#Not putting this under a read more since its not a suggestive piece or anything but Megalosomnia is a 18+ AU

[g0nefischin]

The man of the hour

Baggs/Megalosomnia belong to @megalommi (18+ AU)

[say-al0e]

Electric Touch

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!

Summary: Following your marriage to Prince Aemond, you did not imagine there would be a bedding ceremony. Nor did you imagine yourself falling so quickly for the one-eyed prince. But you quickly learned he was more than met the eye. | Ft. Anon request for "“What part of I want you and only you do you not understand?” + “Love makes you weak but, god, I’d rather be weak with you by my side than face a life without you.” Warnings: Bedding ceremony, PinV, guarded Aemond, Aegon is an asshole (briefly, then he's gone), one mention of death in childbirth (not graphic, very brief), allusion to Aemond's brothel trip. Anything I missed, let me know and I'll tag it. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader (wife!Reader) Word Count: 5.1k Requests are Open | HotD Taglist

The fire blazing in Aemond’s eye was not what you expected. It was not fueled by desire, a lust for his new bride or the exciting conquest of claiming your maidenhead as you’d long been warned. It was not bright or joyous, a fire befitting the occasion of your wedding night. Instead, it was dark - angry, a wild blaze threatening to torch everything in its path with little regard for the consequences.

Though your new husband had been nothing but kind to you, polite and even occasionally charming, for the first time since stepping foot into King’s Landing, you finally understood why so many tended to avert their gaze lest they face Aemond’s ire. 

Before you stood Aemond One-Eye, a fierce dragon rider whose presence commanded attention, and you struggled to keep from withering beneath his gaze as you held his dark look with an even one of your own.

Around you, his apartments teemed with life. Drunken revelers laughed as they surged into the room and circled the pair of you, some of them shouting tawdry jokes while others lamented the loss of the right to the first night. Regardless of their mood, it seemed as if every man in the realm fought to be at your side in a room that once felt so spacious but now left you struggling to catch your breath as they began tugging at pieces of your clothing.

As many hands clumsily tugged at well-tied laces and the heavy fabric of your gown, a few highborn ladies - friends you’d made in the short time you’d been at Court - dutifully removed Aemond’s clothes with much less vigor than their husbands or brothers or cousins.

Aegon led the charge, grin on his lips and breath reeking of wine as he leaned in close. Aemond’s gaze faltered for only a moment, turning to his brother and flashing a warning even the drunkest of men could read very clearly, before it returned to you as Aegon pointedly ignored him. Your drunken good-brother chose, instead, to tip your chin with fingers sticky with wine and draw your gaze away from your husband.

“Do not worry, good-sister,” he began, voice loud, despite his performative attempt at a whisper. He spared Aemond a look, eyes glinting with a mirth that bordered on malice - before he returned his gaze to you. “I made sure my brother was well-educated in the art of pleasure but should you find yourself wanting, you need only say the word.”

By design, you were not given the chance to respond. The last of your garments was removed from your body and Aegon released his grip on your chin to grab your waist. 

The sea of revelers parted. Amidst a cacophony of cheers and jeers, a few murmurs as to how it was a shame your father had agreed to wed you to a man they saw as less than whole, Aegon and one of his friends carried you through the crowd and deposited you into Aemond’s bed.

It was only when you were settled amongst the furs and linens that they were all finally ushered out of the room.

If you were honest, it surprised you that Aemond allowed the bedding ceremony in the first place. The idea was put forth by his brother, a suggestion he’d barely blinked an eye at, but it was plain to see just how adversely the entire spectacle affected him as he approached the bed.

Aemond Targaryen, the very image of his house’s beauty and fire, stood before you with his face a mask of composure you had yet to see fully slip. There were cracks, glimpses into the churning abyss that lingered just beneath the calm surface, and you could see them beginning to spread as a jeer from the crowd echoed just beyond the steel and wood of the door.

There was a flash of hurt, a glimpse so brief you felt certain you’d imagined it, before he swallowed and his jaw tensed. He steeled himself, his resolve, and you could see the mask slip back into place.

“My prince,” you began, voice far quieter than you intended as you sat upright to meet his gaze. “I do not-“

A hum escaped your new husband as he stepped closer, pressing a knee into the soft surface beneath you and shaking his head slightly. “We will speak when there is no crowd standing guard just outside, waiting for evidence our marriage has been consummated. For now, we must fulfill our duty as husband and wife.”

There was an edge of finality in his tone, no room left for argument as he reached for you. Though his touch was not harsh, not as insistent or eager as the men who’d taken great joy in stripping you bare, it was firmer than you’d expected. In the weeks of your courtship, he’d lended an arm as you descended the steps in the garden or offered a hand as you climbed them - each touch soft, almost tentative, and as brief as could be considered proper. 

It was wistful, possibly even naive, to believe the softness of his touch was affection or that it would continue as he pressed you back into the pillows. Aemond was not an outwardly affectionate man, that much you knew to be true, nor was he used to being treated so tenderly. His life had been one lived in a gilded cage, acquiescing to everything expected of him with little argument and even less connection. Love would not come easy to him, nor would affection.

Only time would bring him comfort, trust in you and the ability to be vulnerable, so you made no argument as he settled himself over you. 

The dim candlelight made it difficult to see much - and you wondered how Aemond might react if you allowed yourself to savor the sight of him - but you took the brief chance you were offered to study him. Tall, lithe, muscular; he looked every bit the fearsome dragon rider and well-trained swordsman. Pale hair cascaded over his shoulders, a curtain that cast shadows over the sharp features of his face, but you could clearly see the intrigue in his eye as you lifted your hand to gently cradle his jaw.

Had you not been studying him so closely, so desperate to see some glimpse of warmth beneath the cool surface of your new husband, you might’ve missed his sharp inhale or the way his eye narrowed. Had you not been so enthralled by his appearance, you might’ve missed the way he swallowed or the split second he allowed himself to lean into your careful touch before the impassive mask returned.

Friends, some long married with babes while others had just wed, whispered and giggled when they shared what you could expect. Most of your friends lamented the act itself, thankful only that it often seemed to be over quickly,  as many of their husbands were older lords in need of young wives to produce heirs. It seemed that few cared much at all about their wives’ pleasure and you’d wondered throughout your courtship if Aemond - though young, a man of your own age - might prove similar.

Now that the time had come to find out, you still felt wholly uncertain.

For a long moment, Aemond simply studied you. The deep lilac of his eye traced your face, shadowed by his hair and framed by your own locks - now free from the style your handmaids worked so hard to perfect - and his lips parted. He seemed poised to speak, though before he could, the sound of fists pounding the wood of the door broke whatever spell existed in the solace of the room.

Loud jeers from a drunken crowd reminded you both of your purpose, the reason you had been stripped bare for half the kingdom to see, and Aemond was the first to act.

Though you hoped for little and expected even less, Aemond wanted nothing more than to prove everyone wrong. He wanted to prove that he could be a husband, an adequate lover, a man who had everything and more. You had no way of knowing his motivation, not then, but you could see the flame in his eye as his hand fell to your hip.

With the hand still cradling his jaw, you managed to hold him in place as you leaned up and pressed your mouth to his. Since speaking your vows earlier in the night, you’d managed to steal two chaste kisses from your new husband - one just after the ceremony, in the few seconds you had alone before the feast began; the other, tucked in a corner before you were whisked away for the bedding. He responded well to both, stepping just an inch closer and allowing his lips to linger for a long moment, and you were pleased to find that he responded just as well to this kiss.

The ladies at court often lamented their husbands’ lack of skill or desire to share a kiss. They all sighed and confessed that the men found no use for it, no fun in it. It made you wonder if Aemond was humoring you, allowing you the kiss that seemed almost tender in nature, in return for your maidenhead - for your hand, your house’s newly pledged loyalty - but you knew well enough that your new husband was not one to indulge in anything he did not want to.

Hope bloomed, then, just beneath your ribcage that he might, someday, even grow to enjoy it as much as you suddenly found that you did.

Calloused hands began to explore your skin, touch light for a fleeting moment - almost reverent, almost tentative - before it grew steadier, more certain. The tips of his fingers left a path of fire in their wake, his skin always running hotter than anyone you’d ever met, and you nearly expected to find a visible path seared over the expanse of your torso as his hands dipped to your thighs.

As of yet there had been little outward sign of affection from your husband - everything felt like a courtesy, the actions of a well-educated prince, chivalrous out of duty only - and you knew that it might be wishful thinking to believe the slow drag of your husband’s hand up your inner thigh was anything more than slight trepidation. But you swore you could see the anger that burned so bright only moments ago morph into something closer to lust, desire, need.

Aemond’s fingers pressed firm into the plush of your thighs as he parted them and you bit the inside of your cheek to smother your gasp as his sharp gaze finally raked over your bare skin.

For all the wandering eyes, the lustful gazes that burned into your skin as so many lords of the realm crowded into the small room, it struck you in that moment that Aemond waited until you were alone to truly look. He waited until you were pliant beneath him, until you’d sated your own curiosity about him, to allow himself a glance at anything other than your face.

And despite the insistent jeers of the crowd beyond the door, he seemed determined to take you as he wished.

“They are expecting to hear us,” he reminded you as his fingers drew closer to your center. “Do not deprive us all of your charming voice.”

A handful of compliments had been levied at you from your new husband - more in regard to your intelligence than your most beautiful gowns, though one had ended with him calling you beautiful - but you still felt your cheeks heat as his fingers grazed your slit.

The swipe of his fingers was almost clumsy, less self-assured than he always seemed to be, but the thought gave you some comfort. Neither of you could disappoint the other if you were on somewhat equal footing.

Aemond’s touch grew more insistent, more assured, from the moment his fingers grazed the small bundle of nerves that wrenched a gasp from your throat and had your nails pressing into the muscle of his shoulders. He focused there, thumb circling the now aching pearl, as his fingers gathered the increasing slick. The deep lilac of his eye had almost vanished, replaced nearly entirely by lust-blown black, but it remained on your face - watching intently with every noise that spilled from your lips.

As desperately as you wanted to close your eyes, to hide from the intensity in his gaze, you found yourself unable to look away from his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the barely there flush that set high upon his cheeks; he was beautiful, regal, and you couldn’t help yourself.

“Gevi,” you breathed, hoping the word sounded as effortless falling from your own lips as it did from his. Your thumb brushed his cheek, just beneath his scar, and you could see the flash of an emotion you could not recognize in his eye.

For a moment, he remained silent, fingers slowing to a barely there press, before he tipped his head. Your hand slipped, fell to his jaw, and you realized it was calculated - purposeful - even as his gaze softened. “My clever wife,” he hummed, matter-of-factly, as the corner of his mouth lifted in something akin to a smile. “Full of surprises.”

A response formed on the tip of your tongue, nowhere near as witty as you hoped for, but the press of Aemond’s fingers into your core stole your breath and all coherent thought. The sensation was odd, unlike any you’d ever experienced, and you could feel your brows furrow as your body attempted to make sense of what was happening. It was not as unpleasant as you expected, nor as pleasurable as you hoped for, but you imagined that both would come in time.

Despite his appearance, his brusque manner, Aemond was not harsh. His touch was no longer soft, no longer tentative, and you could still feel the weight of his hands on your thighs despite his touch having moved, but he seemed to take note of the way you winced when his fingers began to press a little too quickly - a little too hard - and adjusted accordingly.

Soon enough, you found a delicate rhythm - an insistent press of his fingers, an exploration unlike any you’d ever felt, as you used the grip on his jaw to pull him into another kiss.

This kiss was different, heavier. It was hungry, a clash of teeth and tongue and noses that made the backs of your eyes sting. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, a bite harsh enough to draw blood, and you inhaled sharply as he lapped at the copper staining your lips. 

The copper tang seemed to spur Aemond on, remind him of his duty and the audience waiting for it to be done. He moved with a renewed vigor, with a confidence you’d quickly come to associate with him. His fingers pressed deeper, searching, and he only seemed content when you broke the kiss to fill the room with a breathless moan of his name. 

Warmth spread over your skin, a combination of his body heat surrounding you and your own pleasure coursing through your veins. Every swipe of his fingers, every circle of his thumb over the aching bundle of nerves, made the edges of your vision white and the air harder to obtain.

It was then, as your stomach tied itself into knots and your nails sank into the toned skin of his back - his shoulders, his chest, his arms; wherever you could reach, desperate for some tether to reality - that he replaced his fingers with the filling warmth of his cock.

With every noise that fell from your lips, the noise outside the door grew louder. It felt as if the whole of the realm waited just beyond the wood, ears pressed to the door, and Aemond seemed acutely aware of your audience. Gone were the tentative touches, the firm but still careful brushes of his hands. After a few careful initial presses of his hips to yours, he began to sink into you in earnest.

A cry of his name rang through the room, fanning the flames of the fire outside, and your body seemed trapped in the path of the blaze.

Every word of gossip you’d heard from friends seemed true, impossibly, all at once. There was an ache between your thighs, a stinging pain that replaced the pleasant ache of desire, and a dull pinch at your hip as Aemond’s fingers pressed into your skin. The entire room was too hot, almost stifling, and the noise rang in your ears. The tawdry jokes and laughter in the hall, the rustle of linen, the lewd sound of Aemond’s cock pressing into your center, the keening of your moans, the huff of his breath; it was almost too much.

Each sensation that washed over you was distinct but beginning to muddle together.

Despite yourself, your best efforts to take the affection given to you by your husband and appreciate them, you found yourself hoping for something softer, something easier, something better. 

Aemond was lost in that moment, stuck somewhere in the back of his own mind, and you could only whisper his name in hopes that he might allow you a moment to catch your breath.

“Aemond, I - please.” The whispered plea, gasped into the night air and barely audible over the cheers still echoing in the hall, seemed to break his reverie. It returned him to the moment at hand - the pinch of your brows as the ache between your thighs plagued you, the curve of your mouth as you fought to keep your composure, the sting of your nails biting into his shoulder - and gave him pause. 

The snap of his hips faltered, slowed from the near manic thrusts to something more even, and you eased the grip on his shoulder as you inhaled eagerly.

That deep purple gaze swept across your face, searching for something you could not readily provide, before he squeezed your hip in what you chose to interpret as an apology. You accepted it, easily, and offered him a tentative smile as he continued pressing forward - still firm, still deep, only slower now.

Giggles from the past, old whispers that there was real pleasure to be found in bed, began to return to the forefront of your mind as Aemond’s new pace began to replace the pinch and ache between your thighs with that devastating warmth you’d only just experienced. Everything felt too hot, too bright, too much, and the thought must have been clearly written across your face as Aemond hummed.

“Take your pleasure,” he encouraged, voice low in your ear as he leaned in close. “Then, I shall have mine.”

Warmth continued to flood your veins. Fire lapped at your skin, consuming you entirely, and you took no notice of the noise that escaped your parted lips as you allowed Aemond to continue pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

The end was as beautiful as you’d heard, as blissful, and you could feel yourself melting into the plush of the bed as goosebumps erupted across your skin and your heart thundered in your chest. All that mattered in that moment was Aemond; the weight of him atop you, the warmth of his skin as he pressed himself impossibly closer, the low rasp of his voice as he all but whispered expletives. 

That pleasure was only heightened by the warmth that flooded you as Aemond stilled atop you, a curse on his lips and head thrown back.

It was a beautiful sight - something worthy of committing to memory, something so beautiful you only hoped to see it again and again. And you only hoped your new husband felt the same as he tipped his head to study you once more.

Aemond lingered only for a moment, his gaze softer than you’d seen directed at you, before he pulled away. Another squeeze to your waist was the only affection he spared before he stood and pulled the white line from his bed. He shifted you carefully - almost tenderly - to remove the fabric then strode across the expanse of the room to the door.

Without ceremony, he wrenched it open and tossed the stained fabric into the crowd.

A loud cheer echoed through the halls, drunken revelers delighting in the evidence of your consummation, but was quickly cut off with the slam of the heavy door.

The crowd grew quieter, noise drifting back in the direction of the hall still filled with older revelers - opting to spend their time discussing matters best saved for an in-person meeting - and you took the brief moment to catch your breath as Aemond did the same.

For just a moment, he lingered near the small table that held a pitcher and glasses, before filling them with wine and bringing them to bed. He handed you one, nodded his acknowledgement to your thanks, and settled back onto the plush fabric at your side.

Silence fell over the room then, a welcome but almost overwhelming lack of sound after hours surrounded by a cacophony of noise. For the first time since you woke that morning, you found that you could hear yourself think.

Every thought centered upon your new husband.

Aemond Targaryen was a mystery. Rumors about him swirled through the realm and whispers abounded at court. None seemed to be in agreement, however.

Some thought him to be fierce, a fearsome warrior who would make a fine knight should he find himself so inclined. Others insisted that Vhagar was his only asset and that he was nothing more than a loyal hound devoted to his family. Others still insisted that the only person Aemond could ever be loyal to was himself and his own interests.

There were whispers that he was cold, unfeeling. There were rumors that he had no interest in anything other than books, that living people meant little to him. But you were beginning to see the truth.

Try as he might to hide it, the nature of his soul that he buried so deeply, you were beginning to see him for who he truly was.

Aemond wanted the things he’d never been given. He sought reassurance, comfort, love. He wanted to be wanted - truly wanted, desired; not needed because he possessed the largest, oldest dragon. And though your match began as a political alliance, you hoped to prove that he was worthy of his desires as you shifted closer and reached for his hand.

“Aemond,” you began, voice quiet as you hoped desperately he would not push you away, even as he tensed. To your relief - and surprise - he did not. Instead, he simply glanced at your linked hands before turning his full attention to your face. “Believe what you wish, but I am glad that it is you I married. I do not want Aegon or any of the other lords lingering about the castle. I did not accept this betrothal without thought and I hope that you will believe me when I say there is no other I could want.”

