#Overt Attachment

[iwontusethis255]

Infinity Train theoretical Book & OCs! (long ass post)

INFINITY TRAIN BOOK ???: OVERT ATTACHMENT

Meet the cast!

Renae (They/Them) got on the train at the age of 16, 10 whole years ago, in that time they managed to make friends and adjust to life on the train. Every time their number hits 0, they're struck with such intense fear of going back to the real world and its real problems that the number shoots up. Shortly after arriving they lost their hand, and managed to find...

Liv (She/Her) is Renae's best friend, their left hand gal! she's a living car who gives a glob of her shapeshifting form as a replacement hand for Renae. Renae was actually the one to name Liv! She's eternally grateful for Renae coming into her life, best friends, through thick and thin.

Battrick (He/Him) is also there. A recent member of the dynamic duo, met in The Haunted House Car, Battrick is on a search with the others to find the scariest things he can to improve his house! He has ignored Renaes suggestions of mushrooms and pirates.

Episode Overview!

Episode 1: The Magician Car

Renae and Liv are on their typical trek when something goes wrong.

(Setup, shows the typical dynamic duo interaction between the two as they take down an evil magician guy, until The Living Car is moved far away, and they have to get back)

Episode 2: The Haunted House Car

Renae and Liv go through a spooky manor and make a friend.

(The two go through an unimpressive haunted house experience, and when Battrick, one of the denizens, asks for advice on what’s scary, Renae claims mushrooms and refuses to elaborate. Battrick joins them, hoping to find scary stuff outside the car. It’s shown how he’s not working well in the established dynamic, to Liv’s annoyance.)

Episode 3: The Catfish Car

Renae and Battrick have a moment on a shoddy fishing boat. Liv discusses with The Cat.

(Battrick asks Renae what they’re gonna do after they get off the train, and that sparks a conversation about their old home and the potential for a new one, as well as their past in general, with Renae mentioning they’re not a fan of boats. Cat strikes a conversation with Liv and is suspicious of how she talks about Renae.)

Episode 4: The Chillax Car

Liv and Battrick bond over video games and food.

(Renae finds friends in the car and hangs with them, to Liv’s annoyance. Liv and Battrick interact, with Liv talking about their frustration with Battricks addition to the group, but honestly reassures him that she’s warming up to him, and that it's definitely her just being ironically scared of change. Renae feels a bit bad for kinda ditching them, and apologizes, even though they aren't in the wrong. Battrick feels the need to reassure that, but doesn’t.)

Episode 5: The Telenovela Car

Renae and Liv put on a show.

(Renae and Liv are cast as romantic partners in a show, with Renae’s character revealed to be cheating on Liv’s. Liv’s acting reaction has a slightly concerning level of realism, talking about how she always had a feeling they were with the neighbour (Battrick's character) and yelling with tears in her eyes, her incredible “acting” catches herself, the others, and the audience off guard, but the audience adores the show.)

Episode 6: The Mushroom Pirate Car

Renae remeets a not-so-friendly face.

(Renae is back in the car where they lost their hand, and the mushroom pirate captain who took it is more than happy to finish the job. Liv is overprotective of them and underprotective of Battrick, to Renae’s concern and annoyance. Renae eventually takes down the captain themselves, without Liv.)

Episode 7: The Confessional Car

The three have to confess their feelings and sins.

(The three are forcibly separated, and made to confess in a freakily religious setting that physically cracks with every confession. Battrick says they’re unsure on how good Liv is, Renae eventually admits they’re a bit scared for Liv, and Liv’s is not revealed, but it’s clear it upset her.)

Episode 8: The Fear Car

The truth comes to light.

(The car seems to be a version of Liv, but way, way more hostile. When the captain shows up and they piece together that this is a fear themed car, Liv is incredibly confused and upset that they showed up as the main hostility. They then finally arrive at The Living Car, where Liv locks them inside.)

Episode 9: The Living Car

Liv snaps at Renae and Battrick.

(Liv separates Renae and Battrick, for Renae’s own safety, as she puts it. Liv is having a full on breakdown, constantly shifting and ranting, worried that they aren’t good enough for Renae and desperate to prove the opposite, with Renae trying and failing to reason.)

Episode 10: The Breaking Point

Renae learns to move on.

(Renae finally admits to themselves that their relationship with Liv is not healthy. After freeing Battrick, their number hits zero, but they don’t want to leave without talking to Liv, so they fight through the mass to her center, consoling her a bit before saying they wish her luck for the future and changing for the better, but they don't want to be a part of it. After they leave, she retracts and lets Battrick leave the car, and Renae goes forth on Earth looking for a new life.)

Other Notes

Each book has a genre and theme

Book One is a mystery about reality Book Two is an adventure about identity. Book Three is a tragedy about empathy. Book Four is a comedy about communication.

This Book is a horror focusing on moving on.

Each Book also has an irl classic book associated with it

Book One takes inspiration from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Book Two is basically Carlo Collodi's The Adventures of Pinocchio. Book Three has references to J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan. Book Four had nods and themes from Nikolai Gogol's short story, Nevsky Prospekt

Man, I wonder what book this one is based- OH.

Renae's Number is revealed to be 54, and stays as such in the majority of the story. Guess what 54 is in roman numerals :]. Go on guess :]. Renae's name also means "Rebirth", with their themes of finding a new life on the train and then leaving to find one off of it. In addition, before they met Liv they were taken in by the Mushroom Pirates and bonded with them, and when they were like "I wanna be a pirate too!" the captain replied "Ha, of course! but you'll have to LOOK THE PART!" and swiftly held down their hand with their hook for the amputation. If they succeeded in making them "look the part" they would have infected them with spores and fully turned them into a mushroom. This is meant to represent betrayal and manipulation that happened in their past as well as would soon happen in their future with Liv.

Battrick was created as an antithesis to Liv's ideals, and as such I chose an animal that apparently represents communication, long journeys, challenge, good luck, dreams, and fear.

Liv using part of herself as Renae's arm is to represent the emotional attachment to them in a literal sense, as well as her unintentionally girl-nipulating them to stay on the train, with her physically covering the (now floating) number. Liv as a villain is on a sliding scale between Morgan and Simon, in all honesty. shes unhealthily obsessed with Renae and wants nothing more than to always be in their life, and them to always be in hers. They NAMED her, they gave her a LIFE, if Renae leaves, what does that make her? She sees herself as an extension of renae rather than her own person, and in the end Renae does feel bad for her, and genuinely hopes she gets a better mental state, but they don't have to or WANT to be a part of it.

Bonus Funnies!

[mourn-and-watch]

one thing that especially irks me about cullen's so-called redemption is the attempts to redeem him through cole's words.

templars' abuses affected cole so badly it damaged his connection to the fade and his own nature. he was a spirit of compassion and witnessing what was happening in white spire turned him into a killer. he murdered lord seeker lambert in cold blood for what he did and most of the time he doesn't regret it — and then he just. drops the "he's not like the other girls" lines about cullen.

and this is such a lazy and annoying move. another thing that is established about cole is that you particularly can't lie to him — about your real feelings and intentions at least. whatever he states about other characters must be true and it is often used as a tool to deepen the characterizations of the main cast and in cullen's case it is just. blatant apologism. there's literally a banter where cole talks about atrocities commited by the templars and then he adds "oh no but cassandra and cullen aren't like that" and never elaborates. the game itself doesn't elaborate either.

like please don't tell me that the spirit who was shaken by knowledge that an innocent boy can die from starving because his jailors simply forgot about him would look in the eyes of a person who used to be meredith fucking stannard's right hand and still thinks that her methods were just a little too harsh but necessary and justified and say yeah. this guy is such a friend of mages. if only there were more templars like him

[mxtxfanatic]

Everytime I see someone in the tgcf fandom says that Xie Lian needed to be humbled and learned a lesson, I get so angry. A lesson for what exactly? Being a 17 year old who was optimistic and idealistic and correct in all of his ideas ? One who just happened to be a prince but wanted to help people with the power he had ? And 800 years of misfortunes is not a lesson, it's just more trauma and his character development in the present is unlearning some of the way he dealt with said trauma during those 800 years.

Also that idea is what Jun Wu has been trying to do to Xie Lian for 800 years, why are we,as a fandom, following the antagonist's lead on that one ?

“Being a 17 year old who was optimistic and idealistic and correct in all of his ideas?”

Yes, this is what people are mad about 😭😭😭 A teen was idealistic about the world and said that people are capable AND willing to do and be better when given the chance and resources and without outside manipulation, the narrative proved him right in every way during every arc, and fandom has hated him ever since.

[darthfoil]

"Initiative doesn't just mean showing up. You have to engage with people once you get there" - Marisa G. Franco, Platonic: How the Science of Attachment Can Help You Make--and Keep--Friends

She goes on to talk about Overt Avoidance, which is not showing up, and Covert Avoidance, which is physically being at a gathering but checking out mentally. This reminds me of a lot of my students since the pandemic. They are physically in the classroom but they don't participate and find it really hard to engage because the time in isolation avoiding COVID stole a lot of their social skills.

Franco discusses further "When you no longer avoid what you fear eventually the anxiety dissipates but consistent avoidance crystalizes the fear" - ibid

[pinkfey]

since we're on the topic of mandated besties i wanna talk abt dana and liara bc i tripped the other day and got really into them

[reidmotif]

Check Your Window (He's At Your Window)

Summary: Reader discovers her window faces into the apartment of her very attractive building neighbor, Spencer. She's willing to do anything for his attention. He's willing to reward her for her efforts.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: voyeurism, lingerie, masturbation, slight dubcon (but for like 5 seconds i swear), nipple play, penetrative sex, apartment break-in.

Word Count: 3.9 k

Masterlist

It’s natural to believe you’re safe in your place of residency. You’re given locks, blinds, a security gate- all measures designed to invoke a false illusion of privacy. Of course, there are defects that no one can plan for that have the ability to shatter this illusion. 

Mine happened to be a badly placed window. 

Finding this apartment felt akin to love at first sight. It sounds dramatic, but I’m serious. Do you know how horrific real estate is these days? But when my eyes came upon piano oak flooring, the soft light of the day streaming onto a marble island, and of course, an in-home washer/dryer system, I was sold. 

Due to my inherent awkwardness around meeting strangers,  and lack of overt charm, I’d never been one to initiate introductions with my neighbors. I moved in quietly, packing up my life into neat little boxes and dispersing them throughout the emptiness of my new space. It was only then, when I realized a strangely placed window that seemed to fall exactly where I’d wanted my bed to be. 

And while examining my outlandish situation, I saw him. 

I didn’t want to assume he’d been watching me. I wasn’t paranoid like that. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to give off the aura of, for lack of better words, a creep,  so the quick aversion of my eyes from his gaze felt instinctual. Curiosity won over me a millisecond later, though, and against my better judgment, I quietly peered into the window again, wondering if the man in the glass had slipped away, or had looked away from where our eyes met last. 

What I hadn’t anticipated, however, was to be met with the unflinching stare of his eyes, far from concerned with how he came off, holding his gaze with an almost disconcerting and defiant presence. 

He gave me a subtle nod, before walking away, disappearing from view. I was left feeling.. unsettled. But also strangely thrilled. There was a certain peculiarity in knowing you were susceptible to an audience at any given moment. I vaguely recalled social facilitation as a possible explanation as to why the concept roused me the way it did, but whatever it was, I didn’t feel compelled to attach curtains or any kind of barrier to avoid the phenomenon. 

While my thoughts occasionally drifted to the man, I didn’t actually know anything about him. He lived in the building beside mine, so we didn’t even share so much as a landlord. I truly never expected to gain any insight on him besides the location of his domicile in relation to mine, and the thought didn’t bother me by any means.  I was completely fine with letting our connection stay as severed as it was. 

Fate, on the other hand, had other ideas. 

