#Thrown to Wolves verse

[secret-engima]

Is there a specific tartan pattern for the Vitae? I suppose it wouldn't get used very much, they mostly go with their clan patterns. But. If they ever need to do an Official Thing specifically in their Role as a Vitae, they might choose to wear the tartan.

I... don't know honestly. Tartans are not something I'm great at.

@a-world-in-grey opinions?

[a-world-in-grey]

question, do you know if the thrown to wolves thing is a fic, or is it just on tumblr world building for an au?

Currently @secret-engima’s Thrown to Wolves ‘verse is only on tumblr, since they’ve got over a hundred different fic ideas (and no, I am not exaggerating, they really do) and they can only write so fast. Most of it is their world building, I just throw the occasional idea and character to see what sticks. Occasionally they’ll throw something back, like the writer’s version of catch or hot potato.

Pop over to their tumblr for the full au - I’ve only got a handful of posts on my tumblr, tbh, and TtW-verse is one of my favorites.

[raven-6-10]

@secret-engima @a-world-in-grey

I realised that this has already happened in Thrown to the Wolves verse.

Fantasy kingdom where Only Royalty Can Do Magic but the royal family is so promiscuous and polyamorous and generous in their interpretation of what counts as family (“Your second cousin’s niece’s husband counts as family by marriage! Absolutely!”) that the whole kingdom is Technically royalty within like. Two generations.

[forgedroyalseal]

Hellhound

Part One

Hellhound.

That’s what the townsfolk had called the beast that lurked in the shadows of Seacliff. The innkeeper claimed that it could imitate the cry of a baby, a tactic it used to lure people from the safety of their homes and into its waiting jaws. Several farmers told him that it didn’t just pray on sheep and goats, but on foals and calves as well. Will had overheard a group of schoolchildren whispering stories about the demon dog that stalked the shoreline once the sun set. Half wolf, half devil. A monster with glowing red eyes and blood stained teeth. Will had always chalked it up as an overgrown superstition. A ghost story. Until he hear the howl.

Will couldn’t sleep. But these days, he almost never could. Seacliff’s winters were milder than Redmont’s but instead of snow, winter brought violet, booming storms. Waves crashed against the cliffs like stones, shaking the island itself. Rain poured from the heavens so hard, that in the morning, after the storm had passed, the earth would be torn up, branches ripped from trees and thrown across fields. And while Will was grateful that it rarely became cold enough for the rain to turn to ice, the thunderous noise of the storms echoed in Will’s mind, rummaging around until it found the memories he so desperately tried to drown. Memories of teetering on waves so tall they made him feel as though he was floating on a child’s bath toy rather than a massive Skandian ship. Memories of relentless rain, of being soaked to the bone, of forgetting what it felt like to be dry and warm and safe. Even now, years later, the mere sound of crashing waves made his stomach roll and flip, just as it had on the journey to Skandia.

So on nights like tonight, with it raining so heavy Will was certain it would never stop, he tossed and turned in his sheets like that ship in that storm. The sound of the wind and rain was deafening, only interrupted by the roaring thunder that preceded each shock of lightning. Will had laid awake through each and every storm since his arrival in Seacliff, and he was well versed in the crashing symphony that was playing. So when he heard a deep, desperate howl break through, he noticed. He sat up in his bed, white sheets pooling around his waist. There it was again, a howl so loud it somehow cut through the storm. His first thought was wolves, not that he’d ever seen one in Seacliff, but there was something distinctly different to this howl than that of the ones he’s heard from wolves. It was haunting and lonely and with a pathetic realization, it occurred to Will that it was what he imagined his heart would sound like on nights like this if it could speak.

Will shook his head at the thought. He’d spent too many nights awake and alone, it was making him morose. He pulled himself out of bed, covering his bare torso with the shirt that had been discarded on the floor earlier in the evening. Opening the door, he looked out into the black night, eyes searching for the source of the howl. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave the safety and relative warmth of his cabin, but Will could only assumed that whatever poor creature was out there, also didn’t want to be where it was.

“Right then, come on out.” He shouted into the storm. Another howl. “I bet you don’t want to be out here any more than I do,” He yelled, the wind swallowing his words, “so just take cover on the porch.”

He waited, questioning whether or not this was proof that he’s officially lost it. Wasn’t this a sign of madness? Shouting out to the wind and expecting a response. Just as he was about to give up, a pair of shining eyes appeared in the darkness. “Hi there.” Will said gently, praying he wasn’t about to be mauled to death by whatever mysterious beast roamed the cliffs. Gilan would never let him live it down, dead or not.

A flash of lightning illuminated sky, and Will got his first look at the animal in front of him. It was far more dog than beast, though it’s skinny legs seemed endless. It wore a matted cloak of wiry, soot gray fur, a dirty patch on its chest that at one point was probably white. Another rumble of thunder drew out a pitiful whimper from dog, who cowered its head and trembled.

“Oh you poor thing. Come on, it’s ok.” Will crouched down and slowly extended his hand. After a bit of cooing and soft words, the dog finally nudged its head against his palm.

“You’re freezing, buddy. Let’s get you warmed up.” Will shifts back, still crouching, until he’s past the doorway of the cabin. The dog hesitantly follows, its tail tucked firmly between its legs.

Once inside, Will made quick work of finding water and some scraps to feed the dog, then set them down beside the fire in the dishes he had used for Shadow. The dog however, stayed shaking by the door, eyes darting nervously back and forth.

“Right, let’s get you warm first then.” Will grabbed the quilt from the back of the sofa and carefully placed it over the dog. He rubbed down its back, drying it the best he could. In his effort to help bring some warmth back to the dog, he examined it for any injuries, but found none. He did a quick check and patted the dog on its head, who responded with a slight wag of its whip-like tail.

“That’s a good boy. You’ll need a proper bath, but that can wait.” Will stepped back, and decide it was best to let the dog set the pace of the evening. Will walked over and collapsed on the sofa, the cold and lack of sleep crashing into him all at once. He let his eyes droop, but stayed awake. Seconds later there was a quiet clicking of nails from the door the dishes on the floor. Will smiled to himself and kept his eyes shut. Soon enough, he heard more shuffling, then a cold, wet nose was pressing itself against his cheek. He cracked an eye open and smiled at the dog that was face to face with him. He patted at the space beside him on the couch.

“I think we should both try and get some sleep. Dawn will be here before we know it.”

The dog gingerly stepped onto the sofa, circled twice, then plopped down, resting its massive head onto Will’s chest, right above his heart. Will began rubbing patterns into the fur between the dog’s eyes, and soon the calming motion had lulled them both to sleep.

A/N: inspiration for the dog below (yes, it’s an Irish Wolfhound)

[dprian-notes]

So who is Hybrid?

DISCLAIMER again! These are just my thoughts and theories, please do comment with your own ideas, it would be so helpful in figuring out the story Christian is telling.

From what I saw on Christian's Insta live and the music video for LIMBO, it looks like Hybrid is most likely the in-between of Mito and Insanity. The transition from one character to the next. Christian did outright say this in his live, but it is interesting the way he depicts the change in LIMBO's music video.

In the first scene of the mv we see a shirtless character, and from what I know and in my opinion I believe this is Hybrid. It switches scenes rapidly but in them I believe we see a shot of Mito as well. The character that seems to be Hybrid wears a striped suit with a red or purple tie, which I think would tie Mito and Insanity together. You can also see faint makeup that resembles Insanity's. The scenes constantly switch between color and monotone, which would also resemble both characters. I haven't yet noticed Mito's signature grey eye, but there is a scene in which we see the character's eyes change between orange and blue. I'm still pondering over what that could mean, but right now it also seems to tie into the transition between the characters.

I also found it interesting when the outfit slowly switches from plain black, to a black suit with purple or red. We know that Mito is mostly dark colors and Insanity is the complete opposite of that - him having many bright colors to his outfit and makeup, but the most noticeable color is the purple suit.

Christian made an important point in one of his lives, saying that the wolf is very symbolic to Insanity. I found it interesting that a verse of the lyrics is "throw me to the wolves, it's where I belong". Also, at 2:03 in the music video we can hear a wolf's howl. This sets off a scene of chaos in the room, papers are thrown and the character seems to be struggling or fighting something. I think that this point is the beginning of the transition to Insanity. It would make sense for it to look painful and for Mito/Hybrid to put up a fight as they go more insane.

The end of the music video is what caught my eye the most. There is a change from Hybrid to Insanity, as he sits on the bed looking at his hands. This is the exact scene from the Don't Go Insane music video, which leads me to believe that this song/album (since we don't know how many songs will be released or how many of them will pertain to Hybrid) is a prequel to Dear Insanity.

The end scene for LIMBO is the beginning (after the initial credits) of Don't Go Insane. The music video for Don't Go Insane even shows a character to the likes of Hybrid in the same position on the bed at the end of LIMBO! One of the beginning verses in Don't Go Insane mentions wolves as well: "Oh bless my heart, when the wolves take me away".

This seems to make it more likely what I said before, that LIMBO is the prequel to Dear Insanity, but like I've said, these are just my theories.

Below is a screenshot from the end of LIMBO:

And then here is two shots from the beginning of Don't Go Insane:

Here we can see what looks to be Hybrid, as he has the same outfit as in LIMBO and is in the same struggle. The second picture is the very next scene in Don't Go Insane. He is in the exact same position that LIMBO ended in.

I hope this all makes sense, I'm planning on trying to go through Dear Insanity and write about what I think the story is through that album, but it may be a bit :).

