#GOD i know this is what fanfiction is for

[prettydaisygirl]

Can I make a request for Streamer!James who discovered that some people in his fandom are hating us, plssss I'm so obsessed with him 😩

Hiii, my love! Thank you so much for requesting this! I've been trying to figure out my next idea and this was perfect! I am literally so in love with streamer!James, I would do anything for himmmmm. Hope you enjoy <3

streamer!James Potter x fem!superfan!reader who is getting hate for dating James ✿ 1.4k words

cw: fem reader, marauders as live-streamers, online bullying/harassment, reader is getting disgusting messages/comments, James is sooooo loverboy, James-centric

james potter masterlist

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previous part | next part

You haven’t been in James’ chat for at least three of his streams now.

Not that you have to be, and James knows with the time difference and the increasing busy-ness of your schedule that you might not make every single stream. But you usually try not to miss more than one, and you’ve been quieter in DMs too. You’re usually always in his chat, always enthusiastic, always sweet and wonderful and sending him pictures that have him tripping over his words and drooling.

The boys have noticed your distance too.

“Trouble in paradise?” Sirius asks just after James clicks ‘end stream’, coming into his room without permission. James swivels around in his chair to face his best friend, a look of slight panic on his face.

“Do you think she’s mad at me? Did she say something?” James scrambles for any kind of information or explanation, but Sirius just smirks at him, leaning against James’ desk.

“Why’re you asking me? Ask Rem,” Sirius pushes his hair behind his shoulder dramatically as James darts out of his gaming chair and across the common space to Remus’ bedroom. He opens the door without knocking, much like Sirius did. The other man is still on his computer, downloading his VOD to work on a video, probably. Remus gives James a knowing look as he turns around.

“What did she say?” James asks, leaning against Remus’ desk, causing his little figurines and stacks of books and papers to rattle. “Did I say something wrong?”

Remus sighs, rubbing at his temples with his fingers. “Why would you assume she told me? You’re her boyfriend.”

James tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at Remus, who sighs and gives in.

“I don’t know why she isn’t coming to stream,” Remus shakes his head, his voice raspy as he pulls up his DMs with you. You and Remus have become quite close friends, though you don’t talk to him nearly as much as you talk to James, obviously. “She told me people have been messaging her since she surprised you at the convention.”

“Yeah, I know, people love us!” James beams, thinking about all of the love and support you and Prongs have gotten since announcing your relationship last month. A super fan who becomes his girlfriend? The fanfictions write themselves. He’s seen all of the edits of you and him, fan accounts, and even merch. He loves it, obviously, because he loves you. He just hasn’t told you yet.

When Remus’ smile falters, James’ does too, “What? What’s that look for?”

“I think… there are a lot of people who are happy for you,” Remus says slowly, scrolling through his chat log with you as he glances through previous messages. He frowns, his scrolling ceasing as he looks at one in particular. He clicks on it, and it takes over the screen. “But, I also think you have a lot of fans who don’t exactly love the fact that you’re taken. You know your audience James, a lot of them watch you because you’re… well, you know.” 

Remus’ wrist gestures toward the monitor, and James leans down to take a better look at the screen, eyes taking in the picture. You’ve sent it to Remus, a screenshot of a message someone had sent you just last week. The day before you stopped coming to his streams. 

Obviously he sees your username, his heart fluttering every time he does. God, he’s whipped. He doesn’t recognize the other username, maybe just a hint of familiarity from seeing it within the hundreds of usernames in his chat, but that’s about it. It’s the message itself that makes him feel sick.

he doesn’t really like you.  he’s only talking to you because you’re the only whore in his chat that would actually send him pictures.  slut. 

James feels like his heart is sinking through his stomach. Someone sent this to you and you didn’t come to him?

When Remus clicks onto the next one, James realizes things are worse than he thought they were. This one is a screenshot of the comment section from a photo of you two kissing at the convention. 

babyboiprongs_: he’s really dating yourusername???  babyboiprongs_: gross grtftntplyr00: prongs is ruined now rip o7 :(((((( prongswormpadmoon: prongs noooooo whyyyyy :/ 

James feels like he’s going to throw up. How had he not seen these comments? He feels like he scrolled through everything. 

“She… she sent you all this?” James’ voice is light, like he is in shock or disbelief, and there’s a whirlwind of emotions happening behind his dark eyes.

“There’s… I mean, there’s more than this,” Remus tells James quietly, his eyes gentle with pity as he watches James, who runs a hand through his dark, unruly curls. 

“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” James feels small in a way that he hasn’t before, and he hates it. He just wants to protect you, he doesn’t want to know you were upset and he wasn’t there to help you. 

Remus gives James a bit of a deadpan look, “Of course she’s not going to say anything to you, Prongs. She probably thinks she’s ruining your career!”

“But she’s not!” James retorts quickly, his gaze growing more frantic by the minute.

“Well, I know that!” Remus rolls his eyes, “You’re allowed to date, James. Some of your fans won’t like it but it’s your life. You need to put a boundary there, tell them you won’t tolerate it.”

James looks down, his mind racing. And in that moment, he makes a decision.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿

It took him a few days to get everything ready. He got what he needed, he filmed his video, edited it, and now all he needs to do is press upload. His finger hesitates over the button, and in a very un-James Potter-like decision, he decides to rewatch it one more time before uploading it. 

Video Title: i love you

James beams at the camera, his headphones over his ears but he isn’t on the edge of the screen with a game taking up most of it like usual. There is no game, just him. He’s wearing a shirt with your face on it. Well, really, it’s a shirt with him kissing your cheek but his face got mostly cropped out and he doesn’t mind at all. 

He waves at the camera, “Hello everyone! I know it’s weird seeing me in a video and not on live, but there is something I want to talk about.”

“It has recently come to my attention that some people in my community have been leaving rude, hateful, and honestly just disgusting messages in my girlfriend’s comment section and DMs. And I want to tell you to stop that right fucking now.” 

He has never sounded so angry in anything he has uploaded before. He thought about re-recording it but he truly does feel that angry.

“Not only is online hate and bullying of any kind absolutely not okay, but if I see it in my chat, or anywhere in my girlfriend’s messages or comments, I will permanently block and ban you. That applies to hate about anyone on our team or in our lives. The other marauders have agreed to ban you as well.”

“And to my wonderful girlfriend, who has felt like she can’t come to my streams because she might ‘ruin my career’... baby, I love you. I know I haven’t told you that yet, but I do. I would give up my whole career for you, even though that won’t happen. I know most of my audience aren’t hateful and don’t leave those comments. I’ve seen all of the love we have gotten. But I want to protect you, I want to love you, and I want them to love you too. So please come back to stream, chat misses you. I miss you even more.”

“And, to those of you who have been leaving nice comments, thank you! I do read them, and they mean a lot to me, I know they mean a lot to her too. No true fan of mine would be upset at seeing me happy, and I appreciate you all so much for your support.”

He reaches for the camera like he might turn it off and hesitates. He leans back and beams even brighter. 

“And no, you can’t buy this shirt. It’s one of a kind, just like my girl.” 

James almost cringes at himself when the video ends. He knows he has to post it. Both for you and for himself. 

He clicks ‘post.’ And he has no regrets. 

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© prettydaisygirl

[ambie720]

Ok. I like never ever post things on my blog that aren’t reblogs or gif sets, but I am kind of beside myself right now.

911 people…. Can we please explain to me why Eddie Diaz just seems to be getting more and more abusive over time? I started watching this show about a year ago- binged watched through it, and I’ve loved every second of it. I started out really loving the Buck and Eddie dynamic. Gobbled up the fanfiction, got swept away in the giddiness of a new ship. They seemed like a match made in heaven.

With every single episode I just keep noticing how much Buck gives VS what little he gets back. His friendship with Eddie has always felt very skewed into the latter’s favor. And yeah, everyone can have different ways of showing friendship and love… but This is the 3rd maybe 4th time Eddie has voiced that Buck makes everything about himself. And each time it’s a pointed attack to make Buck feel like shit. Buck opens up? It’s all about himself. Buck internalizes it? God, he’s being selfish. A conversation that starts out about Eddie telling EVERYONE BUT BUCK about going back to Texas, and acting like Buck is too fragile to have a conversation about his supposed best friend’s plans turns into blaming Buck for being sad about Bobby. Like he’s acting like he’s the only one sad and in pain? And then Eddie… makes it about himself? That his pain is somehow worse because he wasn’t physically there. That Chris’ loss of was more important than Buck’s loss? I know that Bobby had a close relationship with everyone in the 118. All of those relationships were different but all meaningful. Everyone grieves differently. But being a parent and not being present when Bobby died does NOT mean that Eddie has the right to toss it in Buck’s face that he’s grieving or that somehow Eddie’s pain takes precedence over Buck’s. The guy hasn’t even done anything to make it about himself. It just seems like an easy way to take the focus off Eddie not keeping Buck in the loop about his life. Which, ok fair, it’s not like Buck is entitled to know, but as his best friend, shouldn’t Eddie realize how that looks and how Buck would take it? And then to get physical about it? And disappear with a note that he’s going to the airport? Eddie isn’t stupid, he knew how that looked. And it’s almost like he was tying to dig the knife in deeper. And bringing Chris and Peppa there to try and smooth things over without an actual apology? Again?

I just am at a loss. Time and time again I just see Buck busting his ass to help Eddie and Chris. Bending over backwards to fix the shit that Eddie messes up… and it’s Buck who is the screw up? He didn’t get Eddie childcare, or talk to Chris about girls and dating, or comfort him about Ana and people leaving, or about A FREAKING DOPPLEGANGER of his mom? Try to convince him to stay? He didn’t rush over to help Eddie when his ptsd hit or help him patch up his walls, or cook dinner for his family for the umpteenth time? Of help Eddie with his move to Texas? Even if he unintentionally sabotaged, he still fixed things. He apologized.

I’m not going to hide the fact that Buck is my favorite character overall. You hurt my boy, I’m gonna get pissed. I know that Buck has flaws. I know he’s got abandonment issues and he can tend to get in his head and make things catastrophically worse. But I really, GENUINELY, have never seen him be a selfish person who makes things all about himself. He has feelings. He feels things deeply. He loves deeply. And this show- I swear to god… even with events that are actually ABOUT Buck and Buck alone- he gets called selfish.

Just- as a relatively new watcher, I’m having a hard time seeing what Eddie has done for Buck. How he’s shown up for him. All his transgressions are swept away. And he never apologizes that I’ve seen. Please can y’all just help me out here? Why are we shipping these guys together when it’s proven time and time again how one sided the effort and care is?

This is just me airing out my personal feelings, so if you’re gonna attack my opinion, please scroll past. I’m not in the fandom, I’m just an observer feeling more and more unsettled.

[cultkinkcoven]

Fuck.

I started this page to document my shit so thats what I'm gonna do. But first huge massive disclaimer holy fuck

spirituality and psychology are messy and I am insane I think, and I'm not saying that to be funny or whatever, I know how strange these ramblings sound. I know this reads like some really weird self insert god fanfiction. Maybe it is ?? I recognize how absurd this is. And I have been genuinely kind of unwell dealing with this in silence because??????? how the fuck do you explain this to like??? anyone.

This might very well be my psyche unraveling. SO TLDR, fucking I don't know take this howeverr you do.

Trigger warning: Extremely cringe, extremely nsfw. Mention of??? Blood, power dynamics, "what is referred to as cosmic statutory rape”, ???? implied grooming and incest YEAH ???? IDK. IM SORRY.

I DONT KNOW IF I AM GOING TO POST THIS

These are less than unedited. These are what I could find the time to write down between bouts of confusion and admitedly a lot of denial. And life also. Like being a not insane normally functioning part of society. Theres going to be so many spelling errors and dumb shit said. Its probably going to be so long. You guys wanna do Luciferianism and shadow work and stuff its so fun.