Though it was slight, you could see the raise of his eyebrow. So, with a sigh, you placed your cup onto the table and grasped his hand with both of your own.

“When my father made it known that he intended to offer you my hand, I was given more attention at court than I ever wanted. I never cared much for it all, but suddenly, it seemed as if everyone wanted me to join them.” With a weary sigh, you began to trace nonsensical patterns over the back of his hand. “Everyone had a tale of Prince Aemond they wished to share. Some heard word from a brother or cousin, others whispered tales from their own trips to the Red Keep. I heard so many whispers about you that I began to lose track of who whispered what. I have always held whispers in little regard but it grew so frequent that I nearly worried I might meet a monster.”

The moment you paused, Aemond hummed thoughtfully. “Targaryen’s are said to be closer to gods than men. Perhaps monsters are included.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed, pausing your tracing to glance up at him from beneath your lashes. The deep lilac of his eye met yours and you felt your cheeks heat. “But you are no monster. You are just a man. I was given the chance to reject our union. One word, and I would’ve been spirited away to some lesser lord. But I chose to stay.”

“Why?”

It was a genuine question, accompanied by a look you recognized as being tinged with skepticism. In response, you smiled at him.

“Despite your flaws, real or imagined or embellished, I find myself drawn to you. You have the beauty and fire of your house. You are proud, but not a braggart, quiet but not without charm. You are a noted swordsman and a dragon rider, yet you take no pleasure in tourneys. You are young and capable, intelligent and thoughtful. Of all the qualities one could want in a husband, you possess most."

This earnest admission was met with yet another hum of acknowledgement from your husband, a thoughtful rumination as he allowed the compliment to linger for a moment. Only then, after seeming to savor your words, did he ask, “Which qualities do I lack, wife?”

Had you not grown so accustomed to studying every twitch of his brows, every curve of his mouth, you might’ve missed the hint of a smile he wore. It was a question asked in jest, teasing, and you allowed yourself a laugh.

“Time shall tell,” you assured him, returning his barely-there smile with a soft one of your own. “Though, I would never dare call you perfect, lest your head swell to the size of Vhagar’s.” Aemond allowed you a glimpse of a true smile then, fleeting, but you savored the sight just the same. It brought a strange warmth to your chest, wound the hope that bloomed beneath your ribcage into a tendril that squeezed your heart, and you offered his hand a gentle squeeze. “I understand why we were wed. But I have hope that even if we do not find love in one another, we shall find friendship at the least.”

“You would not ask for more?”

“Men’s battles are fought in fields, at sea, on dragon back,” you answered, carefully turning his hand in yours to trace his palm. “A woman’s battle is fought abed. If I were to die there, my only hope is that it would be for someone I cared for, someone who cared for me.”

That lilac eye studied your face once more, more intently, and you could see the weight of your words settling on his shoulders as he realized that he was no longer alone, nor did you have any misunderstandings as to what this life meant for you both. Though he was the spare, pushed down in the line of succession by his brother’s children, he was expected to have a family and in return for giving him heirs, all you asked of him was companionship.

“I believe you shall be a fierce warrior,” he declared, gaze dipping to your fingers gently sweeping across his heated skin.

“And I believe you are all I could have hoped for in a husband,” you confessed, hoping he might agree - that he might declare you to be all he could’ve hoped for in a wife.

And though he seemed unopposed to you, he instead asked, “Do you believe that truly?”

“I do,” you confirmed, pausing your tracing to meet his eye. “I’ve long been afraid of marriage, of becoming trapped with someone who cared little for me, but I am more afraid that growing to love you will be easier than I ever imagined.”

“Love makes you weak,” he all but whispered, though the words held little conviction and even less weight. They were the words of someone afraid, someone unused to love and affection, and you met them with a gentle smile.

“Perhaps it is a good thing we are married, then. I believe love makes you stronger. My father loved my mother and he fought like hell to return to her each and every battle he waged. Love provides motivation,” you offered, only to be met with another thoughtful hum. Rather than pressing, you shifted the conversation after a moment of silence. “Why did you allow the bedding ceremony?”

Aemond paused for a moment and seemed to consider his answer. “I had every intention of forgoing it,” he confessed, free hand tracing the lip of his glass. “Then, we met and it was selfish, I suppose. I have something most men in King’s Landing will covet - a comely wife from a noble house who has made me the sole object of her affection. Allowing the ceremony provided an opportunity to boast, to show that while they may look, you are mine. No other will know the pleasure of your company.”

The reasoning behind his allowance was understandable, even more so when you considered that he was the second son of a man who scarcely remembered his sons in the first place. It was not often he was given something others desired, not often he could be envied, and you could not begrudge him the opportunity he’d taken.

“I am yours,” you agreed, lifting his hand to place it over your heart. “While I believe love will make us stronger, I would not mind being seen as weak, just so long as you are by my side. Others may whisper or believe what they wish but know, lord husband, that I want you and you alone. I look forward to the future and hope the gods bless us with a long and happy marriage.”

“I shall leave faith to you,” he declared, though the words were softer than you believed he intended. “But I have little doubt that you will be left wanting.” Aemond turned, then, and removed the eyepatch covering his eye. The sapphire glimmered in the dim candlelight and you squeezed his hand to keep yourself from reaching out for him.

“Gevi,” you repeated, smiling upon the full face of your new husband.

Aemond’s mouth curved once more, a touch more noticeable, before he sighed and shifted to lie amongst the pillows. “Sleep, dear wife,” he encouraged, pulling you into the pillows at his side.

With the morning sun, your new life would begin. As tentative as you’d once been, you no longer felt any fear. There was far to travel, much to be gained in the way of your new husband’s trust, but you imagined he was right; neither of you would be left wanting, so long as you had the other.

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Author's Note: It's my first time writing for Aemond (or anything GoT/HotD related) so I hope it's alright. I didn't want to go too soft but I also didn't want to go too mean/cold? I dunno. Let me know what you think! :)

[nametakensff]

Suggestible (D/isco E/lysium, M/M)

The first fic of a few I have for these two because I am deeep into this shit now lol. Ended up at 4K!

H/arry, whilst working on the murder case in M/artinaise and ever so slowly piecing his identity together, notices an interesting reaction in K/im to his budding cold. I guess the first part of a series that will become increasingly NSFW, but for now mostly just alluding to it!