I found myself a few weeks later, struggling with an overstuffed grocery bag in front of my building, and in a terrible game of mismanaged weight and the flimsiness of grocery-store plastic, my bag gave way, scattering the contents of it across the ground. Further misfortune plagued me, as the bag in question had been holding a good pound of lemons, that rolled quite far from where I’d been standing. I immediately dropped to the ground, trying to gather up the ones by my feet in my arms, and noticed a presence nearby doing the same and bringing the runaway citrus to me. I was thankful, and was ready to express my gratitude to the helpful samaritan, until I saw a flash of recognition collectively pass over our faces as we made eye contact. 

Him. The man in the window. 

“You dropped these.” He says, his voice a little quieter than I’d expected from him, and I nod. 

“Yeah, no. It’s these bags. Not really equipped to hold a pound of lemons.” I say, trying to gather the rest to my chest, our eyes still trained on the other. 

“Can I ask why a pound of lemons?” He asks, a sort of playful lilt in his voice. 

“Lemonade.” I say, almost immediately. 

There’s a bit of confusion that flashes over his face. “Are you making a joke?” He replies, furrowing his brows a bit. 

I realize that my response might’ve come off as too deadpan, and I shake my head to correct his misconception. “Oh, no. I’m serious.” I say, offering a grin.  “I love lemonade. There’s a work party I’m attending, and I offered to make some for the office. Hence, the lemons.” I continued, gesturing at the aforementioned fruit, and feeling myself ramble slightly, but it didn’t seem to offend the recipient. 

“That.. is a surprisingly normal response, given the situation.” The man says, nodding. “I love lemonade too.” He adds. 

There’s a bit of silence as we both picked up lemons together, the man more focused than I on the task. I took the oppurtuinity within the lull of our conversation to truly examine the man, finally no longer separated by a pane of glass, and my observations all seemed to point towards one glaringly obvious conclusion. 

The man in the window was hot.

He appeared older than me, yet his age did nothing to diminish the beauty of his features. His doe-like eyes seemed to shine with the same curiosity that I felt towards him. His hair was a bit longer than I’d expect from a man his age, but it suited him. The smooth slope of his nose had a certain charm to it, and his cheekbones were impossibly sharp. I wanted to run my thumb over the bone, and kiss him senseless until we could barely remember our own names. 

“I’m (Y/N). You’re free to come over.” I say, a little more rushed than I’d wanted to. “For the lemonade, of course.” I add, trying to not drop the ball when it came to inviting this gorgeous man over to my apartment. 

“Spencer.” He replies, offering his name to me. “I'll keep it in mind.” He says, smoothly. He flashes me a kind smile as he places the last of the lemons into my other bags or directly into my hands. 

I’d hoped “I’ll keep it in mind” meant “within the next few days or so” but waiting seemed futile after a certain amount of time had passed. He never came, and I even stopped seeing him as often through the window in passing. In hindsight, it was rather naive to genuinely expect a near-stranger to come to my apartment, on account of an invitation that could have been interpreted as a thinly-veiled proposition.

It felt a bit dull, his lack of interest. I’d had a taste of his attention, and for some reason, I was hooked. It was irrational, and illogical, but I couldn’t help the desire I felt simply at the thought of this man. And in a mixture of perversion, desperation and pure brainlessness, I tried to use the one thing that had rarely failed me in the past. Sex. 

I reasoned by telling myself it wasn’t like it was guaranteed he’d see me. 

And it wasn’t as if I was standing directly by the window, exposing myself for his pleasure, and his pleasure only. So hey, if he saw my figure adorned in lacy lingerie in passing, and felt compelled to act on that in any way he chose, well. No harm, no foul, right? 

So that’s exactly what I did. To my benefit, it was one of the hottest summers D.C had ever had, so the lack of clothing worked in my favor.  I’d always felt quite confident in my own skin, so lounging around in bras, panties, barely-there cover-ups around my apartment didn’t strike me as the oddest thing to do.  I felt comfortable, and in turn, possibly seducing the man in the window. Win-win. 

And “win” I did, in some way at least, because I noticed the arrival of lingerie correlated in a sudden uptick in the times I’d see Spencer taking a longer-than-normal glimpse into my apartment. It was fucking exhilirating, to have his regard in this strange, taboo way. I’d find myself imagining him, surrounded by a sea of sheets and pillows slowly stroking his cock to the images of my scantily-clad body. I had no real way of verifying if this was the actual case, but the fantasy was enough to bring heat to my cheeks and an ache in my panties. 

It started to drive me a little crazy, however, when after a week of this,  literally no tangible reward came from the fruits of my labor. While I’d enjoyed his eyes on my form, that seemed to be all he was capable of. He seemed completely at ease with just watching (to my utter dismay) and it seemed the action I wanted him to take was sorely out of reach. 

Reflecting on his shy, soft demeanor from the one time we’d spoken, I concluded that he might not be as forward as I am. It made sense; he never seemed to have visitors in his apartment and, seeming to be in his 40s without a stable partner, he probably wasn't accustomed to a woman's attention in this way. He didn’t exactly exude “womanizer” anyway from what I knew about him, and I began to connect his lack of initiative to these points.

 It didn't deter me from continuing my attempts though. At best, I was at least providing a lonely middle-aged man some sorely needed imagery in the meantime. I’d always been a giver, anyhow. 

It’s reasonable to assume there’d be some payoff down the road, right? 

Wrong. I continued to wear increasingly revealing lingerie, going as far as just walking around naked once in a while. Nothing. I was a fucking saint at this point for continuing this for him.

It didn’t help that my mind insisted on taunting me with what I couldn’t have, as a moment of spare time in my day would constantly be preoccupied with thoughts of him in my bed, pinning my hands down and kissing up and down my neck. I’d imagine him pounding into me, or bouncing up and down on his cock, bringing us both to the throes of pleasure. I couldn’t halt the depravity of my thoughts, no matter how hard I tried.

What I also couldn’t stop, was the slow descent of my fingers into my panties one night, finding a delectable mess within them, signifying my deep arousal associated with the man. It’d been a long few weeks,  the smell of summer and heat encasing my apartment, and a profound craving I couldn’t resist. I breathed out a sigh of relief as I began rubbing the small nub, alternating between up and down motions, and then a slow, circular rub. Little moans poured out my lips, before I quickly shed my panties entirely, watching a string of arousal stuck to them, kicking them haphazardly to the side, wanting more access to my clit. 

My eyes naturally closed as I found myself lazing towards the precipice of release. Soft sighs and moans filled my apartment as I let my fingers rub a bit more desperately. I could see flashes of him again behind my eyes, his hand on me, instead of my own,  mirroring the actions I was performing. A gasp of his name came tumbling out of me as the image became clearer and clear, my eyes opening almost frantically as I felt myself closer and closer. 

That’s when I got the strangest sensation, and felt a pair of eyes on me. I jolted my head to the left, and saw Spencer, who was clearly watching at this point. His gaze was entirely trained on me, and similar to the first time he saw me, our eye contact didn’t deter him from his observation. 

I refused to let it either, and kept my gaze trained on him. I was entirely exposed. I wouldn’t have been able to stop my actions if I’d had a gun to my head. It just felt too fucking good. A moment more of eye contact from him, and I felt the familiar clench and release from my body, waves of pleasure wracking my body. I let out another moan, but not once did my eyes leave his, as my back arched against my sheets, a silent plea on my part being conveyed.  

Come here. What could you possibly be waiting for? 

I watched him disappear from the window as I finished, both literally and figuratively, and panted, wondering if finally, finally, my prayers and fervent supplications would be answered. 

After about 30 minutes, my anticipation was replaced with severe disappointment when I realized even after then, he wasn’t coming. I could no longer see him in the window, and at this point it seemed a little silly and pathetic to continue expecting him to come. 

Maybe he was just entirely sexually inadept. That could be a possibility, right? How much more explicit could I get than this? I’d masturbated in front of him! Albeit, through a window, but masturbation regardless! Was this seriously all he was willing to do? 

I roll my eyes at the thought. I came to accept that maybe, truly, there was nothing I could do to get this man to fuck me the way I deserved. Fine.

As I closed my eyes to get some necessary rest after my endeavors, I made up my mind that I’d buy curtains tomorrow. Fuck Spencer Reid, and his absolute inability to take any action in his goddamn life. Fuck this apartment. Fuck everything. 

Was I dramatic? Yes. Was I still right? Also yes. 

Despite the sour mood I’d taken to bed with me that evening, my dreams were anything but. The idea of Spencer Reid holding me down, whispering sweet and dirty nothings alike were all still incredibly tantalizing to my subconscious. I could hear his voice in my ear, soft pink lips brushing against the shell of my ear, a deep pressure imprinted onto my body, keeping me in my bed. 

“Wake up, sweetheart.” He murmured, beckoning me out of the peaceful cocoon of sleep. 

I felt a few more wet and warm kisses trailing up and down my neck, the sweetest sensation of pleasure being granted to me with every touch he gave. 

“Need you to wake up, pretty girl.” He mumbles. “You really are so pretty up close.” His voice is slightly patronizing, and it does nothing to help the excitation that was steadily growing inside of me. 

Suddenly, I became incredibly aware that the stimuli I was receiving didn’t appear to be a byproduct of my psyche, but rather- he was here? My eyes opened slowly to realize I wasn’t at all mistaken, the soft brush of his brown hair against my neck slightly tickling me as I came to. 

“Atta girl.” He mumbles, his lips still mapping out every inch of my skin. Out of pure instinct, a slightly alarmed moan came from me, still unsure if I was dreaming or not. Surely I had to be dreaming. I had to be, because how the fuck did Spencer Reid get into my apartment? Into my bed? 

“You want this, yeah?” He murmurs, taking a second to gaze down at me. I realized he’d been on top of me this whole time, and the pressure I’d felt in my dream was his skin on mine, trapping me in between his strong chest and the soft sheets adorning my mattress. “I know you do. Saw your little show and everything.” He breathes out, desperately, almost. 

I know I should’ve thought about it. Perhaps I should’ve pondered on the idea of letting a man who’d just broken into my apartment full access to my body as he pleased, but there was no time. He was here, and how could I have ever said no to that? 

There’s an equally as desperate and breathy, “yes” that escapes my lips, and before I can finish saying the word, he dives down, meeting my lips with his, absolutely devouring me with no hesitation whatsoever.  If I'd thought his previous ministrations were delightful, this was absolutely heavenly. 

I moan softly into his mouth, wanting to tangle my hands in his hair, or latch them onto his shoulders and sink my nails deep into the skin that resided there- anything to show even a semblance of control in this situation, but it seemed Spencer had already thought of that, pinning my hands against the mattress so tightly, I couldn’t have moved if I’d exerted every last bit of strength into it. 

“God, the first time- first time I saw you.” He mumbles in between kisses. “With those lemons. I knew they’d fall. Saw you through the window across the street and practically ran. Wanted to meet you so badly.” 

A small whimper escapes me, and I can’t help but get wetter at the thought. I knew he’d been watching me through the window, but the idea that I captured his attention, outside of my apartment, in the most mundane of situations only served to heighten the arousal I felt, my thighs rubbing together for any kind of relief. 

He notices the movement and grins, planting one last kiss on my lips before slipping down. His hands cup the backs of my knees, forcing me to spread my previously shut legs. 

“You had the prettiest voice.” He breathes out, examining my glistening heat. “Fuck. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound, screaming my name.” He leans forward, planting a chaste kiss on my clit that caused an incredibly breathtaking jolt through my body. 

“Spencer-” I moan, my head rolling back as I felt it, my back arching slightly. 

“Yeah, just like that.” He mumbles, clearly pleased. “Good girl.” 

His hands traveled upward from where he’d been situated between my legs and squeezed my breast blindly. It didn’t feel like it was for my pleasure, but rather that he was desperate to touch anywhere he possibly could. Anyone else, and I might’ve been annoyed with the incessant touching, but with him? 