I'm deflecting with a lot of humor right now. I'm genuinely so burnt out and exhausted in every sense. To everyone who has commissions due from me rn I love u guys and I'm so sorry I have been an absolute wreck like genuinely. I’ve been sick. So anyways. Yeah. Intense stuff.

To be entirely honest, I’m not sure if I can remember how it began. I recall already being seated at the podium, in what appeared to be a courthouse. The Jury, the Judge, and all other people in this room were dressed in black robes which had hoods that obscured their faces, their forms. But I already knew that I was in God’s court, that each and every person in this room was a divinity. Some familiar, Hermes, Horus, Aphrodite. Some I don’t even know the names of. Angels, demons, Gods from every culture, all gathered here today. 

And then, there he was, Lord Lucifer was brought into the courtroom, shackled, chained, cuffed. And sat on the side of the defence, against the persecution. And I sat in the chair of the victim.

Then the Judge, I don’t know who exactly they were, did that thing that Judges do to get everyone’s attention. “We are gathered here today in deliberation of the case against Lucifer who is accused of coercion, corruption, desecration of the human soul, and what is referred to as cosmic statutory rape.” 

And I altogether understood what this was, and I honestly couldn’t really believe it was happening. I must be dreaming.

A figure, one from the side of the prosecution, began a speech. 

"You blur the line between worship and possession." "You do not merely accept devotion, you entwine yourself with it. You drink from it. You live inside it."

"You wield love as a weapon."   "You make your devotees fall too deeply. You make pain feel holy. They would die for you, and that may not always be a virtue."

"You court mortals like they are equals, then treat them like property." "You call them beloved, but you collar them in blood and longing."

"You distort consent by overwhelming the senses."   "Is it truly choice, if the pleasure you offer is cosmic and irresistible?"

"You make the sacred too intimate." “You taste what should be prayed to from afar. You break the distance."

“Lucifer will be judged, not because he broke laws in the usual sense, but because he redefines the borders of law, love, and power. These accusations are not of cruelty or evil necessarily, but of disruption, seduction, and subversion.”

Lucifer, who’s gaze was pointed down, hardly reacted at the charges. When he is asked how he pleads, he answers “no contest.”

And when he is given the floor, an opportunity to explain himself, it’s like he doesn’t exactly care for the opportunity. Which is unlike him. Lucifer? A chance to speak? To defend himself? He would jump at the opportunity. Now he is disinterested. 

“Yes,” he said, “I do all of these things, because I was not made to enforce your structures.

I was made to test them.” 

The court does not favor the response. It’s interpreted as misdirection, manipulation. Same old tricks. 

Lucifer starts again, “This boy approached me, I did not forsake him. This boy forged himself under my path and defined his own, and in his path he found his rightful place alongside me. Decided of his own volition that he would allow me to define him. I only seduce what is already hungry. You ask me why he bleeds for me, why I take and not why he gives. This conversation is irrelevant to me, to us-,” and he raised his head to look at me, “because he is always going to return to me. Watch me go and watch him follow. If you fear what I awaken in them, perhaps it is not me who needs atonement, but the one who taught you to fear awakening.”

That hardly moved anyone, the persecution snapped back at him promptly. “Lucifer, you are a predator.”

His eyes returned to the ground. The persecution addresses the jury.

“Lucifer engages erotically, spiritually, and sometimes violently with a much younger, mortal devotee. This is the transgression of the divine boundary between heaven and earth, the holy and the profane, the ageless and the fleeting. The idea of an ancient being engaging intimately with a young human triggers serious questions of power imbalance, consent, and grooming. The age, scope, and influence of such a being far surpasses human capacity. The imbalance is so vast it will inherently be manipulation or coercion even if the human agrees."

And on the side of the offense, the side of Lucifer, a voice rings out. It is extremely familiar but I can't quite place it right now. 

“The mortal-divine union has always been dangerous, but also deeply transformative. The point isn't safety, it’s awakening, even if through ruin. Lucifer embodies this edge.” 

And Lucifer, with what seems like a hint of agitation now, ““You call it grooming. I call it cultivation. What you see as a child, I see as a garden of becoming. I will not allow him to be stripped of his agency.”

And again, the persecution comes back swiftly. “Compared to you he is a child, compared to most, he is a child.”

“He is my child,” Lucifer spits back, “He is a creation of my choosing, shaped by my influence, called into becoming by my voice. He was born of me, not by blood but by purpose. He is my  pride, my possession, his transformation is my responsibility. I protect him, guide him, scold him, raise him in my image. I am experiencing something precious growing in my hands,” and then he pauses, looks at me again, and continues, “But he is not only a child, in fact he’s not a child at all. He is also my partner, my lover, and at times, perhaps even my prey, and soon my mirror. He is my offspring, but also my altar, my beloved, and my equal in becoming.”

And again, from the persecution, “Groomer. That journey, from “child” to “consort,” is where Lucifer’s obsession lies. You claimed to have cultivated him, but in reality all you did was lure, rape, and consume him.”

And that was the only accusation Lucifer did outwardly deny, "I did not rape him."”

“It was never truly about guidance, growth, or transformation, but instead about exploitation cloaked in divine theatre.”

And again from Lucifer, “I did not rape him,” and a pull at his chain that is again, not viewed favorably by the court. He cannot control himself. 

And his partner or representative beside him chimed in again.

“We will remain as honest as possible about the situation and Lucifer’s behaviour. Luring? Yes—Lucifer is the Morning Star, the bringer of light, the whisper in the dark. He does lure. Consuming? Yes. He has drunk the devotee’s blood, held them trembling, marked them. Power imbalance? Yes. He is a god. The human is a mortal. That is the frame of the relationship. Lucifer doesn’t dispute the intensity or the devouring. He only defends the mutuality.”

And then again Lucifer, almost as if he’s speaking to himself, “he chose me.”

Another figure on the opposing side then takes the floor. “Can a human ever actually consent to a being like Lucifer?” he says with a look towards the jury. “Lucifer, you seduced a creature whose soul was still in its first bloom. You drank blood from someone who hadn’t yet lived long enough to question you. You made him yours before he knew what it meant to belong to himself. That is not love, it is corruption.”

Lucifer answered promptly. “He chose me. I waited. I showed him the gates and asked nothing. He walked through. I did not drag him.”

But they reply: “And he was a boy. Your light is blinding. Your voice rewrites the mind. He could not say no, not truly.”

A hand popped up from the crowd. He didn’t exactly wait to be summoned forward he just did, murmured the words “witness,” and took the floor. He removed his hood. I already knew it was Lord Hermes before I saw his face. 

“I’ll admit I am far less familiar with the boy than he is,” Hermes started, and he glanced towards Lucifer, “but I do have to say that I find the infantilization in this court to be a little bit annoying. I’ve seen Luciferdo things even I wouldn’t dare, of course. That's his nature. But I’ve also seen the boy come alive in his hands. More alive than most gods have ever managed with their own children. Lucifer wasn’t his first experience with the divine, wasn’t his last, but it was the one he chose. And he didn’t just choose it, he ran to it, bled for it again and again. Even when it wasn’t pretty. Even when things didn’t go his way. He makes that choice every single day, I don’t think it’s honest to disregard it.” and then he sort of paces, mumbles, seems like he’s stringing together his next sentence, 

“I have walked every threshold, slept in strangers' beds, and whispered things into mortals' ears that turned their lives inside out. I know what it is to disrupt. You call it corruption. I call it contact.” and then he turns to Lucifer, walks up towards him and looks down. “You cultivated him? No. You claimed him. Don’t pretend it was all altruism. You wanted him, you waited for him. You touched him and in turn informed his definition of touching. Maybe that’s the oldest game in the book. Guilty? Sure. But not alone. And not by force. What you’re really afraid of isn’t what he did. It’s that the boy looked up and said ‘yes.’”

And Hermes was dismissed.

And just as quickly another hand shot up, and she hadn’t even waited until Hermes had left the floor to intrude. Ah, I knew her by her energy, her aroma, blessed to be in her presence, Aphrodite. Ahaha so this is like, all the Gods are here and they're all judging me guys. I am tripping hard.

“Everyone yet again is somehow surprised that love is messy?” she started with a half laugh. She has the snarky judgement of a teenage girl, perfectly, “You call it predation. I see it as worship. Not the boy worshipping his God, the God worshipping his boy! You see corruption, I see anointment. And of course you fear it, of course it seems risky. No one touches love without being undone.”

And to Lucifer, she turns and says “You go too far because you always do.” But there’s a smile in it, a sisterly recognition. And then she turns to me. “You bled beautifully. But not blindly, not without purpose and not without regard for consequence.”

She walks up to me and I am almost overwhelmed by her. She lays a hand on my cheek, and murmurs, “what’s dangerous is not that he took you. What’s dangerous is that you let him, and that you liked it.”

And she turns back towards the room, and towards Lucifer, 

“And now you’re trying to make sense of something that was never meant to be safe. I’m not arguing his innocence or guilt. I’m arguing sovereignty through surrender and divinity through desire. Let the boy love his monster. That, too, is holy.”

And a ring back from the prosecution: “Let the boy fall into the hands of the predator? Let him exercise his will even if it is to surrender to the beast? Can a human understand the implications of such an action?

And Lucifer responds back, when I look at him I find that he was looking at me.. “If you strip every mortal of the right to surrender, you strip them of their freedom. If power invalidates desire, then no god can ever be loved. I… exercised… restraint.” 

 And there was some sort of screen or something. It played moments between us, our conversations. Our most intimate moments. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. And this feeling started to fester in me. This feeling that I was being propped up and analyzed on a stage without my consent. 

“The very need for restraint proves the dynamic is inherently unsafe. If his authentic desires risk consuming, hurting, or “owning” the devotee, then any sexual engagement, even benevolent or sacrificial, is fundamentally compromised.” The persecution continued, now addressing him directly, “Lucifer, you call yourself teacher, father, protector, and then you bind this child to you with threads of sex and sacred fire. You admit your fantasies would possess him, ravage him, take him from his duties. You admit that without restraint, your instincts are devouring. You call it love, but it is ownership. You waited, yes, but a wolf waiting outside a cradle is not innocent because it does not break the door."

And I’ll admit, that part did offend me a bit. And before I have a chance to speak the person who was sitting beside Lucifer representing him shoots their hand into the air. “Can I be a witness too?” He asks, and again he, like the others, does not wait for an answer to take the floor. And I don’t know why, but for some reason I didn’t recognize him until his hood was off. Ah, I should have guessed, so obvious. Dionysus.

And then he doesn’t address the jury at all, he points at me. “You there, you know what it is to be split open by love and find god inside your wound? You know what it is to be the chalice that is filled with your God’s purpose? However mad it may drive you?”

A moment of silence. Oh, yes. “Yes,” I answer. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. “Yes, I do.”

Then Dionysus turns back to the court “What are you judging him for, being honest about it? You call him guilty because he touched something sacred and let it burn. But is that not what we all do? You light a candle, it melts. You love a mortal, they change. You let that mortal change you, you evolve. And look at them. Changed, but not destroyed. Or if destroyed, then beautifully. And then I call that destruction the creation of something new, something realer than what came before it. HERE we have our tragic beast, the hunter who cannot hunt until his prey bears his teeth. The prey who demands to be hunted, runs in the direction of the arrow. The boy didn’t fall. He leapt. And Lucifer, ever the gentleman, caught him. Feeding.. Fucking… transforming, merging, we all know these things are one drink away from each other. ”

And the main figure who was representing the prosecution made a comment, “The abuser and the addict, we can’t say we’re surprised.”