Based on an insane little piece of dialogue in the game where K/im suggests that other people sneezing makes him sneeze

~~~~~~

Content:

Future/hinted M/M, cold sneezes, sympathetic sneezes, H/arry has a latent sneezing fetish that he doesn't remember having yet, spray, stifles, sneezing into handkerchiefs, slight elements of voyeurism but only because H/arry is a confused mess lmao

CW: lots of drug and alcohol mentions, lots of self-hatred

NB - I guess please don't read if you plan on playing the game and want to go in with no prior knowledge - it doesn't really have any plot heavy spoilers but takes place within the story

(also also - decided to write this in 2nd person narrative to somewhat resemble the style of game play - it's not perfect but it was fun to try haha)

Minors DNI please!

Lieutenant Kitsuragi trails behind you as you jog your way across the empty boardwalk and towards the fishing village. The air is piercing and bitterly cold – you are starting to feel the effects of it as the salty air whips against your face. It has been snowing on and off for hours, and you are woefully underdressed. This has not been a good day for you – few new leads, endless dead ends. And a hangover. The hangover to end all hangovers. Not even the frigid winter weather can distract you from the dull thud of a lingering headache, painful pulses beating in time with your heart. It feels as though your brain is too swollen – or your skull is too tight.

Suddenly, you feel it – the familiar, fluttering sensation of a building sneeze. You have been a little under the weather ever since you awoke in your hotel room several days earlier, having no recollection of who you are and woefully bereft of substances to abuse. You had put any subsequent discomfort down to just that – the miserable lack of alcohol, nicotine and narcotics in your system. This tickle, however – it is something all of its own. You stop dead in your tracks, practically skidding to a stop as it crests. You have no hope of holding back the encroaching sneeze. Your mouth hangs open, a great yawn of irritation, before – at last – release.

It comes out sounding more like a desperate shriek than anything else; a few startled seagulls scatter, flying away in a maelstrom of confusion and feathers. You didn’t mean to cause such a scene, but the cold air, the breeze, and now the beginning of a miserable cold – it all proves too much for you. You take in another shuddering gasp before you’ve even recovered from the previous explosion and do it all over again.

“HAAAEEEIISHHHHhhh!!!”

There are no seagulls left to scatter this time, but you hardly notice for the way this sneeze, even more violent than the one before it, sends you flying forward and staggering on your feet. You manage to catch yourself before you fall face down on the sandy ground, panting slightly in the aftermath. It practically tore itself out of you, leaving your throat more than a little hoarse. Perhaps a drink would be just the thing to remedy your misery…

You’re shaken out of your alcoholic deliberation by a familiar, soft voice. Lieutenant Kitsuragi is resting a gentle, gloved hand on your shoulder, hovering next to your crouched form. His voice is as placid as always, but you can’t help but notice a slight hint of concern. You right yourself immediately and snuffle at the mess that’s threatening to overflow from your nose, already a bright shade of red from years of alcohol abuse and the biting cold of the beach.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor?”

The Lieutenant notices the thickness of the sound, a barely perceptible look of displeasure passing over his face. You see him reach into his pockets and pull out a large handkerchief – the very same you have seen him use before to cover his face as you performed a field autopsy together. He proffers it to you and you hesitate for just a moment - then your nose starts to run into your moustache. This prompts you to take it from him and snuffle into it apologetically. You realise this pathetic sniffling will do nothing to stem the flow – you surrender and blow your nose with as much conviction as you possibly can. The sound of it is devastatingly loud, almost as disruptive as the sneezes preceding it. You glance at Kim sheepishly from behind the material. If it’s as disgusting to Lieutenant Kitsuragi as it sounded to you, he doesn’t so much as flinch.

When you’re finished, you offer the soiled fabric back to him with an outstretched hand. He looks at it with mild dismay.

“You keep that, officer. I carry a spare with me at all times.”

Stupid. That was stupid of you. Why would you hand him a snot rag? You dismiss the thought before the negativity drags you down further into the already miserable grips of your hangover. But for whatever reason, you keep note of this new information regarding the handkerchiefs. It’s not as though this is out of the ordinary for Kim. He’s so organised and focused – a great cop. Not like you. Of course he would carry a spare. Moving on, you ask the lieutenant for his opinion of what you ought to do next.

“Hm…We should return to the Whirling-In-Rags. Try Klaasje again and see if she’s ready to discuss the murder in more detail.”

It sounds like a perfect idea to you. The wind is fiercely cold and you never did get round to buying a windbreaker. Your hangover is making it impossible to tell if the major discomfort you’re feeling is from the alcohol dissipating within your husk of a body, or the virus threatening to take hold of your sinuses. Either way, getting out of the cold is imperative.

You approach the vicinity of the Whirling-In-Rags Hostel – at last. Your chest burns. Normally, a brisk jog is nothing to you – if anything, it energises your ailing body after a particularly lengthy binge. But today, you feel miserably worn out. You pause for a moment, look towards the Lieutenant, and attempt to speak. You fail, nothing but a series of wheezing gasps issuing from between your lips, followed by an increasingly hacking cough. You buckle over your knees and continue to hack like the washed-up middle-aged man you know you are. Kim places a hand on your back - he seems worried.

“This isn’t good. You’re unwell, detective. Perhaps you should rest a while in your room?”

Something tells you this isn’t a suggestion exclusively for your own benefit. A perfunctory glance tells you that Lieutenant Kitsuragi is tired, and as miserably cold as you. He wouldn’t mind a break inside a warm building, thawing out over a cup of coffee. Nevertheless, you feel disappointment blooming in your chest. As if you weren’t already a pathetic excuse of a policeman - missing memory, decked head to toe in questionable clothes and with a penchant for drug and drink on the clock – you’re now so weak you can’t even handle a mild case of rhinovirus. Pathetic.

You stand upright in an attempt to signal that you are and always have been a perfect beacon of health. You tell the Lieutenant that time is of the essence; you’ve been working on this case for days and have no time for further setbacks. He acknowledges this with a small nod; he seems to appreciate this professional, business-like approach to the matter. He doesn’t say anything more but merely walks beside you as you stride towards the Whirling-In-Rags.

You barely manage to take a few steps before the tickle is upon you again. You tense your jaw and attempt to quell the sensation by taking in shallow, measured breaths, but no dice. In seconds, it tears its way out of you as before, echoing off the walls of the nearby buildings. It is so loud that you wonder if the scabs protesting outside of the Union can hear it over the sounds of their own angry chants. Again, you stumble forward under the force of it, feeling light-headed.

The Lieutenant reaches out to grip your shoulder, steadying you just in time. You wait and sniffle miserably in preparation for the following sneeze, lingering in the depths of your sinuses, but it never comes. You straighten up, blinking tears of effort from your tired eyes, when you become aware of a certain sensation. Kim’s hand squeezes your shoulder with a sudden flex. Could this be a gesture of affection? Reassurance? This is not the Lieutenant’s regular style. He is far too cool for that kind of thing.

You look over your shoulder in curiosity as the Lieutenant continues his grip, despite your having collected yourself. You can see that behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes are unfocused and heavy-lidded. His mouth hangs slightly open, and he is holding a fist – expectantly? – before his face. The expression is…familiar. You’d seen it before, though not on Lieutenant Kitsuragi.

As you furrow your brow in deep consideration, reaching for an explanation that only just manages to elude you, slight movement from Kim pulls you out of your thoughts. You watch as his head tilts back, stays there for a just a moment before he’s jerking forward into his gloved fist, pressing it against his nose and mouth. His features contract severely, moulding his ordinarily placid face into a twisted, almost angry and unrecognisable countenance. You feel his fingers flex again. His entire body shudders, and as it does so, you hear him utter a tiny sound.

“-hHdt’!”

You blink, still not putting two and two together. Maybe this amnesia was worse than you had initially assumed it to be. Was he – seizing? No. Of course not. You continue to watch in confusion as he seems to uncrumple with a gentle exhalation. You think he might be done, but no. Just as quickly as one breath is exhaled, a replacement is sucked back in hurriedly. You watch as he repeats the action, ducking forward into his fist again, more forcefully this time. His shoulders jump with the effort and his hand squeezes substantially harder against you.

“h’Ngxt-!! hh…”

That strange sound again – this time followed by an uncharacteristically shaky exhale.  A moment later the Lieutenant straightens up and assumes his regular composure, releasing your shoulder as if nothing just happened. If you hadn’t watched this series of events unfold right in front of you, you’re sure you would have missed it altogether. He blinks several times as if to clear away tears. Still you have no idea what the fuck just happened – any remnants of the pained expression that cinched his features tight has vanished, leaving him to look as calm and collected as before. You stare at him, eyes roving over his face. This intrusive observation gives you the last bit of information you need to understand. His nostrils flare delicately as he indulges in a sniffle, moisture gathering around the irritated rims and glittering ever so slightly in the afternoon sunlight.

Had those been…sneezes? Those tiny little swallows of air?! You feel a grin spread across your face, any discomfort of your own forgotten for the moment. You bless him enthusiastically. Ignoring the inkling that tells you not to tease or cajole him, you also comment on how adorable the Lieutenant’s sneezes are. Like a kitten. A badass cop kitten.

He thanks you somewhat reluctantly, blatantly ignoring the kitten comment. He clearly wants you to move on from him and focus again on the case. You continue to make your way towards Whirling-In-Rags, but don’t miss out of the corner of your eye the sight of the Lieutenant covertly pinching his nostrils shut, before pulling down towards his septum. He is wiping the resultant moisture of those sneezes away with his gloved fingers. This realisation makes your heartbeat spike for just a moment. You choose to ignore this.

You walk into the establishment – the increasingly familiar sounds and sights greet you as you pass through the door. The Hardie boys are in their booths, an unwelcome fixture. You glance sidelong at them – Titus glares daggers back at you. You think you should puff up your chest and stare him down in a battle of warring machismo, but at last minute think otherwise. It would do nothing to repair your already abysmal lack of authority if you sneezed at him mid stand-off. You glance away. He smirks, arms crossed firmly over his broad chest, clearly enjoying this silent display of dominance. You get an all-consuming urge to spin around and put him in his place – but you feel shitty. Much too shitty. It would probably end with his fist in your face.

You approach the staircase leading to the bedrooms when you feel that familiar, irritating tickle blossoming anew in your sinuses. Not again, not here! Not in a busy room full of so many people. You want to maintain your cool cop image – sneezing is not a cool thing to do. You briefly think to yourself that Kim is cool, even when he sneezes - but it is a foolish thought. You’re not him. You fight to suppress the gasp that fills your lungs, fumbling in your jacket pocket for the handkerchief the lieutenant had given you – but you’re too late. Two huge sneezes rocket out of you, sending veritable clouds of spray across the base of the staircase. They practically break the sound barrier, two near identical “IIIIEEEESHHHHhhtt!!!” screams of irritation. Kim doesn’t steady you this time – you reach out and do that yourself with the help of the banister.

Jeers erupt from the Hardie boys across the cafeteria floor – you only just manage to hold back an embarrassed blush from creeping over your weary face. You have finally managed to extract the handkerchief from your pocket. You decide a honking performance will do very little to remedy this utter humiliation, dabbing softly at your aching nose instead. You begin to climb the stairs; a sordid walk of shame.

“That’s just what this establishment needs, following the hanging, bloated corpse – a biohazardous drunk anointing his plague unto us all.”

That snark came from Garte – the bartender. No, the Cafeteria Manager.

“Just ignore him.” Kim mutters close to your ear. You proceed to flip the bird at Garte instead. As you make your way upstairs, you swear you can hear a tiny gasp from behind you. Without the sensation of a hand gripping your shoulder and signalling the completion of a sneeze, you have to strain your ears to even confirm they happen at all.

“’Ngxt’ch! h’ddt’! Hh’Ggkt!!”

Those are definitely sneezes. Slightly louder than before, enough that you can hear the Lieutenant’s own soft voice blending in with the strained sound of them. Your stomach is suddenly alive with butterflies. In your mind’s eye you can visualise the way his face crumples with each of them – nostrils flaring outwards as he valiantly bites down against them. You are sure if you try to do the same, your head will explode. Or at the very least, an aneurism is a surefire possibility. You shudder at the thought of it. You want to offer a blessing to the Lieutenant, but based on the previous reception it received, you decide against it. This could be the start of a beautiful partnership – Harry’n’Kim, Du Bois and Kitsuragi. Disco Cop and Cool Cop. You can always brainstorm on your trademark duo name at a later date. Either way, you decide to ignore the Lieutenant’s strangled outburst. A soft exhalation behind you signals that he is finished – for now.

You reach the top of the stairs. With great dismay, you realise that perhaps for the first time in your life, you are experiencing firsthand the effect of all those years of chain smoking. The wheezing gasps bend you over for a moment. Lieutenant Kitsuragi stands nearby, just short of nervously hovering, waiting for you to recover. You finally catch your breath and stride as confidently as you can towards Klaasje’s room. You extend a fist to knock on the door when you feel the soft touch of Kim’s hand on your arm, stopping you in your tracks. This has to be a new record. He has touched you on four separate occasions – all in a span of under thirty minutes.

“Perhaps you should take this opportunity to rest after all, detective.” Kim offers. You sense by the firmness of his voice that this is less of a gentle suggestion and more of a request. He smiles wryly.

“You are not very likely to get her to open up to you if you deafen her with your sneezing.”

Your stomach flips at hearing that word come out of his mouth. It is confusing but not entirely unpleasant. Whilst he doesn’t laugh, you can see the amusement held in the subtle quirking of his lips. You think for a moment that you should tell him your sneezes are the pinnacle of masculinity – ladies dig a huge, manly sneeze. You choose instead to sigh, practically deflating as any will to remain poised upright seeps out of you. You know he’s right. The filthy sheets of your bed beckon to you.

You agree with him and turn heel to your own room. He looks pleased – perhaps a little relieved. How disastrous did he think the interaction would have gone, had you proceeded? He turns to face you as you stand outside your respective doors.

“Don’t worry, detective. I will wake you up in a couple of hours, and we can resume our investigation. There is no point in making yourself ill.”

You nod. You are both about to enter your rooms when you feel it again. The tickle. It is persistent and increasingly difficult to control. You feel a gasp inflating your chest, helpless to do anything other than let the sensation overpower you. There is no time to even lift the handkerchief to your face. You do manage to turn away from the Lieutenant as the sneeze rips through you, baptising your own door with a trembling “aaAAAAEEEEGSHHHHhh!!!” A cloud of spray settles on the wood, droplets of spray shimmering under the harsh lighting. Gross.

“Bless you.”

A blessing. You feel relieved – and slightly giddy. Your stomach flips again. It is likely out of politeness, but the Lieutenant has at least not run for the hills in response to your disgusting display. You start to thank him when – oh, sweet confusion - he interrupts you with another sneeze of his own. He isn’t fast enough to bring a fist to his face this time. You can see every minute twitch of his facial muscles as he suppresses the sneeze through sheer willpower alone.

“Hh’Gnxt!! Huh’NGxtt!!”

The second sneeze follows immediately – his head dips twice in quick succession. That look of desperation suits him just fine, you think. You decide to abandon the thought as quickly as it forms. You are only partially successful in doing so. His hand reaches into the pocket of his trousers – he succeeds in removing the handkerchief in the duration of that second sneeze, you notice in great appreciation. You would never have managed to pull that off.

You watch as he raises the handkerchief before his face for a final sneeze. This one looks more irritable than the ones prior – the expression plastered on his face is openly more agonised than before. He pauses for what is likely only a second longer before the tickle reaches its apex, but that is more than enough time for another thought to cross your mind – one of an entirely salacious nature. You think that the face he is making resembles the sweet agony of another kind of release. You try to unthink it, but it’s too late – you’re absolutely, undeniably thinking it. The second passes. At last, the lieutenant smothers his final sneeze into the waiting folds of the handkerchief. It is considerably louder than before, even with the assistance of the fabric covering.

“hHh’nNGgxtt!!..chu…”

The soft vocal exclamation that rounds off the sneeze sounds weary, like it took a lot out of him. He sniffles briefly into the handkerchief, rubbing at his nose before tucking the cloth back into his pocket. Is it your imagination, or is said appendage starting to look a little reddened from the effort?

“Excuse me.” The Lieutenant mumbles, sounding uncomfortable. Embarrassed, perhaps?

You bless him before you remember to bite your tongue. Luckily, he accepts it with a soft “Thank you.” You watch as he removes his glasses and swipes at a stray tear rolling down his cheek. He replaces them just as quickly, giving you hardly any time to take in the sight of him without the thick frames. It is for a brief moment only, but the word ‘vulnerable’ comes to mind.

It dawns on you quite suddenly that he must be sneezing because you have infected him with your disgusting, no good germs. You ask him if this is the case, unable to hold back the shaking guilt as you voice your question-cum-self-abasement. He waves it off immediately.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that, detective, I assure you. I’m fine.” He pauses for a moment, looking hesitant to say more. You say nothing. This awkward silence seems to prompt him to continue.

“Sometimes the power of suggestion is too much for me. When somebody sneezes in my vicinity, I find my body often wanting to do the same. And your sneezes are particularly…” He trails off for a moment, in want of an appropriate term.

Masculine? Sexy? Bad-ass? You go with the first one. He shakes his head gently.

“…Suggestible.” He finishes. You’re not quite sure you catch his drift, but you do recall that he had mentioned something like this before. ‘Dancing makes you dance like sneezing makes you sneeze’. He had said that, in the church – he had been enthusiastic to interject, and then immediately changed the subject. You had had no idea what he had meant at the time – not once had you ever heard anyone say anything even remotely similar. It had been easily forgotten. Until now.

You smirk. You hope it isn’t akin to ‘the expression’, but is happening nonetheless. You cannot help it. This. Is. Gold.

You manage to hold back from laughing, but what you cannot help is calling him adorable. For the second time that day.

“I’m a 43 year old RCM policeman. I am far from adorable, officer.” He states firmly, almost as if he is chiding you. You do not miss, however, the softness in his eyes and the momentary twitching of his lips into a tiny smile. You do laugh at that. Bad idea. The laugh quickly morphs into a painful, wrenching cough. Whatever light-hearted moment you’d been sharing, you have ruined it. Your throat burns with the effort. God, but you want a drink. And a smoke. Maybe some speed. You finish at last, wiping spittle from your lips with the back of your sleeve.

“Please rest, Harry. I will check up on you soon.”

He casts a final worried glance your way before nodding curtly. You watch as the door clicks shut behind him. After a moment, you make your way into your own room, not even bothering to kick off your shoes as you collapse onto the pile of twisted sheets. Far too tired to think about the past that eludes you, about the case, about any of it, your eyes start to slip shut.

But it is back. The tickle. You have no means of fighting it, and you’re not sure you want to. You sneeze, smothering it into your sheets at the last second.

“HHHRRMMMPPPSHHHh!!!”

You peer cautiously at the sheets. You have left a considerably large damp patch on the section that covered your mouth and nose. Gross – that should be your middle name. You feel disgusting, but before you can begin another spiral of self-deprecation the exhaustion overwhelms you entirely. A final thought passes through your mind as you surrender to it. Did the Lieutenant hear you?

Next door, settling into the chair at his desk, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi tenses at the sound of your sneeze. It was loud enough to be heard not only the next room over – indeed, anyone on the second floor may have been startled by it. His breath hitches, once, twice, before he is tipping forward into his gloved hands, steepled around his face. Depleted of energy from the prior onslaughts, he is unable to hold them back at all.

“-hh! Hck’tshuu! Hupt’Tshhht!! ‘TSCHH’uu!! hm...”

He glances in unmasked irritation at the damp speckling of moisture now adorning the palms of his gloves.

“Merde!” He grumbles under his breath. The Lieutenant pulls the gloves from his hands, pausing to scrub at his itchy nostrils with his knuckles for one indulgent moment, before resuming the paperwork he had failed to complete the night before. He hopes, for both your own sake and his, that once he wakes you your sneezing spell will have passed – due to a temporary chill and nothing more. Neither of you have the time for this absurdity. He sniffles once more and begins to write.

[just-antithings]

This is not about antis, exactly, but there's definitely a similar vibe in the sentiments and it annoys me and I want to complain, so.