 It was so fucking hot. 

“That goddamned lingerie.” He mumbles. “The things I wanted to do to you. Did you know that?” 

I looked at him through hooded lids, unsure what he meant, and he took my diversion of attention to quickly tweak one of my nipples, eliciting another surprised moan from my mouth. 

“I’m so much stronger than this, usually.” His large hands continue to squeeze and grope at my breasts. “But you.” He whispers, a hint of a growl making its way into his tone. “Had to push the limits. Practically begging me to come here and take you.” 

I let out a gasp as I felt his hands trail down my stomach, the cool touch of his fingertips causing the muscles to tense up there. 

“I’m gonna do it.” He whispers, his face only illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the open window, but I could still see the dangerous glint in his eye, thrilling me even further. “Fuck you exactly how you want it.” 

Before I’m able to react to the sentiment, he’s grabbing onto my hips and turning me over, a yelp drawn out from me. 

“Hands and knees.” He says, in an authoritative tone that doesn’t leave any room for any disagreement. I comply quickly, much to his elation. 

“You’re so good for me, yeah? Gonna ruin you. Just how you want.” 

There’s a hint in condescension in his tone, like he’s making fun of me for wanting to be fucked this badly, but I can barely pay any mind about it, especially when I feel his cock slotting itself betweet my folds, separated only by his boxers, a shaky moan coming from Spencer. 

I can feel his hands leaving my hips and the slight lean away as he quickly shucks off the fabric, and within the next second, he’s pushing into me, providing me with a stretch and fulfillment that was so much better than I could’ve ever imagined. It doesn’t take him long to set a fast pace, the sound of our skin slapping and the smell of sex permeating the room. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He moans out, and I let out similar noises in tandem. 

I can barely find it in me to stay coherent. I want to scream how good he feels, how big his cock feels in me, how close I was- but instead the only thing I could manage was the borderline scream of his name and loud sobs of pleasure, fully at the mercy of the man behind me. I can feel the way I clamp down on him, absolutely imploring him for as much as he could give me. 

“Gonna come for me, yeah?” He says, feeling the clench of my walls on his cock.  “Come on, pretty girl. Give me what I want.” He murmurs lowly, leaning down closer to my ear. His hand shoots out a moment later, beginning to rub my clit, similar to how I had been doing a few hours earlier as he watched me, and the memory and sensation of it is enough to hurl me off the edge, my walls tightening around his cock as waves of pleasure wracked through my body.

It seemed that was enough for him as well. I felt his hips still, and a sudden warmth at my deepest point. He let out a groan of relief as he thrusted once, twice more, and then pulled out, his cum slipping down my thighs as he plopped down next to me. I’d already collapsed the second he pulled out, panting as I came down from the orgasm. 

“You good?” He mumbles, wearily, and I can feel him moving aside my hair to kiss at my shoulder. 

“Mhm.” I murmur back, a small sigh of relief escaping me. There’s a beat of silence, before he breaks it.

“Tomorrow.” He murmurs. “Wanna go out with me?” 

I raise an eyebrow, turning at him with a playful expression- as playful as I could get in this state anyway. “Where to?” 

“Target.” He mumbles, still stroking my back lazily, his eyes shining with something less intense than lust now, but still enough to turn my stomach over with butterflies.

“Target?” I say, squinting my eyes. “Why Target?” 

“We’re buying you some curtains.” He says, a small grin appearing on his face. “And maybe a stronger lock.” 

I giggle at that, rolling my eyes a bit.  “But then you don’t get to see me anymore. I kind of liked what we had going on.” 

“I did too.” He whispers, his tone slightly vulnerable now. “But I like this a lot more.” 

A small smile plasters itself to my face as I nod.

 “Me too.” I whisper back, biting my lip. 

A mutual understanding passed through the both of us as we smiled at each other in the dark, and for a split second, I imagined myself possibly loving this more someday. 

All in good time. Right now, I was going to sleep, protected by his soft, strong arms. That was enough for now. We’d finally gotten what we wanted. 

woah!! trying to finally get back into writing semi regularly i see. i hope this was enjoyable. this is one of those pieces i'm kind of unsure about, so please, please interact if you liked it! likes, comments, reblogs, anything! or let me know if you didn't! i live for feedback of any kind. thank you for reading anyhow, i am very grateful for it <3

also lol if it wasn’t obvious i listened to “she” for fic inspo lol. linked below

[mossangelll]

Im absolutely enchanted with your yandere jinx....This brings the question tho....how would Yandere Jinx handle her darling being on her period? (I mynself am on my period and I kid you not- I feel worse than when eating taco bell)

yandere!jinx x reader on their period

honestly not as much of an overt yandere as usual - if you squint, it’s pretty much a normal jinx hc!

hcs like this which are more ‘slice of life’ are super fun and i would be interested in doing them for more characters (e.g. what they’re like when you’re sick) if anyone’s interested!

tysm for requesting

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

cw: periods, mentions of blood, mentions of kidnapping, sexual mentions but not in too much detail, slight noncon, reader isn’t referred to by any gendered pronouns but female anatomy is mentioned

yandere!jinx who can’t sleep without holding onto you during the night

yandere!jinx who reaches over for your body just to feel the cool bedsheet under her

yandere!jinx who notices the bathroom light is on and without hesitation believes that your escape attempts have finally resulted in a success

yandere!jinx who crashes into the bathroom to find…you, crying on the toilet with your head in your hands

“toots, i hope you aren’t thinking of making any stupid decisions.” her voice is still grumbly from sleep but it doesn’t manage to hide the underlying annoyance simmering beneath

you look up at her with pained eyes and that’s when she notices your underwear, pooled at your ankles and stained with blood

her eyebrows shoot to the top of her head and her demeanour softens like she was never mad in the first place

“oh! i didn’t know it was that time of the month.”

she sees how you wilt away in shame, arms crossed over your midsection, at such a normal bodily function and rushes over to cuddle you, toilet be damned

yandere!jinx can be a lot of things - overbearing, compulsive and downright abusive, but she knows that what you need right now is someone to comfort you

yandere!jinx who understands what you’re going through painfully well

yandere!jinx who still acts awkward around you for the first few periods you have when you’re in her captivity - the cons of relying on her sole father figure growing up

yandere!jinx who doesn’t trust you to go outside without trying to cry for help so she ends up getting essentials for you

yandere!jinx who doesn’t need to ask what kind of products you usually buy; she already snooped around your house before she took you and knows whether you prefer pads, tampons or cups, the kind of snacks you crave, whether you’re the angry or teary type - she knows everything

yandere!jinx who gets you a ridiculous pile of desserts she stole from some fancy piltie bakery just to make sure your cravings are satiated

yandere!jinx who washes any bloody sheets, clothes or underwear for you with her own two hands - not only is she gratified at how flustered you get, she wants to feel closer to you in any way possible and getting to do such intimate chores is honestly euphoric for her, it emphasises how you belong to her and her alone

yandere!jinx who doesn’t let you use a hot water bottle; she wants you to come to her for comfort, wants to be the one to hold her hands over your stomach and ease the cramps

yandere!jinx who gives you tiny drops of shimmer, not enough to get seriously high but enough to take the pain away

yandere!jinx who loves how your pink eyes match hers after she’s dosed you

yandere!jinx who loves to see you cry at something that’s not her because it means you won’t reject her attempts to make you feel better

yandere!jinx who hopes and prays that your cycles sync up so that you two become even more attached

yandere!jinx who massages your lower back when you complain about it aching, maybe even using special shimmer-imbued lotion she got from singed to aid her efforts

yandere!jinx who would love if their darling gets tender breasts around their period since she can cop a feel while using “pain relief” as her get out of jail free card

yandere!jinx who doesn’t care about any of the symptoms that you think are “gross” or “disgusting” - everything about you is perfect and she can’t find it in her to hate any of it

yandere!jinx who isn’t turned off by the sight of a little blood and tries to convince you to let her pleasure you, even if you are shaken up by the idea - after all, she heard that orgasms help alleviate cramps!

yandere!jinx who tells you all about her embarrassing period stories from when she was younger to make you feel better if you bleed through your clothing in front of her

yandere!jinx who becomes your personal jester if you’re bedridden; she tells you jokes and does a myriad of insane tricks that you can’t even fathom how she pulls off - it definitely gets your mind off of how terrible you feel

yandere!jinx who supports you every month and hopes that when you become accustomed to your new life, you’ll eventually do the same for her <3

masterlist

[ooooo-mcyt]

Another thing I adore about Third Life is how..neither Scar nor Grian ever wanted to get attached.

Grian is very overt about it. He calls Scar's plans stupid, he warns people to stay away from Scar, he tells everyone who'll listen that he wants out, that he'll leave as soon as he gets the chance to. Which I think was the truth, at the time. If nothing else, I think Grian truly resented the power imbalance, the idea that he had to do anything, that he was second to someone, especially someone so reckless.

Scar was more subtle. He's plenty friendly, and on the surface he was always gushing about their partnership, their friendship, but, well..Scar betrayed every person he ever spoke a word to in Third Life. I'm certain he planned to do the same to Grian. Scar is a salesman, pretty words are part of the gig. Grian knew better.

And yet.

At some point, Grian ends up, on yellow and technically free, standing on a platform above a war with Scar at his side, smiling and saying honestly that the two of them, together, are all that matter.

Shortly after, Scar stands with Grian's blood on his hands, like I suspect he always planned to, and suddenly changes his mind as he realizes that this isn't winning.

[infiniteglitterfall]

I guess this might be why the UK seemed to go so antisemitic so quickly

I'm researching the 1947 pogroms in the UK. (Actually, I'm researching all the pogroms and massacres of Jews in the past 200 years. Which today led me to discover that there were pogroms in the UK in 1947.)

From an article on "The Postwar Revival of British Fascism," all emphasis mine:

Given the rising antisemitism and widespread ignorance about Zionism [in the UK in 1947], fascists were easily able to conflate Zionist paramilitary attacks with Judaism in their speeches, meaning British Jews came to be seen as complicit in violence in Palestine.

Bertrand Duke Pile, a key member of Hamm’s League, informed a cheering crowd that “the Jews have no right to Palestine and the Jews have no right to the power which they hold in this country of ours.” Denouncing Zionism as a way to introduce a wider domestic antisemitic stance was common to many speakers at fascist events and rallies. Fascists hid their ideology and ideological antisemitism behind the rhetorical facade of preaching against paramilitary violence in Palestine.

One of the league’s speakers called for retribution against “the Jews” for the death of British soldiers in Palestine. This was, he told his audience, hardly an antisemitic expression. “Is it antisemitism to denounce the murderers of your own flesh and blood in Palestine?” he asked his audience. Many audience members, fascist or not, may well have felt the speaker had a point. ...[The photo of two British sergeants hanged by the Irgun in retaliation for the Brits hanging three of their members] promptly made numerous appearances at fascist meetings, often attached to the speaker’s platform. In at least one meeting, several British soldiers on leave from serving in Palestine attended Hamm’s speech, giving further legitimacy to his remarks. And with soldiers and policemen in Palestine showing increasing signs of overt antisemitism as a result of their experiences, the director of public prosecutions warned that the fascists might receive a steady stream of new recruits.

MI5, the U.K. domestic security service, noted with some alarm that “as a general rule, the crowd is now sympathetic and even spontaneously enthusiastic.” Opposition, it was noted in the same Home Office Bulletin of 1947, “is only met when there is an organized group of Jews or Communists in the audience.”

The major opposition came from the 43 Group, formed by the British-Jewish ex-paratrooper Gerry Flamberg and his friends in September 1946 to fight the fascists using the only language they felt fascists understood — violence. The group disrupted fascist meetings for two purposes: to get them shut down by the police for disorder, and to discourage attendance in the future by doling out beatings with fists and blunt instruments. By the summer of 1947, the group had around 500 active members who took part in such activities. Among these was a young hairdresser by the name of Vidal Sassoon, who would often turn up armed with his hairdressing scissors.