[secret-engima]

@hamelin-born @a-world-in-grey

Honestly? I could see it. Or something similar to it yeah.

Might make a post later if I scrounge up more thoughts for this but atm I got nothing else to add.

So how exactly do Galahdians summon Ramuh. Because based on the way you write them I have this image of them just banging pots and pans together, shouting 'hey! old man! get down here, we need to talk to you.' Like the other Astrals are always talking about what rare, precious things they get in their offerings and Ramuh's just staring into the distance, a tear in his eye, going 'they used my name.'

Look, you know cat people? And how they feel so privileged when one of their cats deigns to be in the same room as them?

That’s Ramuh. He is basically the cat person of the Astrals and the Galahdians are the feral cats that he looks after.

The rest of the Astrals talk about the jewels and the prayers and shit that they get. They’re all very noble and snooty and proper. And then there’s Ramuh, who’s like “look at this behemoth corpse that a group of Galahdians dragged into one of my temples the other day! Isn’t it amazing?! Aren’t they amazing?! I have never been prouder of anyone in my life!” He is just so happy every time they use his name, he gushes about it and the way that they call him old man and does his absolute best to help his people because he loves them – look at how amazing they are.

Basically, Ramuh is just a complete dork (who may or may not be trolling the other Astrals).

As for summoning him – well, pots and pans are actually a very widely used method. Of course, there are people that prefer to go out during storms and scream at the sky, and those that love a good elaborate ritual that involves capturing some predator and giving it as an offering, but most people like the pots and pans method. (Look, summoning Ramuh is actually a bit of a giant joke to the Galahdians. Because he would totally turn up if you just said his name and is a bit of a pushover for his people – Ramuh has been invited to many a child’s tea party, which he has actually attended or sent gifts for – so they like to make everything as loud and funny as possible. Ramuh approves)

[salvatoraes]

okay but speaking as someone who lives for and loves crossover ships (be they canon/oc or just canon muses from different source materials): please tell me more about salvacooper and fabratore, pls & thx <3

a glorious question !!! i'll take any opportunity to gush about these two ships !! i'm gonna start with fabratore because i have a lot more to say on salvacooper lol. there's just a lot that goes into them heh.

so, fabratore is a ship between stefan & miss quinn fabray ( written by miss caroline, @alchaemy ) it started off with caroline making a tvd verse for quinn, where she's a cheerleader & eventually turns into a vampire. i can't remember how she turned, you'd have to ask care lol but stef ends up helping her with her transition & they fall sooo in love. she pulls him out of his shell a lot, she helps him not be broody as often & he stays on the football team unlike in canon when he quits or i guess he never really quit but after mr. tanner died ( thanks damon 🙄 ) i don't recall them getting a new coach but we can pretend in this version. they're the couple who is together all throughout high school, the lowkey jock couple even though stef isn't really a jock in his eyes. so cute & mostly pure while she also deals with being a baby vamp. we've had them since i wanna say 2017 / 2018 ? & i just love them so much ...

now, salvacooper is our favorite ship together, our most developed, multiple - verses for them. ugh. so i apologize because this is gonna get long. salvacooper is stefan & miss betty cooper ( taken out of riverdale & put into tvd / the hundred ) betty is both of our favorite character in RD so when care decided to pick her up, we of course wanted to build a ship with them, but little did we know how much we'd do. betty has full verses for tvd, the 100 & legacies that we have ships for them. also one of our mutual friends is a genuine stan of them & she used to freak out about them & read our threads back in the day lol. under the cut is what i can remember of our verses for them, you don't have to read them of course but i figured i'd give the details <3

in the tvd verse, we have a version where betty is a wolf hunter who runs into klaus and stefan when they're hunting for wolves. klaus finds her but assumes she's a wolf & kills her to turn her into hybrid, little did he know she wasn't a wolf. & right when she wakes up, she's in a cabin, stefan with her & helps her & keeps her safe from klaus. they eventually fall in love while he's helping her be a new vampire ( just like he helps quinn lol ) another version we have is, betty is a wolf hunter in mystic falls, she meets stefan, they start dating, fall for each other & then she catches him drinking the blood bags in the salvatore basement, & that's how she finds out he's a vampire. they eventually work through it, and she once again turns into a vampire but again i can't remember how for this time.

the hundred ... ( if you haven't seen the show, i'm sorry if this makes no sense hgufjoi ) this verse for them is our most tragic & most developed verse for them. they met when everyone was still on the ark, but they didn't talk much. & then everyone went to the ground, they ended up becoming close, they fell in love QUICKLY, never left each others side until s2 & then other shit happens. fast forward to when everyone's down under the bunker, a year of them being in the bunker happens, stefan gets sick. he's sick as if it's like the flu in this universe. betty working at their med bay, steals some medicine for him even though he told her not to. a couple days pass, he starts to feel better but not enough to be okay. a couple more days pass, betty was caught for stealing the meds & would now have to be thrown into the pit ( a fighting pit where criminals or people found guilty would have to fight to the death, only one left standing ) the night before betty had to go into the pit, stefan proposed. as a hopes that she would somehow get out of this. the day comes, stefan wakes up to an empty room. betty was down at the arena where the pit is. he rushes ( slowly, was still weak from being sick ) he makes it there, was being held back by one of the guards, not allowed to go down to see her. he has to watch her fight in the audience like the rest of the people, however he was being held back tightly because they knew he'd run down to her. eventually, the guard is too busy paying attention to the fight and stefan gets free. he rushes down to the arena, when he finally gets there betty was stabbed in the abdomen by one of the fighters. stefan screams out, he makes it into the pit. she's bleeding out, he pulls her into his lap, she ends up dying in his arms. needless to say, he doesn't get past it. he wears her blood stained scrunchie on his wrist every day after that. there's a post somewhere where i wrote his pov of her death, could find that if you wanna see it ! lol but it's tragic.

legacies, this one we don't have too much of but as you know, in my legacies verse stefan comes back to life in a different body. after being dead for 13 years, he's a baby witch, yadda yadda. betty is a teacher at the salvatore school, they end up reuniting and she at first can't believe it's him because of the new body but they make their way back to each other.

then we have a simpler tvd universe verse where they do end up getting married, having a life together & all that good stuff. <3 i don't recall her being a vampire for this one either.

and one more in the tvd universe that's not fully developed but we have a throuple type situation with one of @prophecey 's muses ( harry bingham ) where the three of them work out a lil situation. since they both love stefan so much heh. harry is another major crossover ship i have for him. care's betty & kt's harry are two of the few exclusives i have for canon muses bc i can't / won't see myself writing / shipping with other versions of either !

so yes, that is a big chunk of the salvacooper lore lol, i'm definitely missing pieces to their tvd verses but i adore and appreciate the question ! i could truly ramble about them & fabratore forever. thank you lovely !!! i apologize for how long this got ahhhh

[fullyarmoredbattlesturgeon]

Could I have some resources please on the claim that under anarchism, disabled people would have no aid, especially insulin, etc. I'm an aspiring anarchist but I hear anti anarchists say this stuff and cannot find anything to rebutt their claims or proof of it! I want to be an anarchist, but I do not want disabled people such as myself to suffer under it if that's a true claim

here's a really good all-rounder for you, with sections on both disability and healthcare.

that's such an alien thought to me these days because so many of the anarchists i know are disabled, guess i forgot that there's people out there that think like that.

i gave ya a link, but im gonna share some of my own thoughts anyways.

the thing (that most of us(looking at you, ancaps)) are fighting for is explicitly a society built around mutual aid and accessibility for all.

why would we stop caring and providing for those around us, without the state telling us to?

if the state goes away, my mom and i will still mow and clean up my blind neighbor's lawn and shovel part of his sidewalk. If the state goes away, my sister is still going to watch the dog for our other neighbor who's a busy single mother and can't always be around. if the state goes away, i'm still going to be looking out for my houseless friends and trying to get them whatever help or support they need.

if that can be true on a personal level, why can't it be true on a organizational and professional level? would doctors magically stop being doctors? would people stop making prosthetics and mobility aids?

so why would insulin suddenly dissappear overnight?

does the president like, secrete it, or something?

no, it's made by relatively normal people who make it because it's their job to make it. in a more horizontally organized society, the only thing that would really change is that their workplace would be democratized, and in the context of a gift economy (or something similar) the insulin would be seen not as a product, but something to be given, just as food or water would be.

"from each according to their ability, to each according to their need", right?

care is not something magically handed down from the heavens, it is something that people *do*.

*we* care for us, and to some extent or another, we always have.

how that care is *organized* though, is a political question, and this is what anarchism seeks to change - under capitalism, care is generally something that you either have to pay for, is handed down through "charity", or is controlled and parceled out by the state.

authoritarian communists want to hand everything over to the state, and simply assume that the state will care for us once it controls everything. that nationalization is an unalloyed good, simply because the state ain't the bosses - making it inherently good since the bosses are inherently bad.

on the other hand, a lot of people have this stereotype of anarchists as unorganized, rowdy bandits - but it's not that anarchists don't believe in organization, rather we believe that we should organize as horizontally, freely and democratically that we can. that is to say, anarchists tend to be... less *optimistic* about depending solely on the good graces of an all-powerful state, regardless of what 'flavor' that power comes in.

we take care of us, right?

well, except for ancaps i guess, they think that everyone should just be thrown to the wolves. it's no wonder why everyone thinks the ancaps are clowns.

bit rambly, but hope that helps. this isn't exactly something I'm well-versed in, but even i can defend against arguments as simple as this.

oh and hey, thanks for asking! hope ya have a nice day.