Apparently there's a program in my country that schools can sign up into that offers free "art experiences" to 8th graders (so about 14-year-olds). Looking at the program's website quickly, it seems to include plays, music concerts, probably art museum tours, I don't know what all. But like, either way, any of the stuff that the program offers is vetted beforehand to make sure it's suitable, and worksheets created for the kids to do before and after the show to try and get them to engage with art and understand what it makes them feel and whatever, and the kids get to rate whatever art thing it was they got to go to, afterwards.

Now, apparently, one of the things this program has arranged tickets for is some theater's current production of a comedic play written in the 19th century by one of the more famous playwrights/authors of my country's history (whose work, incidentally, was in his own time frequently under fire for its immoral and/or otherwise inappropriate depictions of whatever). I have never seen or read this particular play, so I can't tell you much about the plot or what the content of the text itself would be, beyond that it's a comedy that probably includes at least one character making a fool of himself, since that tends to be typical for the author's work afaik.

Anyway, to get to the point, the specific production that was on the program included, apparently, a scene in which, for comedic reasons, the main character's pants were pulled down enough for his bare ass to be visible, and something was written across his buttocks. And some other scenes which maybe, at least in the eyes of some in the audience, could be considered possibly somewhat sexually suggestive, though, again, I have not seen the particular production so I can't weigh in on whether they really are or not. Either way, even at worst, it's... come on, the school groups that was shown to were kids of about 14 years old, if they've never seen anything more sexually suggestive than that in movies or tv or somewhere, I'm honestly very surprised. In any case, the play contains no depictions of actual sex. And again, the play was checked by professionals and deemed to be appropriate for the program's art experience list.

Anyway, apparently the principal of some Christian school wrote an opinion piece in some news paper about oh how terrible and unnecessary sexualized and kids should not be exposed to that and so on and so forth. Aaaaand since then, the theater's social medias have been swamped with harrassing comments and, *sigh*, people accusing various people working on the production of pedophilia. To the point that the theater has had to switch off commenting altogether on many of their posts and made a policy of not answering phone calls from unknown comments anymore, because the shitstorm just got to that point.

And I just. literally WHY THE FUCK are people like this?? like. how do you even get from "theater play includes a scene where an actor's bare behind is visible and maybe a few other things with a slight sexual tone happen" to "people working for this theater are pedophiles and putting children in danger". Just. geez. it's so fucking stupid. Also I find it ironic that this was a work from the 19th century, that in its own time shocked people and was deemed immoral, and... what do you know, a modern rendition of the play also shocks people and gets deemed as immoral, apparently.

ugh that’s so shitty. time is a flat circle

[ladylilithprime]

Day 12: Harvest Festival

(Sequel to With Festive Airs Attending from the 2017 Sastiel Love Week.)

THE TOWN WAS hardly a memorable one at first glance, not like some of them were due to the cases they had worked over the years. The only hint Castiel even had that the brothers had been there before was Dean's overheard complaint asking why Sam even wanted to go back to "that boring-ass town without even a decent bar scene". Sam's dry retort that Dean shouldn't even worry about it since he wasn't invited did not clear anything up, even if Castiel had felt warm when Dean scoffed and told them to "enjoy your boring couples retreat or whatever". The warmth increased when Castiel had felt a gentle ping from Jack encouraging him and Sam to have fun and enjoy themselves.

Castiel would have been more willing to commit to the course of fun-having if Sam had been willing to tell him where they were going and why.

"It's a surprise, Cas," was all Sam would say, and since Castiel had promised himself that he would not abuse his angelic powers to invade his beloved's mental privacy when it was not a dire emergency, he was stuck waiting. Sam had conceded to allowing Castiel to fly them most of the way there since his wings were healed again, but only to the rental car agency in the next town over. He kept up a light conversation as they drove, encouraging Castiel to talk with him about the shows they were watching together on Netflix until they were pulling up to a vaguely familiar motel and Sam climbed out to go check them in.

When he came back, he handed over a piece of paper to Castiel as he slid into the driver's seat and drove them around to their room. Castiel looked curiously at the paper, then at Sam's smiling face. "Sam?"

"Turn it over," Sam suggested gently.

Right.

Feeling a little embarrassed, Castiel did as directed. At first, the green and orange and black flyer in his hand puzzled him, but as he read the words he felt his wholly unnecessary breath catch in his chest.

"Come to the Oakland Harvest Festival!" the flyer entreated enthusiastically. "October 30 through November 1: Music! Dancing! Games! Crafts! Celebrate the Harvest Time with Local Artisans and Family Friendly Fun!"

"Sam," Castiel whispered, stunned and awed. "This is..."

"The same festival we had our first official date at five years ago," Sam filled in when words failed the angel. "And no Dean along being a grouch about it or the lack of a hunt, so we can stay for the whole thing if you want to."

"I would like that very much," Castiel said around the emotion threatening to drown his ability to speak. He blinked down at the flyer in an effort to bring himself back under control, then looked up at Sam. "Do you think the quilter's stall will be there again?"

"We'll find out," Sam assured him, and let them to their room.

Castiel was quite pleased to see the single king bed, and began making his own plans for what they could do after they were done with the festival for the day. Those plans were promptly put on hold when Sam kissed him softly and tenderly, and then tugged him back out of the room to go scrounge up someplace they could have dinner. Patience would bring rewards, Castiel reminded himself, and followed him willingly.

CASTIEL WAS REALLY quite as grateful that Jack had taken the time to redesign angels as he was resurrecting and recreating them. Being solely a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent had been convenient for many things, but remarkably limiting for its limitlessness. Having to obtain the permission of a sentient being to possess in order to interact with the physical world without being able to truly connect with and experience that physicality had seen a notable detrimental effect on the Host as "consent" became more and more notional than true and the angels felt no real connection or care for the humans who housed their essences. Altering angels to be able to take their own physical forms which were wholly their own and connected them to true physical experiences without denying them their celestial beings had helped to reestablish the why of loving humanity in ways Castiel had been unable to accomplish on his own, even after his own experience Falling and being human himself.

This was never more apparent and true for him than when he and Sam were together, when he could feel and smell and taste everything with the immediacy of being firmly within his physical body and know that Sam knew he was wholly with him in the moment in a way he could not have been before. Eating together became a more shared experience when Castiel could properly taste the food he was consuming rather than being overwhelmed by the collective deluge of individual molecules. He and Sam could sit in a tiny midwestern diner, and Sam could order the crispy chicken salad with fresh cucumber and rainbow carrots while Castiel ordered the double smash burger with lettuce and tomato and grilled shallots and a side of seasoned potato wedges, and they could offer each other bites from their respective plates while sharing a chocolate drizzled strawberry milkshake. Every item of food was delicious, each in its own way, and they both gave their compliments to their waitress, Gina, despite declining dessert.

"We're headed over to check out the festival from here," Sam explained, and received a look of understanding and a bright smile.

"You boys been out here before, then?" she asked, all innocent curiosty and enthusiasm.

"Five years ago," Castiel confirmed with a nod, feeling warmth spread through him as Sam reached across the table and took his hand right there in front of her.

"Our first official date," he added with a soft smile that was only for Castiel. "Same date as the day we first met."

"Well, welcome back and happy anniversary," Gina told them with an indulgent smile and handed over the check.

"You remembered," Castiel murmured, helplessly returning that smile.

"One of the best memories I have," Sam assured him, squeezing his hand. "Ready to go make a few more?"

"Absolutely."

OAKLAND HAD EXPANDED their harvest festival somewhat in the five years since they had first come to the town, with enough booths and stalls that the map offered at the official entrance was quite useful. The quilter's booth was indeed still there, but Sam and Castiel agreed to take their time wandering that way to see what else was still around and what was new or changed. There was a pie stall next to the familiar cider stall, and it only took a shared look before they were paying for a full pecan pie along with the two blueberry hand pies they got for themselves, asking the prioprietor to please keep it aside for them to pick up on their way back to the motel. Dean would probably "give them shit" for thinking of him while on their couple's retreat, as he had called it, but he would still be pleased with the pie.

The games had also expanded. For nostalgia, Sam took a whack at the darts again, earning a voucher for a different craft booth this time, and then Castiel was persuaded by Sam to give the hatchet throwing a try which netted them a second voucher. They marked the two craft booths on their map with Sam's pen and continued on hand in hand, bypassing the small gun range set up by the local sheriff's department with pistols loaded with rubber bullets and a ten-foot shooting lane backed by plywood coated in ballistics gel. Castiel saw one of the two officers manning the booth start to call out, only to be harshly shushed by the other. Castiel recognized him as the sheriff to whom he and Sam had handed over the murderer they had caught previously and smiled to himself at the man's good sense. Neither of them would have been an "easy mark".

Sam's prize voucher was for a knitter's stall Castiel remembered, and promised a free set of knitted hat, scarf, and fingerless mittens in bright jewel tones. There were also several skeins of handspun wool yarn, both dyed and undyed, proportedly from a local farmer who kept sheep and alpacas. Castiel ended up purchasing eight skeins of undyed black and white heathered yarn for Sam in addition to choosing a set of accessories in shades of blue and violet.

The voucher from the hatchet throwing turned out to be for a new stall that sold handcarved wooden items, from small figurines to full-sized musical instruments. Castiel had managed to win a very high value prize with his efforts for anything up to the equivalent price of fifty dollars. It was not enough to purchase the carved wooden harp, much to Sam's joking disappointment, but it did cover a large cedar flute with a carved slide in the shape of a bird plus a birch wood comb which had been carved to resemble a sleeping cat along the handle.

When they reached the quilter's booth, they encountered yet another change. The man minding the tables was much younger with a full head of red hair, and when Castiel cautiously inquired after the older gentleman he had met previously the man sighed sadly.

"Pop passed away two years ago," he explained, looking down. "Man always had so much heart, it took everybody by surprise when it failed him. Ma still makes quilts and she's teaching my wife and our three kids how to do it, but we all know it's just a matter of time before she follows him."

"Understandable," Castiel murmured, fumbling for Sam's hand. "I know that if it was Sam and I could do nothing to save him or bring him back, I would follow him shortly. After arguing with his brother about it," he ammended.

"Dean's determined not to outlive me," Sam explained with a grimace, and Castiel heard the unspoken this time loud and clear. "Should be a long time before we have to worry about that, though."

The young man blinked and the frowned. "Hey, weird question, but were you two here about five years ago on an anniversary date? Got a quilt with--"

"Sunflowers," Sam and Castiel chorused.

"And bee stitching," Castiel finished, nodding. "We still have it on our bed back home."

"Damn, I'm even more sorry Pop's gone now," the young man complained, though he was smiling. "He would'a been pleased as punch to see you back here and still together."

"Felt fitting to come back here, considering...." Sam trailed off, looking down, and then carefully shifted his hold on their bags and plunged his hand into one pocket. "Sorry if this is kinda awkward, but.... Cas, you know I love you more than just about anything or anyone, and I was pretty sure you feel the same even before what you said earlier.

"We've been through a lot together since that first meeting what feels like a couple lifetimes ago, and even when we weren't together I've always known I could trust you, that whenever there was trouble coming if you were by my side then the chances of making it through that trouble could only go up, and that any time there was something good going on in my life, it would always be made better with you there to share in it. There's so much I wanna share with you that the rest of my life doesn't feel like long enough... but it's yours if you want it," he said softly, extracting his hand from his pocket and holding it out to Castiel, unfolding his fingers to reveal the silver ring with bevelled edges and a strip of polished wood inlaid down the middle. "If you'll have me as your partner in all things, I will gladly be yours forever, Castiel. Will you--"

"Yes!" Castiel broke in, too overcome to wait for Sam to finish the question. He reached out past the offered ring to grip Sam's shoulders and, heedless of the grinning young man who had pulled out his phone and appeared to be recording them, pulled his beloved human into a firm and thorough kiss. Sam kissed him back, of course, his arms going around Castiel with the ring safely clutched in his hand again where it rested at the small of Castiel's back. The reminder of the ring made Castiel break the kiss, albeit reluctantly, to say with some amount of breathlessness, "You should wait to put the ring on me until we are home again."

"Okay," Sam agreed, rather gratifyingly breathless himself. "Uh, can I ask why?"

"Because I need to acquire a ring for you as well," Castiel answered, raising his eyebrows. "And, quite aside from the fact that Dean will not forgive us for getting married without him, never mind engaged, we deserve to have more than just a single date for every anniversary."

"Fair enough," Sam chuckled, and bent to kiss Castiel again, which the angel was perfectly happy to accept.

[mariacallous]

Hello there. Today I would like to talk about Charlotte Owen. If you’ve heard of Charlotte Owen, it’s probably because you’ve read someone – unquestionably one of the “good guys” of the discourse – saying some creepy, innuendo-laden thing about the “riddle”, “mystery” or ��enigma” of her relationship with Boris Johnson. Before we go on, a word on vocab: all those words are journalese for “I can’t stand up this cobblers but I just want to publish it anyway”.

If you haven’t heard of Charlotte Owen, then (a) you may be the last pure human, and (b) you will need a primer. So here goes: she worked for Johnson’s No 10 operation, and was unexpectedly given a peerage in his resignation honours list. Alongside her House of Lords work, she has recently taken a position in a business Johnson has got with a uranium entrepreneur. Any more background? I should also say I have never met Owen, who is now 31, or had the remotest dealings with her. However, I have watched the absolute deluge of sexism disguised as gossip that has beset her since Johnson chucked her the poisoned chalice. Though entirely fact free, most of it has been frothingly circulated by the sort of person who imagines themselves to be on the side of the angels. So allow me to offer a counterpoint: they’re not.

Listen, I’m sure it’s not great to give a peerage to a 29-year-old. But let’s get real: even if she were totally useless, Owen could still only be about the 200th worst person in the House of Lords. She wouldn’t even make the same postcode as the cut of the true monsters, about whom we don’t get any articles because they’re not youngish and blond. Do imagine if all the good guys casting twice-weekly aspersions at Owen were chucking even half those at fellow Johnson peer Evgeny Lebedev – a serious piece of work, who has somehow garnered fewer bad headlines this past year than Charlotte has this past fortnight. Records and colleague accounts suggest Owen is a diligent peer, turning up very frequently and offering contributions some would estimate put her in the top 10% of speakers. (Lebedev has never even bothered voting and has asked only four written questions in four years.)

As for being unqualified for her latest job – countless 31-year-olds in this country have jobs that I’m sure their elders and betters think they’re not good enough for, and they were often hired for them by people they met through previous jobs. You’re going to need more than that. Yet not one person has produced a single nano-particle of evidence for their theories, while indications that they’re nonsense pile up. Consider the pictures of Owen at Carrie Johnson’s soirees. Seriously, Carrie’s the final boss of this game. She saw off master strategist Dominic Cummings (Carl von Clownewitz). Pretty sure she’d make light work of Charlotte if there were anything to worry about.

Some people will say it was ever thus. Funnily enough, I think I was Owen’s age when I started reading stories about my own affair with the former editor of this newspaper. Not true stories, as it goes, and I’m just trying to think back to it all. Private Eye ran some of them, so I contacted the magazine to tell it they were completely untrue and asked it to correct. Alas, corrections were not a Private Eye thing, I was told – but I was offered the option of writing a letter to its letters page, under my name, to counter the story. I remember sitting and wondering what such a bizarre and inherently unedifying missive would even look like. I pictured a letter reading “Dear Sir, Sorry to trouble you but this is just to say I’m not actually having an affair with my boss. Yours ever so gratefully, Marina Hyde.”

I concluded that would be rather adding insult to injury, so declined to send it, and instead had to come up with a sort of renegade campaign of ways to get the record corrected, which now seem excruciatingly ridiculous in retrospect. I can’t remember all the stupid stuff I did, but I do remember, for example, agreeing to a hideously dreary media panel, purely because the then editor of Popbitch was also doing it, then sitting through it and waiting for an opportunity to confront her in public about what I think I called “my non affair”. This was no one’s finest hour, but I couldn’t think of a better way. In the end, you realise you just have to ignore people and work hard, and maybe that work will displace people’s current view of you in, like, a couple of decades?

Now I am a much older lady, I wouldn’t say I can say exactly what I like – but I can certainly say a lot more of what I like. And I say all this now not because I want to spare Charlotte Owen the ball-ache of having to do some dire panel on climate lies at the next Cop conference, purely to tee herself up for introducing a leaden non-sequitur beginning with the words, “Hey – you know what else is a lie … ?” No, I am doing this because I honestly can’t believe that almost 20 years later, fact-free faux journalism like this has got worse.

Much of it is down to social media being a place where people very much like to look as though they’re insiders (again: they’re not). The other corrosive practice, popular on social media but also with some very online journalists, is that thing of putting two pictures or stories together and saying with some kind of flourish, “You join the dots!” To which the only acceptable response is: no. Would YOU mind joining the dots? You are, after all, supposed to be the professional here. The fact that you can’t confirms you’re not “doing journalism” – you’re doing sexism, you’re doing conspiracism and you’re doing indolence. Still: lovely clicks.

Allow me to end by offering a competition prize. The next person to publish any fact-free innuendo about Charlotte Owen shall be crowned the biggest trouser-rubbing weirdo in Fleet Street – and that’s a tough field. Guys, that actually means something! If anyone has any evidence of the thing at which they have hinted so remorselessly, then let them produce it. Otherwise, maybe they have had their fun, and it’s finally time to shut up and leave her alone. Instead: please tell us more about the uranium entrepreneur. You see, this is the other thing about getting older: you start wanting to know more about the uranium entrepreneurs. But we always look the wrong way in this country – so don’t hold your breath.

[creative-frequency]

Astarion x Reader: Contradictions and Other Counter-Measures Ch.6

Summary: Astarion suggests a distracting truce between you two and it's really confusing. Romantic tension. Word count: 1934

Previous chapter

CHAPTER 6: Truce

In all its glory, sometimes camping in the wilderness is just absolute misery.

It’s been pouring for the better part of the day. None of the adventuring party is eager to continue exploring after walking around in drenched clothes for hours. The decision to call it an early night was unusually unanimous – including even Lae’zel.

You think most of the party is resting inside their tents, though the yelling from Wyll and Karlach teaching Lae’zel a card game sometimes carries through the rain. It makes you smile to see, or hear in this case, the group so welded together.

You’re resting on your bedroll, reading a book Gale doesn’t know he has borrowed to you. A small orb of summoned daylight hovers by the tent ceiling, but it can’t keep the damp air at bay.

The pouring rain covers the sounds of any approaching steps, but you roll around as soon as the tent flaps are moved a little.

You come face to– palm? With a spectral mage hand. And it’s offering you a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” you ask, guessing that the message didn’t come from afar since the paper isn’t completely soaked. You sit up and read the offered letter. There is only one word, written in an elegant cursive that no one born in this century could produce.

Truce?

You let out a deep sigh before even realising it. The mage hand taps the ground, expecting.

“Don’t tell me he wants me to RSVP.” No response or reaction from the spectral entity. You get up from the bedroll. Might as well go hear what kind of an apology is waiting for you. “I’m going so shoo already.”

You step into a puddle on the short way over to Astarion’s tent and curse in an unladylike manner under your breath. The heavy rain is relentless.