The 43 Group had considerable success with these actions, but public anger was spreading faster than they could counter the hate that accompanied it. The deaths of Martin and Paice had touched a nerve with the populace. On Aug. 1, 1947, the beginning of the bank holiday weekend and two days after the deaths of the sergeants, anti-Jewish rioting began in Liverpool. The violence lasted for five days. Across the country, the scene was repeated: London, Manchester, Hull, Brighton and Glasgow all saw widespread violence. Isolated instances were also recorded in Plymouth, Birmingham, Cardiff, Swansea, Newcastle and Davenport. Elsewhere, antisemitic graffiti and threatening phone calls to Jewish places of worship stood in for physical violence. Jewish-owned shops had their windows smashed, Jewish homes were targeted, an attempt was made to burn down Liverpool Crown Street Synagogue while a wooden synagogue in Glasgow was set alight. In a handful of cases, individuals were personally intimidated or assaulted. A Jewish man was threatened with a pistol in Northampton and an empty mine was placed in a Jewish-owned tailor shop in Davenport.

And an important addendum:

I've read a whole bunch of articles about the pogroms in Liverpool, Manchester, Salford, Eccles, Glasgow, etc.

Not one of them has mentioned that the Irgun, though clearly a terrorist group, was formed in response to 18 years of openly antisemitic terrorism, including multiple incredibly violent massacres. Or that it consistently acted in response to the murders of Jewish civilians, not on the offensive. Or that at this point, militant Arab Nationalist groups with volunteers and arms from the Arab League countries had been attacking Jewish and mixed Arab-Jewish neighborhoods for months.

I just think the "Jewish militants had been attacking the British occupiers" angle is incredibly Anglocentric.

Yeah, they were attacking the British occupiers. But also, that's barely the tip of the iceberg.

Everyone involved hated the Brits at this point. If only al-Husseini and his ilk had hated the Brits more than they hated the Jews, Britain could at least have united them by giving them a common enemy.

[jmkjournalblog]

Sweet thing (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3000+

Warnings: Manipulation, a lot of talking, sex.

A/n: The narrative can be choppy, I had to rewrite a couple of moments, sorry. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting soft, golden hues across the bedroom. Y/N stirred, her eyes fluttering open to a world that no longer required the timid facade she had so carefully maintained. Beside her, Agatha’s arm rested lightly over her waist, a tangible reminder of the game Y/N had played—and won. The bait was taken; now it was time to revel in the shift.

With a languid stretch, Y/N slid out from under Agatha’s arm, careful not to wake her. She tied the robe around her waist, its loose fabric falling just enough to hint at the body beneath without revealing too much. Her movements were deliberate, fluid, every step a quiet testament to the confidence she no longer bothered to hide. Her bare feet padded across the floor as she made her way to the kitchen.

In the serene quiet of the morning, Y/N moved with an elegance that bordered on the predatory. Her fingers grazed the countertop as she prepared coffee, the faint clink of mugs and the gurgling of the pot the only sounds in the still house. A satisfied smile curved her lips as she let her thoughts wander. Agatha’s growing attachment was palpable, her walls crumbling with every calculated move. Y/N could feel it—the pull, the inevitability of the older woman’s surrender.

The faint shuffle of footsteps broke the stillness, and Y/N glanced over her shoulder just as Agatha appeared in the doorway. The older woman’s hair was slightly mussed, her expression drowsy but soft with the lingering haze of sleep. “What’s she up to now ?” Agatha muttered, her voice low and teasing.

The sight before her made Agatha falter.

Y/N stood by the counter, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. The robe hung loosely around her frame, hinting at her curves but offering nothing overt. Her posture was confident, her weight shifted just enough to highlight the subtle lines of her body. But it was her smile—easy, knowing, and utterly self-assured—that stopped Agatha in her tracks.

“Good morning,” Y/N said, her voice rich and warm, her tone carrying a trace of playfulness. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes meeting Agatha’s with unflinching ease.

Agatha blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Y-Y/N?” she stammered, her usual sharpness dulled by confusion.

Y/N’s smile widened, and she set the mug down with a soft clink. “You seem surprised,” she said, her voice carrying a lightness that was almost amused.

Agatha leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms as she studied the young woman before her. “You’re not acting like the girl I knew.”

“No,” Y/N admitted easily, her head tilting slightly. “That girl was... convenient. You seemed to like her, though.”

“Convenient?” Agatha echoed, her brows furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/N stepped closer, her movements slow but not calculated—there was no need to force what was already unfolding. “It means,” she said, her voice dipping slightly, “that I’m done pretending.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened, her sharp gaze fixed on Y/N’s every move. The young woman radiated an energy Agatha hadn’t felt in centuries—a subtle but unmistakable authority that demanded attention. Despite herself, Agatha couldn’t resist pressing further. “If you’re done pretending,” she said, crossing her arms, “then what is it you’re really after?”

Y/N’s smug smile softened just enough to hint at something darker beneath. “I’m here to set things right,” she said, her voice calm but firm. She turned slightly, her emerald-green aura shimmering faintly as if drawn out by her own words. “There’s a balance to this world, Agatha, one that’s been shattered.”

Agatha’s brows furrowed, unease crawling up her spine. “Balance?” she echoed, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. “What are you talking about?”

Y/N turned back to her, her movements slow and deliberate. “Wanda’s little miracle,” she said softly, almost mockingly. “Her boys. They don’t belong here.”

Agatha’s lips thinned, but not from concern for the twins. Her sharp mind was already leaping ahead, calculating the potential damage Y/N’s meddling could do to her plans. “And what do you intend to do about it?” she asked, her tone edged with suspicion.

“They were made from chaos itself,” Y/N continued, ignoring the question. Her voice was steady and unyielding, carrying the weight of an absolute truth. “Magic like that doesn’t create life without consequences. They’re a tear in the fabric of what’s natural, and I’m here to fix it.”

Agatha crossed her arms, her expression hardening. “Fix it? You mean ruin everything I’ve been building.”

Y/N arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, Agatha,” she said, her tone laced with condescension. “This isn’t about your petty little schemes.”

“Petty?” Agatha snapped, bristling. “Do you have any idea how much work it’s taken to get this close to Wanda? To even begin unraveling her power?”

“I do,” Y/N replied smoothly, her smirk widening. “And that’s why I’m giving you this chance to rethink things.”

Agatha took a step forward, her frustration flaring into anger. “I don’t care about the twins, but if you throw off the delicate balance I’ve created here, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Y/N cut in sharply, her voice suddenly cold. The emerald aura around her flared brighter, crackling with an otherworldly energy. “Do you really think you can stop me, Agatha?”

The room seemed to grow colder, the air charged with a heavy, oppressive weight. Y/N’s expression shifted, the teasing edge fading as her gaze bore into Agatha with a terrifying intensity. “Do you even know who I am?”

Agatha faltered, her words catching in her throat. “Who are you?” she managed, her voice quieter than she intended.

Y/N stepped closer, her presence overwhelming as her aura expanded to fill the space between them. “I’m the natural order of all things,” she said, her voice low and resonant, carrying a weight that seemed to press down on Agatha’s chest. “The one who ensures the balance remains intact. I am Death.”

The declaration hung in the air, heavy and final, as though the room itself recognized the truth of her words. Agatha’s heart pounded, her instincts screaming at her to retreat, to run. But she stood her ground, her sharp mind struggling to reconcile the confident young woman before her with the cosmic force she claimed to be.

“You’re not just here for the twins,” Agatha said slowly, her voice tight. “You’re here to take control.”

“I’m here,” Y/N replied, her tone softening but losing none of its authority, “because chaos has disrupted the natural order. Wanda, her children, this town—it’s all a festering wound in the fabric of existence. And I’m the cure.”

Agatha’s mind raced. She didn’t care about the twins or their so-called place in the universe. What mattered was preserving her own plans, ensuring Wanda’s power remained within reach. But confronting Death itself? That was a gamble even she wasn’t sure she could win.

“And where do I fit into all this?” Agatha asked carefully, masking her growing unease with a veneer of calm.

Y/N’s smirk returned, wicked and knowing. “Oh, Agatha,” she purred, her voice dripping with amusement. “You’re clever enough to figure that out. You’ve spent lifetimes clawing at the edges of power, chasing the Darkhold’s secrets. I can give you what you’ve been searching for—if you’re willing to play along.”

Agatha stiffened. “And what do you want in return?”

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear as she whispered, “To play, Mommy. To feel your clever little mind unravel under my hands.” Her voice was a velvet caress, each word heavy with suggestion. “And maybe, if you behave, I’ll give you what you want.”

Agatha swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as Y/N pulled back, her gaze steady and unrelenting. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, the truth of what stood before her too monumental to ignore.

“You’re insane,” Agatha said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe,” Y/N replied, stepping back with a grin. Her emerald aura shimmered faintly around her, crackling like distant thunder. “But I always win, Agatha. And you? You’ve never been one to turn down a winning hand.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened as she watched Y/N return to her coffee, the younger woman’s smug confidence filling the room like a storm cloud. The word Death echoed in Agatha’s mind, and despite her centuries of experience, a sliver of doubt crept in. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but an acute awareness that she was no longer the apex predator in the room.

She took a deep breath, forcing her mask of calm back into place. “If you’re so powerful,” Agatha said, her voice sharp as a blade, “why do you need me at all? You could snap your fingers and undo Wanda’s magic, take the twins, and be done with it.”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “True,” she admitted. “But where’s the fun in that?” She turned fully, her robe shifting just enough to hint at the body beneath. “Besides, you’re useful to me, Agatha. For now.”

“Useful,” Agatha repeated, her tone flat. “How flattering.”

Y/N’s smirk deepened, and she stepped closer again, her presence almost suffocating in its intensity. “You’ve been circling Wanda like a vulture, waiting for the right moment to pounce. All that cunning, all that patience—wasted, if I sweep in and take what I need without a second thought. But if you help me...”

“What?” Agatha snapped, her frustration bubbling over. “You’ll leave me with the scraps?”

Y/N chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver through Agatha. “Oh, no,” she said, her voice a velvet caress. “I’ll make sure you get what you deserve.”

“And what do you think I deserve?” Agatha demanded, though part of her wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

Y/N leaned in, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “Everything you’ve ever wanted,” she whispered. “Power. Knowledge. Freedom from the chains you’ve worn for centuries.” Her voice dropped, her tone both teasing and commanding. “All you have to do is trust me.”

Agatha stared at her, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Trust wasn’t something she gave freely—if at all—but Y/N’s words struck at the core of her deepest desires. The Darkhold. Wanda’s magic. The chance to finally ascend beyond the limits that had bound her for so long.

“What’s the catch?” Agatha asked, her voice low.

“No catch,” Y/N replied, though her smirk betrayed her. “Just an understanding. You don’t get in my way, and I won’t destroy everything you’ve worked for.”

Agatha’s lips pressed into a thin line. It was a dangerous proposition, but then again, danger was her element. She tilted her chin up, meeting Y/N’s gaze with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “Fine,” she said. “But don’t think for a second that I trust you.”

Y/N’s grin widened, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “Oh, Agatha,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “That’s half the fun.”

Before Agatha could respond, Y/N stepped back, her demeanor shifting effortlessly into something lighter, more playful. “Now,” she said, picking up her coffee cup again, “shall we get started? There’s so much to do, and I hate wasting time.”

The dynamic between Y/N and Agatha shifted entirely after that morning. Agatha found herself caught between two versions of Y/N: the one who revealed herself as Death, with power and purpose that eclipsed anything Agatha had ever encountered, and the timid, naive girl that still charmed the other residents of Westview.