[theonlymoongirl]

AMERICANA

"William took my boy. So. I've taken his."

Homelander never got to live out the apple pie life with Ryan; so Hughie Campbell will have to do.

Tags: whump, angst, non-consensual drug use, abduction, gaslighting, humiliation, violence, abuse, spanking, mouth washing, forced domestic discipline, 50s america but it's homelander, americana horror

Chapter Four Incentive

“We can either do this standing up, or we can do this over my knee.”

No matter how he tried to spin it, it didn’t feel good. Pissing on Becca’s promise within a month or two of making it to sacrifice Ryan for Hughie, or abandoning Hughie to his fate to keep Ryan out of Homelander’s clutches. Neither was a solution, but there was only one right choice. The boys and Starlight had all agreed that handing Ryan over to Homelander was a catastrophic idea. Even if they were to ignore the ethics of leaving a child with his murderous, Nazi fucking father, the inherent dangers of creating another Homelander was too big of a reason to ignore. Even the fact that Hughie himself would probably agree with the decision brought no comfort to Butcher. Hughie wasn’t the sort to throw anybody to the wolves if he could help it, especially not children.

The wound of Becca’s passing was still sore and wide open; Homelander taking Hughie was pouring salt in his blood. Butcher had to wonder just how much more he could stand. What else could Homelander take from him? How else could he make him suffer? Butcher hadn’t given Homelander an inch when he’d given the news, showing up at his flat to tell him in person what he had done with Hughie; but they both knew it was a front. There’d be no point to it all if it didn’t hurt.

The only silver lining was that, at least in theory, Hughie was still alive. There wasn’t much point in hostage negotiations without a hostage. Corpses made for poor bargaining chips. ‘Probably’ wasn’t good enough though. Until Butcher saw it with his own eyes, Hughie was Schrödinger's cat, both alive and dead. Homelander had promised proof, though was yet to make good on it; and in the meantime, there wasn’t much any of them could do besides wait. They could hardly plan a rescue mission if they didn’t even know where Hughie needed rescuing from. 

They were in the Flat Iron when it happened. Butcher was pouring himself his fourth whiskey of the day, pointedly ignoring the frowned looks of disapproval and concern that were thrown at him. Frenchie and Kimiko were skiving off at Frenchie’s desk, talking to one another in a silent blur of hands. M.M. was there, tidying up the place; no one had bothered to remind him yet that he didn’t work with them any more. He came every day on his lunch break, with the vain hope that they had something, in spite of assurances that he would be told as soon as they had anything.

Butcher knocked back his drink without a grimace and wondered how long it would all last.  Over forty eight hours without a word and the silence was reaching its breaking point. He’d snap sooner or later, say some things he’d regret, because Hughie wasn’t around to put him back in his place any more. No more canary to chirp harsh truths, to irritate him into making the right choice. Butcher wished he could feel free of his moral compass, but he was shackled by its absence.

With a sigh, he began to trawl through his emails,  trying to kid himself that he was working. Not in the way Hughie was. It wasn’t the scrambled email address that piqued his interest, nor that it got flagged as spam. It was the heading. Butcher wasn’t versed well in technology. He was no luddite, but he wasn’t overly fond of it. He could hear Hughie scolding him for clicking the link, talking about how he technically knew more about hardware than software, but he knew enough to know that the antivirus they had wasn’t the best, despite being a branch of the government. He wished the kid was there so he could smack him upside the head and tell him to shut up.

For once, it was a good thing he didn’t listen to Hughie.

It took him a second to understand what it was that he was seeing. It was a live camera feed of different empty rooms and a lawn at different angles, surrounded by thick forest. It took a little navigation before he found him. Before he found them .

“Shit.”

Heads turned at Butcher’s breathy exclamation. His gaze didn’t waver. If he blinked, he might miss it. If he moved, Hughie might be gone again, forever.

“It’s Hughie.”

The other three scrambled to Butcher’s desk, crowding around his chair to stare at the screen; and there he was, living and breathing, the tinny sounds of his footsteps just audible. Following Homelander outside. Butcher scrambled to click on the right screen at Frenchie and M.M.’s insistence to follow Hughie. They watched, breaths held tighter in their chests with every step, watching Hughie walk to the tree like he was about to face a firing squad. What happened next was too quick for anyone to actually see. There was a collective shout of dismay as they saw lasers firing directly at Hughie, but horror quickly turned to confusion. For Hughie was now in the forefront of the shot, panting hard and completely naked. The conclusion was reached at the same time, but Butcher was the one who verbalised their realisation.

“He turned him into a fucking supe.”

There were no microphones outside, so they could only guess what it was that was happening. They saw Hughie’s dismay and embarrassment, turned to panic as Homelander moved over to him. From what Butcher could guess, it looked like a countdown on Homelander’s lips. Hughie disappeared without warning and Butcher was left scrambling to find where he’d gone. Naked still, he was in a bedroom, rifling through its drawers.

“He cannot teleport his clothes,” Frenchie murmured.

“He’s lucky to be alive, dosin’ him up with V.”

If Butcher wasn’t enraptured with the live feed, then he was drinking in the proof of Hughie’s life remaining intact. There wasn’t space in his head to question why he’d been turned into a supe. They could muse on Homelander’s insanity later. For now, they all watched Hughie go down the stairs. While the outside wasn’t miked up, the house seemed to be bugged at every corner.

“No, no, no, no, no,” M.M. muttered, as Hughie’s voice rose and Homelander’s became more serious.

“What are you fuckin’ doin’, lad?” Butchered murmured, leaning in closer to the screen.

When pushed, Hughie tended to run his mouth. Butcher had thought the kid to be smart enough to button his lip when talking to his captor, but emotions were evidently running too high for rational thought; and Homelander had run out of patience. They all flinched as one as they watched Homelander grab Hughie by his ear, dragging him to his side. Whiskey and bile roiled painfully in the pit of Butcher’s stomach as the sounds of Hughie’s cries came through his computer. Butcher had never witnessed a car crash before, but he’d seen shit worse than car crashes. He’d learnt to look away, because there was no point adding another scar to his collection, because after the tenth and twentieth and thirtieth time of seeing some horrific shit, it lost its magnetism; but not this time. He had to watch. Butcher was compelled. Whatever Homelander was about to do, he needed to see it. If he was on the cusp of snuffing out one of the last few lights in his life, then he needed to bear witness.

Nobody breathed as they watched Homelander hoist Hughie under his arm like he didn’t weigh a thing. The horror remained as Homelander roughly tugged down Hughie’s pants; but then, bafflement took over everything. Homelander wasn’t killing him. What he was doing could barely pass as a form of torture; but it did class as child abuse.

Uncomfortable didn’t cut it. Seeing Hughie being beaten up would have been its own kind of torture, but there was a whole layer to this that was entirely different. It was more than just seeing him in pain. They were watching him be humiliated. Homelander was treating him like a child, scolding him like a child and Hughie was incapable of doing anything besides responding like one. By being audience to his punishment, they became unwilling participants in his humiliation; and they themselves were being punished by witnessing it. Hughie probably had no idea they were watching. He hadn’t seemed to notice the cameras yet; but Homelander knew and that was enough. It was plenty.

He had been meticulous. There were no blindspots. Every camera in the room offered a different angle to Hughie’s mortification, and the sounds of struck flesh and his furious cries were being picked up on every microphone.

Nobody was able to tear themselves away. The feed was in colour, so they could see the angry colour Homelander’s hand left behind. They watched Hughie flail, heard his angry screeches, saw his legs kick and his fists pound, yet Homelander didn’t waver. It was when Homelander’s voice cut through the tumult of pain and fury did Butcher finally act. He heard Hughie again, trying to explain to him how you couldn’t just unplug computers at the socket, Butcher, it wasn’t good for them, you had to shut it down first. He ripped out the plug.

Butcher sat up and turned to them all, a hard look in his eye.

“We didn’t see that. None of us saw it, alright? When we find him, we didn’t see diddly fuckin’ squat. Got it?”

A chorus of solemn, tight lipped nods were his response. But then-

“Turn it back on.”

Butcher’s head snapped to M.M., strong arms folded across a broad chest. His face was pinched in a brittle expression, worry and anger and nearly everything that Butcher felt reflected back at him.

“What?” Butcher snapped. “You ain’t seen enough?”

“It’s still Homelander. I wanna make sure Hughie’s not dead.”

Butcher paused, then bent down to plug his computer back in with a muttered swear on his breath. It was a tense wait for everything to come back to life, but the feed was back on the screen soon enough. They heard the muffled sounds of screaming before Butcher could find the right screen. It only brought a little comfort to see that Homelander wasn’t present, but not much more. Hughie was kneeling on a bed, a pillow wrapped in his arms and crushed against his face, shoulders bowed as he curled around himself. Another moment they weren’t supposed to see. Homelander had weaponised their need for proof, forcing them to invade his privacy, turning them into unwitting voyeurs.

“He ain’t dead.” Butcher clicked off of the feed. They had already seen too much. “That’s enough.”

He sat back in his chair, staring at the email. It was better than nothing. It would be encrypted to all hell and it wasn’t good enough, not in the slightest, but it was something. He read the heading and felt the desire for violence coil in his gut.

INCENTIVE.

Homelander was going to die. Even if Butcher went down in the process.