“Ah, you’re here,” Astarion says as soon as you step inside. He was reading a book – no doubt also ‘borrowed’ from your camp’s resident wizard – and he puts it away on top of a stack that rivals yours in height. Interesting.

You’ve never been inside his tent before. Considering the circumstances, one could describe it as ‘lavish’. The pillows he usually keeps outside are hauled inside into massive, but inviting piles over carpets. A small table sits in the corner, assorted vanity items resting on top of it. The tent is dimly illuminated by a pair of candelabras. Magical, no doubt.

“I got your letter but still you sound surprised,” you greet Astarion.

‘And infuriatingly pleased,’ you want to add.

A half-smile invites you to join him as he taps the luxurious pile of furs and blankets on the ground.

“Wine, darling?” Astarion asks, already reaching for the bottle.

You’re not sure he is owed any more chances, but still you find yourself sitting down next to him and accepting the cup. It’s a mellow red and you down half of it in one toss. Your face crinkles and you grimace at the almost acrid rush on your taste buds.

“Well,” Astarion says, clearly disapproving of your drinking habits. “I am glad you decided to join me.”

“Before you continue, may I remind you what happened the last time,” you say bitterly, trying to hint that you’re still waiting for a proper apology.

“How could I forget? I have not been able to think about anything else in these past few days,” Astarion purrs and scoots closer. He notices your sour look.

“Was there something you wished to discuss?”

“Yes. I think we started this… friendship off the wrong foot.”

Your brows rise. Astarion takes it as a cue to keep talking:

“Our relationship doesn’t need to be so…” He is looking for the right word.

“Contentious? Adverse? Volatile?” you suggest, to name a few adjectives that have been running through your mind lately.

He snorts. “Yes.”

“An apology might work wonders on it,” you suggest sharply and drain the rest of the plonk. You can’t help grimacing again.

“Is that truly the only reason you’re here now?” Astarion’s eyes glint.

That is a question even you don’t know the answer for. Astarion is attractive, but also an enigma that takes turns in pushing you away and pulling you in. Is an apology all you’re looking for from him? A tingle inside you that has nothing to do with the wine begs to differ.

Since you don’t give him an answer, Astarion pushes on:

“Why don’t you and I have a little distraction?”

“Hah. Good one,” you say, but then see how he is looking at you. The sultry look leaves little to the imagination on the meaning behind his words. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Of course, darling.” Astarion’s lips curve invitingly now that he has your full attention.

This is another one of those Astarion moments, when you truly have no idea what is going on in the man’s head. And yet again, you decide to play along.

“Ask me again after a few more of these,” you reply, lifting your almost empty wine cup.

Astarion scoots closer and takes the cup from your hand.

“Not sure if I can wait for that long, love.”

You look up at his beautiful face. His slender fingers caress your cheek, causing your breath to hitch and you feel the (maybe?) unwelcome excitement roll into the pit of your stomach.

“If you want blood, you should start by asking nicely,” you whisper laboriously.

“We already tried that, remember? Besides, this is not about blood,” he hums in reply.

You swallow and ask: “Then what is it about?”

His fingers travel down your jaw, continuing their trek over your throat, tracking the height of your clavicle. A shiver courses through you.

“Pleasure,” Astarion purrs, leaning closer.

You can scarcely believe your ears. “What?”

He sighs, impatient. “Oh for heaven’s sake, darling. Sex.”

You seize the hand that is about to travel to dangerous territory down your body. The tent feels suddenly very warm and the air oppressively damp. Your heart beats in your throat and the unfairly beautiful creature just sits right in front of you, smiling invitingly and suggesting sleeping together. He is even being infuriatingly casual about the whole thing.

“I got that part, Astarion, but what I don’t understand is why?” you stammer to form the question. ‘Why me,’ you want to add but refuse to sound so self-deprecating.

Astarion lets you hold his hand and his fingers caress over yours. “I think you like me, and I’ve come to like you, too.”

The unexpected confession makes your head spin. He is lying. He must be. At the moment in the light of his salacious smile you just find it truly difficult to care about such details.

“I do like you,” you reciprocate without thinking.

He smiles wider, pleased but not one bit surprised. “Perfect. Then what’s the harm in a little fun?” he murmurs and leans to you.

And in turn, you shift to face him, still holding his hand as his fingers leave waves of tingles on the back of your palm.

You’re so close to each other that your wine-infused breaths mingle. He smells like bergamot, and something deep and warm mixed with rosemary. Astarion’s fingers escape your grip to caress your arm and neck carefully, almost like in a practised manner.

“You want to be craved,” he whispers so close to your lips.

You feel every point where your bodies touch as if your nerve endings are alight. The sensation is equally intoxicating and alarming. You shouldn’t be doing this with him. Should you?

“Mm. I should go to bed,” you manage to whisper, but wait for the touch of his lips with every inch of your being.

“There is one right here,” Astarion murmurs and gently pushes you down onto the furs.

His lips hover right above yours and your heart thumps loudly in your ears. You can almost taste him. Your eyes flutter closed in anticipation. He seems calm while you feel like a heaving mess underneath him. This is not how you imagined your night going.

Astarion’s lips brush the corner of yours, then your cheek, and quickly down your neck as your head arches back on the plush pillows.

Gods, his touch feels so good.

He begins opening the buttons of your blouse with deft, expert motions. His knee pushes your legs apart and you have no idea where to put your hands as you lay there, waiting, breathing heavily and pulse soaring.

“Ah-Astarion…” you whisper.

He is again so close, gaze flitting down to your lips.

“Tell me what you want, love,” he whispers, teasing, prolonging the sweet, sweet moment. He must want to make you yearn or beg for the fatally soft touch.

The last time Astarion’s lips graced your skin slips once again into the top of your mind. A shroud of stinging fear creeps up your body. Right behind those perfect lips are canines sharp enough to pierce skin.

“Please don’t bite me,” you hear yourself say.

Astarion moves back a little, enough to look you into the eyes. His brows draw in slightly, dejected.

“This is about lust, not hunger,” he assures but you can see the same look in his eyes that he had when he pressed his fangs against your palm – when he had every intent to taste you.

“I… I trust you.” That is what he wants to hear, even though you’re not yet sure if it’s the truth. “But… I… What I’m trying to say is–”

He retreats further away, brows knitted together in disappointment and confusion.

You breathe out in shameful relief, but at the same time feel disappointment wash through you. You pull your knees against your chest as you sit up.

“You’re absolutely gorgeous. And I truly do like you, but I’m… this is not a good idea right now.”

Astarion raises a brow, complying to how the moment is evidently lost. “Thank you for the compliment, but I’m afraid I do not follow.”

You draw in a shaky breath. How to explain to someone like Astarion how insecure and scared you feel, but that it’s not his fault. You’re scared to trust, scared to allow yourself to feel, scared to be hurt. It’s all just too much on top of the tadpole and your quest to find a cure.

You need to take a timeout and think. The man is too gorgeous for his own good and now that you have gained a taste of what kind of a lover he would be…

No. You need to keep your priorities straight. Besides, you hardly know him.

“I am still trying to wrap my head around everything. Didn’t all of our lives just turn upside down in one night? Meanwhile,” you take a leap and reach for Astarion’s hand – he doesn’t stop you and your next breath is a little easier, “I would love to get to know you better. If… that is something you would also be interested in?”

Astarion blinks, stupefied and stunned. “Well. This is. New?”

Something calculating and determined disappears from his expression.

“It’s new for me too. We can just make it up as we go. We’re going to be travelling together for a while in any case.” You tread a careful smile to which Astarion replies with a soft, tentative curve of his own.

“Now, we both need some rest,” you say.

“How about a goodnight’s kiss before you go?” he murmurs.

“You’re hopeless,” you huff and lean in to give a peck to the side of his chin. “Goodnight, Astarion.”

-

TBC

My Writing Masterlist

[karlachismylife]

Worshipping the Sun

Solar eclipse is beautiful, thinks Johnny when he looks at his circular dogtags blocking out the glowing light of Karlach's engine. He wouldn't mind seeing a thousand of those as soon as he gets a chance to make the little steel plates bounce on her chest.

CW: fluffy smut (MDNI), two very desperate for touch golden retrievers having their first kiss and sex simultaneously (finally), p in v, breeding (wrap it, they just don't have condoms in Faerûn), breasts/chest worship, mild possessiveness and hint of jealousy, tiefling anatomy, title from Iron Maiden's "Total Eclipse", my English is lacking, also barely proofread.

A logical continuation to Total Eclipse of the Heart (this one's SFW)

If there was anyone who could match Karlach's eagerness to bolt to Dammon's forge with the last piece of the bloody infernal iron, it was Soap. Everyone could see how antsy he got the second they obtained the metal with an eerie crimson glint to it; he wouldn't let anyone else carry that precious fragment and constantly checked on it, patting the secure pocket he kept it in or even pulling the sharp-edged chip of an unknown heritage to look at its mysterious shine. Karlach saw it too, and his nervousness rubbed off on her, evident in the constant jittering of her knee whenever the party took a short rest and the swishing of a clearly tense tail at each step. She didn't rush anyone, though, sporting the same toothy smile to mask a guilty look of longing in her eyes, unwilling to put her own needs above everyone else's - she's waited for ten years, she could wait just a bit more. Probably. Hardly. At least she could try.

Soap, however, could not.

Not even his own Captain was safe from the snapping of the impatient mutt and had to tell Johnny off twice; in the piercing eyes looking at him from under a well-familiar hat, Soap, ready to butt heads with anyone who would suggest another detour or stall the ordeal with anything of little importance, saw something calming. An understanding and unwavering will, taming his impulsiveness with a rough hand tightly gripping his nape.

"You stay in line and be patient, Sergeant. You're freaking the lass out. Get yourself together and stay put for 'er, a'right? How copy?"

Soap's frown didn't go anywhere, but a loud huff let some of the frustration out, the burning itch where the goddamn iron piece's supernatural warmth seeped into his body reluctantly quieting down.

"Aye, sir. Copy tha''."

"Good. We're not making further stops, everyone get a move on." With a forceful pat on Soap's neck, Price raised his voice, taking on the leadership once again - despite the clear reluctance and annoyed groaning on some party members' parts, they all fell under his command, hurrying up on the way to the Last Light Inn. Ghost gave Soap a reassuring shoulder slap passing him with effortless long strides, leaving the Scotsman to follow along as close to buzzing Karlach as possible. Her excitement radiated off of her in heatwaves, bright yellow glow crowning the dogtags she never took off since the day Johnny gave them to her.

The first time they left her crimson neck was when bright-eyed Dammon, drenched in sweat after working on blazing hot metal, handed her the insulation chamber to install in her exhausted chest. Soap didn't even register that he held his breath watching those untouchable read hands work intricate machinery, strained growling and mechanical clanking of the engine changing its timbre, subsiding.

Calming down.

"So... did it work?" Uncertainty in Karlach's voice barely snapped Soap out of his daze. His hand twitched, ready to reach out, and stopped, when the mesmerizing shimmering in her chest got slowly eclipsed by the tag with his name on it, once again carefully placed there by Karlach herself. She closed her eyes, pressing a big palm over the steel disc and listening in on the engine inside, trying to notice subtle change in the way its scorching heat gnawed on the insides of her ribs. Licking his lips, Johnny finally looked up from Karlach's chest and spat out in unison with the blacksmith: "Only one way to find out."

A quick glance at Dammon made Soap's cheeks heat up, slight flush thakfully masked by the way everyone was blushing in proximity of the powerful forge. That bloke was looking at Karlach, his Karlach, as if she was one of his beautiful creations, perfectly formed and bent by the will of his capable hands and hammer. Like she was the fire in his forge and the sun in his skies.

Nothing Soap could blame Dammon for. Irritating possessiveness stuck in his throat, unable to spill, not when overriden by a whole whirlwind of other emotions; desperation, adoration, happiness, hope - and one clear realisation hitting him at that exact moment. His body finally unfreezing and moving on its own to crash into Karlach's.

No hesitation. No second thoughts. No worrying if the upgrade worked properly.

If this was the day he finally was going to burn because of his carelessness, Johnny would gladly accept that fate.

Karlach found herself wrapped in the tightest hug she's ever recieved, calloused hands gripping her back and trying to squish her into Soap's uncomfortable vest, shove her inside of his opened up chest to keep forever cooled down by the bluest seawaves spilling out of his cerulean eyes. A second of careful hesitation, waiting for a pained scream of a person being burnt alive - and when it never came, she wrapped her arms and tail, finally her tail, around Johnny, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"Ah'm nae letting ye go, ever." A pointy red ear twitched as the raspy whisper hit it with a wave of warm breath - not the scorched dried air of Hell, not the grueling heat from her engine going into overdrive, not even a homey heatwave of the campfire shared with comrades and friends. The warmth of a living being, a person, pressed up so close that their skin was ready to melt shut together.

Johnny felt the cool sea of his homeland spill into tiniest droplets on his eyelashes when he heard Karlach's voice cracking, muffled with his chest.

"Thank you."

The whole way back to camp they held hands so tightly that their fingers went numb, stupid grins plastered on their faces in spite of the whole world being out to get them. Not even Astarion's snidy remarks could distract them from stealing glimpses at each other, headbutting tenderly every time one of them got caught by another.

Karlach was happy. Soap was going nuts from the nightfall being so goddamn far away.

If it wasn't for remaining respect for his team, he would've knocked every party member out cold with zero hesitation.

Some of their comrades were definitely not asleep yet when he heard familiar heavy footsteps approachng his bedroll, head tilting up immediately to be met with a view of Karlach waving at him shyly. Dropping his journal, Johnny sprung up to meet her halfway, wrapping his strong arms around her formiddable form and spinning her around effortlessly, peaceful scenery dimly lit by several burning fires blurring into an unimportant background. The tiefling held onto his broad shoulders and giggled, leaning her forehead against his with a content smile - a soft, irresistable magnet to his own mouth, aching to finally taste her, swallow every chuckle, gasp and moan. But before Soap could close that barely existing distance between them, he got distracted by a quiet metal clank of his own tags, hitting her chest after being tugged away by the forceful spinning. Karlach caught the direction of his gaze immediately and looked at the plates too, clawed fingers living their own life and tangling themselves in short strands of Johnny's outgrowing mohawk, tugging and twirling, but not pulling him away.

"Doing a damn good job at protecting me so far, soldier," she muttered, watching that dark round shadow laid over her chest, still shining bright, but finally not hurting. Even breathing came easier now that the engine was a bit more stabilized, and Karlach took the opportunity to inhale deeply, lungs filling with the cool night air and Johnny's scent - a bit sweaty, musky with an overtone of the cheap soap the least picky in the party have been sharing. It didn't stick to her crimson skin, overpowered by the spicy burning smell following her everywhere, but the man holding her with little strain in his muscles, and breathing a bit heavily for completely different reasons, clearly took time to scrub himself clean tonight.

The implication of the act - more like an obvious conclusion at this point - made her eyes sparkle and tail swirl around Soap's burly thigh, brushing against his already chubbed up cock accidentally. Well, that was certainly obvious, if nothing else was.

"Fuck if Ah let ye take 'em off now, bonnie," he breathed out loudly and, before Karlach could even reassure him that she wasn't planning on it, finally crashed his lips into hers. Far past the reverent romance of a timid first kiss, Johnny devoured Karlach's mouth like the starved man he was, pushing his tongue into the welcoming heat and moaning when his own mouth filled with excess drool in reaction to her taste. Slurping up leaking saliva, Soap stumbled back to the bedroll, barely allowing Karlach to find her footing before toppling them both over.

They hit the ground with a loud thud and pained grunts, teeth clicking in the process with no avail at stopping the needy snogging. Karlach plopped right onto her ass, accomodating Soap's knee, shoved hastly between her thighs, and grabbing his thick waist after she let go of his mohawk momentarily. Her long claws dug into his meat, making his cock twitch in the tight constraints of his pants - a single thought of those feral nails dragging along his shaft to tease him forced out another moan out of Johnny's throat.

Maybe they should've moved much, much farther away from camp if this was their volume with all layers of clothes on, but who has time to take such precautions when you've already wasted so much of it being forced apart?

"Shit, are you okay, Johnny?" - if he wasn't already head over heels thrice for her, he would've been now, when Karlach found it in herself to be worried about him hitting the ground too harsh while her whole being was focused on getting as close to him as possible, as much skin contact as they physically could have. "Was that your fucking knee cracking?"

"Fuck mah knee, bonnie," growled Soap in response, too busy covering her neck in open-mouthed kisses to register pain from the fall. Next thing he knew, Karlach, still a soldier at heart, did just that, bucking her wide hips and grinding her core against his heavy knee, shaky gasps spilling from her full lips. Even through the stiff leather of her worn pants he could feel pooling heat - not the infernal kind, but a living, throbbing desire, years of pent up yearning, all for him to feast on. Intoxicating, she was, driving him mad with the intensity of each movement, a hot mess, but so far from pliant and soft. "Steamin' hell, lass, ye're gonnae make me spill before we even start."

The only result his panting grumbling gained was a dizzy smile, baring Karlach's canines as she relished in the feeling of being wanted, being touched. Soap's hands slid up her torso, pushing the leather straps out of the way, thumbs pressing under her breasts and eliciting another whine from her throat, stamped with a firm bite at the same time. Her fingers scraped over Johnny's nape, slid down and started tugging on his shirt desperately, fabric nearly ripping before he finally managed to tear himself away from her bare skin and pull it off over his head in one abrupt movement. His eyes emerged from under the discarded clothing with a new vigor burning in them, messy strands falling on his forehead from his ruffled mohawk. Karlach ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it out, then cupped the back of his head and pulled him in for another sloppy kiss, free palm studying the body she knew already so well anew - blindly this time, relying solely on touch, deprived so long that it didn't seem real.

To make sure this wasn't an illusion, she touched every inch several times, brushing over the dark fur coating his chest, pressing her big palms into the impressive muscles covered with a healthy, squishy layer of fat, tracing her calloused fingertips over some old scars. Johnny's tanned skin marked every path of Karlach's touch with trails of goosebumps, every ounce of restraint in his body channeled into letting her explore him and the newly reclaimed ability to touch someone without rushing. He saw it in her awed expression, eyes wide open and a dreamy smile, as if he was some kind of miracle - a whimsical Scottish unicorn trotting around and allowing a little tiefling girl to pet its soft, warm hide.

Soap couldn't take that moment away from her, no matter how stiff his dick was in its prison, so he slowly leaned back, guiding the enamoured tiefling by her ribs, until she firmly straddled his lap. Giving up control, entrusting with his whole being and every single emotion that were out in the open for Karlach to see, hear, smell, touch, touch, touch.

Her palm stopped, lingering over his fluttering heart - an alive, real one, without a trace of metal or a hint of mechanical whirring. Karlach closed her eyes, breath hitching and nails digging into the soft skin of his chest, and Johnny felt his last chance of freedom melt into an alloy, firmer than any metal known to any of their two worlds.

His name dangled right before his eyes, tags hanging from Karlach's neck as she leaned over him, but it wasn't her who belonged to him.

"Take wha' ye want from me. Ah'm yers, sunshine, please, let me gie ye everything-" A wave of heat and a sharp flare hit his face, cutting his smitten ramblings off. Suddenly, Johnny fellt like he drowned, molten ocean filling his chest instead of air.

The world bathed in a beautiful underwater azure eminating from Karlach's shining form. Blazing hot, she was a vision on top of him, usually warm tiger eyes now a searing propane blue, looking at him with nothing except angelic devotion.

"Say it again, Johnny," not a command, a plea, desperate, filled to the brim with a carnial need, leaving no room for refusal. His heart answered before he even took a breath, speeding up and throwing itself at his ribs' confines, drawn into Karlach's grasp by the gravity field of the Sun stuck in her chest.

"Ah'm yers, Karlach. All yers."

It was the breathy ch on the end of her name that did her in.

The sound of his dogtags clanking, as she hastly discarded what was left of her clothes, was almost deafening, overriding the buckles being undone and leather creaking as it slid off her body. Soap's hands moved automatically, trembling every second they weren't full of Karlach's supple flesh while he shoved his pants and underwear down, propping himself on elbows to kick them off along with his unwilling boots.