And Dionysus cackles at that, “Yes, the queer and the freak!” and then shrugs, “You think love is clean, your problem is that you do not recognize that love is a form of madness itself. And if this boy is mad, what of it? We’ve created a world that has doomed him, doomed both of them. I see two beings destined for the flames finding sanctuary in each other's arms, holding each other until they are tempered to gold, what of it? If the burn is electric, if it makes suffering bearable, what of it? ”

And another hand shot into the air, this time sat on the side of the persecution. Far in the back. They took their time getting up to the stage. Their steps echoed. When he pulled back his hood… I don’t know why.. I was surprised. Caught entirely off guard. It was Archangel Michael, so brilliant he was hard to look at. I'm cooked.

He started quietly. “I did not come here to exonerate him. I came here because I’ve watched him.” A pause.  “And I have seen what he does with what you cast away.”

He didn’t look at me or Lucifer. In fact he looked only at the judge.

“You fear that he breaks the weak. But what I’ve seen is that he finds them when you will not. That he sharpens those who come to him dull, and that they leave him with teeth, bleeding, yes, but unafraid. Loved, loved in a way that is not righteous or moral, but true. The truth is that this boy is not weakened, very much the opposite. That is what makes this dangerous. Because Lucifer, Lucifer.” He glanced at him finally, “Lucifer is just vengeful enough against those who cast doubt upon him to subvert their expectations. He will cherish the boy, perhaps he may never harm them. Because that is exactly what we would all have him do, to end this”

Then he looks at me, and I feel like jumping out of my skin.

“If there is guilt here, it is mutual. If there is madness, it is chosen. The sacredness of the dynamic is not in question. We all know this. How simple this would be if Lucifer did the obvious, but he refuses. We all know he always refuses. You condemn him not because he preys, but because he transforms the boy into something that cannot be controlled by any master other than him.”

Michael pauses again, and then concludes “He is not innocent. But he is not wrong. I recognize that conventional methods will not work for this unconventional human. I ask then, if the doomed cannot hold each other, then what will we give them in return?”

One of the main two prosecutors shoots out, “Love and healing that is not contaminated by the power imbalance.”

and Lucifer, now giving up entirely on concealing his anger, slammed his cuff on the table, and responded, “You speak of power imbalance as if mortals are helpless. But this one, Shi, his name is Shi, rebuked me. They challenged me. They redrew the lines. And I obeyed with the same trust he put in me. What predator honors a boundary once drawn? What groomer rewrites the contract at the whim of the student? I am not a slave to desire. I did not take. I gave, and gave again. If I fantasized about devouring him, I did not act on it. You think I don’t know? You think I don’t understand what I could do to him? I do not punish his rebellion; I admire it. You want to accuse me of passion? Of yearning? Then I plead guilty. But I will not plead to rape, nor violation. I waited until he asked. I waited until he was ready.” and then he bobs his head, “I waited until I was ready. And when he said no, I did not take. And when he called, when he stood as his own, I recognized him. And you judge me because you can’t, you won’t. And even now you disrespect him,” he almost stood up. He was the most vexed I have ever seen him, “even now you talk about him as if he’s not in the room.”

And that comment placed all the attention back on me. I wanted to throw up having that many ancient eyes upon me. My mind had not entirely processed everything that was happening. Is this real? Are all these Gods really here? Or is this my brain’s way of processing some kind of guilt or fear about Lucifer? I wasn’t entirely sure. The absurdity of the situation was affecting my judgement. Maybe that's why I acted the way I did. 

I kind of just couldn't help but look around and laugh. All these Gods here in all the history of mankind, shedding blood, raging wars. I couldn’t help but say, "I thought you all liked blood?" For a while that’s all I could say. 

Does it really matter how you got it? In all the ways that a human could bleed, this bleeding born of love and devotion, that’s too far? You’re all drenched in blood rituals and now you're acting scandalized? This trial is not about blood, or morality, it’s about power. The Council doesn’t object to blood. They object to whose altar it stains, for what reason. And somehow want is not valid enough. Submission chosen, not as pure as submission imposed. Bullshit. I mean no disrespect, but that’s bullshit.

 and Lucifer gave me that kind of look that perhaps a father would give his son if he said something like that in a courtroom, a look that says "you're not respecting the gravity of this." but in it there was also a smile. and it followed with a laugh and he looked to the court. "See?"

And Dionysus speaks over him with a kind of theatrical flair, “Look at the boy! They are of him. This is not a case of a corrupted innocent, but a co-conspirator, a willing vessel, a co-creator of the taboo. You are asking the mad why he loves his mad God and he laughs in your face!”

And the prosecution: “The devotee’s irreverence is immature, inappropriate, and perhaps even proof that they were groomed into mocking authority. This is deflection, a sign they don’t understand the full weight of what’s being examined.”

And Lucifer, now calmed with a smile: “You fear this union because it is free, because it laughs at your pageantry. He is not my prisoner. He is my student, and he is becoming.”

“Becoming like you?” another voice from the persecution, “is that a good thing? Teaching a mortal that they need to bleed to be recognized? To be loved?”

And the attention was again brought back towards me, because I let out a huff and squirmed in my seat. Broke into another laugh, nervous laughter. But eventually I stopped laughing, cleared my throat and said:

"The thing about humanity is that you must bleed. You will bleed, and you must choose who and what you bleed for, why you get out of bed or why you lay in bed and let yourself rot and die. Perhaps I am too naive to consent to such a thing, perhaps I am just deer running into a hunter's trap. There must be those among you who can tell me why my alchemy is allocated in such a way that makes me predisposed to whatever this is but… If I am the deer falling in love with the hunter, would you grant me the opportunity to be wielded into his craft? You know, to be mended into his bow. The ink for his paintings, the little cup he keeps his paint water in? Both the predator and the hunter eventually slay the prey… I’m not denying that. But the hunter does something the predator cannot. The hunter sees the prey not just as a target, but as worthy, beautiful enough to inspire pursuit. The prey, now knowing their purpose, instead of fleeing, steps willingly into the path, choosing to be known, consumed, transmuted, or even preserved in the memory or art of the hunter. Do I have to ask for permission to fall in love not just with the hunter, but with the moment after the kill? Can I be made into his instruments, the very tools with which he creates and destroys, and to live on in his mythos as both lover and medium? Because that’s what he is to me, right now. My muse and my ink, my pen, my page. I gave my soul to Venus, didn't sell it, because perhaps I fell in love with the love that is only found when a hunter strokes his coat."

I kinda started to tear up which was embarrassing lol. I wasn't even entirely sure if what I said made sense. I looked to him for comfort, his gaze helped me breathe, the way he moved his hand. "Breathe." I got it together. 

"I think I'd rather die in the arms of a mad God, it's your fault. You made me mad in the first place."

It was silent for a moment, but the persecution broke it with a question, “If the devotee must die to feel loved, is that love just?”

And I laughed again through tears, “I don't have to die to be loved, but I will die. That's the way you set up this game. I have found a love that transcends death. You're mad because he won, because Lucifer’s not supposed to have that, he’s not supposed to redefine it, he’s not allowed. And a human isn’t allowed to choose their own undoing, even when it liberates them.” 

And before I could even really finish my sentence, another hand shot up.This one was closer to the front of the crowd. I knew him. When he stepped forward he was almost as quiet as Michael. 

“This is the heavenly angel that first contacted the devotee, one of the very first spirits they ever worked with, who taught him how to properly communicate and interpret spirits. Jophiel takes partial responsibility for enabling the devotee’s relation to Lucifer.”- someone said it, I can’t really remember who. 

I haven’t seen Archangel Jophiel in quite some time. We speak to each other far less these days. He was a very important chapter in my spiritual journey. And I will admit, I was bewildered to see him there, and slightly.. Nervous? Embarrassed? Shocked that he knew the depth of my intimacy with Lucifer. But I suppose everyone knows.

Jophiel just started, he didn’t really seem to address anyone in particular. 

"I taught him how to listen. I showed him how to tell the difference between a whisper and a wound. I taught him to trust what stirred in the stillness and how to seek out the divine in strange places. I am witness to the full arc of what the devotee is becoming because I helped shape the very first steps of it. When I saw him tread towards you, Lucifer, I did not know he would fall for you in the way that he has. But I cannot say I am at all surprised that he did, and I would not say that if I had been mortal and placed in his position, that I would not have done the same. I know the desire to become a piece of my God’s art, I am the angel who is made of it. I do not merely understand the act of creation, I am a creation, a living sculpture of divine intention. My very being is shaped by a yearning to reflect God's beauty, purpose, and symmetry. So when he says: ‘make me the ink, the bow, the paint-water cup,’ I understand. That is not the cry of someone devoured, it is the cry of someone who wishes to live forever through their beloved’s hands. To keep their beloved warm after reckoning. To be used, yes, but as medium, as pigment, as vessel. It is not submission for its own sake, it is a fusion. And if that is madness, then I have lived it since the moment I first beheld the face of the Divine and did not turn away. Let no one here claim that to be art is to be lesser. Let no one say that beauty crafted for a God is a broken thing. I take responsibility for opening the door, yes. But he stepped through it on his own. And he chose again, and again, and again to stay. I do not believe he is broken. I do not believe he was prey. I believe he was transformed. But please know this: just because he is radiant now, just because he burns with divinity, do not mistake that fire for proof that there was no cost. I saw his terror. I felt his hunger. I watched him bleed and name it holy as beauty that moves and sings and gazes back. it is a dangerous, holy impulse to let their body, their blood, their life become a vessel for something greater. If you must find someone guilty, then let me be counted among them. I lit the first candle. And I also warned him,"

And Jophiel then seemed to look at me and express the same sort of sigh that Michael did, “and others warned him, Lucifer warned him, and he even warned himself. And it would be much simpler for us all if Lucifer just destroyed all of his children, then perhaps we could use this boy as a cautionary tale. But there is, there always are, a certain few that survive the flames. There is an art to playing with fire without being burned.”

Jophiel expressed that he had nothing more to say, and he was dismissed. I still don’t even know how to feel about that. After a moment, what almost felt like a cosmic coffee break, someone chimed in. 

“If the verdict is that we should all just back off and let Lucifer do whatever he wants, who exactly is to hold him accountable when he eventually does burn the devotee? What’s to stop him from destroying the devotee when he gets the perfect opportunity or cannot resist his dark desires? I am unwilling to believe that this Lucifer is completely virtuous in all of his actions, and I believe that it is dishonest to portray him that way. There is a responsibility to prevent harm before it occurs.”

and I was sort of getting mad. Perhaps I spoke out of turn. Something about that struck something in me, maybe in the way she said it, and I knew it was a she. 

“Me,” I answered, and I was asked to repeat myself. “Me. I will hold him accountable, I will be the one he seeks retribution from. Me. Who’s to protect Lucifer from me?”

From you? Yes, from me. 

“What if I decide that I’m the one who wants to do the conquering? What if I reap his own surrender? What if I want to be a hunter too, and kill a giant man? He gave to me because I wanted, because I asked. Because I approached him and saw him as worthy. Over everyone. Over all of you. So what about me? What If I want to give back? What if I give back because I know it is the one thing I can do to destroy him back? What if I control the blood I give him and cultivate a bond more powerful and sacred than any union that has ever been known between God and Man? What if I train him? Transform him? Expose his vulnerabilities and wounds and wrap them in silk and devotion too? What then? Am I still the victim then? Do mortals need to ask for permission to slay their Gods? Or does that privilege only go one way? Gods slaying humans? What are the laws and ethics around consent in that regard?”

And Dionysus at this point is cackling, having a ball of a time. And Lucifer is looking at me with some kind of look that I’ve never seen him make before. I genuinely can’t read it, whether it’s pleased or not. But it is truly the first time I think I’ve ever seen him teary eyed. 

“Young man, you should mind your tongue and have respect when you are in the presence of Gods.” 

Her voice gripped me like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I have never heard her voice so clearly, so powerful. So commanding. So old and wise. I don’t know why I didn’t think she would be there. Inanna. Perhaps because I syncretise her and Lucifer so heavily, I’ve never seen them separate. But here she was before me in all of her glory and I truly did want to bow. Mother. If I didn’t know it before I knew it now. She was gargantuan, and she addressed everyone at once. 