-

The adrenaline crash hit Hughie hard. He’d had no intention of falling asleep, but somehow he ended up collapsed face first on the bed, the pillow still wrapped in his arms. The sun was setting outside, yet despite its parting, the room was pleasantly warm. Hughie pushed himself up. He rested on his hip and rubbed his face with both hands. Fuck. Homelander was probably still downstairs. Colour rose to his face as he thought back on what had happened. Just thinking about it was making him cringe.

It wasn’t just what had happened either. It was his response to it. The thought of how he’d dangled off of Homelander’s arm, thrashing and screeching, rather than taking it still and silent made him nauseous. It would have been better if Homelander had just beaten him up. Torture would have been better. Torture wasn’t… that . It wasn’t something you did to kids. Not that anybody should hit their kids, but a spanking was a punishment traditionally intended for children and that was why Homelander had done it. Because it cut deeper than a simple beating. Because it made Hughie small.

It was to infantilize and humiliate, and the worst thing about it all was that it had worked. Hughie had been humiliated. He was mortified. It made him want to curl up in a hole and never come back out. Because it was “for children”, the fact that he’d reacted the way he did made it so much worse. Crying out when you were being beaten was understandable. Screaming whilst being tortured was acceptable. But kicking up a fuss over being spanked? That was just pathetic. It was laughable. It had hurt too. It was still hurting now, the sting faded to a warm ache.

Hughie pulled his hands away from his face and looked down at them, as if his palms held all the answers. His shoulders slumped in a bone weary sigh. How the fuck had his life come to this? Abducted by a psychopath forcing him to play house. Forcing drugs and powers upon him just so he could fit into his fantasy. How long would this go on for? Or rather, how long could Hughie survive? 

“Hughie?”

Homelander’s voice came up from downstairs, but Hughie jolted as though it had been whispered in his ear.

“Y-yeah?”

“It’s time for dinner.”

Hughie’s face returned to his hands. It hadn’t been twenty four hours and he already wanted to die.

“Okay, I’m coming,” he called, reluctance seeping into his tone.

Hughie trudged to the kitchen, the back of his neck and his cheeks already burning. In spite of his embarrassment, Hughie forced himself to look Homelander dead in the eye when he came into the kitchen. It didn’t matter that the face he put on was kind, that the smile he wore was gentle. He knew what it was trying to hide: an insufferable smugness.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?”

For once, Hughie finally understood Butcher. He’d always wondered how he’d managed to stand up to Homelander, talking to him as though he couldn’t slice him in half at any second. It was his rage. It overrode even the instincts of self preservation. For just one moment, Hughie would have given anything to punch Homelander, regardless of the consequences. Unlike Butcher though, his desire to survive was greater than his fury. For now.

“Fine.”

Homelander hummed. It took all of Hughie’s willpower not to back away as Homelander moved towards him. Resistance was pointless. Even suped up, it was obvious that Homelander was still far more powerful than Hughie. He could do little more than yell when Homelander pulled him forward, wrapping an arm around his chest, pinning his arms to his side.

“Hey!”

Two fingers had snaked between Hughie’s waistband and were already working them down.

“It’s alright,” Homelander chuckled, sending a thrill of embarrassment up Hughie’s spine. “I’m just checking on how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine!” Hughie yelled, trying to wriggle out of Homelander’s grasp, but fingers bit into the flesh of his upper arm and the almighty arm squeezed until pulling in a deep breath was nearly impossible.

“We can either do this standing up.” Hughie could hear already how Homelander’s patience was beginning to thin. “Or we can do this over my knee.”

Hughie slumped forward, head hanging low. Fuck. What choice did he really have? He couldn’t stop Homelander and he had no idea how to use his powers or if they could even be useful in this situation. Maybe he couldn’t teleport great distances? If he could, it was far too early to tell and Hughie wasn’t about to try it now.

“Which one, Hughie?” Homelander asked, the sternness in his tone bordering on dangerous.

“Standing up,” Hughie mumbled, monotone and defeated.

“Good boy.”

Hughie’s form stiffened, shoulders hunched up to his ears, his face burning hot as Homelander bared his ass once more. A noise escaped his clenched jaw as a splayed hand gave a generous rub over his cheeks and thighs.

“Hm. You’re still pretty pink, Hughie.”

Hughie had never prayed so hard for the earth to swallow him up before now.

“Your healing factor’s pretty slow,” Homelander commented casually, pulling up Hughie’s clothes once more with a loud snap of his waistband.

The arm keeping him in place finally released him, but Hughie remained where he was. He had nothing to say. His face burned. His vow to keep eye contact was broken. He couldn’t even raise his head. His hands were curled into fists, tremors rippling up his arms. Was this supposed to be his place in life? The victim. The loser. The pathetic one, the small one. To be always humiliated and forever looked down upon, no matter how hard he raged against it? It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t fair.

“Hey.”

It took Hughie a second for his brain to catch up. Both arms encircled him this time. A hand was between his shoulder blades, another on his head. Stroking his hair. His chest was pressed flat against Homelander’s. His eyes widened.

“I just needed to make sure you were alright. Okay?”

Rage was watered down with fear and confusion. Being held by a man who could turn him into lunch meat with one squeeze gave Hughie a stark reminder of his mortality. If Homelander wanted him to sink into the embrace, Hughie would just have to disappoint. He was actively fighting off the urge to shove Homelander off him. He didn’t want him anywhere near him. He didn’t raise his arms. He stood, awkward and stiff, praying for it to be over.

“Okay,” he answered. There was nothing else to say and luckily for him, it worked.

Homelander finally pulled away. He clasped Hughie by his arms, giving him a squeeze and a smile. “C’mon. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Hughie nodded and hoped that at least one of them would choke on their food so that this nightmare could end.

I will always write my fics for free. I will not write faster because of tips or slower from the lack of them. Tips are greatly appreciated, but not at all expected or demanded

[adelaidedrubman]

“How about we put that pretty mouth of yours into good use, hm?” for JohnJess, please? Hopefully whatever sin occurs isn't used to terrorize Mary May for once lmao - fourlittleseedlings

HI MOLLY thank you for sending this in, apologies for what i decided to do with it. everyone give it up for the bad head valentine’s day event! at least mary may is spared. 

summary: jessie agrees to finally hookup at john’s place for valentine’s day, he thanks her by bringing his a-game. (“how about we put that pretty mouth of yours into good use, hm?” + john x jestiny | set in the pre/no reaping au (although frankly it doesn’t match the timeline of the “get off my lawn” verse proper) | bad head valentine’s day event )

wordcount: 4.6k 

warnings: explicit nsfw. alcohol. verbal berating. johnjess typical power struggles and creepy behavior (including brief references to stalking type activities), general toxicity. bad head. terrible, horrible, no good, very bad head. john says a praise kink and degradation kink can coexist peacefully, actually. love wins 

Stepping into Seed Ranch had felt quite uncannily like stepping into the lion’s den. 

Or some kind of animal’s den, she had thought with a shudder upon entering and casting her gaze about to pick out each piece of imposing taxidermy placed around the expanse of the main room, the towering bears and hunkered down wolves successfully creating the illusion of being closed in by a viciously tacky pack of wild animals. 

Although perhaps the predatory air of the place radiated strongest from the homeowner himself — and the annoyingly victorious grin that had fixed onto his face the moment the doors safely closed behind her, bearing distinct resemblance to an understimulated housecat convincing itself it had caught an impressive prey in the form of a cheap toy mouse thrown across the room.

Because it had been a truly trivial prize; an astoundingly empty victory she’d chosen to hand the man — finally agreeing, after months of stubborn standoff regarding the particulars of where they carried out their ill-defined and ill-advised affair, to for once go to his place. 

A concession she’d only granted due to, well, the timing. 

And by that she did not — absolutely not, by any stretch — mean because it was Valentine’s Day. 

In fact, she hadn’t even realized it did happen to be February 14th until well into the evening, upon strolling into a strangely packed Spread Eagle — and noticing a moment later (as it were too late), after fighting her way to the bar through a crowd of singles flirtatiously offering to buy her a drink, that the back wall was covered in carelessly hung crepe paper hearts, and the man already proudly perched upon a stool at the counter had switched the usual blue tones of his wardrobe (which she knew were a vain attempt to bring out the color of his eyes, by the way) for a dark pink cashmere sweater. 

And once she had already found herself situated there and caught directly in the sticky center of the spider’s web of unfortunate timing, its gossamer threads only wound tighter around her to spell her doom. Primarily in the form of Mary May being so backed up running drinks to the holiday crowd that she didn’t even respond to Jessie’s repeated calls for a craft beer, and without drinking there was precious little else left to entertain or serve as a distraction from the man undergoing his usual work in pestering her. And no distractions meant it was difficult not to engage with him, and if she was going to engage with him she was at least going to engage in a manner that proved pleasurable. 

And from there the factors compounded, all holiday neutral. There was the relative distance of her house near the edge of the county compared to his just outside of town (five minutes, she thought — perhaps she’d found the address and driven by it on occasion just to see how gaudy the place must really be, only to find equally condemnable evidence of poor taste in the fact it couldn’t even be seen from the main road, although a cheap billboard ad with his face plastered on it could). And the distance was a not so insubstantial consideration given the mounds of powdery white Montana winter that coated every mile of the drive, making the meandering trek to her place all the more treacherous, particularly in her 2003 Ford Taurus with last year’s snow tires. 