The second her wet heat pressed up to his boner, white flashed beneath his eyelids fluttering shut, a loud groan bordering on a whimper leaving his mouth and landing into Karlach's kiss. Framed by her thick thighs, Soap reached out to grip her hips, thumbs brushing over devilish ridges protruding in beautidul arches over her pelvis. He went over them again, sensing the shudder in her form when he increased the pressure, and then slid his palms higher, studying otherwordly beauty on top of him. There was too much to take in at the same time: dark tattoos overwriting big, wide scars and the torment they marked in her life, more ridges decorating firm, sturdy bones of a warrior, metal pieces incorporated in the body of a woman who refused to be reduced to a killing machine.

Glaring beryl sun reliving its total eclipse underneath the dark shadows of her sternum and his dogtags.

An explosive flare shined through when Soap carefully cupped Karlach's breasts, flicking his thumbs over already hardened nipples, an excited grin stretching his lips as he did it agan and got the same result. Playing with flammables was his second nature, fearless curiousity guiding his mouth to wrap around one of the stiff peaks, sucking and circling it with his tongue - no matter how much pure bliss flooded his mind, Johnny kept his eyes wide open, glistening aquamarines reflecting every change in Karlach's responsive flames. Her moans were deep, husky, akin to an unoiled machine learning to produce those sounds anew after so many years of deprivation, her hand, glazed over with that same cobalt glow digging into Soap's mohawk again and locking him in place. She didn't bother to look, the sight of his devoted eyes framed with the prettiest lashes imaginable etched into her mind, stamped into the back of her eyelids even as she let her horned head fall back and arched into the greedy worship of his hands and mouth.

Leaving one nipple alone, his drool evaporating almost immediately and inflicting more longing tension on the aching bud, Johnny moved on to the other one, grazing it with his teeth and running his tongue flat over, lapping up the tangy clove aftertaste of Karlach's skin. The more desperate his caress became, the harder it was for the tiefling stay still, hips grinding into him. Thick, viscous slick covered her burning folds and smeared over Johnny's cock, mixing with the pre-cum drooling from his tip almost as red as Karlach's body. They sticked to each other with obscenely wet sounds, her drooling pussy clenching around nothing each time her clit caught on his hard length. It was insufferable, the need between her thighs, spread wide to fit around Soap's bulky form, grew worse at each squeeze his rough palms gave her smooth tits, each sharp suck and pointed lick, his capable tongue hooking under the firm nipple and flicking up.

If Johnny ached just as much to bury himself in the infernal heat of his devil woman, he worked hard to distract himself with her chest. Letting Karlach catch a breath, he pressed his wet, chapped lips to her collarbone and skimmed along the firm bone - just as sturdy and reliable as the rest of Karlach's build. There was nothing delicate and frail about her, heavy weight pressing down on him, plump ass with a thick, leathery tail beating the ground between his legs like an impatient pup wanting to play.

One huge, feral, deadly pup, digging her claws into his shoulders and smothering him between her breasts when he finally ran his fingertips down her tense abdomen and found one hard, throbbing clit, ready to send shockwaves through the tiefling's body at first touch. Karlach pressed into his fingers hard, demanding more touch immediately, and Johnny obeyed, catching her sensitive bud between two fingers and cupping her mound to increase pressure. His neck was one wrong move away from snapping in Karlach's tight embrace, cheek stuck squeezed into the uncomfortable firmness of his own dogtags, mouth agape in attempts to breathe through the sweaty heat between them.

He barely noticed any resistance when his fingers slipped into her welcoming cunt, that same thick wetness seeping into his palm and gluing digits together with semi-transpatent cream, pooling down at his knuckles as he started thrusting and searching for the right angle. Judging by Karlach's loud and bright - she lit up like a rescue flare each time - reactions, every angle was right. Her snatch accomodated his fingers easily, inner walls swollen and pliant, entrance stretching around an added third just as eagerly.

"Fuck, mate, please, just... I can't wait any longer." She didn't need to ask him, he was there to guess and serve, but the neediness in her pants made his cock twitch once Soap pulled his fingers out and immediately shoved in his mouth, moaning with eyes rolled back at the spicy taste. He returned his wet hand on her hips, guiding her up and positioning above his rigid member, and supported her heavy weight the whole way as he slowly sank down.

"Bloody hell, sunshine, ye're gonnae melt mah dick off," Johnny sounded choked out, Karlach's burly arms squeezing in a nearly-deadly hold around his head and his cock wrapped in the Hell's heat. Her throbbing walls were already milking him, fluttering around the delicious grith and coaxing more leaking wetness out to compensate for the steam that he could've sworn he saw rising from where their bodies connected. When Karlach didn't respond, Soap shifted his head, looking up to see her expression.

She looked peaceful.

Her body was still adorned with the hottest blue flames, lapping at her skin like ocean waves, tense muscles filled with overflowing arousal, heavy, laboured breathing - but her eyes were calmly shut, a tender smile dancing on her lips, bliss and contentment all the way down to her engine.

Her calm, evenly whirring engine under Johnny's cheek.

When Karlach opened her eyes to look down at his face, she lit up once again - azure crown around the metal circle - as she saw his adoring eyes. The sea their shared between wasn't a stormy one, but the serene, eternal deep ocean, mother to all living things, full of love just as it was millions of years before and will be after this pitifully short moment.

"Karlach," her ears perked up in a painfully obvious way at the beloved sound of her name on his lips. "Please, let me love ye properly. Ah swear tae gods, ah'll dae right by ye."

Her tail answered first, lifting from the ground and wrapping itself around Soap's ankle, and then followed the first bounce. His whole core shivered, arms locked in a bear hug around her hips, a loud low moan drowning in her chest as his face slid down her sternum and back up, nudging the dogtags away. Maybe Karlach followed it up with a breathless "yes", but Johnny didn't hear it already, palms sliding down to grab big handfuls of her ass and knead her thighs tensing up and relaxing as he rode him.

He must've left bruises before Karlach finally gave up on staying upright and nudged him to fall back first onto the messy bedroll. Soap caught one of her hands, placed on his torso for support, and guided it away, interlocking their fingers as she leaned forward. Her eyebrows knitted together with another moan, his swollen tip hitting the spongy spot inside and dragging past it at each thrust of his hips meeting the tiefling's efforts halfway.

Raw slaps of their bodies hitting each other mixed with the metal jiggling of those tags, bouncing between Karlach's palm-sized, fucking perfect breasts. Up. Down. Slapping her chest and hitting each other.

Up - the blue sun shined down the deep waters of his gaze.

Down - perfectly round shape of his devotion's evidence overshadowed the celestial body encased in its cage.

Thousands of solar eclipses right before his eyes, each and every one for John MacTavish only. His whole universe in the form of a woman climaxing around his cock with a shuddering growl.

Myriad of blazing hot, white and blue supernovas exploded in his eyes when he felt Karlach squeeze around him, both of them stubbornly fucking through the orgasm even after she collapsed on top of him - a horned head ramming his forehead sent another wave of bright sparks dancing behind his eyelids, his restraint finally snapping. He grabbed Karlach around her waist again, whimperng into her twitching ear, and fucked up into her spasming pussy, their tight closeness overstimulating her with relentless grinding until his pace stuttered, hot wave rushing down his body and spilling inside.

Soap's knuckles popped from the sheer strength of her grip, tightening as his seed painted her insides in thick, messy ropes, a sticky swamp smeared between their crotches, too wet to dry out even under Karlach's relentless heat. He chuckled, wrinkling his nose in the manner he already picked up from her, and pulled his reddened palm from her big paw - only to splay between her shoulder blades and hug her tighter. They stayed entangled for some time, catching their breaths, until finally Karlach moved, lifting up a bit. Johnny's chest immediately raised with a grateful sigh, previously squished by the tiefling's weight, and she shoot him a worried look, but was met with a fucked-out expression of a man that had just experienced heaven.

"Hey, soldier." Karlach cooed softly, nudging his nose with hers. Soap's grin widened, and he finally focused his gaze on her sweet smile. Irresistably kissable. "How'd I do? Spectacular?"

"Hey, sunshine." He mumbled, brushing his thumb over her smiling cheek and pinching gently. "Ye sure ken how tae fuck a lad's brains oot."

His hand travelled lower, hooking a finger under the chain that once decorated his own neck and tugging onto it until it dented Karlach's skin. She leaned back down after a lingering pause, leaving him breathless once again in more ways than one.

A loud, ear-ringing slap landed heavily on her ass, jolting her tail up like a flag and causing her cunt to tighten around his slowly hardening again cock.

"Now tha' we've warmed up, how about Ah show ye how we dae it where Ah'm from?"

[the-lost-lights]

Here's my idea for Uzi's human family for your human Uzi AU

I have 3 ideas

1. Khan finds Uzi inside the factory from episode 6.

He was in a factory because he wanted to take some stuff that could be useful and maybe to impress Nori. While looking for some stuff he finds her human parents dead. Her human parents were living in the factory after core collapsed and they survided. But after a while they were killed by sentinels. Khan was about leave after he sees her dead human parents until he heard Uzi cooing and laughing. When he hears her, he finds her hidden under the desk in the box. He also finds out that Uzi's original name was Susie by her name bracelet but was scratched a bit. As he was about to leave with her, the sentinels attack which leads to wild goose chase but they manage to get out alive.

This was inspired by one scene in Tarzan movie how Kala found baby Tarzan

2. Her human parents accidentally left her behind.

Her human parents and other human survives had escaped through escape pods before core collapsed. They were about to leave but they couldn't get their daughter on time. As they flew and watched the core collapse they were devastated thinking that tgeir daughter was dead. But she wasn't and was eventually found by Khan, Nori or both

I think about how you can make the squad go to the planet where the rest of the humans are alive or make humans come to copper 9 to help the squad. And maybe maybe her humans parents see their daughter after so long or her relatives find her

You can make her parents good and her relatives bad guys or reversed

3. Her human parents are dead but have relatives

The same thing as the second one. You can make Uzi ask tons of questions about how were her parents like or something. I also think that humans would tell her about human stuff and how they work since she barely knows anything about her kind. You can make her relatives good guys or bad guys.

I'm quite curious how would her human family react to her being raised by drones

Anyway that's all. I really hope to see a fanfic about this au or a fanart. I really love this au. I had the same idea.

Also please tell me what do you think please

For those that don't know: I made a Murder Drones AU alongside @roseofhybrids where Uzi is the last human on Copper 9. You can read about the genesis of this AU in THIS ask I made to @ayloverlove and you can read more about this AU in THESE posts made by @roseofhybrids.

Originally I planned for Uzi to be found inside the last working cryogenic chamber of the bunker where the drones live, but you know what? It works better that way. Thanks for your suggestion @blue-fanlady!

To better understand WHY Uzi was there, however, let's just imagine that the industrial facility had a kindergarten where workers could leave their kids while they did their job, and that when Nori went on her murder spree the biological parents of Uzi tried to save their daughter by putting her into a cryogenic chamber before she murdered them. With the passage of years, the facility began to break down and all the chambers either began to malfunction and kill their hosts, were found by the Absolute Solver, who used the humans inside as biological components and materials for its creations or both... All except for one.

Years later Nori, after some visions of the future that showed her some worker drones she knew torn into pieces by a disassembly drone, decided to go back to the facility in search of something that could help the drones living inside the bunker to fight against disassembly drones after her attempts to convince the workers to add more defences the the bunker failed. Khan saw her leave in the middle of the night and decided to follow her and, after almost being killed by a dozen of sentinels and a baby worker drone with parts of various deceased disassembly drones crudely stitched to it, is found by Nori. After being chewed out about having followed in secret in such a dangerous place and then complaining that he only did that because she left in the middle of the night without telling anyone and he was worried for her safety, they get attacked by more sentinels and are forced to run, but as they try to find an exit they get briefly separated and Nori gets hurt by one sentinel and forced to hide in a room.

A room containing multiple broken down cryogenic chambers with corpses inside... except for one.

Nori is shocked by this, she didn't expect to see a still alive human on Copper 9 after she... the Absolute Solver blew up the core of the planet. She stares at her in silence, not knowing what to do. Then one of her eyes shifts in the symbol of the Absolute Solver and she slowly puts an hand on the glass of the cryogenic chamber, preparing herself to kill the child: while she is an innocent baby, she's still a member of the race that turned her into a monster, and as such she has to pay for their crime...

Then Khan barges in the room and forces her to stop before she can kill the baby. When he sees the chamber he is shocked to see the baby floating inside it and doesn't know what to do, but isn't ok with the idea of killing her:

Khan: Nori, you can't kill a baby!

Nori: Of course I can. (Grabs a steel pipe from a broken down cryogenic chamber)

Khan: B-but how??? How you can kill something so... so...

Nori: Jeez Khan, it's not that hard to kill a baby. (Prepares herself to swing)

Khan tries to convince her to stop from killing the child, stating that she's the last human on Copper 9, she's completely harmless and she has already lost everything, while Nori claims that the baby will probably grow up to become like one of the humans that enslaved the worker drones and since she has nothing left on the planet killing her would be a better solution than remaining inside a cryogenic chamber until it breaks down. Khan then says something that changes everything:

Khan: What if we raise her?

Nori: What?

Khan: What if we raise her as our daughter? We'll raise her like a drone, so that she won't become like the other humans!

Nori: Khan, that the most stupid idea I've ever heard. How do you think you'll be able to hide to the other drones that she's not a drone? How would you manage to keep her alive since this planet doesn't have an atmosphere anymore? How you will justify things like her hair growing or her having the need to eat and drink? HOW???

Khan: Well, I've heard of special drone types that are completely indistinguishable from humans, and the bunker where we live was built to house humans in case of danger, so...

Nori: ...

Khan: Please Nori...

Nori: ...

Khan: ...

Nori: ... Fine, you won. You can keep the human.

Khan: I knew I could...

Nori: But I still think that's a terrible idea and because of this I won't help you raise her.

Khan: Oh.

(Nori starts to walk away)

Khan: Were are you going?

Nori: I'll go check if there are more of those lizard things around here.

Khan: Can you help me at least find a way to transport the baby out of here without deactivanting or damaging the (Khan realizes that Nori has left the room) oh, alright... No problem... I'm sure I'll find a way...

After slaughtering hordes of sentinels in rage, Nori manages to create a safe way out from the building but before she gets out she decides to go back and check if Khan is still inside that room. When she finds him she discovers that Khan managed to find an old but still functional generator and has combined it with the cryogenic chamber, allowing it to be transported, but has failed to move it of a single inch due to their combined weight. With the help of her AS powers, Nori, reluctantly begins to help Khan transport the cryogenic chamber to the bunker, all while Khan rants off his desire to teach the baby all about doors and tries to find a good name for her...

Also yes, Uzi does have some still alive human relatives off planet, but since all files about human workers have either been damaged buring Nori's murder spree or cancelled by JCJenson IN SPAAAAACE! in order to hide their secret experiments with the Absolute Solver none of them know that she's alive. I'm currently toying around the idea of making Uzi a distant relative of Tessa, but I'm not very sure to add that and even if I add that it won't be important to the plot.

[ifiamhumaniamperfect]

the rest of ifiamhumaniamperfect

i never really had a solid outline for this au, since its an interactive askblog the best way to 'plan' was to keep it flexible and react to the audience. that being said, i had a few notes of the 'main events' that would happen no matter what. i've put those under the read more:

-cesar's introduction: i was going to wait until someone tried to reach out to cesar (which did happen, i just never got the motivation to answer that ask) and show his reaction. unlike the first cesar, this one is NOT afraid of ghosts. in fact, he is VERY interested in the paranormal, and almost immediately calls mark about it. (another thing different about cesar i forgot to mention is that this version of him doesn't wear suits or dress shirts regularly, usually he just wears flannels or button-ups)

-while this is happening, altsar decides to look in a mirror (prompted by another ask i got) to check his appearance. and he notices that his form has gained more stability. it isn't PERFECT or anything, but its waaay better than what it was before. aside from a few inhuman details (usually on the right side of his face), he looks A LOT like cesar. eventually he would realise this is because he has stopped forcing his face to change form.

-as per someone's suggestion, he decides to try to perfect his voice. he figures out how to turn on ms.torres' radio and starts 'singing' along with it (he is not very good at it). he often gets a bit caught up in it, and doesn't even realize that ms.torres has gotten home until he hears her. he immediately hides, but he forgets to turn off the radio. ms.torres didn't see him, but she could have sworn she heard… something.

-(speaking of ms.torres!! her name is maría and i have an entire thing of notes on her and her backstory. which i will post later.)

-one time, altsar is so focused on his voice, because hes finally gotten it right, that he doesn't notice ms.torres has walked in the room. all of the 'imperfections' on his face are on the side facing away from her (his right), so she thinks he is cesar. shes confused, because cesar hardly ever listens to her albums, he has no reason to be wearing a suit of all things, and hes acting so /strange/. altsar manages to fumble his way through a conversation, and keep the left side of his face towards her as he darts into another room. ms.torres is absolutely bewildered by this, especially when cesar walks through the front door 20 minutes later. after this she begins to piece together that maybe the radio being left on wasn't just her being forgetful after all…

-quick sidenote: this was meant to be a video and i have a wip of altsar 'singing' to "i'll never smile again". its not very good because i am not very musically talented and i had to transcribe piano chords into individual notes. and also its unfinished. but i could still post it later if anyones interested in that.

-anyways, ms.torres is conflicted. while the idea of… /something/ being in her house very much unnerves her, and shes /terrified/ of something happening to cesar… she just can't help but think whatever (or whoever) it is seems… lonely. but very, very shy. so she pretends she hasn't noticed anything. until one night when the radio is playing an album she knows she didn't put on, and she asks the empty air if it likes frank sinatra, since thats usually what disc she finds in the radio. and while she gets no response, she brings home a new album of frank sinatra anyways. and when she finds the cd case open and the new disc in the radio later, she takes it as a success.

-due to this altsar gets a bit… bolder. he managed to fool ms.torres once (he does not know that he did not fool her. at all.), why not try it again? so he lets her see him again and just starts talking. and ms.torres knows that isn't cesar, and she isn't quite sure what it is. a part of her screams that the... thing... in front of her is dangerous. but another part of her knows that if push came to shove? this is not a fight she could win. a different part of her knows that whatever this is… probably doesn't want a fight, seeing how skittish it is. and beyond all of that, she also cant stand seeing something with her son's face looking so lost and so scared. so she humours it. shes on guard the whole time, but after seeing it-him relax and stop hunching his shoulders and stop looking like a corpse, she realizes she really doesn't have to be afraid of him.

-this is around the time that altsar realizes he likes hanging out with ms.torres, he likes spending time with a human. and he starts to freak out about it because he can't do that. he KNOWS he's going to have to end up killing cesar eventually, and that ms.torres will never forgive him for that. but… does he really want to? 'gabriel' never said He would kill altsar if he failed, just leave him behind. but does he really want to kill cesar and shuffle on to the next timeline to kill another cesar and repeat that over and over again? he doesn't. but he also doesn't want to get attached. he knows he can't keep either of them safe forever, its only a matter of time before another alternate decides to kill one of them (his sibling already made that choice for him last time, after all). he can't let himself get attached to a person he knows is doomed, he couldn't handle losing them. but… the anons knew he was doomed, and they didn't leave him. they knew it would hurt, but they still stayed with him. maybe… he can try. he promised he would try, after all, maybe he just needs to change what it is he is trying to do.

-while all of this is happening, cesar is pouring through every book on ghosts, spirits, and demons he can get his hands on. he is THRILLED that his house is haunted, and he is trying to get his best friend to help him catch a ghost. which is hard because although mark likes ghosts in theory, in practice he isn't going to touch a oujia board with a ten foot pole. except cesar already bought one, and is inviting mark over to his house. great. cesar is BEGGING him to help him set everything up and make sure nothing goes wrong, because although cesar is very enthusiastic about ghosts, he also very much believes in all of the risks, and is VERY cautious. and although cesar has gone on about how important it is that he has mark helping him, mark knows it's only a matter of time before cesar attempts to use the oujia board on his shoulders hunch and a constant anxiety to engulf him whenever he stares at a shadow too long. what is it?