“Shi’s willingness to bleed, to be worn into the hunter’s coat, to become the paint water for his sacred art is not just love. It is initiation. This descent. This is what I myself did when Ipassed through the seven gates, removing my robes and jewels, my power and pride, until I stood naked before death.” She looked at me and my heart trembled, “You are not the deer. You are the hunter’s hunger. You are the oil in his lamp, the curve of the blade. And when he lays your bones in the shape of a door, you will walk through it, not as prey, but as Priestess. I congratulate you, my child, not for surviving the flames, but for choosing, for loving with the kind of abandon that demands resurrection. It is erotic, ecstatic, sacrificial and most of all: powerful. There is no true power without the surrender of illusion, and no true ecstasy without death and rebirth. You speak of guilt and innocence as if they are clean things. But love is not clean. Nor is death. Nor is power. I have known the taste of blood on a lover’s lips. I have worn the skin of grief and pleasure, and I have demanded my throne back after giving it all away.

This child came to the hunter knowingly, perhaps too young, too open, but who among you here has ever loved and not risked your life for mastery? You call it madness. I call it devotion. I call it alchemy. I call it sacred.”

But then she glanced down at me, and her glance was not cold. Not at all. It was kind of the way my great great grandma used to look at me. Actually it was the exact same.

“But do not forget yourself now, boy. You are very much mortal, your blood is finite.” 

I nodded. Understood,

Then Inanna stepped over to Lucifer, she got very close to him and they eyed each other fiercely. “You want to be the boy’s father? Well I am his mother.”

And I think that is the only time I have seen him flinch. 

“So tell me, and speak plainly: is this a game to you? Is this the part where you prove you can hold the heart of a divine child without shattering it?” she spoke in a low whisper, and I had an image conjured into my head. A lioness stalking prey.

And Lucifer looked back into Inanna’s glare with something very soft.

“I know you, Lucifer. I know the ache that coils behind your mask, the slithering seduction you wear like perfume. I know your slick tongue. But I also know the alchemy that flows inside that boy’s veins, the blood you like so much.That’s why you like it so much, because it’s you. It’s a narcissistic ritual of consuming yourself through someone else, changed, transformed into something more satisfying. Sweetened because it was earned in trust and reignited with a raw and innocent love, far, far too innocent to come from you, Lucifer. That’s why you can’t destroy him, that’s why you know he’s not the victim,” she laughed at him, “you’re the victim now. Destined to a heart raught when, if ever he turns away from you. When he eventually parts from you, your own ultimate undoing. That's why you want him to bleed for you, you need proof that someone so worthy would. That proof is the world to you. And that’s exactly why he will. That is why he has made himself yours. You have no control over his loyalty, and he has actively chosen it. The only way this ends is when he outgrows you.” 

And he broke into a smile, bobbed his head. But it wasn’t a smile. It was something else. It was soft, quiet. “Of course.” 

And seeing him make that expression made me want to rip my heart out. 

And again, Dionysus exclaimed, completely interrupted, “Now we have a deer who cuts his hunter!  And a hunter who will not eat until his deer has struck him deep enough to be deserving of his reaction! For the hunter is nothing without his hunt! Now the deer is a wolf, perhaps even a dog. Yes, a dog! The deer becomes a dog, not domesticated, but devoted. Not prey, but chosen. The dog hunts with the hunter, not instead of him. It bares its fangs not only at the hunter, but for him, too. And the hunter? He no longer wants a passive offering, he wants something wild enough to bruise his palms when he holds it, something whose loyalty is as dangerous as his own appetite. Lucifer does not feed until the strike from his beloved is deep enough, until he has been known. Not just loved, not just feared, but pierced, seen, named. And the devotee, now wolf, now dog, snarls and says:“You wanted blood? Then bleed with me!” 

Cackling, finding the whole thing hysterical.

Inanna tears her glare away from Lucifer and concludes with her own kind of satisfied smile, “I believe the court has severely misunderstood the nature of the power dynamic in this relationship.”

Lucifer hangs his head.

The court was rained back in pretty quickly. Conversations and whispers settled. Conclusions were met.

“This is not love. This is delusion.”

“You’re speaking from trauma, not truth.”

“This is what happens when the broken are left unguarded.”

“You’ve identified with your captor.”

“This is cosmic Stockholm Syndrome.”

“He has branded you, not bonded with you.”

“Your consent is irrelevant. The crime is cosmic.”

“A mortal cannot consent to a being of such magnitude. The scale is too unbalanced.”

“You are clay. He is fire. And fire cannot love clay without burning it.”

“You’ve confused transformation with consumption.”

“He did not forge you, he devoured you.”

“You have not been transfigured, only disfigured and dressed up in language.”

“You are a danger to yourself and to others.”

“This soul is not to be judged further. They have chosen their path. Let them walk it alone.”

“They are no longer of concern to us. Let what they worship claim them.”

and so we were dismissed. We both left that room, he was found guilty. There was no prison that could hold him. We exited the courtroom. 

And something really strange happened to me here. It was in the time when everyone was leaving, clearing out. And I could see the Gods behind their veils. Witness cosmic conversations, reunions, looks of recognition. Some removed their veils entirely to reveal things that spoke to something so primal within me but also so so unknowable. I felt so so infinitesimally small around all of these strange and ancient faces. Blue faces, bright eyes, many tongues. Non-Euclidean shapes. Like an absolute foreigner, witness to a culture, a language that I could not ever hope to understand or find myself within. Alien. Older than alien. A stranger in a strange land. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m dreaming too deeply. And it was dreamlike in that uncanny way, in its surrealness. I don’t know how to describe the feeling I had, except that I knew then, was painfully aware, of how incredibly young, how incredibly human I was. And the Gods know that I am human, they know that I am not one of them. They know that I am here and they know I am not one of them. I was amazed by how lost I was, by the height of the insurmountable danger and confusion. I am so so lost. 

I waited in a hallway alone. Maybe it would be more accurate to say I was hiding. I was crying. This was all a lot, and I’m not even sure I’m processing it. This is such a huge reaction to something I didn’t think was so incredible. 

But then down the hallway came Aphrodite, and she took my hand. And she gave me a look that reminded me why she is the Goddess of beauty. And she smiled, and her eyes glimmered. I will never forget that look. “Marvelous.”

And she didn’t have to say anything else lol, I started crying harder omg I’m crying right now trying to write this down wtf. But it was like, her looking at me like that settled every thought in my mind. Made everything instantly okay. And I was then giddy with glee.

And as she went go go I tried to ask her something, something mundane, something about my altar for her. And she batted her hand at me. “We’ll chat later.”

and when he, Lucifer, Lord Lucifer, finally found me in the hall, he grabbed me, held me to the wall, pinned me, and in my surprise I yelped. He kissed me, squeezed me, nibbled my neck, and we both dissolved into a kind of laughter. He held my face in his hands. I’ve never felt so comforted by them before. My sanctuary. All I wanted was to be alone with him. “You’re mine? You know that? You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine,” he growled, and he clutched me tighter, closer. A victory cry. and it made me laugh harder. He was tickling me. And we were both crying and laughing. He scooped me up and carried me out that door, and I melted into his hands,  still laughing. 

A whole day had gone by since that court ordeal thing. I’ve tried not to dwell too hard on it. I’m still truly not entirely sure what to think about it, if I should consider it legitimate or just an extremely weird extremely vivid Jungian level of projection. I don’t know. The anxiety I felt, that at least was real. The tears I cried, those were real. I still cannot bring myself to believe that my personal actions are significant enough to be worthy of divine intervention. But I don’t know. I’m not sure I know anything about anything that occurred. Or maybe that’s my own way of deflecting and repressing it. I don’t know. I genuinely don’t know.

The next time I saw Lucifer was when I was offering him incense, I guess mid day. He lead me into a trance. A very lazy one. It was more like a dream, again, I don’t know. My psychic mind or ability or whatever it is has felt absolutely fried these last few days. My only defense is radical acceptance that I don’t know.

I was again at his bedroom door, I had my robe but nothing else. I opened the door and the lights were off. Only a couple candles burning low. He was layed in bed beneath the covers. I asked him, can I come in? And his hand poked out from the sheets and beckoned me towards him. 

Lucifer almost looked kind of pale. Or, I don’t know. Something was off about him. He was tired, if that’s even possible. Quiet, softened. I was immediately flooded with this feeling of woe for him, I wanted to do something to make him feel better. He held my hand tenderly, almost sorrowfully. 

“Would you do something for me, my boy?” he asks in a whisper, the type of whisper you do when you have the flu, strained, weak. I nodded. Anything.

“Would you fix me a drink, please.”

Oh, okay. Yeah. It almost brought a smile to my face, so mundane. One of those things I have done for him 100 times. There's a little kitchenette area with different drinks, mixers, crystal cups. I fix him something that I think is vodka into a glass, mix it with something that smells sweet. I don’t know, I don’t drink.. 

And as I do so I catch a glimpse of a knife on the counter. Hm. I grabbed it. I glance back at him. He doesn’t really seem to be watching me. So I dig the end of the blade into the tip of my finger until it breaks my skin. There’s a few drops of blood, just a few. Not too much, not a frivolous amount. I let them fall into the drink and stir it with my finger.

When I return to him he takes it from me, takes a sip, and then glances at me. “I didn’t tell you to do that,” he murmurs. But he also drinks it. All of it. Every drop.

Then he reaches for my hand, my thumb. The residual blood on it. And he licks it slowly while glancing into my eyes. Then he opens up his arms, pulls the covers back. He’s not naked. Idk, I assumed he would be. “Come,” he whispers, again, with so much exhaustion. And I crawl into bed with him, let him take me into his chest. Fuck, he smells so amazing. He smells like home. And his arms, his embrace is so warm. So gentle. 

“Lucifer,” 

I say his name but nothing follows it. But I asked something. I’m not even entirely sure what I asked. But I needed him to answer. I clutched him like I was afraid he would dissolve in my hands, into salt.

“Never,” he started. He pulled the covers up so that we were both beneath them, cloaked in darkness. “Never should you have been even slightly surprised that I was pronounced guilty.”

I clutched him harder, needed him closer. I’m not. I wasn’t. Not even for a second was I. Guilt, innocence. That’s not what matters. I don’t care. I don’t care at all. That’s not it. That’s not why I feel this lump in my throat, why I feel like screaming and crying. I didn’t before. I was content, content until the moment I saw him like this. I was shaking because I was scared, but I didn’t know what I was afraid of. 

“Love,” his voice cracked. I could feel through the darkness that his cheeks were wet. And my heart sank, imploded. I felt an insurmountable sense of doom. 

“ I didn’t care, not at all.  Because there is no law, no court, no God, that could ever keep me away from you.”

Yes. I know.

“Shi, you are the only one that has this power, it is yours. I am at your mercy, it is yours, it will always be yours.” 

And it was the first time (omg I’m literally bawling writing this FUCK) ever that he has tried to be the little spoon. He pushed my arms apart, opened me, and then clutched onto me. He sunk his face into my chest, and I cradled him. He sunk deeper, I was watching his descent in real time. In all the melodrama I have seen from him, in all his woes and agonies, I have never seen him crumble and weep like this. He placed my hands on his head, over his ears.

“I love you,” he cried, and his inflection did that non human thing. It lacks dimension, or maybe it has an extra dimension. It comes out unfiltered, not even tuned for the human mind to comprehend. 

And then he smiles, and I can see a power struggle happening on his face. 

“In this craft, this space, we make promises all the time, oaths, rites,” he says, “I don’t mean to downplay the severity of those,” he continues, “but please, Shi, love,” 

And ?? aa

I don’t know how to really describe this but it was like

If you have ever seen someone go through an episode in front of you, this was very that. 