And the holiday had left the Spread Eagle too full of prying eyes and ears for slinking away still on the property to be a feasible option. And the only other proposed alternative — John’s suggestion they could simply rent a room at King’s Hot Springs Hotel, or perhaps those little chalets along the river — seemed more likely to result in hokey holiday bullshit, foreboding visions of rose petals floating along the frothing surface of hot tubs and room service strawberries dropped into champagne flutes flashing through her mind in dire warning. 

And so after a last failed shout for Mary May to bring her a double of McHelen’s and a whisper in her ear that he had a very nice vintage whiskey back at his place, that was how Jestiny found herself nursing a drink at the very place she’d spent upwards of six months stubbornly avoiding. 

“Can’t believe this is the only fucking whiskey you have,” Jestiny complained with a disparaging glare towards the tumbler filled nearly to the brim with expensive amber liquid. She brought it to her lips as she ascended the stairs, the rich smokiness lavishing itself along her tongue. “Scotch fucking sucks,” she said decidedly, savoring the lingering flavor as its smooth burn faded. “Get some fuckin’ bourbon, a whiskey fucking worth a damn.” 

“I’m happy to start keeping whatever you’d like in stock,” he hummed, curling the fingers threaded in her hair from his place clinging to her back, guiding her through the unfamiliar house while obligingly upholding the illusion she was in lead, herding her through the door to the balcony — she knew he must just want to show off the vista, there was no way he built this stupid place so that he had to go outside every time he wanted to get to the bedroom. “Now that you’re finally visiting.” 

“I’m not gonna be making a fucking habit of it,” she spat back, kicking open the door after he’d tugged her skirt to signal to pause at it, without waiting for the additional permission to enter. “This is a one time only thing, a —” 

“A special occasion,” John offered in agreement, a laugh falling into the cascades of hair he buried his face in. “For the —” 

“It’s not for the fucking holiday,” she spat, shimmying her feet free of her boots and purposefully kicking them into the dead center of the bedroom floor. “It’s ’cause Mary May was ignoring my drink order for some reason.” She punctuated the assertion with a swirling of the scotch in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the glass. “And this place is closer than the next bar.” 

“Of course,” he said, reaching to gently pull the glass from her hand and set it atop the nightstand, then flashing her a smile softened in artifice. “But how would you have known that?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, cocked his head to the side in equally feigned confusion. “You’ve never been to the place.” 

She shaped the surprised cough catching in her chest into a dismissive grunt, snatching the whiskey back from where he’d placed it. She brought it to her lips, holding her glare at him as she drank in place of an answer. 

“Well, regardless of what I have to thank for the privilege…” He paused, the hand that had been hovering in wait now pulling the glass from her again the moment she lowered it, taking a sip from it himself before placing it back on the table — this time pausing to put a coaster beneath it, now that any suave nonchalance of the gesture was ruined anyways. “I look forward to being able to fuck you on a proper bed for once.” 

She scrunched her nose. “The fuck you talking about?” she asked. “We’ve fucked on a bed plenty of times.” 

The smarmy smile on his face fell with sudden somberness. “We have not.” He shook his head back and forth slowly. “We have not fucked on a bed, not once. We’ve fucked on a mattress —” 

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ…” 

“— on the floor. With no frame and no box spring,” he continued harping, a complaint she thought she would for once be spared by not going back to her place. “We have never fucked on an actual, proper bed, let alone a —” 

“How about,” she interrupted sharply, gripping his jaw and pulling him towards her, satisfied to see his eyelashes flutter with sudden pleased deference at the action, “you stop doing worthless shit with your mouth like talking?” she suggested, briefly receiving a look of offense from the statement, before she shifted her hand so that his chin rested in her palm, her thumb sliding along his lower lip. “Instead, how about we put that pretty mouth of yours into good use, hm?” 

Before he could answer she shoved the thumb into his mouth, pressing it against his tongue — and any remaining trace of a glare vanished with the ticking of his eyes back up towards his skull as he wilted forward, reaching hands towards her waist and bunching up the fabric of her skirt as he melded his tongue against her finger and bobbed his head forward to purse his lips around the base of her knuckle. 

Her breath hitched, the tingle at the back of her neck sharpening itself into a spark of desire sliding down her spine at the feeling of the plush of his tongue caressing against her thumb as he sucked. She caught herself, pulling it away just as his eyes flicked to her, breaking the seal of his lips with a wet pop. 

“Gladly,” he answered breathily, placing a soft kiss to the pad of her thumb as he stiffened the hands at her hips to push her back onto the mattress. “And since we are for once on a proper bed,” he added, shifting the work of glaring back to her yet again as he lowered himself to his knees, looking up at her once he was settled, “I can finally bring my A-game to it.” 

He ignored her dismissive scoff, reaching for the waistband of her fleece tights and briefs to slip them down her legs at a snail’s pace. He brushed equally slow creeping and feather light touches along her thighs to push her skirt up past their tops, walking the fingers back down with equal teasing delay. She made a point of having her heel make contact with his collarbone as she kicked off the underwear and tights hanging around her ankle, then gave another kick against his back to push him forward as she dropped the leg atop his shoulder. 

“Just fucking bring some game to it already,” she complained, dried gel crunching between her fingers as she pulled at his hair. 

“But I was looking forward to finally savoring it,” he replied, hooking an arm around the leg atop his shoulder to stroke up and down her thigh as he paused to make sure the hungry glint in his eyes was sufficiently visible before he place a single teasing kiss at the crest of her lips. He pinched his brow, slanting upward as he widened his eyes to gaze up at her in some half-baked parody of reverence. “But I suppose if you’re so very needy and impatient…” 

He batted his eyelashes; dropped his jaw for his tongue to flop out, then stretch down along his chin until its tip reached to tangle in his beard. But instead of craning his neck forward to make any contact with her, he shifted back onto his calves and reached a hand towards his belt, unfastening it and guiding his already fully stiffened cock past the fabric. And he stayed there with tongue out, posed as if waiting to receive a communion wafer as he began to give himself a few slow strokes while she remained untouched. 

She furrowed her brow in confusion at the odd display — was this something that had actually done something for someone before? or was it just that no one had ever bothered to tell him he looked ridiculous? 

Regardless, she gave two quick snaps of her fingers, a call of hey to draw his attention before pointing her index between her legs in gesture with a few flicks of her wrist, as if reminding him where the tongue he held out was supposed to go. 

His eyes narrowed, his jaw twitching in impulse to fire back a retort — seeming to realize a second later that it would require retraction of his tongue, shaking off the urge as he finally bent forward to press against her. 

She sighed in some semblance of relief that he had at least gotten started, that she could feel his tongue flush against her. She ran fingers through her hair, closing her eyes as she tried to make sense of his positioning — waiting for the (teasing?) up and down drag of his tongue to come to a stop to be replaced with the familiar sensation of it flexing rigid to dip inside her as a thumb pressed against her clit. 

And waiting. And waiting. And — 

She coughed, opened her eyes to confirm the only progress that had been made was the length of the arc of his head bobbing each time he glided his tongue along her folds, still never managing to make meaningful contact — rubbing shallowly at her entrance at shortest pulses, the bridge of his nose managing to painfully clip the underside of her clit at longest. 

It was one of the latter moves that finally caused her to yelp and shove the heel of her hand against his forehead to push him back. 

“Do you plan on actually reaching anything that matters down there?” she hissed. “Or just bashing your nose against it?”

He shot an offended look between her legs. “I’m working up to it.”

“You’re at least two inches under it!”

“Well, I’m getting to it!” he snapped, wiping the saliva from his mouth onto his sleeve. 

“Then fucking get to it!” she barked, shoving him back between her legs. 

He scoffed, a heavy breath that at least had the mercy of falling against her clit, making her tingle with something close enough to arousal to remember that she had at some point wanted him enough to come home with him. 

Enough that she did feel some small jolt of pleasure as the tip of the tongue he slid past lips made contact with her clit — not moving, once it did, merely tensing against her. 

She scrunched her mouth to the side, trying to make sense of the way he increased pressure without movement, poking against her. His eyes found her, the rest of him remaining completely still save for the slow steady jerks of his arm — he apparently felt as if he should be rewarded for a job well done at least, while his tongue stayed glued in place. 

“What —” as soon as she began to ask the question he answered it in the form of his tongue wagging back and forth — seeming to make a grand spectacle of showing off its range, barely grazing her clit on its path to opposite creases of her thighs. 

She briefly considered just trying to rock along to the ministrations rather than give him more direction — until he shifted his lashing path downward, so that even the minimal contact made where she needed it was lost, replaced with a useless swiping along her inner lips. 

“You fuckin’— ” she cursed, burying fingers in his hair and tugging — the little moan he gave indicating he apparently thought it was in reward. “You know better than this,” she growled at him, yanking his head back so that he was forced to look up at her disappointed and confused face. “I — I know that you know better than this,” she offered, genuinely taken aback. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I told you,” he purred, seemingly undeterred as he sat back, returning to that same back on his heels and stroking himself pose in which he’d begun. (And with the tongue sticking out like a cartoon wolf yelling an enthusiastic ‘awooga!’ removed, she had to admit he did look pretty like that.) “I’m taking the time to bring my A-Game,” he said, brushing a thumb to dip just barely inside her to collect the slick built there — primarily his own saliva, she assumed, which was returned from whence it came with the slipping of the finger into his mouth. “Or at least I would be,” he bit out more sharp with irritation as he removed the thumb. “If I could stop being interrupted.”