-this is where my notes start to get vague. from there, mark and cesar start messing with a bunch of diy ghost equipment that cesar got together. altsar was kind of watching the whole time because, hey, there's that mark guy thats been mentioned before. he sticks around to learn more about mark but also because there's something… familiar about him. no, not him, something outside of him, that makes his eyes dart around and his shoulders hunch and a constant anxiety to engulf him whenever he stares at a shadow too long. what is it?

-eventually, cesar pulls out the oujia board. and altsar feels… drawn to it. it's dark enough in the room that if he's careful, they shouldn't be able to see him if he moves the planchette… so he starts answering some questions. he's had plenty of experience with that, after all. (during all of this, anons would ALSO be able to answer questions one word at a time via poll.) and at the end, cesar asks altsar to reveal himself (mark thinks this is a horrible idea). and altsar does.

-everything kind of goes to shit. neither mark nor cesar know about alternates at this point, but seeing a weird shadow monster version of yourself manifest out of thin air is. pretty unnerving. altsar does not really stick around, he only revealed himself because he felt drawn to do what they asked(in this world ghosts are drawn towards attempts at communication, and he is technically somewhat of a ghost). and now hes freaking out over revelaing himself. the one thing he WASN'T supposed to do. nobody is having a great time.

-from here the notes get. very very sparse. eventually they calm down and form a truce with altsar once they notice he isn't trying to hurt anyone. cesar is trying to keep his shadow clone a secret from his mom (who. already knows lol)

-and mark is… spending a lot more time at cesar's house. almost like he's trying to avoid going back to his own. and eventually altsar realizes whats familiar about mark: the alternate that killed cesar last time (his 'sibling') is haunting mark's house. that. is a problem.

-altsar FREAKS out, telling them about the other alternate and possibly telling them how he was. originally meant to kill cesar but changed his mind. which is a fun conversation. this ends in altsar FINALLY going outside. and going to mark's house to confront his 'sibling'. a confrontation he actually WINS this time! turns out he's pretty decent at fighting when his body isn't falling apart at the seams.

-eventually ms.torres 'finds out' about altsar (he probably just tells her and shes like "oh i know^^" and hes absolutely shellshocked. how could she see through his well-crafted and clever disguise????) and is finally let in on the loop. altsar explains the whole thing with 'gabriel' and she basically just goes "well what if you severed the connection you have with him?? would that work??" and altsar. is kind of mad at himself for not thinking of that sooner. because he CAN disconnect himself from communication with the anons. which is DEVASTATING. he doesn't want to say goodbye. but he has to.

-however, altsar realizes that severing that connection would ALSO cut off communication with the anons. which is DEVASTATING. he doesn't want to say goodbye. but he has to.

-and that's how the ask blog was meant to end originally. altsar says his goodbyes, and severs the connection to live a new life with the family he found. from then on everyone would be able to watch, but he wouldn't be able to hear anything said to him. it would be a bit of an 'epilogue' ig.

and that's it! feel free to ask questions about anything, i'm going to post some of the things i had sketched out later :)

[astuteabstractionist]

i forgot that "putting a post under specific tags" leads to "people looking at the specific tags will see your post". so uh, hi! im not great at writing or talking, but i hope those of you who followed will enjoy.

(very long ramble under the cut)

anyways, ive been exploring the east branch the past... week? i think? ive been absolutely enthralled by this area. im such a sucker for strange and nonsensical places. exploring the various random rooms feels like travelling in a dream. id love to get out some graph paper sometime and try recording my path like you would in an old-school dungeon crawler. i think itd be very funny seeing just how lost i can get.

the tape recordings in the vents are maybe my favorite part though. its always a joy clicking on a vent and having the brief russian-roulette moment of "will this be of relevance to what im seeing or will this be smash mouths all star?" ive been caught off guard by the louder version many, many times. it never fails to amuse me. i believe ive seen all of the logs, but with how much there is in this branch i wouldnt be surprised to find a new one.

the memories im still not done with. last i checked i believe i was at... 110 out of 294? im excited to find out if its possible to get all of them, and what happens if you do. it is very difficult to accomplish this im realizing, since the counter depletes seemingly at random. this might be an entirely fruitless endeavor, but im nothing if not always down for a good challenge :)

i think the most eyecatching piece of the east branch is the chatlogs between wodin and the intern. when i first read through the entire thing, and i was meant to descend into the coffin, i declined (there was a vent in the room and i wanted to get the popup out of the way to read the transcript) and was then unable to trigger that dialogue popup again... which left me stuck wandering the rooms until i refreshed. whoops. its alright though, just gave me another opportunity to collect some more memories.

on my most recent venture, the coffin was present in the center from the very beginning, and almost immediately after starting to explore, a window popped up with some messages to wodin from the closer. while i did very much enjoy reading the contents, it did take me... around twenty minutes to screenshot them all? it was slightly nauseating trying to scroll down, since it kept shooting me back up to the top of the log whenever i tried to read the bottom-most message :( i did manage to screenshot them all eventually though, so i was able to actually read them all. im still super curious what it mightve been that triggered those changes in that run! i dont think i did anything different, other than play on a friday. maybe that was it.

god, theres so so much more i could say, this might be my favorite branch thus far. despite how much ive seen, i still feel like i havent even come close to seeing it all!

oh whoof. i didnt realize how long this was, ill need to put all of this under a readmore. hm. tl;dr, ive been having a boatload of fun exploring the east branch. if you havent done so yet, i highly suggest venturing into it for yourself. its like exploring a kaleidoscope maze within a dream. 10/10 experience

[dayfalwastaken]

Reactions and discussions.

Mari stopped in her metaphorical tracks. How was she supposed to respond to that? Had she been human, she would’ve gulped in worry before rushing over to scoop the boy in her arms. As she was, she produced a soft chime and gripped the edges of her box, suddenly very mad over her confinement in it. She’d sensed that something was wrong the moment Matthew had begun reading that piece of paper. And now, out of nowhere the mask she’d gifted to him was spent and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. With a sigh and flickering eyes, she motioned for him to put the mask back on.

“What? No one is paying attention to us.” He said, likely referring to the glowing orbs of light in the mask’s sockets.

Mari shook its head, repeating the gesture but with a little more authority this time.

“…Fine.” Shrinking in on himself, Matthew did as told.

The Puppet tensed at his reaction before doing its equivalent of taking in a deep breath. The conversation they were about to have wasn’t one that should’ve been spoken out loud for all to hear.

“This is more appropriate if we want to speak.” It said through the mask. Matthew froze, doing a double take to make sure he’d heard it correctly.

“Wait- are you… talking in my mind? Like, telepathically?”

“Er, yes, that was one of the mask’s functions that I did not tell you about. I didn’t want to spoil what it could do from the get-go. I thought you might want to discovered them on your own since you like superpowers so much, but, well...” Mari shrugged. It only wished her child could’ve done so under better circumstances. “F-For the record I cannot read your thoughts, just communicate with you! I would never want to invade your privacy like that.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. T-That’s good.”

…Except that it had already done so by stalking following him to the Afton house. Oof.

“Right... Come on, sit down.” Mari tapped the right side of the box, picking up a Fredbear plush from the pile of presents behind it. “Take this, pretend you’re playing.”

“…Hearing you in my mind. It’s like I’m reading my own thoughts, expect they’re not really mine. This is so weird…” He mused as he sat down, carefully inspecting the plushie. Before the Puppet could say anything Matthew bowed his head in resignation. “So, I guess you’d like an explanation after that bombshell, huh?”

Mari nodded, placing a reassuring hand on his back.

“Indeed, but I am in no hurry.” The boy merely hummed in turn.

“No time like the present. Well, you saw most of it. Cassidy pulled me aside so we could talk. She told me about a weird dream that she had last night and how she’d woken up with this page in her hands.” He handed the paper over and reached underneath the mask to rub his eyes. “We tried to decode it or whatever, or, I did, and then…” His inner voice cracked, prompting him to fiddle with the Fredbear plush.

Mari gave the page a once-over, only to shudder slightly at the fact that she recognized the style of the text.

“Matthew, dear, this… This is in your handwriting.”

“Yup. Freaked me out too when it processed. But I know I didn’t write that.”

“…And you said the girl had this in her hands when she woke up?” She asked as she descended halfway into the box, wanting to conceal the page from any noisy onlookers.

“Mhm, only I wasn’t the one to place it there, as you can imagine.”

Mari read the first two lines and raised a brow in intrigue.

“What’s that word mean anyway? The phobia thing?”

“Eisoptrophobia, otherwise known as catoptrophobia or spectrophobia, is the fear of mirrors and other reflective surfaces, due to what those objects may reflect and distort. The question here implies that you are not afraid of mirrors. Is it correct?”

“It is. I’ve never been scared of `em, which makes the whole thing read like a threat to me.”

“Or perhaps a promise would be more accurate.” The Puppet suggested. “It can be hard to tell the tone in writing, but given how hostile this clearly is, I agree. I cannot think of any other terms that would fit this better.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly eager to find out what being afraid of mirrors means.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. At the very least, just know that I will be there no matter what comes our way.” Mari said, sounding a tad less hopeful than it had intended.

“I know, Stripes. I know…”

She moved on the next paragraph.

It’s a vicious cycle, you know. But then, most things in life are. The pendulum swings one way, then it swings the other. Now we return to darkness. Something terrible is coming.

Where did she know this from? It looked like a passage one might find in a poem, but a quick search through her memory disproved her having ever seen this specific piece. So if Mari hadn’t read it before, why did it seem so familiar, like she was supposed to have heard it somewhere?

“Just reaffirming what we already knew,” because of course it would “is what I gather from this second one.” Matthew chose to stay silent.

She turned the page, happening upon a spiral of sentences that also appeared to form a quote. A short analysis later and she was met with a ping from her memory banks, the excerpt’s origin having been found. It was a shortened dialogue section from the story “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” by Conrad Aiken. A tale about a young boy growing to like the daydreaming reality of snow better than the real world, distancing himself from his parents as his mind withered away from illness. One of the many stories her maker had scanned to train her past self’s AI.

The quote’s origin was further proof the paper had been for her dear child, and not the girl. So why this quote in particular, why from that story and why were some of its sentences removed? It was deliberate enough, evidently, and with a deeper purpose this time. Not just a random attack born out of rage like those of the past. Neither was it a simple intimidation tactic, a direct “I will kill you”. There was a message here, but what? What was the Shadow monster’s reason for breaking character with this page? What context was the Puppet missing here?

Why, why, why… So many questions, Mari pondered warily.

“Does the last part- the spiral mean anything to you?” He asked the boy. Matthew took a moment to reply.

“Uh, no. I figured it was like a snippet from somewhere but I didn’t recognize it. Just kinda took it for what it was. If there’s a message in there I can’t see it. All I’m reading from that is an ominous, cryptic threat, but that’s about it. Why, you figured something out?”

That was only a half truth, but Mari didn’t comment on it. Now was not the time to make a big deal out of nothing.

“Partly. That portion was ripped straight out of a story, yes, but... Why it was chosen and what you’ll be told, if we were to take the text literally, I do not know. I’m sorry.”

Matthew shifted on the star-spangled carpet, facing up at the Marionette with a lamenting shake of his head.

“I know that look. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re not omniscient.”

The Puppet did not answer him, choosing to mind the little girl that had come up to the box asking for a present. A sweet thing no more than five or six years old, with red curly hair, blue eyes and wearing a flowery dress. Impressed that she had mustered the courage to come up to Mari on her own, the Puppet gracefully handed her a gift from its pile, patting her head as she left.

The sounds of delight from the girl as she opened her present earned a tinkle out of Mari, her music box reverberating with innocent joy.

The Puppet crossed her arms and dropped the paper on the box’s floor. She leaned on the edge, mindful to keep the wide porcelain smile from cracking.

“I cannot imagine you being so shaken up from something like this,” it began earnestly. “because you’re stronger than that, so I must ask: What was it really that got you like this?” It poured as much warmth into the inquiry as possible, not wanting the boy to feel like he was being judged for his moment of weakness. It wouldn’t dare commit such a sin. To reduce his worth based on… outside factors and unpredictable outcomes- no. No way. He meant to much for Mari to ever think less of him.

“Would you believe me if I told you?”

“Dear, I am a jester robot a few degrees into self-awareness. Ghosts are a reality and so are shadowy monsters that cause bad dreams. A couple months after my birth I was told of the afterlife’s existence. Heaven, Hell and all that nonsense. This is an awfully ridiculous world we live in, Matthew. I’ll believe anything you tell me.” The Puppet shot him a playful wink, easing the air between them.

In spite of himself the boy giggled, rubbing the back of his head.

“Right, stupid question. Well…”

[tokiro07]

[This was going to be my Undead Unluck review, but this one unrelated section got really long, so I’m making it its own post]

I’m absolutely loving that it’s only been two issues since Undead Unluck’s last color page, this is a much better indicator of its popularity than the table of contents

For those unfamiliar, the table of contents was once (and might still be actually) widely believed to be organized based solely on popularity, with the most popular manga of the previous week being at the front and the least at the back. While it is true that the more popular series tend to be closer to the front and the least tend to be in the back, it’s not a hard and fast rule. The placement is determined by the editor-in-chief to reflect what they believe will be the best reading experience, which is why you’ll often see comedies or gag manga in the very back. True, the manga that get canceled are pretty much always in the back three, but that isn’t indicative of the rest of the magazine

Getting a color page at a seemingly random time, though, especially after they literally JUST got one, is a pretty clear sign that Jump is putting a lot of stock in this one. You also may notice that in the group shot issue covers, Andy and Fuuko are often near the middle rather than up front or in the back

The Christmas issue illustrates this phenomenon particularly well since everyone is lined up so neatly:

Jump’s current top-tiers are in the very front with One Piece taking the lead (as always) followed by BNHA and JJK, as they’re effectively the current Big Three

The next row is headed by Black Clover, which was superseded by JJK, flanked by breakout hits Sakamoto Days and Blue Box as well as classic HxH and legacy creator Matsui Yuusei’s Elusive Samurai 

In the third row are the strong sellers and up-and-comers; Roboco’s anime started recently, while UU, Mission: Yozakura Family, and Mashle all have upcoming anime. Their sales figures haven’t matched the previous row just yet, but they’ve proven themselves to have staying power and can be expected to see a massive uptick in sales once their anime out come (assuming their anime are actually good). Akane-Banashi and Witch Watch are also strong contenders for how relatively recent they are compared to the others in their rows, but aren’t yet the center of attention (as UU and Roboco are for this tier)

The fourth row are the newbies, Cipher Academy, Ichinose Family’s Deadly Sins, and Fabricant 100, which are just too new to have really established themselves yet. They have no volumes to have sold yet, so there’s no sales figures to determine their popularity, so there’s no sense in putting them more forward just yet. This is in contrast to PPPPPP, though, which has been around a little longer than Akane-Banashi but just hasn’t seemed to have made nearly as much of an impact. It’s not hopeless or anything, but it’s definitely not being received as well

The fifth row is made up of relatively young series, but not necessarily the youngest; Tokyo Bride Story and Ginka & Gluna have been around long enough that their popularity poll results should be known to the editors, so for them to be behind the newcomers suggests that Jump staff puts more faith in the newcomers than them. Ichigoki’s Under Control, which debuted in the same batch as most of the previous row, is a little harder to pin down since there’s really no good way to compare its popularity objectively, but my guess is that the general reaction was weaker than its immediate contemporaries. Of the three, it’s the least likely to get canceled, or at least would be the last of the three to be, since it’s younger and hasn’t had a chance to prove itself one way or the other

Finally, floating above the rest is High School Family, which as I’ve said is often found in the back because of its status as a gag manga. “Finish with a laugh” is the mentality that the EiC of the past liked to run the magazine with, and I believe that the editor changed in the last couple of years, so it seems that the new guy has inherited this philosophy. This was the case with this author’s previous work, Isobe Isobee Monogatari, so it’s really not surprising to see him taking up the same role again. That’s not to say that High School Family is definitely popular, but I’m willing to bet that it’s above the fourth row’s level if not on par with the third’s. I can’t see it being on the second’s though, cus if it were it would probably be given more attention than it is, possibly even with something else as the tail-end manga

Of course, this isn’t empirical evidence or anything, but I’ve noticed it as a bit of a trend over the last several years. At the very least, Undead Unluck has been consistently getting more and more attention with each of these covers, so once the anime comes out, I wouldn’t be surprised to see it jump up to the second row. Hell, Black Clover already lost its spot to JJK, it’s not impossible (though definitely not likely) that JJK will lose out to UU. I’d certainly appreciate it if my favorite series got to be a part of the Big Three before it ended, though maybe that’ll be dependent on one of the current ones ending

Actually, come to think of it, all of the Big Three have explicitly stated that they’re ending soon; even if you consider One Piece to be separate and have the Big Three as Black Clover, JJK and BNHA, they’re still all heading towards their conclusions. If UU holds on long enough that one of them leaves, it would be very easy to see it filling the void if the anime is received well, but that goes for Sakamoto Days and several others on that level as well, so we’ll just have to wait and see

[hislittleraincloud]

Read it, liked it, here's my thought/slight disagreement about Bea.

In the OG script, she says that they can't afford a lawyer, which means that she isn't as well off re: writing as she'd like to be, either. When I think of them as a couple, I have this feeling that Jon probably did the same thing to her as he did Cairo: Elevated the writing, sacrificing his own ambitions out of love (remember he said, "Ten points to Slytherin" in the restaurant...which means he perceives her as embodying Slytherin traits of cunning and ambition). Her alcoholism likely comes out of not being as famous or as well off as she thought they might have become, as well as watching the writer [that she thought at the time was as wonderful as Cairo saw him] wither under shitty reviews: Under adversity***, Jon is weak, and that's what ticks her off (and ticks Cairo off), and why both of them basically challenge him to write about the current situation.

Jon didn't write to become famous (so no, Cairo, he didn't think he was gonna be 'hot shit'). He wrote out of love. The dedication of A&A slaps us in the face with it. And when someone (three someones) shat on his work, they shat on his expressions of love, and he couldn't bare putting that out there again bc he loved Bea. However, we can only speculate how Bea was pre-alcoholism and how she reacted when his stories were panned.

Interestingly enough, Beatrice is the one who recognizes the situation with the clearest head of ALL the characters within the whole context of the movie: "It's a short story, Jon. It's not the Communist Manifesto."

Realistically, it is a short story. No one put a gun to Cairo's head, or even suggested, that she write and submit porn as her midterm (though when Cairo said, "it's everything" when they chatted about it in the classroom before the weekend, he should have stopped and said, "Hopefully not everything, keep it clean, kiddo"...but he didn't, and that was his real mistake). That any administrative figure at a school or the school board would even think that it was anything more than a teacher crush smut piece that a horny teenage girl wrote on her own is literally insane, realistically. It is an "invention of conflict" to her, since Cairo is 18, legally an adult, and she knows that normal people wouldn't and couldn't see the paper as something that Jon was actively involved in, in terms of its production and editing. Realistically, Jon has a very good chance of keeping his job, and realistically, Cairo should face consequences for attempting to lie about an affair (in the film, she lies abt the poetry reading, but in the OG script, she makes it sound like he directed her on the content AND sexually assaulted a minor...what a bitch!). Bea, unfortunately, has had her rough road and is exasperated by the time some "little bitch" (OG script, her words) came along to mess with Jon's life, and cannot handle that on top of whatever bullshit her agent is pulling.