He was very clearly desperately trying to self soothe (pathologizing the gods?? Im cooked) in a way that was reminiscent of someone going through a manic episode. That curled up in a corner in the closet thing. He was in pain, or experiencing fear. There was some kind of compulsion in there, something violent and almost loathing, self loathing. Intrusive. Or maybe not. I’m not entirely sure what it was, but he was clinging to me, and he was crying. 

I cry all the time, Lucifer may shed a tear every now and then. He’s never done this with me.

“Can you please, make me just one promise,”

It was a very dark, but not dark as in devoid of light, feeling. It was nothing. Actual nothing, oblivion. It was weightless, suspended, the feeling of reaching a peak of an ascent upwards when you are thrown into the air. A moment of absolute weightlessness. And and intense fear of that. Maybe because I was born on Earth and I’m accustomed, trained, wise with the fear of fucking falling.

A promise? One more promise? Yes, Lucifer, my Lord, of. What is it? (lol I’m crying)

“If I place this dagger in your hand and I let you wield it against me, my love. Strike true. Do not hand this power over to anyone else, ever, never, I have given it to you,” 

Falling. 

“When you leave me, my star, please, let it be because you outgrew me, outlived me.”

And though I held him, and I clutched him, and I soothed him, and I did not speak, I still said it. I still thought it. 

What a hopeless fantasy, Lucifer, you are so tragic.

To ever think that a mortal could outlive a God, that I in my human life of a century or so could ever outlive the need and want and drive and passion for The Morning Star, as if I would ever stop searching for that. Everywhere, Lucifer, everywhere I can find you, trace your trail. You fed me.

Oh baby, 

Maybe that’s why humans are obsessed with other animals. Domestication or something. Dogs, cats. I imagine the grief that a human can feel. Must be nothing compared to a God. 

“I will never give this dagger to anyone else, Lucifer, you have my absolute certainty on that,” I answered him. 

“I’m very proud of the idea that my presence has allowed you space to forget that you are cursed, I want to be that for you. In this life, I have dedicated myself to being that for you, for myself, so long as I am Shi.”

Land.

I breathe with relief. 

My sanctuary. Not his, mine. You realize in retrospect that you would much rather be the dog. 

“But, Inanna was right. I am mortal, my blood is finite.”

And I pulled his face up towards me, even in the dark I could see him, and he looked older then than he ever has. 

“Lucifer,” like I was pointing out something stupidly obvious. “Remember me. Cherish me,” and I kissed him, I rubbed up against him, I cuddled him. “Love me.”

And he grabbed my arm, and a blizzard of heat overcame me with ferocity. But it was pure energy, fire. The fire I know. I smiled.

He kissed me and it was like being shocked. Tt jolted me, and I yelped in surprise, and he tackled me. And for a moment there was a struggle, we were wrestling in the dark. 

A half chuckle, “really?”

Take off

I struggled hard against him. Squirming, laughing. This is dumb, because obviously he can over power me. He bit me in the stomach and it hurt, and I reactively bit him in the arm. He laughed.

And then there was struggling I guess, and he bit me again in the back. I tried to squirm but he wouldn’t let me. He had me pinned down on my stomach. He mounted himself on top of me. I’ve never wanted him more in my fucking life.

He kept me pinned down as he undressed himself. And he slowly, delicately revealed me. I forgot about the struggle. He brushed his fingers down my back, then started kissing it, slowly. 

When he finally pushed himself in he let out a whimper, “would you let me love you, baby?” 

He felt so warm and familiar all around me. His movements were perfect.

“Would you love me, baby?”

I pushed myself into him, pulled him into me. He sucked on my neck. “Please.”

We made love to each other for quite a while, he felt sweeter than he ever has. Bellowed smoke. In the end we somehow ended up facing each other, kissing, inhaling each other. 

I rocked forward and found the dagger in his night stand. I’d never been so sure of my decision to do this. He placed his hand over mine, didn’t guide, didn’t resist, watched me closely. 

I cut my chest, deeper this time, deeper than before. I bled a healthy stream. More than before. But I only cut myself once, only let him cut me once. Then I put the knife away and let him drink from me. His tongue upon me was like rain on molten lava. I don’t know. I turned into obsidian. And he drank beautifully. 

And when he was done, he let himself sink into my chest, and for a while we shared each other’s warmth. And he thanked me. 

Okay. One more. Just a short one this time. 

Didn’t sleep well last night, I had all kinds of fragmented dreams. This one though, I do remember very clearly.

It started with dirt and dry grass. And a tunic, or whatever those sleeping sacs are called. I was laying on it. It was sunset, or maybe early morning. But I’m leaning towards sunset. 

There’s a fire pit in front of me, it’s lit. I’m in a small camp, a cowboy style camp. Smells like campfire. And he’s tending the fire. He has a brimmed hat on, an old, dusty coat that’s patched with different fabrics. Belt, boots. Gloves. I don’t think I saw a horse. I think a couple bags. We didn’t have nothing, that I knew. Nothing valuable to other people. And we were alone.

And I was laid in my little sleeping sack in what felt like pajamas. I was very flat on the ground. And when I stared out into the country it was something devastatingly nostalgic. The smell in the air, the field, what seemed like endless field. A perfect sky. The sound of some kind of critter roaming about, some bird. And the grass. Dry grass. The type you wouldn’t really want to sleep on, but once you did eventually lull to sleep, it was nice… cool. Everything is a shade of blue in that lighting. And I don’t really know if I’m me right now. I mean I know I am, I know it’s me. But it’s not Shi. I don’t know. A past life maybe.

Maybe this was a little pocket of time before cities, or houses. When people, maybe just poor people, black people, immigrants, slaves, hicks, still slept on the ground. Out in the open, in the field.

They probably didn’t feel as safe as I did there. 

He came over to me and looked down at me. Slipped off his gloves and threw them down in the dirt. He sat. Tipped off his hat and leaned back.

“You think they’ll find us here?” he asks as he pushes my hair out of my face. And a smile grew on me. 

“Yes,” I answered, and he smiled back. Placed a kiss on my forehead. 

I layed there with him for a while. I wanted to savour that place, that world. Something about it. 

“I like it,” Lucifer whispers, settling into me. “Let’s stay a while.”

Ironic. It was cruelly short. 

[katerinaaqu]

Oh absolutely you do not even need to agree. I am only expressing my own personal opinion and why I have the stance I have but of course you can like it is up to you and of course you can be eager on it or see only the positive it brings. It definitely is your opinion. I respect it. 🙏 I only express why I do not like it

Yup exactly or that people think that in order to do something "trendy" instead on focusing on making it more accurate they do exactly what you say. Basically use the popularity of an old tale to do their random and original stuff they just use the names for popularity and then Basically not do anything of that tale they adapt said or stood for.

Yup you get it. Or worse that you do not matter. "It is popular so who cares?" "There are versions so this is equivalent to your ancient history" or "it is a fake story and fanfiction who cares?" And as you said use it only for anesthetics and fun instead of truly appreciating it. Do we feel happy that our stories continue to inspire? Sure. But why do we need to pay the price of being used like a happy meal advertisement all the time? (By the way I would love to hear more about your culture too)

Oh please not at all do not feel like that because as I said you did your research you actually got curious and showed interest. This definitely is how you are being respectful and you do use your inspiration and enthusiasm for actually delving into it and that is definitely the best way to do it. The fact that you liked the result doesn't make you morally inferior in any way absolutely not. You must never apologize for the things you like especially since you delve into the roots of this culture.

Please never apologize. You must never apologize to anyone since you know and you do separate some things. You enjoy music and you enjoy the feeling of coming together and you definitely bring a good point that indeed in a world where art is underrated (and I know because my brother is a professional musician and barely manages to work at celebrations) artists managed to elevate their careers and make a name for themselves and push forward and indeed that is great the same as it is great that people like you come out of it that actually delve deep and do not consider the retelling as 5he source

But yes speaking on sources should have been the rule not the exception and unfortunately it isn't happening. I definitely understand how such efforts are appreciated which is why I am disappointed because it would have been so awesome if he had used that talent to actually promote the Odyssey instead of something that just uses the Odyssey as a name.

Here's one example that I discussed with a friend; instead of the ridiculous culturally "600 strikes" that made Poseidon one of the most powerful gods look like a boasting idiot and his previous "get in the water" badass song appear like useless empty threats Here's an idea:

Why on earth didn't he put a duet battle between Poseidon and Leucothea?

Like Leucothea appearing giving him her belt. He could play again with the "get in the water" pattern but this time Leucothea encourages him. Then she fights with Poseidon to protect Odysseus..maybe fails miserably but keeps going on occasion singing "get in the water" Odysseus struggling in the water calling for help or chanting the names of people he lost as he struggles. He could make use of the suffering pattern here like Leucothea singing to Poseidon to take the suffering from him.

Even better use the same voice actress of Penelopw to play Leucothea and use the same pattern of Odysseus finding strength hence etc and that is only one example that one could use and make it loose but still be more respectful to the text but given the changes it wouldn't mean much at that point but GOSH would I appreciate it more than whatever the hell happened in that saga!

Thank you for understanding and please do not feel the need to change your taste or opinion on the musical swayed by this only. But I am happy that you understand where I come from and of course I will continue my work even if no one sees it because that is MY passionate project!

Most people on Tumblr: Yay! We can have a musical based on the Iliad! Me after seeing what happened with Odyssey plot especially the last saga and the fandom logic inserting the ancient sources (again):

[greencatalystcomet]

there is something in my stupid primal nostalgia brain that so desperately wants doctor who characters from different eras to meet eachother. i want amy to meet the third doctor. i want bill to meet susan. i want captain jack to meet adric or the second doctor. i want martha to meet the fifteenth doctor. and GOD the way i would go feral if ruby met rose. i may simply combust

[charbroiledchicken]

"you're the writer, you control how the story goes" no not really. i wrote the first sentence and then my characters said "WE WILL TAKE IT FROM HERE" and promptly swerved into an electrical fence.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

More of Stanley's sketchbook because he makes me sick /pos

(Just imagine he was looking in a mirror at the subway to draw this anshfhwj. The london bus ticket is unrelated, it's just a random knick knack he had lying around<3)

People weren't the only ones Stan met on the streets.

------

+ this is an absolute fucking batshit WILD oneshot I initially wrote for these drawings that got WAY out of hand, if you feel like reading that.

The oneshot below is a stand-alone now, and in no way is related to the drawings above, but I just wanted to show you guys because Jesus Christ

------

Winter of 1981, at a subway station Stan doesn't remember the name of-

The sorry excuse of a transport system that this hellhole of a city called a functioning subway was hardly anyone's first choice of a warm place to stay the night. And yet, here Stanley was; standing like an idiot in the middle of a small bustling stairwell that led down to the full screeching chaos of a train stop on a Tuesday evening. A rowdy crowd of exhausted office workers streamed out like a tidal wave from the entrance of the station, the bustle of their footsteps all too eager to go home and relax after a long day of work.

The faint, stuffy stench of old piss and sweat followed the crowd to the surface from the deep depths of a less than sanitary and overcrowded train station. The pungent smell intermingled with the crisp stinging winter air in a cocktail of shitty city gloom often associated with this time of the year; when the holidays were too far away and the sun seemed to come and go with practically the same 9 to 5 schedule as the workers had, leaving them going to work in the pitch dark and coming back out in the inky black as well.

He might have looked like he belonged there, depending on how one would want to look at it. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of prim, pressed suits and neart uniforms. His ratty old jacket and generally unwashed appearance certainly didn’t help his case, but he also knew that stations like these also tended to shelter quite a number of homeless wanderers like him, especially during the winter. So, it wasn't exactly uncommon to see other sore thumbs seeking reprieve from the biting cold and the dangerous likelihood of frostbite from within the enclosed walls of the subway station.