Y/N had resumed her sweet, bashful act effortlessly. Around Wanda and the neighbors, she giggled, stammered, and fumbled her way through conversations, her green eyes wide with innocence. She still burned cookies in the oven, still blushed furiously when Wanda teased her about her “crush” on Agnes. No one suspected a thing.

But when they were alone, that mask fell away, and Agatha was left grappling with the reality of who Y/N truly was—and what she wanted.

*****************

The door to Agatha’s home slammed shut, and she leaned against it, sighing heavily. It had been exhausting day of keeping up appearances, pretending to be Wanda’s nosy neighbor while Y/N floated around like a living contradiction.

She heard humming from the kitchen and followed the sound, finding Y/N there, stirring something on the stove. She was barefoot, wearing a flowy dress that made her look every bit the innocent girl-next-door. The sight was disarming, but Agatha knew better now.

“Rough day, Mommy?” Y/N asked without turning around, her voice teasing but soft enough to sound harmless.

Agatha groaned, rubbing her temples. “I told you not to call me that.”

Y/N turned, a wooden spoon in hand, her expression mockingly contrite. “Oh, but you liked it last night,” she said, her lips curling into a wicked smile.

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang, breaking the tension.

Y/N turned back to the stove, her naive persona snapping back into place like a mask. “I’ll get it!” she chirped, practically skipping to the door.

Agatha watched, stunned, as Y/N greeted Wanda with her usual wide-eyed enthusiasm, her voice bright and bubbly as they exchanged pleasantries….

A barbecue party. The invitation had come with Wanda’s usual saccharine smile and a firm insistence that Agnes and her adorable little “crush” Y/N come as a pair.

“Oh, we’ll be there,” Y/N had chirped in her shy, bubbly voice, glancing at Agatha with a bashful smile that made Wanda practically squeal with delight.

Now, hours later, Agatha found herself reluctantly walking with Y/N toward Wanda’s backyard. The older woman’s sharp eyes swept over the scene, her instincts humming with unease despite the cheerful decorations and the smell of grilling meat.

“You look tense,” Y/N teased, her voice light and playful as she looped her arm through Agatha’s. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous about a little barbecue?”

Agatha shot her a sideways glance. “I don’t trust this whole Stepford act,” she muttered.

Y/N giggled, leaning in closer. “Relax, Mommy,” she whispered, her tone low and teasing. “I’ve got everything under control.”

The word made Agatha’s breath catch, and she turned to glare at Y/N. “I told you not to—”

“There you are!” Wanda exclaimed, her face lighting up as she spotted them. She rushed over, her enthusiasm almost suffocating. “Y/N, you look adorable! It’s so good to see you both!”

Y/N giggled softly, blushing as Wanda’s gaze lingered on her. “Thank you, Wanda,” she said, her voice as timid as a schoolgirl’s.

Agatha forced a smile, though her sharp eyes darted around the yard, cataloging every detail. She could feel Y/N’s aura humming beside her, faint but present—a reminder that this charade was only skin-deep.

As the barbecue unfolded, Y/N flitted around the party with practiced ease. She dropped plates, fumbled cups, and stammered her way through conversations, drawing fond chuckles and indulgent smiles from everyone she encountered. Wanda, in particular, seemed delighted by her presence, frequently glancing her way with a motherly sort of pride.

Agatha, meanwhile, lingered near the edges of the gathering, her mind too preoccupied to fully engage. She sipped her drink, her thoughts churning with half-formed plans and contingencies. But her composure slipped when Y/N sidled up beside her, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“You’re tense,” Y/N murmured, her voice low enough that only Agatha could hear. “What’s the matter? Afraid someone will see through me?”

“Someone might see through you,” Agatha hissed, her irritation bubbling to the surface. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.”

Y/N’s smile turned wicked, and she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear. “Speaking of games,” she whispered, her voice dripping with mischief, “I’m not wearing any panties.”

Agatha froze mid-sip, her body going rigid as the words sank in. She turned to glare at Y/N, her voice a sharp whisper. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Y/N replied, her tone unbearably smug. She stepped back, her innocent mask snapping back into place as she waved to Wanda, leaving Agatha simmering in a cocktail of frustration and desire.

As the evening wound down, Agatha made an excuse to slip inside Wanda’s house, claiming she needed to “grab something she left behind.” She headed to the basement, her mind distracted as she searched for the pretense of her visit.

The door creaked shut behind her, and Agatha turned, her breath catching as she found Y/N standing there, the smug smile from earlier now fully in place.

“What are you doing here?” Agatha demanded, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Y/N stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, her green aura faintly flickering as she closed the distance between them. “I was curious,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “You seemed so tense earlier. I thought I’d come see if I could help.”

“Y/N,” Agatha warned, her tone faltering as Y/N moved closer, her presence overwhelming in the confined space.

Before Agatha could react, Y/N pressed her back against the wall, her hands braced on either side of Agatha’s shoulders. The younger woman’s eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and hunger as she leaned in, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear.

“You’ve been trying so hard to keep up with me,” Y/N murmured, her voice a sultry purr. “But let’s be honest, Mommy—you’re out of your depth.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, her hands curling into fists as she struggled to maintain control. “Y/N,” she said again, her voice shaking slightly.

Y/N smirked, her fingers trailing down Agatha’s arm before sliding to her waist. “Shh,” she whispered, her lips grazing the corner of Agatha’s jaw. “You’ll enjoy this. Trust me.”

Before Agatha could protest, Y/N dropped to her knees, her hands moving with practiced ease as she tugged Agatha’s slacks down just enough to expose her. The older woman gasped, her hands flying to the wall for support as Y/N’s lips pressed against her inner thigh, teasing, deliberate, and maddeningly slow.

“Y/N, what are you—”

“Shh,” Y/N murmured again, her lips curving into a smug smile as she glanced up. “Don’t fight it. You’ve wanted this as much as I have.”

Her mouth moved with precision, her tongue tracing patterns that made Agatha’s legs tremble. The sound of her own sharp breaths and quiet moans filled the room, the tension of the day melting away under Y/N’s skillful attention.

Agatha’s breath came in sharp gasps, her fingers gripping the edge of the wall behind her, her composure unraveling with every flick of Y/N’s tongue and every warm kiss placed with precision.

Agatha had faced witches, wizards, and powers that could tear the world apart, but nothing had prepared her for Y/N—her control, her deliberate mix of dominance and tenderness. It was intoxicating, and she couldn’t hold back the quiet, desperate moan that spilled from her lips as Y/N moved with purpose, guiding her toward the edge of ecstasy.

“Y/N,” Agatha managed, her voice shaking. “I—”

“Shh,” Y/N murmured, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Agatha’s thigh. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

The words sent a shiver through Agatha, and with one last, deliberate motion, Y/N tipped her over the edge. Agatha’s body tensed, her breath catching as waves of pleasure washed over her, her cries muffled by her hand flying to her mouth.

Y/N didn’t stop until Agatha’s trembling subsided, her hands gentle as they smoothed over the older woman’s thighs, grounding her. She stood slowly, her hands reaching to help Agatha adjust her slacks, buttoning them with a playful smirk. “There,” she said softly, her tone teasing but oddly tender. “All put back together.”

Agatha was still catching her breath, leaning heavily against the wall as she watched Y/N with a mix of awe and frustration. But before she could say anything, Y/N took her wrist, guiding her hand to the hem of her dress.

“What are you—” Agatha began, but Y/N cut her off with a wicked grin.

“You’ve been so focused on me,” Y/N purred, sliding Agatha’s hand higher, beneath the fabric of her dress, until her fingers brushed against the slick heat. “You didn’t even notice how much I enjoyed myself.”

Agatha’s eyes widened, her fingers instinctively pressing against the wetness between Y/N’s thighs. “Gods,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear as she whispered, “See what you do to me?”

Agatha’s breath hitched, and she opened her mouth to respond, but the sound of the door creaking open made them both freeze.

“Agnes?” came Wanda’s voice, bright and curious. “Are you down here?”

Agatha yanked her hand back, her face a mixture of guilt and panic as she straightened her clothes. Y/N, however, remained utterly calm, her smirk never faltering as she stepped away from Agatha, her hands smoothing her dress.

“Coming!” Y/N called out cheerfully, her voice sweet and innocent as if nothing had happened. She shot Agatha a playful wink before heading toward the door, leaving the older woman to scramble for composure.

As Wanda appeared at the top of the stairs, Y/N met her with an easy smile, her eyes bright and carefree. “Sorry, Wanda! I dragged Agnes down here to help me find something, but I think I just got her distracted.”

Wanda laughed, oblivious to the tension still thick in the air. “Oh, Agnes, you’re always getting into trouble,” she teased, shaking her head.

[drdt-oclock]

now, and hear me out, here is how acevi can still win (a thesis)

i have my personal suspicions that ace’s line “i needed a reason to hate you” has implications about his friendship with taylor—considering the only thing we know definitively that levi and taylor have in common is that they are both people that ace, at some point, has considered a friend. taylor's death is vaguely alluded to in a line of dialogue where ace states he doesn’t want a third death on his hands—a line that also shows he feels responsible—however, we can assume that taylor’s death was not maliciously ace’s fault, as ace’s motive secret is about his eating disorder; if he had truly committed a murder by the standards of the law, chances are that would have been written instead (see: levi, min). this being said, i believe that ace was deliberately hostile towards levi in an attempt to drive him away and discourage any form of friendship out of fear of deepening any pre-existing attachment he may have felt towards levi in the earlier half of chapter one.

levi, in turn, is shown to be confused by this, though we can gather from his lack of empathy or internalised morality that said confusion doesn’t stem from a place of anger, nor spite. subjectively, i believe that levi was, in some genuine way, intrigued by ace and his seemingly erratic behaviours, and this lack of overt distaste or hatred prompted ace to deliberately press his buttons, trying (and ultimately succeeding) in breaking levi’s composure. levi snapping at him, in some way, comforts ace, affirming his self-deprecating belief that he is incapable of being cared for, speeding up the process that he believes is inevitable; that levi will tire of him.

upon the revelation that whether ace lives or dies—and more broadly, ace in general is of no concern to levi, ace is very quickly forced to come to terms with the fact that all his efforts were effectively meaningless, and ultimately it would not have meaningfully contributed towards levi’s opinion of him. in a way, he mourns this; in his efforts to drive levi (and honestly, the entire cast) away through hostility, he placed a target on his own back, resulting in an attempt on his life from nico. in his final hours, ace is able to see the broader picture, formerly obscured by the tunnel vision given to him by his own debilitating anxiety, but is ultimately too proud (or too scared) to apologise to levi directly, doubling down on his efforts in the conversation they have post-trial.

i believe that ace did not necessarily account for forming an attachment—much less any form of attraction to levi, and that this oversight only further infuriated him. this culminates at the end of chapter 2, wherein levi is shot, perhaps fatally, and ace has to confront himself and the person he has tried to be throughout the narrative. in his final moments, not only does he plead for his own immediate execution—something he has been, quite literally, scared to tears by, with his general fear of death being highlighted continuously the entire series—but delivers a monologue to arturo in open defiance of his own vices, encouraging him to save levi’s life and not be petrified by the same fear he himself has now succumbed to. i am of the incredibly strong opinion that this dictates a strong level of care, or at the very least responsibility for levi and his wellbeing.

how will this culminate in acevi still winning? through levi. if he survives to chapter 3, which he very well may, he will be left to contemplate this; to attempt to unpack ace’s motivations for both his hostility and his seemingly unprecedented choice to face his own death to save levi’s life. while i think it’s unrealistic to expect any sudden empathy for ace in a hypothetical levi character arc, ace would undoubtedly occupy his thoughts well into later chapters.

thank you for reading keep in mind i am a sad little man with very strong and very biased opinions on things i have too much time to talk about ❤️

