ears. “You’re okay. You did so good.” Each word is a soothing balm, and you can’t help but melt into his embrace, soaking up the praise like a flower yearning for sunlight. “My good little girl, I love you, baby.”

In that moment, as you cling to him, the world outside fades away. All that matters is the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the steady pulse of love radiating from him. You feel safe, cherished, and most importantly, understood. The earlier turmoil dissipates, replaced by a profound sense of peace, as you allow yourself to rest in his arms, knowing he’ll always be there to guide you back to safety.

Eventually, the storm of tears subsides, and a soothing calm washes over you, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You stifle a yawn, snuggling deeper into his arms, teetering on the brink of sleep. He continues to murmur sweet reassurances, his voice a soft lullaby that wraps around you like a warm blanket as he carries you back to your side of the bed.

For a moment, you feel a twinge of abandonment as he steps away, but he’s back almost instantly, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he holds a makeup wipe in hand. The tender gesture brings a flutter of warmth to your chest as he wipes away the remnants of your earlier distress. You fight the urge to surrender to sleep, but his soothing presence makes it increasingly difficult. The room falls into a comfortable silence, filled only with the sound of your soft breaths and his gentle movements.

Once your face is free of makeup, you feel lighter, as if the weight of the evening has been washed away. He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss on your lips, then your cheek, and finally your forehead, each kiss a reminder of his love and devotion. He crawls into bed beside you, pulling you close into his warm embrace. You instinctively wrap your limbs around him, finding comfort in his strength and warmth.

As you settle into the familiar rhythm of his breathing, you murmur out one last “Love you, Daddy…” The words linger in the air as sleep finally claims you, enveloping you in a dreamless, deep slumber, safe and secure in his arms.

-

guys i hate to say the daddy issues got to me. nobody look at me ok sometimes being an adult is really hard. i cross posted this on ao3 btw

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Nirvana - The Man Who Sold the World 1993

"The Man Who Sold the World" is the title track of David Bowie's third studio album, which was released in 1970 in the US and in 1971 in the UK. Although no singles were issued from the album, the song appeared as the B-side on the 1973 reissue US single release of "Space Oddity" and UK single release of "Life on Mars?".

In his journals, Kurt Cobain of the American grunge band Nirvana ranked the album The Man Who Sold the World at number 45 in his top 50 favourite albums. Nirvana subsequently recorded a live rendition of the song during their MTV Unplugged appearance at Sony Music Studios in New York City on 18 November 1993 and it was included on their MTV Unplugged in New York album released on November 1, 1994, nearly seven months following the death of Cobain. The song was also released as a promotional single for the album in 1995.

Nirvana's cover received considerable airplay on alternative rock radio stations and was also placed into heavy rotation on MTV, peaking at number 3 on MTV's most played videos on 18 February 1995; it also peaked for two weeks at number 7 on Canada's MuchMusic Countdown in March 1995. Nirvana regularly covered the song during live sets after their MTV Unplugged performance up until Cobain's death. In 2002, the song was re-released on Nirvana's self-titled "best of" compilation.

Bowie said of Nirvana's cover: "I was simply blown away when I found that Kurt Cobain liked my work, and have always wanted to talk to him about his reasons for covering 'The Man Who Sold the World'" and that "it was a good straight forward rendition and sounded somehow very honest." Bowie called Nirvana's cover "heartfelt", noting that "until this [cover], it hadn't occurred to me that I was part of America's musical landscape. I always felt my weight in Europe, but not [in the US]." In the wake of its release, Bowie bemoaned the fact that when he performed the number himself, he would encounter "kids that come up afterwards and say, 'It's cool you're doing a Nirvana song.' And I think, 'Fuck you, you little tosser!'"

At a pre–Grammy Awards party on 14 February 2016, Nirvana band members Krist Novoselic, Dave Grohl, and Pat Smear teamed up with Beck to perform "The Man Who Sold the World" in tribute to Bowie – who had died the month before — with Beck performing vocals.

"The Man Who Sold the World" received a total of 77,6% yes votes! Dave Grohl has previously been featured in the polls with Foo Fighter's "The Pretender" at #111 and as a drummer on Queens of the Stone Age's "No One Knows" at #87, and David Bowie has been featured with "I'm Afraid of Americans" at #33.