Heck, if most of these underground kingdoms didn't also happen to be a breeding ground for several illicit activities, he might even have followed their lead. But, believe it or not, Stanley's already had enough experience with illegal activities to last him a last time, and he isn't looking for a new fill. He was satisfied with what meager shelter his trusty car offered him, as little a difference it might make in terms of safety.

Stanley's obstruction of the already narrow stairs with his loitering went unappreciated, as shoulders roughly shoved past him and swinging briefcases repeatedly bumped into his sides, usually coupled with a nasty glare and a snide comment or two. He paid them no mind, however. He wasn't here to start a fight with some random bum with a dead end job, as much as he thought it would probably do them both some good to duke their stresses out on one another.

The hours ticked by with wave after wave of new crowds being dropped off by a train and left to pour out of the station into the streets. By the time the streetlights turned on and the pale pink in the sky slowly faded to make way for the stark glittery black of the night sky, the tide of people had slowed to a trickle and rush hour was long since over. He was now the stairs’ sole occupier, with a few occasional stragglers stumbling up the steps and hurrying past him without a second glance.

Stanley did not move from his spot, however. He stood resolutely in the middle of the stairway, fervently rubbing his arms and stamping his feet in a futile attempt to try and regain feeling in his extremities as he waited. Rocking on his heels, he titled his head backwards to let his eyes roam the constellations that carpeted the endless expanse of the sky stretched out above his head, almost losing himself in the scintillating canvas of stars.

It reminded him of old times; of the sparkling beach sand twinkling in the dim moonlight, and the soft sound of lilting waves hovering in the background as he lay back on the cold wooden deck of his ship and watched the stars dance.

He still remembered every name his brother had once recited to him time and time again as he pointed out each star and galaxy from the night sky.

Then, like clockwork, he was broken out of his reveries by a telltale meow coming from below. The sound was a familiar blanket that immediately melted away the tension that had begun to build in his chest as he practically sagged with relief.

His body moved almost automatically as he leaned down to detach the frail tabby cat that was attempting to literally fuse with his legs, purring up a storm and rubbing her head against his pants as though her life depended on it. The cat gave a soft chirrup of dissatisfaction at being manhandled, which Stanley absentmindedly replied with a chiding click of his tongue as he lifted her up his chest and gently tucked her into his jacket in a practiced motion.

She thankfully remained blissfully limp in his grasp as he shifted around some more so that she was nestled comfortably inside the dark pocket of warmth inside his ratty jacket. The tiny warm lump that rumbled contently against his front radiated with heat, and his fingers finally began to feel like actual fingers rather than useless stiff frigid lumps of meat and bone attached to his palms.

A pointed cough startled him from his clumsy wriggling to get the cat to settle down. An oddly familiar security guard stood at the entrance of the station at the bottom of the stairs, leveling Stanley an unimpressed look with the metal gate in his grip already halfway closed, ready to seal the subway for the night. He must have been a comical sight; caught awkwardly bent over while trying to get his newly acquired cat to stop kneading biscuits on his stomach, with said cat peeking out from the gap between his collars.

Stanley faintly recognized the guard. He was a much older man, with a shock of thinning white hair neatly tucked underneath a dark blue cap and a strange depth in his eyes that reminded Stanley of the sea; with countless unspoken truths lurking far beneath the surface, but no less grand and knowing of all that the universe had to offer, as though he had already lived a thousand lives before this one.

He had seen the man around before, at another station, doing the opposite of his job by ushering stray buskers and homeless stragglers from the streets and into the (relatively) safe walls of the subway, instead of doing what any other law-abiding security guard would do and kick them out into the elements. He wasn't sure what the older man was doing here, of all places, since all the previous stations he'd seen the man at had been several states over, practically on the other side of the country.

A brief spark of panic shot through his spine at the thought that this man could be following him, but he quickly discarded the ridiculous notion as soon as it entered his mind. He had never even seen him before, and hardly ever even interacted with him; there was no reason for there to be any sort of bad blood between them. Unless he happened to be related to one of Stanley's many, many enemies, then perhaps his fear was a little warranted.

However, the old guard made no move to attack or do anything other than stare judgmentally, almost expectantly. For the first time in a long time, Stanley felt like a child being caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do. He tried his best to keep his uncomfortable squirming to a minimum under the unrelenting gaze, stubbornly returning the man's gaze with his own wary glare. His cat’s muffled whining came from inside his jacket. The traitor, she was leaving him to deal with the old man on his own.

With an exasperated jerk of his head, the security guard gestured towards the inside of the station. For a moment, Stanley stared dumbly, uncomprehending of what the old man could possibly want from him. Rolling his eyes, this time the man gestured more insistently at the small gap that still remained between the metal gate and the entrance, his arm sweeping the air in a low arc as he dramatically urged Stanley inside. Suddenly, it clicked, and Stanley shook his head.

“I have a car,” he said plainly, his voice echoing loudly in the desolate silence of the winter night that surrounded the unlikely pair.

He wasn't sure why he was so nervous, it wasn't as though he was lying. He did have a car, his trusty Stanley-mobile was parked safely away in the corner of an unassuming alley that wasn't often frequented by anyone. There was no way he was reaching it tonight, though; it was practically on the other side of the city, much too far away for him to arrive at a reasonable time. His nightly excursions to meet his small friend unfortunately left him with no other choice than to leave his car behind, the hunk of metal far too unwieldy and noticeable to drive around openly on the streets. He never knew who could be watching, after all.

He had simply been hoping to find himself a dark corner to tuck himself into with his cat, just for the night, but it seemed as though the universe had other plans. Or rather, this strange old man had other plans.

Although, if Stanley thought about it, the subway wasn't such a bad suggestion. This was one of the safer stations in the city; and with the rich neighborhoods being so close by, no rogue criminal or dealers dared to come near this area unless they wanted to be slapped with a hefty fine or face a higher potential to be arrested. And of course, there was the obvious shelter from the unrelenting cold that now seemed to permeate his bones, even with the purring warmth that was nestled inside his jacket.

So, that was how he found himself hunkering down for the night inside a shabby old subway station, with a satisfied cat still rumbling away against his chest and a strange old security guard locking down the gates behind him. The man said nothing as he hooked his keys back onto his belt and gave a firm pat on Stanley's shoulders as he walked past him, pausing to scratch his cat behind her ears before moving away. His footsteps bounced off of the grimy tiled walls with an odd reverb as he turned a corner.

“You'll be safe in here,” the man said, voice sage and gravelly. The words had a weight to them, and seemed to hang in the air with such a presence it was as though the old man had never even left his side.

The subway was empty, quiet. It was such a stark contrast to the loud rowdiness of the rush hour crowd these halls once held. Stanley hadn't yet registered the utter silence of the station as he aimlessly made his way down the winding, deserted halls of the ancient station. He mindlessly walked past the aged and peeling advertising posters plastered on the walls, his nose becoming accustomed to the stinging stench of the subway. The quiet seemed to swallow the sound of his steps as he explored the branching paths and endless tunnels. They were almost kaleidoscopic, dizzying, nonsensical. There were doors where there shouldn't be, and deadends where it didn't make sense.

The silence only began to truly settle in his bones the more he walked. He suddenly wished that he would head the telltale footsteps of the old security guard again, just to hear another sign of life in this underground hellscape other than himself. The ghostly memories of screeching trains and bustling crowds haunted the halls; now, only nothingness reigned supreme. He glanced down at his small feline companion, who slumbered away against his chest, blissfully unaware of his jackrabbiting heartbeat threatening to burst out of his ribs. The silence seemed to permeate every inch of space and crush the air out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

Stanley’s steps grew faster, more frantic as the walls and ceilings seemed to close in on him. They grew smaller, tighter; squeezing, trapping. He hardly even registered his cat's complaints as she was jostled around in his grasp, breaking into a full out run. His breathing sounded loud, too loud, and the world was collapsing around him.

When he finally broke out into a large, open platform, he could finally breathe again. He had arrived at the tracks, the empty tunnel where the trains would pass an empty, gaping maw in the wall that seemed to swallow all light around it and beckon him closer. He felt his cat wriggle out from within his jacket and hop out with a displeasured yowl, scampering away and disappearing behind a corner much like the old man had. True silence pierced his ears and thrummed like a deafening pressure in his temples. He was alone.

Stanley was stuck in that subway station for years.

[puckinghischier]

quinn eating you out after you come home from a long day, letting you use him as stress relief

you had been tense from the stress of your workplace all day, your muscles aching all over your body. you were tired, overworked, and ready for a glass of wine and trashy tv.

when quinn saw your state, though? he knew exactly what you needed. he ran you a hot bath—which he joined, of course—rubbing soothing circles into your tight muscles in the warm water. the bath quickly turns into a shower so you can actually feel clean, but quinn won’t allow you to lift a finger. he lathers soap onto your body and massages the products into your hair, nearly lulling you to sleep standing up.

he wraps your body in a fluffy towel as you step out of the warm stream of water, drying your body gently before working on his own. walking into the bedroom to get a fresh set of pajamas, quinn comes up behind you and stops you before you can get the drawer open.

“uh-uh. no clothes yet,” he tsks, pushing your hand away. you look up at him confused.

“quinn, i’m wet and cold, why can’t i get dressed yet? you’re dressed,” you point out his plaid pajama pants, appreciating the lack of a shirt, though.

he smirks at you, grabbing your hands, walking backwards while leading you towards the bed.

“because, your stress free evening isn’t over,” he lets himself fall onto the end of the bed in a sitting position, looking up at you while wiggling the towel off of your body.

once the fabric is on the floor, quinn admires your body standing bare in front of him. he sees the layer of goose-bumps on your skin from the chilly air of the apartment, your taut nipples staring right at him. he reaches around you to take a handfuls of your ass, pushing you towards him.

you instinctively separate your legs to stand on either side of his thighs, feeling his chin graze the skin right above your belly-button. soft, warm puffs of air from his nose hit your cold skin, causing the muscles there to twitch. you look down at him, seeing his soft, grey eyes looking back up at you. a small smile breaks out on his face, the weight of his chin no longer felt on your body as he pulls back barely an inch.

before you can miss the contact, you watch as he touches his lips to the skin, eyes still looking brightly up at you. you toss your head back as you sigh, the feeling of his warm tongue coming out to tease along with the movement of his lips sending shivers through your spine.

you bring your hands up to rest in his unruly curls, their damp softness providing just enough to ground you, worried you’ll float away as he goes from open-mouth kisses to fully just licking your skin.

still looking up at you, even though he can’t see your face, he licks a stripe up and down, from above your navel to dangerously low territory. when you feel his tongue dip to the very bottom of your stomach, your head flies up with a gasp.

you’re met with the sight of quinn smirking up at you, clearly pleased with the reaction. “s’it working?” he asks you, still kneading the flesh of your ass.

“mmmm don’t know, still feel a little stressed,” you respond with a teasing smile, taking your hand and pushing the hair off of his forehead, bringing your hand to rest on the back of his head.

quinn’s shoulders shake lightly, his forehead leaning forward to rest against your stomach now, his hair tickling the sensitive area as he shakes his head back and forth. he pulls back to look up at you once again, eyes bright with amusement.

“well, guess we’ll have to get straight to it then,” he lightly taps your ass, removing his hands as he lays back, now flat on the bed in front of you.

you stand there and stare at him, not sure what he’s doing. his feet are still planted to the floor, his arms now extended at the elbow, hands clasped together to cradle his head as it lays on them. it’s your turn to admire his body. you’ve always loved the toned nature of his abdomen, but loved the fact there’s still somehow a softness to it at the same time even more. you watch the rise and fall of his even, steady breaths, lost in a near trance-like state.

he lifts his head up only enough to look at you, the rest of his body planted firmly against the mattress.