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

i've been rewatching wwdits in order (i can't let go yet, okay!) and am currently in season three, and it got me thinking about how i think the end of s6 is such a rewarding happy ending for nandor that really resonates with the rest of the series. i know that in the finale, the characters are making the argument that nothing ever changes and the ending's not significant, but i think what we actually see with nandor, especially in his relationship to guillermo, is really the opposite.

disclaimer: i would have loved overt canon nandermo, so i definitely understand the pain of us not getting that. however, this post just focuses on what actually happened in the last few eps rather than what wwdits could have done instead!

some thoughts on why i love this ending for mr. de laurentis so much--

so, from the start of the show, we sort of have the two "couples" in the house with laszlo/nadja and nandor/guillermo. we can see that nandor has an unusual attachment to guillermo as a familiar even from the start, because laszlo and nadja go through familiars like kleenex, whereas nandor and guillermo have their funny little bickering marrieds thing going. however, nandor can't admit how much he cares about guillermo or how much his companionship means, because guillermo is his familiar and that's humiliating!

we also see nandor struggle a lot with a sense of purposelessness (especially after colin breaks his world view in 3.04!) and we see him missing his warlord life constantly even though it's been centuries since that was his reality.

and he usually decides he's going to fix his guillermo crises and his existential crises by going all in on some new love interest!!!!!!

then the guide gives him the talk where she points out his pattern, and even though he ostensibly wasn't listening, maybe it managed to permeate his single brain cell on some level, because his commitment to guillermo at the end of 6.10 isn't about the chase, it's about a long-term commitment. "an unbreakable alliance." (and then they seal it with a hand clasp that really just smacks of ~victory~ to me as a gesture!)

charmaine's advice (telling nandor to tell his crush who he has new feelings for how he feels) doesn't work out with the guide ... but it does work out when he ✨proposes✨ his plan to guillermo and tells guillermo he's the thing that nandor holds in the highest esteem possible: a warrior. (and this after guillermo told nandor that nandor made him never feel good enough. nandor does not like to listen when his patterns are pointed out to him -- see aforementioned scene with the guide -- but he did this time, and tried to make up for it quickly!)

nandor also manages to find a middle ground where he and guillermo can meet: fighting bad guys together. and we see from "nandor's army" that he still has epic warlord skills, just like guillermo has epic slaying skills, and this gives them the space to both be thriving in a shared purpose, after having purpose-related existential crises all season!

guillermo is skeptical that nandor's really going to commit and change, as expressed in the shared talking head in 6.11, and he figures he'll be saddled with all the work, but we find out at the end that nandor has committed so hard that -- in addition to all his drawings and diagrams and his silly costume shopping -- he somehow managed to make that two-person coffin elevator into a secret underground lair a reality?!?!?! (i like to think maybe guillermo will be more into the idea of their partnership in a post-"omg the coffin elevator actually exists" world.)

"you can call me nandor." that is all. <3

nandor's also, ultimately, willing to let guillermo go after a season that was full of pain over letting guillermo go, and he does it calmly and simply and without flinging any guilt-tripping guillermo's way. it is a peak "if you love something, let it go, and it will come back to you" moment. and then, of course, guillermo comes back like immediately. :) and is welcomed into the coffin, and the future adventures that the camera won't be there to catch!

anyway! this is all just a bunch of nonsense rambling, but my point is, i think the recurring loneliness and dissatisfaction that we see nandor grapple with throughout the series is something that is finally over once he commits proudly to a life with guillermo fighting the good fight (whatever shape that might take in the future, since who knows how long the superheroes thing will be the vibe). he needed to overtly acknowledge what guillermo meant to him, to himself and to guillermo and to everyone else, because pushing it down was part of what was keeping him consistently miserable, and once he's done that, he doesn't have to go looking for purpose in a cliche romantic happily ever after (and indeed, he seems totally checked out when the gang talk to him about being in love with the guide toward the start of 6.11). he has it in his unbreakable alliance, wherever that may go! 💘

[k-nayee]

Fallen Hazbin Hotel i

wc: 3.3k a/n: this will be a slight au goes cause ngl i never really made it past episode 2💀

Traveler M.List

| Next

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The creation of your soul was unlike any other.

In the hallowed space where human souls were molded, Seraphim Sera worked beside the successor of Lucifer in the celestial sanctum dedicated to new life.

Though Emily had grown adept at forming souls over the eons, she still found herself studying Sera's technique with curiosity and deference.

This time, however, she noticed an unusual stillness in Sera. There was a hint of sorrow in her—deeper than any Emily had seen before.

The state of humanity weighed heavily on Sera's heart. It was something even the sacrifice of Jesus had not remedied.

Where she had hoped to see more unity and compassion, humanity continued to stumble.

Devoted to creation and guidance and yet here she was: moved to a grief that seemed to reach even her divine powers.

Without Sera's knowledge that sorrow imprinted itself on the soul she was forming.

As her fingertips hovered over the amorphous light, her unspoken worries and heartache transformed it, seeping into the essence she shaped.

You were different from the start—a rare blend of purity and compassion, a hope born from despair.

No other soul had quite the same resonance as yours. It was as if each fragment of light carried Sera's lingering wish for humanity's redemption.

Emily remained silent as she observed. For all the thousands of souls she had seen, none had been like this. She could sense Sera's guarded admiration as well.

Though Sera (ever the professional) did not show overt favoritism, there was a lingering gaze—a brief stillness, every time her eyes fell upon you.

And then, just as quickly, she'd retreat to her disciplined demeanor as though she could not allow herself the luxury of attachment.

Once your formation was complete, you were sent to Earth with no knowledge of the watchful presence behind your existence.

From the beginning the world proved to be harsh and unforgiving.

Abandoned as a child and abused by those who should have protected you, you were thrust into a life of struggle.

And yet in spite of it all no bitterness clouded your heart nor did hatred take root; instead you grew wise to life's difficulties, meeting each day with a kindness that was resolute.

Each act of goodwill, every kindness you extended, seemed to spark a subtle ripple effect—something that shaped the lives of others and sent positive changes flowing into places you couldn't see.

Having never grown hard or cynical to life, you were granted angelic ascension upon your death.

Upon your arrival Sera awaited you at the gates, a subtle smile softening her usually serious expression as she guided you to your new position before going off to her own responsibilities.

Life in Heaven felt nearly surreal.

Though the celestial realms were as awe-inspiring as they were vast, you felt a strange pang of loneliness among the hierarchy of angels—most of whom seemed untouched by the hardships you remembered from Earth.

Your days was spent in quiet work under higher-ranking overseers with often yourself as company in the towering halls of Heaven.

That was until you were summoned to Adam's chambers.

You had heard much about him from other angels beyond his legacy as the first man. He was someone who had a commanding presence—sharp wit.

But as you stood before him, despite his evident authority, he exuded an oddly modern charm—a confident, slightly arrogant air that might have been more suited to a CEO than an Archangel.

He looked you up and down, his piercing gaze sizing you up as if deciding whether he could work with you at all.

In those first weeks Adam had made his displeasure known. He rarely missed an opportunity to grumble about the favor he was doing for Sera.

You were a lower-ranking angel after all. And Adam made no secret of his annoyance over this fact. It was shown through your tasks.

They were menial at first: simple records and errand-like duties—which unbeknown to you, was actually ordered to test your resolve rather than develop skills.

He was meticulous and unyielding, a mentor who would not accept anything less than perfection and barely acknowledged your efforts even when they met his exacting standards.

But as the days weeks turned to months there were subtle changes. Sometimes he would sit back and watch you with a look that lingered a bit longer than he intended.

You'd catch him softening in brief moments when he thought you weren't watching with a slight curve of his mouth when you managed something especially well.

And over time his critiques mellowed into an almost playful teasing. The conversations once clipped and formal took on a different tone.

He would linger after giving you a task—recounting stories of the early days of humanity, speaking of his own creation and the burden of his role with a tone that almost resembled confession.

Then one day he invited you to walk with him in the gardens—an invitation that you knew wasn't extended to just anyone.

As you strolled among Heaven's flowering vines and ethereal fountains he casually asked about your Earthly experiences, or as he put it, the "domino effect" Sera mentioned in your file.

You told him of your life as a human and the trials you faced and the choice to meet the world with kindness despite its many hardships.

Then, for the first time ever, a full fledged smile graced his face. Its tenderness filled the stillness around you.

That unspoken bond grew. 

Even the other angels began to notice Adam's (in all his aloofness) distinct warmth that was reserved only for you.

He still carried himself with that familiar arrogance and exuded his usual authority, but his eyes softened when you were near.

His usual cutting words now had an underlying fondness that only the two of you fully understood.

You didn’t speak of it—didn’t dare name it. But when you were alone there was an undeniable closeness.

It went beyond his usual dismissive flirtations or occasional compliments. His hand would linger on yours a moment too long, his touch warm and grounding as he guided you through the grand halls.

You still felt the guarded edges around him even as he allowed this closeness. Almost as if he were keeping a part of himself hidden.

Though you yearned to know more, knowing the gentleness Adam has for you was reserved for no one else made up for it.

For now that was enough.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The revelation came upon you like a sudden storm.

It seemed ordinary enough—one of those rare quiet days where Heaven’s peace felt genuine and untouched by schemes or whispers of unrest.

You had been looking for Adam, searching the grand halls where he often spent his time in secluded contemplation or strategy.

Upon entering his quarters you stumbled upon a series of records and texts you hadn’t seen before—drawings, schematics, plans filled with the details of an endeavor you could hardly comprehend at first.

Shock locked you in place as your eyes darted over the pages, the full picture beginning to take shape.

Adam was planning to eradicate all of Hell in a brutal purge. His intentions scrawled out plainly with plans to make it a bi-annual devastation.

His motivations seemed focused—almost obsessive: he desire to destroy Lucifer for corrupting both his wives and damning humanity to sin.

The righteousness of it felt  sinister in a way that clashed with everything Heaven should represent.

It was the sound of footsteps that pulled you from your horrified trance. You look up, catching Adam’s steely gaze as he entered the room.

He stilled, his eyes narrowing as his lips twist into a brief condescending smile before disappearing just as quick. “Eavesdropping now are we?”

“What...is all of this?” your voice shaky but resolute. There was no hiding your distress nor the raw betrayal evident in your tone.

He watched you carefully, his silence stretched painfully long with each passing second drawing his gaze sharper.

“It’s necessary,” he finally replied, each word precise and calculated. “You of all people should understand that.”

You shook your head with disbelief flashing in your eyes. “Necessary? Adam you’re talking about genocide. A-an endless cycle of destruction! How can you say this is the right thing?”

His expression darkened.

“This is for the greater good. Lucifer’s actions have damned humanity, cast shadows over Heaven itself.” Irritation seeped into his voice. “The world would be purer without his influence infecting it, without Hell festering beneath.”

The certainty in his tone left no room for negotiation and you felt the depth of the chasm between you.

You shook your head, taking a step back. “I can’t be a part of this Adam. I...I won’t.”

He watched you as a flicker of something like disappointment shined in his eyes, though it quickly cooled to an unnerving calm.

“Perhaps you’re just not seeing the full picture,” his voice smoothed as if he were offering comfort. “Meet me at our usual spot. I’ll explain everything. Trust me.”

There was a note of gentleness in his words, a familiar echo of the kindness you’d come to know.

Against the shadow of doubt that churned in your chest, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to think that somehow there was something you’d misunderstood.

And so you went to the place that had become yours over the years—a quiet grove within Heaven’s gardens where the two of you spent your time together.

The serenity of it now felt almost mocking.

As you waited you searched for a sense of reassurance, for the feeling that this was all some awful misunderstanding.

That Adam would arrive, put a hand on your shoulder, and explain everything away.

But instead when Adam appeared, his presence felt cold—almost mechanical. There was no trace of the man who had once softened around you nor a lingering warmth in his gaze.