“I never —” she huffed, clenching her hands around the hair her fingers had been threaded through, separating it into two fistfuls, “thought I would have to tell you of all people not to think too much,” she said bitterly, jerking the fistfuls of hair to pull him as if leading a horse by its reigns, until his mouth was once again hovering just shy of where she wanted. “But don’t overthink it.” She kept one fist bunched in his hair to hold him in place as she untwined the other, bringing fingers to rest in a V shape on either side of her clit, using them to spread the plump of her lips and better expose herself. “Suck it.”

Pink smoldered bright along his cheeks at the command, a whimper following it in fluttering past his lips. So when he dropped his jaw, licking his lips before leaning forward to cover her with his mouth, she was briefly hopeful that she’d finally broken him down to the version of himself that kept her coming back to their unwise tryst in the first place — the John who was eager, ready to jump to please, obedient and pliant.

But those hopes were soon dashed when the lips pursed around her failed to narrow to suckle, but rather expanded — as if he’d decided to strive for breadth over precision, make sure that the better mass of her mound was joined in on the action as his tongue made the briefest gentle brush-bys of her clit at most. 

She looked down, giving a confused little ‘huh’ sound he must have mistaken for a pleased moan, because the dropping and rising rhythm of his jaw increased as he french kissed the general vicinity of her clit. 

She rubbed her chin with her hand, considered. He was at least in the right area and doing something halfway useful now — the occasional slide of his tongue along her clit produced something akin to pleasure when it happened, and he had to give up the misguided effort at teasing and just get the job done eventually, right?

Yes, she decided, better to just let him tire himself out. At this point, it was a sunk cost. 

She sighed, untangled her fingers from his hair, keeping one hand there to pat the top of his head encouragingly while the other reached for the glass of scotch on the nightstand. She brought it to her lips, taking a sip.

Monday was supposed to be the warmest temperatures they’d had all month, good to finally get some fly fishing done, she thought with a pleased hum taken as more encouragement. 

She was still finding the best spots around here, winter fishing was always tricky. She took another sizable drink of her scotch, realizing she was nearing the bottom. She had good luck with trout over near Silver Lake during the summer, maybe she should give it another try. 

She threw back the remainder of her whiskey, the burn settling pleasantly in her stomach, heat flushing along her cheeks. Of course, it could get crowded even in winter, so maybe she should see just how frozen the more distant tributaries forking off from it were. 

She lowered the glass once she was sure she’d drained the last drop of scotch, ice cubes settling back along its bottom with a resounding clink. 

The noise caused John to shoot his head up, eyes wide and searching in confusion for a moment — before they narrowed in offense as they settled on the glass in her hand. 

“Were you drinking while I was doing that?!” 

“I fuckin’ got bored!” she barked back, throwing her hand up defensively. “I said to fucking suck it, not make out with it!” 

“I was getting there!” 

“Well I fucking wasn’t!” 

“Very fucking well, then!” he cursed, reaching his free hand to grip her thigh almost too hard and scooting her further towards the edge of the mattress. “Since you’re so opposed to my adding any amount of artistry to the endeavor,” he hissed, allowing it to slowly fade into a sigh as he resumed furiously stroking himself and settled between her legs. “I guess it’s straight to my A-Game.” 

With that he slipped his tongue past his lips again, finding its place without delay this time — hugging her contours with a tight pressed caress that made her suddenly realize with a dizzying flicker of heat just how much she’d missed being paid proper attention. 

She groaned low and heavy as she tossed her head back, feeling the mere reality of his tongue finally massaging against her with some fucking force was almost release enough on its own. 

It was. It really was. For the almost twenty seconds it lasted. 

But that was the extent of its duration, before his tongue curled and flipped over so that its slick underside rested against her before rising, breaking the contact to hover in limbo — then slap down, then repeat the motion rapid-fire. 

She opened her eyes. She set them on the cedar molding; pausing a beat to study its grain, ground herself. A moment to try to talk herself into believing that what she thought she felt certainly couldn’t be real — but the sensation of the tensed tip of his tongue sweeping back and forth over her at a machine gun pace didn’t vanish, the wet slap slap slap it produced announcing its reality and leaving her without the luxury of doubt. 

She could feel it, she could hear it, and upon finally daring to look down she could see his tongue flicking against her clit at the speed of light, as if trying to hammer any last remaining prospect of arousal out of it, the quick flex of his arm showing he continued pumping himself in the same racing rhythm. All while he looked up at her with those wide, pleading eyes and flushed cheeks; that desperate expression he wore that silently begged for praise, screamed ‘please tell me I’m good’ — an expression she normally would have to admit being something of an undeniable sucker for, but paired with the useless exaggerated flicking of his tongue it only inspired annoyance. 

She bent her neck, so that she could be directly eye to eye with him as she spoke. 

“John,” she cooed, dripping with an artificial sweetener of sarcasm, “you look very fucking pretty doing that.” His pupils blew wide, face deepening its pink with excitement — apparently still unaware the praise she gave was in mocking. “But it’s as fucking worthless as you are!” 

His tongue froze in its place for him to draw in a sharp gasp that was quickly pushed back out as a broken, bleating cry that dragged out long and quavering; as black-blue lust clouded eyes switched to glistening white as they rolled towards the back of his head, then shuttered just as quickly as he squeezed them shut tight. From there his head dropped to collapse in her lap, so that she briefly worried she’d caused him to break down and cry — before she felt sudden heat sling along her shins, trickling down to her ankles as he trembled against her. 

Her thigh grew nearly as damp as the lower half of her leg as he pressed his face flush against it to bury his next fading moans into it, until they crumpled into a last whimper and he went limp. 

He took a few more shaky breaths in her lap before he pulled back to sit upright on the floor again, chest still heaving with breathlessness. 

She unbent her leg, stretching it out to glance at the release dripping down her shin, then darting her eyes back to him. “So your A-Game, huh?” 

His slackened features took turns furrowing and tensing at different places on his face, trying to fix for itself which expression it wished to solidify into, seeming to shift between half-formed renditions of angry, embarrassed, and apologetic. 

Before they finally all fell, drooped with his head hanging in tired shame. 

And she studied him in silence: still gasping for breath, face sheened with sweat and rosy flush, the drops of release that hadn’t made it to her skin settling on his thighs. The ache at her base pulsed fresh despite herself, and she had to admit he did, in fact, look very, very pretty like that. 

She gave an exasperated sigh as she bent forward, reaching for his forearm. 

“Come here,” she grumbled, tugging at the arm to pull him upward, then forward for her other hand to find the back of his thigh and guide him to settle into her lap. 

He gave a soft whine, allowing his arms to rest atop her shoulders as she brought her hand upward to hold him at the hip. She then slid it to cradle the small of his back, trailing up and down as her other hand lifted to brush a thumb against his cheek, then cup his jaw — lavishing him with all those tender caresses she always was so bad at denying him when he was finally all broken down and fucked out and drained and softened by the comedown, although usually he’d done a little bit more to earn the reward of her spoiling him with stray affections. 

“Well,” she began, leaning forward to press a kiss against his heartbeat. “Have we learned our lesson, then?” 

He nuzzled against her hand, pressing a matching kiss to the pulse of her wrist, sighing a defeated, “Yes.” 

“You gonna just do what the fuck I say without going off script to try to show off next time?” 

“Yes,” he nodded, batting his eyelashes at her. “A-Anything,” he rasped against her palm. “Anything you say, Jessie, really — I want to make you feel good, make it up to you.” He wove his fingers through her hair, tangling them. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered against her lips. “Anything. Tell me what to do.” 

“Anything?” she questioned. “And you’ll be good and do it?” 

“Anything,” he agreed. “I’ll be so good for you.” 

She hummed, pleased. “I want you to slide off my lap right now, stand up…” She purred, pulling her head back to gaze at him, expectant look in his eyes. “Put on your pants, get in your car, drive to the liquor store, and fucking buy a bottle of bourbon.” She heard the beginnings of an offended scoff, pressing her index finger against his lips to shush it. “Without saying a fucking word, because you’ve officially lost ‘using your mouth’ privileges for the next hour.” 

He swatted her hand away, remaining obediently silent nonetheless, settling for flashing her a bitter sneer as he shot up to stand, shoved his legs into his pants and threw open the door. 

She trailed just behind him, stopping in the doorway to lean crooked in it with forearm propped against the frame. “Oh, and John?” she called after him, grinning at the sight of him wordlessly but dutifully turning around, jaw tensed tight but eyes softened as he stared at her. 

She gave an upward jerk of her head in a half-nod. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” she chimed, flashing her index and middle finger parted into a V for him — holding it and bringing the hand to her mouth, poking her tongue out to flick at the space between the fingers. 

She continued the act the entire time he swung around and stomped along the length of the balcony and down its steps with silent indignation, barking laughter after him as she did. 

Happy for one of them, at least.

[secret-engima]

is your thrown to wolves au an actual fanfic you're writing, or just au posts on here? i tried checking your AO3 but did not see anything by that name

Hi! Atm it is purely a tumblr au. I *do* have a fic doc for it with a first chapter very tentatively started, but I also have- so many other WIPs to work on that are more cooperative at this time. So I don't see Thrown to Wolves making the jump to full fic status for a while ^^;

[raven-6-10]

@a-world-in-grey

***

Yup, I was right. This is soooo Angsty. I love it!

Poor Regis and Aulea, they did not expect this to happen. Adagium is supposed to be a fairy tale to scare children with, not an actual thing. Certainly not something that can curse their little girl.