“well…are you gonna come get your stress relief or not?” he asks you, gesturing to his face, then letting his arms drop by his sides.

your stomach jumps at the realization of what he’s insinuating. he watches the fire in your eyes ignite, his lips once again curling into a smirk.

you waste no time crawling onto the bed, resting your knees on either side of his head, lining yourself up to his mouth perfectly.

you hear him take a deep inhale, your scent always driving him crazy.

looking down at him for permission to alleviate the small burn starting in your thighs, you find he’s not even look at your face. his stare is held on your slick core, licking his lips like he’s at an all you can eat. which, in his eyes, he is.

“ready?” you ask him, missing his warm mouth already.

his eyes snap to your face. “stress reliever, at your service,” he responds, not waiting for you to lower yourself to him. with his hands on your ass again, he pushes you down as he raises his head up, wasting no time in burying himself in your folds.

you cry out, his tongue ferociously lapping and sucking at your clit, his large hands massaging your ass once again.

the quick pace of his tongue stuns you to stillness, not realizing you hadn’t moved until quinn starts rocking your body back and forth for you. he slides his tongue up and down your cunt as he did your stomach earlier, his nose bumping and rubbing against your clit deliciously.

your soft pants and his slurping are the only two sounds to be heard in the room, until quinn lets out a low growl as you start grinding down on his face harder.

the vibrations cause a jolt to run through your core, your body leaning forward just enough for his tongue to tease your entrance.

“scoot. up more,” he mumbles against you, guiding you by your ass right where he wanted you.

the feeling of his tongue sliding inside of you draws out a high pitched yelp. he stabs the muscle in and out harshly, loving the feeling of your walls sucking him in as he laps up every drop of your sweetness.

you bring your hands up to toy with your hard nipples, needing to occupy yourself with something before you lose your mind.

you ride his tongue as he continues to grunt and growl into you, feeling every twitch and flick of the thick muscle.

the added stimulation to the sensitive buds on your chest has your release growing faster than you can keep up with. it’s like someone’s blowing up a balloon inside of you, the pressure building and building until it finally-

“quinn!” you cry out, the graze of his teeth against your sensitive flesh being the needle that popped the balloon.

your whole body is bathed in warmth, limbs shaking as he doesn’t let his pace falter, still bringing your body down farther onto his now slick face, making sure not a drop of your honey goes anywhere except his awaiting tongue.

you start to come down from your high, attempting to slow the steady rock of your body, but quinn pushes against your efforts. he keeps your momentum going, tongue still exploring every inch of your now swollen pussy.

“q, i-“ you hiss at the sensitivity, not being able to finish your sentence because of the quick work his tongue is swirling onto your clit.

“one more…you’ve got one more in you, i can feel it,” he commands up into you, going back to work the second the words are out of his mouth.

your whine, already feeling the swirl of another orgasm approaching.

quinn’s assault is only getting more aggressive, now fully nipping at your folds, each little pinch another tick closer to your release.

“close, quinny, so close,” you tell him, breathlessly.

his tongue enters you once again, this time staying buried there, grazing every surface it can find. he brings a hand around to toy with your clit while his tongue is otherwise occupied, opting for small pats instead of fast circles.

the dull, repetitive nature of the pats is what has your second orgasm of the night bursting out of you. you scream quinn’s name like a mantra, nothing else on your mind other than him.

he smirks through your orgasm this round, feeling your walls flutter around him, milking your sticky sweetness from your body like he’s the thirstiest man alive and you were a fresh spring.

after you recover from your second high, you take a few deep breaths, trying to remember how to control your limbs. when you manage to lift a knee off of the bed, quinn’s hand is flying up to force it back down, his tongue still swirling and flicking inside of you.

“quinn, i-i can’t. not-“ you whimper as he presses a finger against your clit and holds it there, applying a constant pressure. “not another one. can’t do it.”

quinn doesn’t let you surrender, however, the one hand still on your ass lifting and coming down in a harsh smack, the sound nearly lost in the symphony of squelches and moans.

he removes his tongue, and mouth, from you long enough to bark out a gruff “three’s the magic number. you’re not done until i say so,” before his tongue is buried in you for a third time tonight.

you almost fall forward, the sensitivity nearly crippling. your body surprises you, though. somehow, without your knowledge, your nerves are already winding up again, ready to explode any second.

between the now smacks on your clit—his soft pats long gone—and his tongue reaching as far into your entrance as possible, you don’t even know how or when, but suddenly your vision goes white and you feel nothing but what can be described as total and complete pleasure coursing through your veins.

quinn is shocked at how easy it was to pull your third release from you, feeling spurts of your sweet juices expel his tongue from your clenching core. he lets the drops glide down his throat, groaning at how amazing you always taste, but especially tonight.

you didn’t even know you screamed until you felt the scratch of your throat, the stars subsiding from your vision as you feel quinn’s tongue gently licking around you, cleaning up every last ounce of liquid from your spent cunt.

he decides you’ve had enough, finally releasing your shaking thighs, letting you lift one over his head and fall back onto the bed to lay beside of him. he turns over onto his side to look at you, always enjoying how pretty you look after an orgasm, much less three.

the rapid rise and fall of your chest starts to slow as you fully come down from the whole experience, turning your head to look at him.

your eyes widen at the sight in front of you.

his face is quite literally dripping with your release. his nose, his mouth, his chin are all covered with your slick juices. he’s leaning on one arm, while the other is being used to ‘clean’ his face.

and by ‘cleaning’ you mean he’s taking a finger across the wet areas, collecting the moisture on his finger before licking it clean and repeating the process.

when he notices you looking over at him, his actions cease and he smiles down at your fucked out state.

“so….you still stressed?”

[katscythe]

[that-fangirling-bitch]

heyy you

guess who finally finished watching the show, spoilers for anyone who stumbled on this and hasnt watched it

I NEED MORE 😭

helo it was everything I love it, and I think it's very telling that I cannot see any character as straight, like no one

maybe Angella, but like that's it.

also yall were right, after season three the childish vibes completely disappeared

SOFT CATRA ♡

MARA AND RAZZ AND OLD LIGHT HOPE MY LOVES, I BAWLED IN THOSE EPISODES

MARA DESERVED BETTER

and I love how they have dealt with the ups and downs of friendships with the squad, like adora and bow and glimmer especially in season four and five.

and with catra and scorpia,

side notes:

I ship kyle and rogelio

I love how much of a goner adora was for huntara, love huntara

SCORPIA AND PERFUMA ARE MY SHAYLAS

BOW AND GLIMMER ARE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER

MERMISTA AND SEA HAWK ARE PRETTY CUTE

EMILY AND MELOG AND SWIFTY CUTIES

HORDAK AND ENTRAPTA FRIENDSHIP GAH MY BABIES

( I recognize hordak is one messed up character but still )

shadow weavers last actions?? goddammit im fucking conflicted

no doubt about the fact that she was a shit parent tho.

can someone save Angella? idk why I'm so attached to her

but like I can't imagine spending an eternity trapped between two realities god

ooh and I love dumb jock blonde adora who has a smart powerful battle mode switch yk ( like regular adora not she ra adora)

im living for the new she ra design in season five, I freaking love it

also I've throughly deep dived into the fandom's fanfiction, and yall know what I'm really really craving rn?

ADORA ANGST

like there is a severe lack of it and it's pissing me off

also im really new to the fandom, but is anyone else bothered by the fact that people keep erasing what catra has done before her redemption? I get my baby has issues and her own fucked up trauma, and I see how hard she's trying but

like that girl has brutally traumatized the entire princess alliance, especially adora

I wish people would stop pardoning catra for literally everything, like they do for jinx. I really really get it, but still.

I see so much catra angst, but im craving adora angst more, probably because

I can see my self in adora's life structure and way of dealing with shit, and relate to it far more than I can with catra. that being said

CATADORA HAS MY HEART ♡

what else am I missing

can yall tell im desperate to talk to someone about this stuff????

HELP

ok I just started watching she-ra, and someone told it has lqbtq soooo-

pleasee tell me that adora ends up with catra

I'm on like episode 4 but the childhood besties to enemies to lovers arc would hit so hard

if not im writing my own fanfiction idc

ngl I wouldn't be too mad at glimmer and adora together too.

or is someone else in the show queer and I just haven't met them yet, and so I'm making assumptions about the only 4 I have?

also I know it's a kid show and it's written very much that way, very childish lines for sure, but idk why im actually very drawn in by it?

it's giving if winx club met mlp, in a twist.

I'm gonna go binge this show and be back

[amtrak12]

After a conversation with a friend about this weird trend of fic readers who only want epic length fics (and also what seems to be a massive misunderstanding between parties on terms and their definitions), I went searching for the fandom sources I cut my teeth on. I don't have much bookmarked from those days anymore, but googling got me to this fiction length/terminology breakdown from a Livejournal blog. (Which also has good fandom definitions for other terms like A/N and fanon too, so if you're super new to fandom, go check that out.)

The definitions come from the publishing world (hence the page counts), but fandom and fanfic has always borrowed heavily from official publishing terminology. Flash fiction (aka, anything less than 1k words) is called a 'ficlet' within fandom. We call everything else a fic until it reaches the novella mark -- which may start at 20k words but as synecdochic breaks down on their Dreamwidth blog, there's a lot of overlap between short stories and novella word counts. Because, when you're not constrained by physical page counts, the real dividing line between short stories and novellas are the number of plots and themes you're using. (Seriously, go read their meta on this topic. It's fantastic!) Either way, once you're hitting tens of thousands of words, you're in longfic territory. And then if your fic is even longer than that -- 100k+ like shown in the screenshot above -- it's called an epic fic.

And these terms, longfic and epic, are important because they're used to differentiate these stories from the average fic. Because, at least in the 2000s up until the 2020s, the most common fic lengths you ran into were between 1k-20k words. "Fic" made the reader assume only a few thousand words at most. It's only when you changed the term to drabble or ficlet or longfic that they would realize 'oh this is going to be shorter or longer than normal'.

I don't really understand why that baseline assumption has changed amongst the newer demographics (and maybe amongst some long-running fandom members too?). I've seen a lot of theories and 'tiktokification' complaints, but I honestly don't know what's true. And I don't want to start a fight or even try to change anyone's minds if they are dead set against reading short story length fics. You can do what you want!

Just maybe shift your attitude about it a little bit? Remember that it's a personal preference the same way tropes are, and that one story length isn't better than another. Just like tropes, each story length serves its purpose. Some stories are best told in 1-2k words. Some are best told as 100 word drabbles -- or even a single sentence! And then, yes, some stories do need to be 100k+ in order to be told properly.

But that's not every story. And it shouldn't be expected of fic writers to pad a 1500 word plot into some sprawling epic just because they left it on a cliffhanger. The cliffhanger is probably the point of that fic! Short stories are an entirely separate art form to novels and as such are able to cover different topics than novels can or cover the same topics differently. And that's what makes them special!!

And look at that word count breakdown by genre! That's mainstream publishing standards! Now, go back up there to the definition of a novel and notice that the average published novel is 80k words long.

Let me repeat that:

The average length of a published novel is 80,000 words long.

Could a novel go longer? Sure! And if you're dipping into adult sci-fi or fantasy, absolutely it will be longer! But does your fic need to be longer than the average novel in order to be good? In order for you to feel satisfied when you finish reading it? Why does the length of the fic matter more to you than the content?

idk just some rambling food for thought, but I guess too long, don't read:

~✨~ Every story length is valid ~✨~

It just depends on the plot you have and the structure you want to use to tell it.

[fluideli123]

Sonadow Fic Rec

Okay, before you jump down to the masterpieces listed below, I just wanted to state this:

These authors have given this phenomenal content for free, baked with time and effort. I have never once ignored this, hence why I try and comment on each and every one of these fics. However, my energy and ability to be verbose differs day to day. Some of these fics I have not given proper comments for, despite this, I will be on it the moment I can be. In the time being, (once I am able to find my comments on each of these fics) I will be sharing my adoration for them further in other posts (and most likely link back to this one).