“Adam...” you began only for your words to die on your lips. He raised his hand, and suddenly you felt an unfamiliar pull.

It was as though gravity itself had turned against you. Your wings flared instinctively, but they were useless against the force drawing you downward.

Realization gripped you as you looked up; this wasn’t an explanation. This was a sentence.

Adam’s face was the last thing you saw before the Fall: a sharp tooth grin stretched across his lips.

He raised his hand in a mock salute, almost playful as if he were bidding farewell to an old friend rather than sending you into damnation.

That look—that chillingly gleeful expression was imprinted itself in your mind; searing a deep wound of betrayal that would never fully heal.

Your voice caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief as you fell. He hadn’t wavered. Didn't hesitate.

The one who had been your confidante, who had once looked at you with something like love, has casted you down without so much as a flicker of remorse.

Tears escaped and scattered into the wind around you. Just as Heaven faded from sight, darkness fully enveloped you and your world went black.

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

You plummet from Heaven like a comet; a streak of searing light tearing through the thick red skies of Hell.

Your form was enveloped in flames as you crashed down with a force that made the very ground tremble.

The impact was like a small explosion—flames erupting, leaving a crater scorched and steaming as debris scattered for yards around.

Slowly you regained consciousness, faint prickles of pain tingling at the edges of your senses.

Your entire body felt heavy. Every inch of your body throbbed with the reminder that you’d been ̶b̶̶e̶̶t̶̶r̶̶a̶̶y̶̶e̶̶d̶ casted down by the very person you trusted most.

Suddenly, you feel warmth pressing against your cheek. You blink, finding yourself face-to-face with a strange malformed creature—a bird if you could call it that.

It had way too many eyes that blinked in eerie unison with a beak far too sharp as it pecked at your face.

You instinctively swat it away with more force than you intended. The creature squawked in protest before flapping its leathery wings and vanishing into the smoky distance.

Looking around you find yourself lying in the center of a deep crater as steam rose from the ground. For a second your mind struggled to reconcile where you were.

Then realization crept in slowly along with a numb sort of disbelief. Hell. You were in Hell.

As you shifted to sit up, soft murmurs above made you snap your head upwards. There on the edges of the crater stood  gathering figures— Hell denizens that drawn to the commotion.

Sinners and demons, the curious and wicked souls damned to this place, they all watched you in curiosity.

That is until they caught sight of the faint remaining glow of your halo and pure white wings.

Their gazes turned alarmed before they scattered away in screeches and shrieks, stumbling and tripping over each other in their desperation to flee in the mistaken belief that your arrival was the start of an unexpected purge.

The silence that followed was almost jarring, leaving you alone in the crater as the echoes of their hurried footsteps faded into the distance.

Your body screamed in protest as you slowly rose to your feet.

You try to open your wings in attempt to take flight, but the moment you flexed them, a searing pain flared down your back making you clamp your wings shut with a wince.

It seems flying wasn't an option right now.

With painstaking effort you hobbled toward the crater’s edge, eyes fixed on the steep walls.

Your teeth grit from the pain when you reach out and grasped a jagged piece of rock jutting from the crater wall.

'Okay,' a grim look of determination cross your face. 'Guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.' 

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

With a weak but firm grip you grasped the edge of the crater, using every last ounce of strength to pull yourself up onto the cracked pavement.

A heaving gasp tore from your throat as you collapsed onto solid ground before scooting yourself away from the crater’s edge.

It had taken longer than you’d hoped, but you’d done it. You were out.

Lying back, you let your head fall against the pavement to stare up at the crimson-tinted sky above.

Clouds churned in dark ominous shades of red as a massive pentagram symbol loomed high above—it glowed sinisterly, slicing through the swirling clouds in sharp precise lines.

Hell’s “moon” hung beside it—a twisted scarred orb that looked as though it had been dragged from the depths of something far darker than night.

And even higher in the distance, just barely visible against the hellish skyline, was the faint shimmer of Heaven’s gate. A cruel and unreachable mirage.

You closed your eyes, letting out a long shuddering breath as you try to gather yourself before reluctantly forcing your exhausted body to move once more.

Just as you managed to stand a strange warmth flickered above your head. Your fingers reach up to touch your now sputtering halo.

The steady glow dimmed as it pulsed weakly—and before you could fully process it, the light extinguished altogether.

The once radiant halo fell and clattered to the ground with a hollow metallic ring.

You stared down at the cold dull metal lying lifelessly in the dust. Your legs buckled and you sank to your knees, reaching out with trembling fingers to pick it up.

The weight of it felt foreign now, devoid of the light and comfort it once radiated.

A sad hollow laugh bubbled up from your throat; a weak attempt to mask the sharp ache of loss.

“...and it was such a good reading light to use,” you murmured, voice barely a whisper.

The familiar warmth of Heaven was gone and replaced by an oppressive heat that clung to you as the air around filled with the bitter scent of sulfur.

The betrayal, the Fall, and now your halo—each piece hammered at your heart, leaving you grasping at the edges of your composure as the weight of this new reality pressed in on you.

Fortunately you didn’t have time to dwell on it for long. 

“Hello!” A voice cuts through the stillness.

Startled, you look up to see a young girl standing at the edge of the abandoned street, her bright eyes wide with wonder.

She was small, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as she wore a frilly red dress that looked almost too pristine for a place like Hell

She moved before you could process her intentions, darting toward you with surprising speed.

You instinctively opened your arms, catching her as she flinged herself into your embrace with childlike trust.

Her weight was slight with a warmth to her that felt strangely comforting. She nestled against your side, tiny hands exploring your feathers as her eyes sparkled with awe.

“Oh wow!” she squealed, brushing her fingers lightly over the downy feathers of your wings that had unconsciously curled around her as if to shield her from the world. “Your wings are so pretty! They look kinda like my dad’s!”

You blinked, still processing the fact that a child was not only here in Hell but clinging to you like you were an old friend.

Her innocent curiosity and lack of fear threw you off guard. For a moment faint memories of the children you had in your human life resurfaced and a bittersweet warmth filled your chest.

“Who might you be little one?"

The girl looked up at you with a giggle, eyes wide with innocence. "My name's Charlie, Charlie Magne!"

You couldn't help but smile. She reminded you of them in a way—of the tenderness you’d once known.

"And why are you out here alone?” concern was heard in your words. It was dangerous even for a child who clearly belonged here.

“I just wanted to see if it was really an angel causing all the fuss. I overheard my dad talking about it and well...I got curious! So I snuck out and—bam! I found you!” She gave you a triumphant grin as if discovering you were her own special accomplishment.

“Your...dad?” you echo softly causing her to frantically nod.

“Charlotte!” A booming voice calls out sending a shiver down your spine. Charlie looked over her shoulder, her eyes lighting up even more.

“Oh! There he is!” she chirped. Wriggling out of your arms, she hops down and began waving enthusiastically in the direction of the voice. "Over here!”

You quickly got to your feet, bracing yourself as you saw him: Lucifer Morningstar—The King of Hell himself striding down the street with an air of authority.

His softened gaze was locked on Charlie as she ran to him. But the moment she pointed back at you and exclaimed, “Look Daddy! I made a new friend!” his expression shifted.

The smile he’d given her vanished and was replaced by something far darker. In a flash he was in front of you, his crimson eyes piercing through you like twin blades.

You barely blinked before you were slammed to the ground.

The impact stole the air from your lungs, you were left gasping as his weight pressed down on you, a foot planted firmly on your chest.

Charlie's pleads of Daddy stop! seemed distant, almost muffled as you struggled to catch your breath.

'Geez...What s up with this family and tackling?'

Your dry thought is interrupted by the cold bite of metal on your throat. The sharp blade is pressed against the skin of your neck making you give a wide-eye stare up at the man towering over you.

His expression hard and unforgiving with an air of suspicion around him.

"Who sent you to the land of the Damned?" 

[mclalan]

Can you share what your art-making process is? What software and tools do you use?? I'm falling in love with your work!!

Thank you, I'm so happy you like my work and are interested in the process. The short answer is I mostly use Adobe Animate.

I hate how I'm using an Adobe product (although I still regard it as a MacroMedia Flash product), but there's just no other software that compares to its jankiness. Perhaps it's just my long familiarity with the program, but nothing I've experienced matches how it simultaneously feels like drawing in MS Paint and using Microsoft PowerPoint vector shapes. The result is something that feels in-between the two; handmade yet computer-generated.

Typically, I'll start with a hand-drawn sketch, often beginning as a thumbnail done with pencil and paper.

I'll then do a mix of hand drawing and vector shape tool rendering. I use the Paint Brush tool to hand draw strokes, and the line and shape tools mixed with transform to make more geometrically accurate shapes. The design is rendered into divided closed loop shapes, ready to be filled with a solid. The strokes are kept or removed depending on the design.

These fill shapes are then either coloured and rendered in Adobe Animate, using fills, gradients, or a more complex process of masks and effects.

Alternatively, I'll bring all these vector shapes into Photoshop and use them as clipping masks. The vector shapes act like masking taped areas or shields to maintain sharp edges, while the brush is like an atomized airbrush used to build soft volumed forms.

Please excuse all that horrible Adobe Cloud and AI bloatware...

And there we go!

Variations in the process include just using MS Paint, index color in Photoshop, or 3D programs.

Very old works of mine were almost abstract, just exploring digital mark-making, which was a trend I was following in the mid 2010s that I loved. This kind of stuff.

While my current work uses its digital material specificity as an intermediary to the subject in the illustration.

For example, #ersatz.world parodies clip-art and flash edutainment styles but imagines the characters living within that kind of world. The designs are meant to be cute, easy to read, light in computer processing, but also irreverent, janky, and generic too.

People typically regard this sort of clip art style as ephemeral trash, but I always found them charming. I use Ersatz World primarily as a satire vehicle, parodying educational formats to spoof corporate explainer content and digital media.

However, part of the problem with Ersatz is I've made it look too polished, complex, and I've grown too attached to the characters, which I imagine is a typical issue with overbuilding a world. So recently, I've made an even jankier Ersatz-like set of characters to play about with, using an even simpler style with less cohesion. I like to try and use slightly different styles and digital material styles to relate to the property at hand.

That’s why #autonymus has a bitmap digital material and a denser feel to it. Unlike Ersatz, Autonymus is not meant to be an overt semi-meta fiction. It’s not exactly pixel art, but the pixels are just about visible, as the intention is to create a digital expressionist depth to the setting. Although it’s still stylized and not realistic to our world, I definitely still want to evoke semblances of our world. That’s why there’s attention to landscape, plant life, and implied life beyond what you see in the frame with the characters, etc. But I'm still making a cartoon, and I still want it to feel at ease with itself being a digital material work. Characters are therefore flat, simple, stiff, and the speech style is like a bad Shakespeare parody. I like to balance between ugly and appealing, simple and complex, familiar and unfamiliar.

In regard to things like inspiration, references, and my relationship to aesthetic genres; these things certainly factor into my work, perhaps I'm even overtly dependent on them. My work can definitely be post-modernist in method; creating new, ironic, or fragmented interpretations through deconstructing a mix of various styles or methods. But at the same time, I'm still trying to make a digital gestural representation where the aesthetic is driven by my relationship to the software and techniques directly—not simply in an attempt to reference a style. For example, I like drawing lines in sweeping strokes, not to a point of geometric perfection, but just in a way where the curves are smooth and simple. But if I want perfectly curved or straight lines, I'll use the vector tools.

Working this way, you can sort of learn why certain styles and design choices in past vector aesthetics were made, as they would have also needed to make similar choices. That’s why I’m more mindful of using digital material specificity as a foundation to build narrative and subjects upon these days.

For example, genre references like cyberpunk clichés for #cyberhell or late medieval design for #autonymus or 2005 to 2015 era subculture fashion for #gradientgoblinz.