I wonder, did Regis manage to find anything more concerning the Curse in royal archives? Or just more of the same vague warnings and nothing concrete?

(Did he perhaps find some journals written by the Rogue or the Wanderer?)

***

Why am I not surprised that people of course assumed Sola is a bastard. I mean, she's already a bastard but they think she's not even a royal one. Though, did she ever hear those rumours? Did she wonder if her Papa really wasn't her Papa?

Because I can imagine baby Sola asking her parents if this is true and just. Regis and Aulea trying reassure her that she's their daughter, Regis is her dad, please don't listen to what the mean people say.

(Regis is soo going to clear the court after this. The people who started the rumours suddenly feel the need to take extended vacation on the outskirts of Insomnia. Certainly no time to visit the court, nope!)

***

I'm very surprised that they actually did paternity test - that's practically an admission there is a doubt about Sola's parentage. Something that should not be ever said out loud.

Then again, if it's Aulea who insisted on the test, it would be slightly more palatable. Because she surely would not agree to one if she actually had an affair (or at least was uncertain about her daughter's parentage). So it looks more like she's publicly calling nobles' bluff out. After that they can either shut up or face the consequences.

***

The reasons behind Sola's abdication would be different here, right? Less I don't want to be a Queen, it's too much work and more I know people don't want me to be a Queen and will not listen to me if I ever become one. Yikes! This baby is gonna have so many issues before she grows up.

***

What was Sola's reaction when she was told she cannot use her magic at all? From your various posts I got the impression that she used it subconsciously as a toddler to gauge people's moods and to communicate with them. Going from that to zero must have been a shock for her.

***

Just how long the Vitae had sleeper agents/spies in the Citadel?

I can see them having some people always keeping the eye on the Royal Family so they know when the newest baby is to be taken for a trial and they can get an agent to watch the place. Maybe also redirect any reports of unusual stuff happening on and in vicinity of Galahd.

But they most definitely sent additional people after Regis didn't abandon Sola. Just to make sure the kid really was going to be safe.

***

Is Noctis also cursed in this verse? I think he was in the original version of Regis doesn't go to Galahd but not here.

On one hand, less angst for Regis. I don't know how he would cope with having both of his children cursed in some unknown way. (Lie. He would Not Cope At All.)

On the other, this would kind of change the kidnapping, I think. Since Noctis having a healing factor played into it in @secret-engima posts.

Choices, choices.

***

Please, please, tell me that Galahd sent Regis a letter that basically said We picked up your son by accident. Ooops. We thought he was one of ours wayward kids. We are very sorry for the mistake. Could you please come and pick him up?

Ok, last one, I think (I could be wrong (: )

Sola and Thrown to the Wolves au. Specifically, the version where Regis never goes to Galahd, so all he knows is what Mors told him before he died and whatever he found in the archives.

Now please take a moment to imagine all the potential angst that comes from the fact that Regis' first baby is under Adagium's Curse. (Whatever that's supposed to mean, because the royal archives are surprisingly silent on the topic.) His tiny teeny baby girl who was born premature and who fought for her life so fiercely is supposed to be a monster in human skin.

I don't think Regis would ever abandon her, he's not called the Father for nothing. But he's certainly not going to have a good time in this verse. +Sola's less-than-human instincts would probably make things even worse.)

I'm always up for asks if you've got more! (they make for a great breather from studying for finals)

You are right. This is so angsty. >:)

Regis' heart breaks when he puts his little Sunshine through the ritual, when instead of needing the potion held in a white-knuckled grip, Sola's skin slowly knits back together under the faint glow of golden magic. But even as he holds his wailing daughter close, wiping away blood to reveal skin unmarred by so much as a scar, Regis knows he cannot abandon his daughter here. Adagium's Curse or no, Sola is a child. His child.

Regis leaves the broken shards of a potion and doesn't look back.

And the Vitae watching from the shadows wonder.

In this 'verse, Sola grows up having to hide her golden magic. This is not the time of the Rogue or the Wanderer, technology is everywhere and Regis cannot risk Sola living beyond the Wall with the war in an uneasy ceasefire.

The court believes Sola without magic, and rumors abound of Sola not being Regis' daughter at all. Sola looks so like her mother, but she acts much like Cor, and it doesn't take long for the gossips to speculate that Cor and Aulea were having an affair behind Regis' back.

No one in the royal family is amused.

Even after a paternity test is provided to shut up the worst of the gossips, the court pushes against Sola as Regis' heir. Surely the Ring will not accept one without magic, they argue. And for all Regis tries to shelter Sola from the court, he cannot stop everything from reaching the ears of his sharp little girl.

When Sola, all of five years old, tells him that she refuses to be Queen, Regis' heart breaks all over again.

None of the adults tell Sola the truth of her golden magic. They tell her that she cannot use it because it will hurt her and those around her, but they do not tell her about Adagium's Curse. Regis and Aulea hope, that with love and care, their bright and fierce Sun will not grow up to be the monster described in faded legends.

Oh, they see her less than human instincts. Watching Sola so closely, they'd have to be blind to miss them. They worry, because they think this the grain of truth to the legend, a manifestation of the Curse.

And yet... Sola isn't malicious. She's fiercely protective to the point of bordering on possessiveness, more inclined to attack first and ask questions later if she perceives a threat to Hers. But Sola doesn't attack anyone who doesn't attack or threaten her or hers first. She never subjects anyone to abject cruelty. If Regis hadn't seen Adagium's Curse first hand, he'd think Sola simply too similar in temperament to Cor.

Then Sola tears out a man's throat with her teeth.

In the aftermath, Sola's fairly certain she wasn't supposed to overhear Regis, Clarus, and Cor talking in Papa's office. But she does, and she overhears 'Curse' and 'not-human', and Sola's already heard more than a few people referring to her as a monster these past few days to realize that Papa and her uncles are talking about her.

Sola sneaks around the library looking for anything she can on curses, dodging suspicion from her papa and uncles by insisting that she's more than old enough to find her own books. One of the librarians, a woman with really cool dark eye makeup and lipstick, helps Sola with her research. Unfortunately, Sola's unable to find the answers she's looking for, but one afternoon when she's curled up with Noctis for an afternoon nap, Sola resolves that Curse or not, monster or not, she will protect her little brother. No matter what.

When Sola's old enough to formally apprentice to Cor, Regis shares his magic with her, as Noctis is still too young yet to properly create a Retinue bond. There's no question Sola is Noctis' Sword, just as there's no question that Gladio and Ignis are his Shield and Heart, but they're planning to wait until Noctis is at least sixteen.

Only, Noctis gets kidnapped before that can happen, then picked up by a wandering Vitae and brought back to Galahd.

Where originally Noctis would be utterly baffled by Galahd's insistence that Regis was a bad father, Galahd knows how Regis loves and cares for Sola despite her so-called 'curse.' Galahd knows it to be no curse, knows Sola's non-human instincts instead come from the Draconian's Blessing (Galahd's been dealing with those same dragon instincts for millennia, they know it when they see it and Sola's very dragon).

Regis knows none of this. He had every reason to abandon baby Sola to her death and erase her from the records.

He didn't. He lied. He kept her hidden, kept her safe and loved as best he could, and the handful of Vitae spies hidden amongst the Citadel staff have seen it all.

It seems the Father is the Mother's child after all.

When Regis and Sola arrive, Regis demanding to know where his son is with Sola's rumbling growl reverberating through their bones, Sola's growl cuts off with a jerk of surprise when one of the Furia trills at her, reassurance-Hoard-safe-not-seeking-fight brushing up against the embers of gold magic suppressed inside her soul. Sola stares at the Furia with wide eyes, because no one, not even Uncle Cor for all his growls and chuffs, has ever responded in such a way to her.

Things get sorted out, and before they leave for Insomnia, Sola and Noctis and Regis get to meet their aunt/sister and cousin/nephew, and Sola's given an invitation to come back to Galahd to properly train her gold magic.

@secret-engima if you want to add anything from Galahd's perspective feel free to join in!

[jessicas-pi]

I have no self control, so Time Tells Most Secrets, follow the silver wolves, and/or Twin Blades and Beskar for the ask game!!

YAHOOO, I love no self control!!!

Time Tells Most Secrets was inspired by this art I saw of Padme and Quinlan chatting over caf, and I just KNEW it fit into the time heals 'verse. It starts with politics and ends with gossiping about Anakin's new padawan-sister

---

“Good afternoon, Master Jedi.”

“Just call me Quinalan,” the Jedi grinned, dropping casually into the other chair at the small table Padme set up in her office. It was just big enough to hold a pot of caf and two cups.

Politeness forbid that, so Padme only smiled. “You wanted to meet with me?”

“Oh. Yeah, I did.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of datasticks as she poured the tea. “I’ve had some free time lately. These are for you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just the things some senators want nobody to know about. You know. Where they get their… unpaid assistants… or certain profitable investments they’ve made in the war…” He picked up one of the datasticks. “This one’s on Kamino. Don’t read it before you sleep or you’ll have nightmares.”

---

OK, and now follow the silver wolves, AKA the happy-ending AU that starts with a bunch of Mandalorians getting invited to the Jedi Temple as a show of peace and... ok, I'm not sure how it ends, but probably in colorful explosions.

---

“Padawan!”