All of that said, it's the "do the thing" part of the discourse that piqued me. I don't think it's entirely sexual. I think the whole photographic memory thing is delightful for anyone to hear, but his "thing"/"party trick" is one of the more attractive things about him to her. Wouldn't it be? Look how Cairo reacted to it. But it was Jon's reaction to (Cairo) doing the same thing that made Jairo's connection solid — Bea has no clue that Jon had found another eidetic.

One thing people don't tend to mention is that being able to recall things like that is very, very special...and very lonely. So while Bea says all sorts of dismissive stuff about the both of them from dismissing Cairo's vocab to dismissing the turmoil caused by his sudden spark of conscientiousness, she is without the knowledge that they're such an alike pair, and without regard to just how lonely Jon had been throughout the ~15 or so years they've been married, and after his book was trashed****. And she wouldn't have known nor cared to ask, given her own preoccupations. She was very right...he wanted her, and it is written all over his face.

I love all of the messy characters in this movie, and yeah, I love Bea too as a character. Such a bitch, but also damaged by roadblocks to her own ambitions.

I just wish @thisolddag would come back to Tumblr so we could all tell her how much we appreciate the performance, bc gawd DAMN, Dagmara's performance was pitch perfect. I loved every second of it. Loved both hers and Gideon's performances the most.

***As an aside: The biggest part that I don't understand about re: Bartlett's shitty decisions, is to change the word 'adversity' to that of 'achievement'. This is one of the most egregious changes, because it changes the whole tone of what Cairo's supposed to be writing about. If JHB had kept it as 'adversity', it would have fit in with the message she was trying to impart.

Jonathan Miller teacher, writer, human being.

And with this welcome to our Miller's week.

See today's blog on Miller and have additional thoughts from guest blogger Michy

[franz-katka]

I made a classic lit alignment chart not too long ago based on suggestions given by some of my friends. destroy me and my takes.

some rambling about each book on the chart is under the cut just so this post isn’t obnoxiously long.

1984: this is admittedly one of my favorite classics, but... man... Orwell’s writing style gets really grating at times here. I’m more fond of the characters than anything else. I might move it a bit to the left just because of the people who don’t understand what the book is about but continue to spout shit from it anyways to support their own beliefs.

Lord of the Flies: I have a soft spot for this book solely because of its nostalgic value. I think the community surrounding it is... weird?? to say the least?? so I moved it to the left because of that. I enjoy the levels of symbolism and metaphor present in it though, as well as some of the characters. Piggy deserves better though and is the best character. I love him.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: I actually haven't touched this book since middle school. (the friend who suggested this just happened to like this.) I find the premise interesting but admittedly remember too little to really provide much comment about it.

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: I think this book gets slandered too much. that’s my scathing hot take of the post. admittedly the use of vernacular made it difficult for me to understand the dialogue at times, it was definitely a welcome departure from what I tended to read up until that point.

Pride and Prejudice: I don’t even like the romance genre that much, but something about this book tickles my fancy... a lot. there’s a reason why this book tends to pop up on my blog when I post or reblog classic lit content. also, Elizabeth/Mr. Darcy awakened my love for girlboss/malewife dynamics, and I am VERY thankful for that.

To Kill A Mockingbird: I... actually don’t remember a lot about this book. I just remember its writing style not being the most enjoyable. I mostly remember it because one of my English teachers simped hard for Atticus Finch.

The Catcher in the Rye: to put it bluntly, I didn’t care much for the writing style or a lot of the characters, but... I think Holden Caulfield is neat and can be a poor little meow meow as a treat. I question people who simp for him but overall think he’s an interesting dude.

The Metamorphosis: hey look. a Franz Kafka work. I don’t remember if my translation of the work was the best in quality, but I do genuinely love pretty much every aspect of it. I think existential horror is neat! thanks Kafka!

Frankenstein: ah, Frankenstein... aka one of the few science fiction books I’ve actually read and enjoyed. I just think it’s a neat work with neat characters, even if I do believe it’s overhyped to some extent.

Fahrenheit 451: I have a soft spot for this book since it was the one that got me into classics in the first place, so I am... biased. I primarily have it a bit towards the left because I still feel weird about Clarisse’s death basically being retconned in adaptations of it, but the characters overall are pretty interesting.

The Great Gatsby: I’ve always found this book a bit overrated, even when I ended up reading it twice (once for fun, once for class). I found the characters a bit entertaining, but it was also a bit of a slog to read through. I rather enjoy the symbolism though!

Animal Farm: I don’t think I remember being particularly invested in the characters, but Orwell’s writing style does actually function well in this particular work. the plot is what stands out the most to me in retrospect, and I’d probably move it further to the right if I had more room in the chart.

Of Mice and Men: this book... is a doozy. I enjoy it for the content, but the writing style is... I don’t hate it - but considering how short it turned out to be in the end, I’m not sure if it feeling like a longer piece was a good thing or not. also, I hope it’s obvious I was running out of room on the chart. I’m not that mean; I promise.

[letterstotheflre]

my drug is my baby

summary: sirius is glad he was patient enough with you and takes part of what he has been craving most

warnings: daddy kink, a smidge of religious references, dacryphilia, overstimulation, fingering and oral sex (fem receiver), innocence/corruption kink

word count: 3.2k

a/n: i kinda hate this now but i think it’s because i read it too many times, idk || i think it's a universal experience to not being able to cum from your own fingers... right?? and we all know that sirius has a crying kink... also i think it’s so hot when they make you thank them for letting you cum, sue me!!

Sirius Black liked to believe he was a patient man when he needed to be.

He was known for being reckless, always jumping into the next adventure without much thought, ready to follow James wherever he went. Most of the time he spoke without thinking, especially if he knew his comments would make his parents red with rage. Sometimes he didn’t even mean what he said, he just spewed whatever progressive or controversial opinion he had in hopes of making his mother’s heart stop beating.

He revelled in making rash decisions, somehow always ending up being benefited by them. He never gave much thought to anything: always doing his homework last minute yet somehow still getting top marks, taking some jokes too far, never taking into consideration other people’s safety unless they were close friends.

Some may call him selfish, but he liked not having to put too much thought into every single action. He spent most of his childhood walking on eggshells, afraid of saying the wrong thing and being punished or worse, Regulus taking the beating for him. But now that he finally escaped the Black family, he enjoyed the freedom that came with leaving Grimmauld Place.

He enjoyed breaking rules and creating chaos. It made him feel mighty, knowing he had the power to make all of those choices, still coming out on top, and see how they affected certain people. Most applauded him, revered him for being so spontaneous and adventurous; others couldn’t stand him, complaining about his mean jabs and sometimes harmful pranks.

Yet he knew how to wait for the things he deemed important or worthy. He knew that it was best to wait for Euphemia’s cherry pie to cool down before eating it, to wait for three days after the full moon to make a werewolf joke to Remus, to wait a few hours after James lost a Quidditch match to suggest a quick trip to The Three Broomsticks. And he knew it was best to wait for you.

Good things come to those who wait, that was his mantra. Of course, most of his restraint when it came to you was because he cared deeply about you and your comfort, but his conscience also drove him to keep his hands to himself. Every time his hands were about to go under your skirt, every time he heard your breathy moans when he kissed your neck, every time you looked at him with pouty lips begging for a kiss and his fingers craved to squeeze your neck, he took a step back. He felt so guilty for tainting something that in his mind was so pure, so he just held you close and peppered your face with kisses until you giggled.

But the thought of you being so untouched and how bashful you looked when he teased you or someone made a sexual comment made him want to ruin your innocence. Something inside him craved to see you tainted, to have you writhing under him as he rolled his hips against yours while you clutched his shoulders. He wanted to take that holiness you had and turn it into something so sinful that there was no way for you to ask for redemption.

And when you opened the door and took the first step, who was he to deny you?

He dragged everything out. Since the day when he taught you how to touch yourself, he wanted to make you wait for every sexual act that followed. He wanted to see how long it would take for you to beg him for some relief.

So today during a lecture when you looked at him with glazed over eyes and begged him to help you relieve the strange ache you felt in your stomach since you woke, he decided to be benevolent and give you some relief. He swiftly moved his hand under your skirt (thanking God that most of your closet consisted of that particular piece of clothing and dresses) and pushed aside your underwear before his fingers made way between your dripping folds. He didn’t enter you, just played with your clit until you had to bite the back of your hand to muffle your moans.

But when you whispered a small “thank you, daddy” and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, the only thing he wanted to do was take you back to his room and press you to the bed until your legs shook and tears ran down your cheeks. His eyes quickly scanned the classroom to make sure no one saw or heard anything, shoulders tense because of your words. All he could see were students with their own glassy eyes as they listened to whatever the professor was talking about. Fucking tease, Sirius thought.

And now, as he watched you on your knees and clutching his leg, lips pouty and cheek nuzzling his jean covered thigh, he was thankful for being patient enough.

“Please, Sirius, they’re back,” you said. He knew exactly what you were talking about, but played dumb as one hand petted your hair. “What’s back, baby?”

“The tingles,” you explained.

“And you need me to fix it, hm?” A small taunt was evident in his tone. “Your hands aren’t enough anymore, right bunny?”

Your cheeks warmed up at the implication, nevertheless, you shook your head. You still managed to make yourself cum, but the way Sirius could play with your clit like an experienced musician and how his big hands moved your hips along his jean covered leg would never compare to your dainty digits. The thought of his big fingers inside of you was enough to increase the tingles, and your hands pressed down on your stomach trying to soothe the pain.

“Please, Sirius, it hurts so bad,” you whimpered.

“Use your words, angel. Be good,” he said. You looked up at him with watery eyes, your mind already slipping and not letting you form too many coherent thoughts. “Please, daddy,” you sniffled.

He kept petting your head. “What do you want, angel?” He asked, looking almost bored with the situation as he listened to your pleads. “Anything,” you whined.

He shook his head, mocking disappointment. “You know you have to ask for what you want, puppy.” Even though he wasn’t angry, honestly a little amused at your desperation, his voice was stern, trying to engrave his rules in your fuzzy brain.

Your hands squeezed his leg, “I need you… down there.”

“You need to be clearer.''

You closed your eyes. You hated being so crass, but Sirius certainly had no qualms about it. “I need you… in my pussy,” you got out. But it wasn’t enough, not for Sirius who longed to ruin every aspect of your innocence. “What do you want, baby? D’ya want my fingers or my tongue?”

“Both,” you whined. Bingo, he thought with a dark smirk that would’ve sent shivers down your spine if you weren’t absolutely drenching and desperate for his touch. “Up you get, puppy,” he said, “lay on the bed f’me.”

You got on the bed right next to him, your head laying on one of your fluffy pillows. Your dress rode up a bit with your movements, but it didn’t really matter, and you pressed your legs together trying to relieve some of the tension while you waited for Sirius to do something. He simply watched you, taking in the image of you wriggling in place and toying with the rings he bought you for your birthday.

You felt a soft touch on your calves, and it gave you a fluttering feeling in your stomach. Sirius’s hands were moving slowly up your legs, nudging them apart without needing much force since you complied immediately. You were about to burst, ready to scream at him to just get on with it, but decided to keep quiet.

One of his hands made its way to the edge of your dress, swiftly going under it and his fingers slightly grazing your clothed pussy. Your hips bucked at the soft touch, but then just as quickly as it came it was gone. “No, come back!” you implored, reaching for Sirius’s wrist but being too slow.

Sirius arched one eyebrow, “What was that?”

“I’m sorry!” you cried out, “M’sorry, I just need you so bad. It hurts.” But Sirius remained where he was, arms now crossed over his chest as he looked at you. His eyes were full of disappointment and you wanted to cry, “What’s gotten into you today? You were so demanding in class before, so bratty, I don’t think you deserve it at all.” He was stretching the truth, you were by far the least bratty person he had ever been with, but he couldn’t help himself when he saw how much his words affected you.

A few tears fell at his words, “No, no, m’not bratty. I’m a good girl, daddy. I promise I’ll be so so good, your best girl! I won’t ask for anything more, m’sorry.'' You were saying anything you could to convince him that you were still his good girl, his angel.

Your lips were quivering and your chest was heaving with sobs you tried to keep inside; babbling apologies and trying to convince him that you would never act like this again, and he finally took pity on you. His hands gripped your ankles and opened your legs so he could lay comfortably between them. He could see a dark patch on your lavender underwear, and he huffed out a laugh with a slightly amused shake of his head. “I forgive you, bunny, but you’ll have to take everything that I give you. D’you think you can do that f’me?”

You nodded eagerly, choking a small ‘thank you’ as you tried to control your breath. He grabbed the ends of your dress and bunched it up over your waist, not bothering to take it off. He licked a strip over your underwear and the combination of his warm tongue with the friction of the cotton cloth was enough to make you mewl.

Sirius could not deny that he had been craving to taste you once more after he licked your fingers clean that day, and now only getting a smidge of your taste from what seeped through your underwear drove him insane. He needed to taste you completely, so he quickly pulled them off and pocketed them in the back of his jeans.

He used his fingers to spread your folds wide open, staring hungrily at all the slick that had gathered. “Oh puppy, look at the mess you’ve already made,” he crooned. “Y’re dripping, d’ya really need me this bad?”

“Yes, so so bad. Please, daddy.” He was so close, his warm breath hitting your wet folds and making you tremble in anticipation.

You watched, using your elbows to raise yourself a little, as he slowly started to take his rings off. “Hold ‘em for me, bunny, don’t want them to get dirty,” he said as he slid his chunky rings into your fingers. The metal dangled a little because of the size difference, so you closed your hands to keep them from falling.

Finally, his tongue made contact with your clit and you sighed in relief. It was followed by a moan when he started to suck on it, making sure to swirl his tongue all around before slurping. He looked like a starved man that finally came into contact with some sweet fruit, moving his head around your pussy to have you gushing on him. The ache in your tummy was slowly decreasing, now replaced with a nice fluttering feeling.

Your whines and moans echoed through his ears, resembling the most beautiful angel choir he had ever heard. He pulled away for a moment, “I’ve been waiting to taste you for days, puppy. S’better than I remembered.”

The more he pushed his tongue inside you, the more your legs shook. You involuntarily closed them, your pillowy thighs acting as earmuffs around Sirius’s head. He let them rest there for a few seconds before pushing them open once more, adding more fervour to his movements, eager to drink your sweet ambrosia.

Your closed fists went to his head, and you opened them a little to grip his hair, trying to ground yourself. “Gonna cum, daddy, can I?” You breathed out. Sirius just hummed, sending vibrations that were enough to make you let go. You tried to close your legs once more, but his shoulders prevented you from doing so. You felt like you were floating, your brain shutting off for a few seconds before returning to earth.

But Sirius didn’t stop moving his tongue, one of his fingers circling your hole before entering you slowly. Just one of his fingers felt like two of yours, even though you knew it wasn’t an accurate comparison. The stretch this time burned more than when you touched yourself, and you whined while shaking your head. “Too much, s’too much.”

Sirius paused for a moment so he could press your legs to your chest with one hand while the other kept moving in and out of you. The sudden switch in position made you gasp, but not as much as when Sirius thrust his fingers hard. “Are you dumb? I told you you had to take everything I gave you. D’you want to make me mad again?”

More tears fell when he curled his fingers, expertly finding that spongy spot inside you that pumped white heat through your veins. The way they twisted resembled a musician fiddling with a harp, your needy whines accompanying them like the main act. “No no, I can take it” you gasped, drowning in bliss as his fingers kept hitting the perfect spots.

You were already so close, Sirius giving you no respite as he quickly pushed his fingers. Your hand gripped his arm, fingertips digging the ink-covered skin. “C-close,” you whined, eyes rolling back and mouth open as you felt the tension ready to break.

“Going to make more of a mess, angel?” he grumbled, and you tried to nod as much as you could in your constricted position. Sirius chuckled, “Dirty little thing. Go on, I’ve got you.”

You whimpered brokenly as he pulled another orgasm from you. It felt like his fingertips were scrapping your insides to drag it out, and your feet dangled in the air as you swung them while trying to grab his wrist to stop him from moving.

Sirius couldn’t tear his eyes from you, with your pretty tears dripping down your cheeks and your chest heaving with small sobs from how good you felt. For him, all for him and only ever for him, because no one had ever touched you like he has and no one else ever would. “You look so pretty like this,” he cooed. “God I love your tears, baby, look how hard you make me.”

Your eyes moved down his body—when had he taken off his shirt? His tattoos splayed over his toned muscles made you clench around his fingers. You adored the small drawings that covered most of his body, they looked so beautiful on him and you just wanted to cry even more at how pretty your boyfriend was. When your eyes moved lower, following his previous instruction, you could see there was already a bulge in his pants that you knew was his cock, and your mouth watered at the thought of it just resting against his stomach like it did the first time you sucked him.

“I wanna feel you,” you cried while stretching your hands to touch him. He let you, your soft palms going over his chest and grabbing his shoulders so you could pull him down. “Kissie,” you breathed, letting his lips hover over yours for a second before kissing you hard and messily. His tongue played with yours and it only added more fuel to the fire inside you.

A moan broke you apart when his fingers resumed their pace, “P-please, no more” you babbled, the stimulation too much to bear.

“How are you gonna take my cock if you can’t take my fingers, hm?” He asked and you whined, his fingers burying themselves up to his knuckles and making your eyes roll back once more. Your mouth was dry from being constantly open, whimpers and moans constantly escaping from the open cavity. “Come on, one more, I know you have it in you. My good girl aren’t you?”

The squelching sounds were so dirty and they rang through your ears,  yet even through your fuzzy mind you could discern the important words, “Y-your good girl,” you managed to get out with a smile, glad to be praised by him.

His other hand pressed down on your legs even more, and now you could see the way the digits moved in and out of you, a slight sheen coating the skin every time they came out. “God, you were right, bunny, you are tight,” he grunted, “I don’t think I’ll ever fit, m’gonna break you.”

At that, your eyes widened. “No no, you’ll fit, daddy!” But he just chuckled at your desperation, “M’gonna break you in half, angel. Do you want that? Do you want me to split you open?”

A small chant of ’yes’ and ‘please’ echoed through the room. You could feel another wave coming, ready to wash over you as your toes curled in anticipation. It was like you were dangling on the edge, your hands holding on for dear life as you tried to hold on, and your moans grew louder and louder with every thrust Sirius gave.

Your clenching walls around his digits were warning enough for him, and he kept his eyes on your form as you struggled to keep it at bay, waiting for his permission. He watched as your ring clad fingers scrambled to the sheets, gripping them tightly as your head moved from side to side. “That’s it, bunny, let go f’me” and with one harsh thrust, you slackened the hold you had on your release and finally let go.

If you felt like you were still on your body you would’ve screamed. A white heat engulfed you as your vision grew hazy, your hips raising of their own accord and aiding Sirius in dragging your orgasm out. You looked so beautiful like this, a sweaty sheen on your skin and now tangled up hair sticking to your forehead. Sirius leant down, tongue cleaning the fallen tears before they dried, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you.

He grabbed your face, squishing your spit covered cheeks. “What do you say, angel?”

With a shuddering breath, you looked into his stormy eyes as he cleaned your release from his fingers with his tongue. “Thank you, daddy.”

You tried to lower your legs, but Sirius kept them in place. You stared at him, confused, yet he was staring at your puffy cunt, all shiny and stretched out for him. A smirk covered his lips as he finally looked at you, “I think y’re finally ready for m’cock, angel.”

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