With that being said, please, PLEASE take your time to check each of these fics out. If they're not your cup of tea? Valid! But hands down I have never dedicated myself to making a fic rec like this until now. But I MUST share and spread these works, they are much too dear to me not to, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

(All fics are listed by order saved in my bookmarks, not in the order read)

tangled threads and bite-marked shoulders by @rubyiiiusions

Words: 32,287 | Series | Complete

Shadow hissed in pain. The laser had just grazed him, but it still stung, and he instinctively gripped the wound it left on his arm. “You dare-” He stopped. The laser hadn’t hit him. In fact, it had struck Sonic, right on his lower left arm. So why did his forearm feel like it just got shot? He whipped around, fear climbing up his throat, and he suddenly became hyper-aware of something new. It was like a sixth sense, feeling the confusion that emitted from Sonic’s fur in waves as if it was his own. “What did you do?!” Shadow snarled. or, eggman accidentally soulbinds shadow and sonic, and no one has any idea how to undo it.

Sleepwalking by Tirainy

Words: 22,117 | Complete

'There is a strong arm curled around his torso, the appendage keeping him close to its owner, whose warm breath is ghosting over the back of his neck. Sonic is sure he went to bed alone the previous night, but he isn't worried about the intruder. After all, this isn't the first time this has happened…'

Secret Admirer by @trenchcoat-gecko

Words: 24,313 | Complete

Sonic understood well what it meant to be loved. He was a world-famous hero, after all; his presence never went unnoticed. For the most part, he lavished in that attention, he soaked it in and encouraged it. But not romantic attention. So, when the blue blur found himself falling in love? Well, the prospect was rather daunting, no matter how easy Amy had made it out to be. So maybe, just maybe, he should just take the easy way out...

Rose Drops Series by @magicstormfrostfire

Words: 122,489 | Series | Complete

Love, Intuition, and a little bit of magic ensues as Amy sends Sonic and Shadow on an unforgettable adventure.

Wolfboy by @trenchcoat-gecko

Words: 73,856 | Complete

World-famous monster hunter Shadow the Hedgehog has a job to do. It doesn't take long for the one-shot wonder to realize that this job won't be as simple as he'd expected: a small town, rumors of a lone werewolf, and a handsome, green-eyed, chronically-injured casanova who manages to worm his way into Shadow's heart... What starts off as a simple job turns out to be something much more life-changing.

Blizzard Bedfellows by @magicstormfrostfire

Words: 21,294 | Complete

When a rare blizzard takes over the island, Sonic is on the run to make sure a certain angry loner is safe and sound. Y-you know, because...uh that's what heroes do.

We never met but can we have a cup of coffee or something? by @whitejungle

Words: 3,630 | Complete

It's been almost two months since Sonic lost someone he didn't even know, but he can't stop thinking about it.

Clean Slate by nottheweirdest

Words: 155,880 | Complete | Note: Squeal pending and I am cheering you on author!! Whatever you decide I am excited to support you!!

Shadow has lost himself before. He knows what it's like to straddle the line between reality and false memories, but this time, it’s Sonic whose memory has vanished. A premeditated set of circumstances and an accidental injury leave Sonic with no memory of who he is, his life, or more importantly, his painful history with Shadow. It’s up to Shadow to remind the hero who he is in the midst of a global outbreak. It’s a chance for redemption. It’s a chance to right the wrongs of the past. It’s a clean slate.

say i reckon (i love you, for a millisecond) by @redamancering

Words: 30,205 | Complete

There’s a hand on his shoulder, barely making contact. A red gauntlet glows around the wrist. Sonic blinks, the pain having evaporated so fast he feels almost weightless. “Shadow?” Shadow’s breathing heavily. “Problem.” The retrieval of the ancient tech Shadow (and Sonic, in tow) has been sent to uncover takes a turn for the worst. In this case, the “worst” means… becoming physically and inextricably linked to each other. For the foreseeable future. OR: Metaphysical handcuffs, and general gay buffoonery.

Judge my sins, not my feelings by yellothebeeloved

Words: 228,479 | Complete | Note: Possible one-shots pending from the author for the series, I am here to support you author!! What ever you decide I'm here for it!

Maybe he's not meant to touch. It's the newest excuse he thought of in hopes that he could prolong the game a little more; a careful ruse to enjoy the bittersweet torture of seeing the days pass them by, while he pretends he doesn't seek azure blue whenever he's restless. At first, all he wanted to do was watch: but now the desire to touch, to have, to affect is at a point where he's not sure whether reaching for Sonic would truly be fruitless. He wonders that especially when Sonic's eyes light up upon seeing him. When he corners Shadow, when he invades his space and he touches and takes and then excuses it by calling it a fight. Shadow truly wonders then: if only he was brave enough to reach out, what would his grip find? Loose stars or a battle-worn body? Standing up, he glances at Sonic again, whose eyes have now met his own. There's something heavy in the eye contact, something Shadow doesn't dare name. Neither of them say anything, and yet Sonic's eyes move away from him again, like they did. Shadow warps away, hiding from the stars once more.

Child of Prophecy by @trenchcoat-gecko

Words: 139,321 | Completed

On the night the Mobius Castle was ransacked, the Queen received a prophecy. “One of three will not cry; send him down the river, for you can only save your kingdom if he does not grow up royal.”

Coming Home by nottheweirdest

Words: 55,740 | Completed

Shadow's life has been full of mistakes, some worse than others, but admitting his unrequited feelings to Sonic tops the list. He's spent the better part of a decade ruminating on his regret and hiding from feelings he couldn't bear to face. He never thought he'd see Sonic again, and he told himself that was for the best. Until now. At the bequest of his former rival, and in an attempt to finally get closure, Shadow has returned to Central City. The reason? Sonic the Hedgehog is marrying Amy Rose. And Shadow is invited.

[tardiskater]

I have never watched a single game of ice hockey in my life, but I will read and reread sweater weather like I'm the biggest fan in the world, I'm so invested in these stupid little imaginary games of ice hockey

[scruncheduppaper]

can’t remember if i saved it or not but that one mouthwashing post i saw that said that “curly rehab aus are ableist” is insane and you guys should really think before you post

[lorax-devito]

Okay but imagine Mike trying to flirt with Will but he has no idea how to bc he basically just kissed El and then she liked him

I mean the girl was okay with them having a sibling relationship ffs

anyway Mike knows he can’t just kiss Will and it’s all said and done so he try’s to flirt with him,it’s horrifying

Will is so confused bc why is his best friend suddenly so interested in going everywhere with him and not El,who keeps pulling him aside with a few of the others as they giggle and Mike goes bright red,it’s weird to him that they aren’t making out constantly like the last time he saw them as a couple especially since they said I love you to each other,I mean that one of the most romantic things to happen to a couple right,they should be all over each other

(I like to head canon that El would force Mike to flirt with Will along with several of the others,Dustin Lucas,Steve and Robin possibly and Nancy and Mike hates it bc it’s so embarrassing but I also like the idea that Mike has this internal conflict and is suffering trying to figure out how the actual fuck he is supposed to seduce William Bylers,his best friend and the most amazing person he has ever known)

basically Mike try’s to flirt with Will using really embarrassing tactics and Wills just like ‘ummm ok you do you ig but the worlds ending and your acting super weird so do you wanna talk about it or….’ and Mike just realised that Will loves him

him

He fell in love with him,the nerdy dnd obsessed geek bc Will is also a dnd obsessed geek and he is just himself just without the internalised homophobia (so s1 and 2 Mike) and then fast forward to love confession and Byler kiss

I can’t physically wait for s5 bc how the flying fuck are the duffers going to make Byler canon bc there are so many ways I can’t decide😭😭😭

[optiwashere]

Opti! 11 pls, I could use some fluffy ☺️

Thank you so much for requesting this one! 💜

I already did one rendition of it here, but Shadowheart deserves more than just a little joy, right? Right.

11. A kiss in joy.

---

A rush of cool air brushed through Shadowheart’s hair, trailing a loose lock across her cheek. Not unlike the icy whispers of Shar in her ear, it was enough to startle her awake in the room at the Elfsong. The door and window were both flung open, and panic roared in her chest.

Almost as soon as it came upon her, the feeling died when she spotted the intruder.

“I tried to be quiet,” said Asheera, slipping a muddy boot off as stealthily as if she were wearing her plate armor. “Guess I messed that one up.”

“I suppose you did,” Shadowheart said, yawning. As she stretched, she could not help but notice Asheera keeping something close to her chest. “Where were you? Off traipsing to the tavern for a morning meal?”

“Wasn’t hungry.” Asheera tried to angle herself to keep her back to Shadowheart as she removed her other boot. “I was… um. Busy.”

“Busy. Right. What do you have there?”

Asheera glanced over her shoulder, fighting back a smile against her tusks. “Am I that obvious?”

“Not a master of secrecy, no.” Shadowheart bunched the covers up around her and dragged herself beside her lover.

To her surprise, Asheera held in her hand a flower. The vibrant green of the stem contrasted against a layered, round array of pink petals. She twirled it between her fingers and caught Shadowheart watching her as she made another full rotation between her thumb and forefinger.

“So much for the surprise,” she said with a chuckle.

“Is that a peony?” Shadowheart tilted her head to the side to consider when, if ever, she had mentioned them to Asheera. “Not exactly my favorite, but they’re quite pretty. The color’s incredible this time of year, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. And… hang on.” Turning to face her, Asheera tucked Shadowheart’s loose hair over one shoulder and placed the stem of the flower over her ear. “There we go.”

It wasn’t large enough for the petals to be obnoxious, and in a way, it was extremely silly. She could imagine herself in the mirror now, bedraggled and sleep heavy under her eyes, with the brightest, most eye-catching flower stuck in her hair. Surely, it was a joke.

But Asheera didn’t laugh at her. In fact, all she did was stare. Gaze flickering up to her eyes, then back to the flower, all while a grin broke across her features. In the wavering, fresh light of the morning sun, her ruddy brown eyes glowed like embers of a fire while they roved all over her body. Wandered yet always returned to the peony in her hair.

“Was this your surprise?” Shadowheart asked, unsure why it was so hard to ask that. After everything they had been through together, through life and death, this was nothing more than a gift of a flower. “You didn’t have to sneak out to go find one of these, you know.”

“I know,” said Asheera with a nod, “but I woke up early. Had to do something with the time.”

“Plucking peonies from gardens another pastime of yours?”

“No.” Asheera slid closer, resting a hand on Shadowheart’s naked hip. The other spread a broad palm against the side of her neck, fingers reaching up to touch the stem resting on her ear. “More like, I was busy finding a way to somehow make you even prettier. Don’t know if I succeeded, but I’m not sure if it’s even possible. I wanted to find something colorful for you, at least.”

How silly. How romantic. How foolish, rote, and… and heat bloomed along Shadowheart’s throat, climbing her neck before it reached her face. The sudden rush of that indescribable feeling was not the flower, not really.

Not long ago, she told Asheera that the last thing she wanted was more darkness in her life. The draw of a startlingly bright colors — within and without — grew too strong to ignore, and she wanted it. She believed all she might have of that promise, of a brighter future, was Asheera’s word, the cracked amulet hanging from a leather band, and their bond that felt unbreakable at this point.

Yet there she was, somehow finding a way to make good on her promise already. Though there were still battles ahead of them, Asheera found time for this moment.

The slice of time where all that mattered was finding that brief splash of color to bring into her life. Into their lives.

It was all too much. Shadowheart moved, and it seemed Asheera noticed as well because they both found one another in a kiss that deepened beyond a mere chaste peck on the lips. One that lasted long enough that they would have to claim that they decided to sleep for a while longer than usual.