The Jedi woman called out to someone past the Wren family, and Sabine turned around just in time to see a pair of Jedi boys freeze, halfway through trying to sneak past in a hallway junction. One was blonde and wore light colors, looking just about like sunshine incarnate. The other was dark-haired and Sabine didn’t know they even made Jedi robes in that shade of orange. They were both probably about sixteen or seventeen.

“You’re talking to Luke, right?” the orange guy asked nervously.

“No, Ezra,” she sighed, sounding amused.

---

And finally, Twin Blades and Beskar, the Lifeswap AU!

---

Ezra wakes up with a muffled gasp and the knowledge of two things.

One, is that that was not his nightmare.

And two—two is more of an instinct, than any knowledge. It throws him into action; he leaps out of his bunk and snatches up his helmet, shoving it on.

He finds Sabine on top of the Ghost.

She’s sitting there, eyes closed. With the robe she’s thrown on over her nightclothes, she looks exactly like the peaceful, collected Jedi she is.

Or rather, she would, were if not for the silent sobs wreaking her body.

[founderscouncil]

plots pls for regina( with hope, klaus, anyone?); mia/finch; coda/lottie

send me “plots please” and I’ll respond with  3  (or more)  interesting  plots / relationships / connections  I can think of for our muses! 

regina and klaus - they probably have a lot to talk about as people willing to play the villain in other people's stories, but are often not given much credit for having become such a villain due to the actions of their parents. regina with cora and klaus with mikael has a number of parallels, most strikingly the constant degradation and derision that they're weak, powerless, etc. they've both been hardened by life and both have done awful and unforgivable things, but they also probably could connect on their attempts to do good and be better, only to have their pasts thrown into their face

regina and hope - okay we could go one of two ways with this: a standard canon-esque relationship where regina sees hope very similar to henry (and emma). she's a child that serves as the lynchpin to the story, and she's remarkable in every way. in many ways, hope has exactly what regina wants, which is to maintain immortality without having to give up her magic. however, especially in a post-henry world (which is almost always how i'll play regina), she's not going to be as willing to harm a random child, even for her own gains. if anything, i can see her offering herself up as a resource for hope, to teach her some of the lost magic that she knows or expertise in dark objects (or teach her how to do the heart spell idk); ALTERNATIVELY we could do pre-evil queen regina who still believes in love and idk maybe instead of getting promised to some creepy old king, she gets promised to the tribrid and they have to deal with arranged marriage bs

regina and bellatrix - LISTEN I JUST NEED THE HOT EVIL MAGIC MILFS PLEASE

mia and finch #1 - pre-finch's appearance in canon, mia, loren and flori go to the grill and get seated in finch's section. loren and flori make fun of how red mia gets when finch flirts with her

mia and finch #2 - as an alternative to josie finding finch when she transfers to mfhs, i find it pretty hard to believe that there's an untrained werewolf under the noses of the school for longer than a few months and it seems like finch has been doing things for at least a year (since she was around when maya was in town), maybe a verse where mia finds finch, maybe fairly soon after she's brought to the school? finch is living the life that mia was just rescued from, on her own, while also trying to go to high school. it'd be a far less traumatic way for her to be introduced to the world of the supernatural

mia and finch #3 - this time in your lore, where after tiva is murdered and mia leaves len, they run into each other. i'd probably keep tvdu lore for finch but she'd still be in the part of her journey where she's not sure what the hell is going on and she thinks she's the only one out there. and it's just two feral teenagers trying to figure out the world, even if they're not exactly alike, but close enough for it to be meaningful

coda and lottie #1 - i vaguely remember you saying vampire lottie like once and now i need it. unlike most wolves, coda tends to be more suspicious of witches bc of what she went through with the hollow, so lottie being a vampire wouldn't outright deter her. also she's a golden retriever, so lottie could smile at her once and she'll be smitten (me too coda)

coda and lottie #2 - yj au where coda and lottie met in group therapy when they were kids (coda after her parents died, lottie bc her dad is a dick). she's not part of the soccer team and doesn't go to wiskayok high at all, but they bond over trauma and stuff and idk maybe they reconnect post-rescue

coda and lottie #3 - rich girl x kid from the wrong side of town and no one knows why they get along but they do. coda is all instinct and action while lottie is more cerebral and mindful, but it balances them out. is this supernatural or human or a different third thing? idk i'm just vibing

[ultrajustjo]

Week 4: Visio divina

Saint Mary Magdalen Holding a Crucifix/The Flagellation banner

This week, I step away from architecture, but not from function: this 15th-century banner was used for processions, hidden from view, defaced (you'll see what I did there, in just a moment), and resurrected (ooohhhh, bad).

Public domain photo of Spinello's Saint Mary Magdalen Holding a Crucifix/(reverse) The Flagellation housed in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Visio divina

Welcome, welcome. It's a rainy day, again, here in New York, and my SAD is chomping at the bit, but I'm working hard to keep it tamped down. So far, I'm holding it at bay. That lousy rain, however, washed out my nature walk at Art Omi for both Saturday and today (Wednesday). I'm not really an outdoor girl during a rainstorm, so I went to a funeral today, instead.

The sun will surely shine before my summer project here ends, and I will share about the outdoor sculptures at Art Omi later. Today, we are back in NYC with Renaissance art. Here's the shot I took on June 4, 2023:

You see now why I used the public domain shot. The banner was larger than life, but difficult to photograph.

You can read about its provenance here:

The verses

Today's reading is Matthew 7: 15-20. When I first read it today, my thoughts centered on the fruit trees. After examining the banner again, looking solely at the side with Mary Magdalene, my thoughts return to those who are dressed as sheep. I ponder how dressing applied to those in the portrait, and how it applies to us today.

(and Jesus said,)

15 "Take care. There are prophets who are not true. They come to you dressed like sheep, but inside they are like wolves, bad animals that kill sheep.

16 You will know them by the things they do. People do not pick fruit like grapes from thistles. They do not pick fruit like figs from thorn trees.

17 In the same way, every good tree has good fruit. But a bad tree has bad fruit.

18 A good tree cannot have bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot have good fruit.

19 Every tree that does not have good fruit is cut down and thrown into a fire.

20 So you will know them by the things they do, good or bad fruit."

The meditation

My contemplation of this piece was informed by the piece's background description found on the Met's website, linked above. The brothers of the religious fraternity that commissioned the banner are shown kneeling at Mary's feet wearing robes and hoods. Such clothing has negative and harsh social and religious undertones in American society, but the fraternity used the anonymity of hoods to perform charitable acts following the injunction by Christ to do good works without seeking praise. (Matt. 6) Keep these contrasts in mind as you examine the art and scriptures, and pray.

I am not looking at the reverse side of the banner this week, but it is included below. The face of Jesus was cut out and removed more than a century ago, and the damaged side hidden beneath a different tapestry. More on that story is included at the link to the banner's provenance. The hooded brothers on Mary's side of the banner wear robes open to the back to flagellate themselves. The musical angels reflect the fraternity's sung hymns in worship, as well as a folk tale about Mary Magdalene.

With this background in mind, what are you drawn to in this banner? Its colors? It's subjects? What details are you curious about? Did Spinello Aretino do a good job reflecting the story of Mary and the story of the fraternity?

What words in the scripture stood out to you? Where does your eye rest when you view the text? How do you feel about them -- calm, confused, angry, inspired, irritated?

Time now to sit for a moment in silence and let God continue to dwell with you.

[cwarscars]

Happy, happy birthday!! Tell me what you want to do more with Heid? Any dynamics you want to explore, any plots you have in store, any ideas you are sitting on, etc?

thank you, lovely !

ohhh, in terms of things i'd like to explore - ! for one, while i was looking at that picture i posted of heid - i was thinking about the scar over his eye and the effect it had on him physically. one thing i've always wanted to explore / actually write a headcanon on, is the fact that he's partially blind in that eye. i can't imagine a man receiving a wound like that without it affecting his eye / eye-sight. it's certainly something, health-wise, i'd like to look at with his character.

in terms of dynamics i'd like to explore; i would love more enemy / rivals / fighting plots. sometimes i worry that i'm softening heidegger up too much or even...making him too desirable to people? ( i know that sounds silly - hell, i simp for him ). but like, i worry that people just look at him and think 'd'aw, hot daddy, let's ship!' when...i don't always want that? i love ships & i love plotting, but i also think good ships can come from messy circumstance, too. so that's certainly a dynamic i'd like to look at more !

in terms of ideas - i actually recently started watching a show called the prisoner ( a 60s show ) - & it's about a man trapped on an island that's a very stepford smiling style place - basically, the people there are trying to extract information from him. i'd love to explore a setting like that with characters. maybe muse a / muse b are prisoners and trying to look for a way out? or even heidegger is the one trying to extract the info from muse b. i'd love that kind of verse.

otherwise, and i know it's a little off-key for an answer but, i'm really excited for what rebirth has in store for us and whether or no they show heid. i am terrified that they're going to destroy his character because...well, i don't trust squeenix with characters people don't care about. the fandom is very vocal about who they do & don't give a shit about & characters like heid are pretty much fair game to be thrown to the wolves in terms of characterisation...

but, though i'm scared of what they'll write for him - i am excited for new content to give me new things to explore with him!

a final thing is that i'd love more psychosexual plots. like, think cronenberg-style storytelling...but maybe without the body horror. i really wanna explore darker ships & sexuality in a more daring / psycho sense. i just find it very interesting & though heid is an angry old warmonger, i do like exploring that sexual side of him.

all in all though - thank you for this question & the birthday wishes, you're very kind ! <3