I think it’s important to take inspiration and reference from a wide variety of sources, but I think they’d mean nothing without having something to say or express. Autonymus, although it is a collection of tropes and clichés, isn’t just about that. It’s a story about the tensions of socially constructed systems and how that shapes faith, technology, and the natural world, or at least that's what I'm aiming for anyway.

But despite all that, I think there’s a danger of locking myself into the past by using these methods. For example, using nostalgia and references to past aesthetics can result in just recreating the past in a form of role-play. To avoid that, I try and evoke the past through a messy, inaccurate pastiche rather than caring to accurately re-enact anything. I’m probably not always successful at communicating the deliberateness of this, and it can certainly get very frustrating and pedantic. To be honest, I do kind of hate aesthetic labels (terms like Y2K, global coffee house, utopian scholastic designs from a pre-9/11 world).

I do not believe that a project aimed solely at mapping history through aesthetic styles is worthwhile. Sure, they can be handy for organizing style trends, but they can also be reductive and ahistoric. Who are these people to define the history of these design eras? The result is a kind of suffocating simulation of design history but removed from context, perfect for moodboardism. I wish it felt more tongue-in-cheek, less absolute of itself in its own practice. Instead, it acts to legitimize and engender those making these labels, almost giving them ownership of the design styles. It’s similar to the logic and process of generative AI and its databases in a way, just done manually.

I’m very inspired by artists like Oneohtrix Point Never in this regard, as I think he’s able to create an aesthetic portal to all kinds of memories, feelings, and worlds reminiscent of the past, while still being in the present. It’s more a reflection of how timelines are messy now, like a memory or dream, rather than an audacity to say the past was actually like that, or to try to actually map some kind of timeline.

I think the benefit of this process is how it avoids the other side of the spectrum—being locked into chasing the cutting edge of digital processes. I don't necessarily think using an old digital process means your work inherits the semiotics of old aesthetics. Non-digital mediums don’t have this issue to this degree, as you can still paint in oils and be considered contemporary, or at least it's not frowned upon to such a degree. And I also don't think anyone in the heyday of Flash ever made work the same as I do, especially as computers are more powerful now so can handle more. I probably shouldn't boast too much about that though, as artists at the time probably just had more sense than to use Flash like a painting program! So then, why is my use of Adobe Animate critiqued as obsolete and an aesthetic dead-end? Because to whose standards is this process obsolete? If you value digital aesthetics as an apparatus in industry practice, then sure, my work is redundant.

But as wonderful as the latest tech can be in creating new aesthetics, I do feel it can be overtly dependent on the trends and directions of tech corporations, and therefore act as an indirect propaganda tool to their hegemony over digital aesthetics, such as the ever-demanding processing power needed for simulated realism. If anything, work that does follow in the direction of the latest tech trends is ironically the quickest to date once the trends move on.

I've noticed I've not really described what my work is about, just the process, in this text. But I don't know, maybe I like Flash because it is regarded as redundant. No one really cares about it, so I feel free to make whatever I want, and can decide on form myself, to my own standards, the quality of my work. As fun as making images is, I find it difficult to put into words what it is exactly I'm expressing in my work, and perhaps that would spoil it anyway.

[winged-self-indulgence]

Based on @owlespresso's post

Your shoulder catches Leander’s weight when he leans a little too far. When he stumbles somehow, even while sitting slumped over the scarred-up surface of the bar counter. He sprawls like he owns the place, all loose-limbs and thick muscle compressed beneath sleek leather and fine cotton. There’s a glass of something amber in one hand, glimmering in the candlelight and on the curve of his lip where he licks them clean.

Leander leans on you the way a dog might. One of those massive hunting dogs that seem to think they’re still puppies. His bulk and height, usually so oppressive when he stands close, is lessened. Mitigated by the slack give of his shoulders, the bleary indolence of his gaze, and the easy tilt of his lips. Leander rests his arm across your shoulder, nuzzles his cheek against yours, and your heart leaps in your chest.

It still stuns you when he does this. When he eschews typical polite distance in favour of overt acts of physical affection. You haven’t known him long, certainly not long enough to engender such behaviour, but from the way Leander treats you anyone would think the two of you were attached at the hip. You could count on one hand the number of times you were able to exit the Wet Wick without Leander appearing at your side, charming smile in place and hand outstretched in an offer.

Are you hungry? Is there something you wanted? Where would you like to go?

It worsens when he’s drunk, when gin and whisky whisk away the societal norms keeping him in check. When he can drape himself over your smaller frame and murmur thoughts into your ear.

“Gorgeous,” he whispers now, a gloved hand caressing down your arm, tracing the bumps of your ribcage, and finally curling around your waist. His fingers find your own where they’re folded tightly in your lap – a habit borne from over a decade of caution – and gently but firmly uncurl the bandaged digits so he can tangle the two of you together. Entwine them beneath the counter.

“There you are,” he smiles triumphantly; a drunk, lopsided thing that shines with accomplishment. Childish glee glitters in those jeweled eyes. As if holding your hand was an achievement worthy of applause. It’s adorable. He’s adorable.

You swallow the thudding of your heart, fix your face into something normal, and pretend you can’t feel the burning weight of the man plastered against your side.

Leander cuddles closer, rests his chin on your hair and smiles. Lets his gaze scan the faces of the bar, paying special attention to those whose eyes linger a little too long on your back. The fall of your hair. The quicksilver flash of your smile before you tamp it down. There’s a tiny gap in your bandages, a sliver of black and gold streaks where he’d deliberately loosened the white cloth. He considers unwrapping your whole limb. Considers pouring the rest of his drink into your cupped palms so he could sip from your skin and lick your flesh clean. He dreams of setting your fingers between his lips, pressing down on his tongue, slipping down his throat–

Hm, the alcohol may have been hitting him a little harder than he’d thought. Still, it was good. That you let him so close while drunk was good. Now, if only he could get you this close in the sobering light of day.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Dating Yandere Bo Sinclair Would Include:

As a yandere, he's extremely aggressive and dominant, and he's possessive, obsessive, and manipulative. He takes what he wants, and it's always in the most extreme way possible.

When he decides he wants something, he will do anything he can to get it and do anything to keep it. He will manipulate, deceive, and even harm anyone that he sees as a threat to get what he wants, and he won't feel guilty about it either, once he has what he wants, he'll go to any lengths to keep it and ensure he has full control the relationship.

He can also be quite charming and charismatic at times, able to turn on his charm in order to manipulate or even exploit others. He'll use honeyed words and sweet talk to convince people to do his bidding and often use gifts and tokens of affection to make others feel special and to make himself look good.

His possessive and obsessive nature means that he can become very jealous and aggressive when he thinks someone else is trying to interfere with what he considers his. He will use everything at his disposal to make sure that your attention and affection only belong to him and no one else.

He's not afraid to resort to violence and threats to keep what he perceives as his and he'll go to just about any lengths to do so. He'll play with your emotions, make you feel like he loves you but if you upset him, make him angry he'll turn it against you in an instant.

He's also very controlling and manipulative, always trying to make you do what he wants you to do, even if it's not what you really want. He'll use different tactics to make you feel like you need to agree with him and give in to his demands.

He's great at playing mind games with you, making you second-guess yourself and your decisions. He'll try to make you feel like your choices are wrong and that he's the only one who knows what's best, and he'll use your weaknesses and vulnerabilities against you to get the upper hand in the relationship.

In front of others Bo, puts on a charming and hospitable persona, trying to portray himself as a friendly and welcoming person. He will typically speak in a casual, almost playful manner, and make it seem as if he is nothing but genuine. In reality, he's far from friendly and is just pretending to keep up the illusion of being a normal person. He's also extremely manipulative and calculating, using his charm and manners to get what he wants.

Bo can definitely give reassurance to you, but it's not coming from a place of kindness, it's more of a calculated move to keep you under control. He's constantly reassuring you of his love and devotion, telling you how much you mean to him, and how he'll always be there for you no matter what. But behind all of that, everything he says comes with a hidden price.

He can be very generous, often showering you with gifts and rewards, both material and emotional. But it's all about him trying to keep you completely focused on him, he wants to show off how much he cares for you in order to make you dependent on him and keep you from straying. But he's also unpredictable, and those rewards will often come with strings attached.

His punishments can range from more subtle, emotional manipulations and put-downs, he can be very cruel and hurtful in his words and actions. But he can also be more overt and physical in his punishments, he might use threats, intimidation, or even violence to keep you under his control, but he's careful to make sure that his methods leave no trace so he will rarely, if ever, cause any actual physical damage.

You and Bo will most likely find yourselves in a toxic cycle of fighting and making up, he will say or do everything he can to rile you up and get a reaction but then once he has he'll turn on the charm and you'll fall back again. It's a constant back and forth that will wear you down but he'll never let it end because he needs you under his control.

His affection is always accompanied by a measure of possessiveness and control, he'll be extremely affectionate and loving, showering you with attention and gifts but it's all a manipulative tactic to make you feel indebted and beholden to him. He's constantly trying to show you how much he loves you, but it's all a means to an end - the end being complete control over you.

Bo can certainly take you on dates, and he'll often go all out, trying to impress you with his thoughtfulness and charm. But these dates are more about him showing you off and making sure that his love and devotion to you is clear to everyone around. He wants to make sure that everyone knows that you belong to him and that he's in charge of your relationship.

If he thinks that someone is a threat to his relationship with you, he will not hesitate to kill them. He'll do anything to keep you by his side, including resorting to violence and letting Vincent take over to turn them into wax.

He wouldn't take it lightly, to put it lightly. Any attempt to break up, or even just step out of line, would be met with a huge outburst from him. He'd try to convince you to stay, and if you tried to leave him he would become very possessive, aggressive, and even violent to get you to stay. He'd use whatever means necessary to make sure that you never leave him.

Lester is generally happy that Bo found someone, and often in charge of watching you and keeping you out of harm's way when Bo can't, he's always happy to see you. Vincent on the other hand, might be a bit more observant and realize the situation you're in, but he might be hesitant to intervene, as the two brothers seem to have a pretty co-dependent relationship and he might be afraid to make Bo angry if he's trying to rescue you.

Bo would absolutely love nothing more than to marry you and have you by his side permanently and publicly, but only where he has you tightly under his control. He'd use the marriage as a way to show off his dominance and to make sure that everyone knows that you're his property and only his, forever. He'd be very possessive and protective, not wanting you to have any interaction with other people like those who come through town.

Bo would probably want children, but again, only under his terms. He'd only see them as a way to tie you to him, and as an extension of his own genetics and lineage. He'd be very jealous and possessive over them, not wanting you or them to have any kind of independence from him. He'd probably be a very hands-on, overprotective, and micromanaging parent, wanting to be in control of every aspect of their lives.

He would be very disappointed and upset if you didn't want or couldn't have children, but he wouldn't give up. He'd probably pressure you and try all kinds of manipulation tactics to get you to change your mind, or try to find other ways to satisfy his desire for you to have his kids. If nothing worked, he might look for other ways to have children either by adopting or using a surrogate.

"You are mine. I own you. I control every aspect of your life. You will do everything I say, and you will do it when I say it. I am the only one who matters, the only one who loves you. You belong to me, and you will never, ever be able to leave me. You are nothing without me, and I will make sure this stays true. You are mine, and I will make sure that you never forget it."

Punishment fucks - When you misbehave, he feels you deserve a hard, brutal pounding that leaves you raw and aching, teaching you obedience through pain and pleasure.

Exhibitionism - Putting on a show, teasing the fake crowds, making the wax sculptures jealous of what he has. Knowing he could take anyone home if he wanted.

Corruption - Seducing an innocent person, and showing you new pleasures, pushing boundaries further each time until you're addicted to depravity.

Mind games - Psychological domination through gaslighting, manipulation, and breaking down your walls until you're putty in his hands.

Spanking/Caning/Flogging - Turning your ass bright red while you squeal and squirm is satisfying work in his eyes.