#Twilight Maw

[lopadopalis]

Lopadopalis' Signalis Fics

Long overdue that I make a post about this, and I might as well do this now since I recently dropped the respective third chapters for both of these fics one after the other, I ought to advertise them here because why not. I have been utterly consumed by Signalis brainrot.

I've had these two in the works for several months, and consider them to be 'sister-fics', because I developed them alongside one another and it felt wrong to focus entirely on one for a few years and then focus entirely on the other when it felt better to keep them together for all that they have wildly different narrative focuses.

A Gyrfalcon's Promise, one day to be a series, is primarily Falke-focused, involving her waking up in Sierpinski but finding no corruption, no Red Gate, and no Ariane (or Elster). She resolves to destroy the Eusan Nation in Ariane's name, and the entire series will be about the journey to fulfil that goal.

Twilight Maw, on the other hand, has a wide range of focuses, an extremely large cast, and is decidedly eldritch. It's gonna be packed when it's finished... It's a crossover with House of Leaves, although preferably you won't need to read the book to enjoy this one, you'll just get more of the references. Post-Artifact, Ariane catches the attention of forces beyond her understanding, Elster wants a break but the universe refuses, and Falke just wants to be with the wives. Falke/Elster/Ariane propaganda long-term, planning this fic accidentally made these three my OT3 but I will never go back.

I've got a lot planned for these two fics, and I'm looking forward to what they have in store long-term. Cheers.

[strangerpsychofficeparks]

Idk I just go feral when the Plot necessitates the main character going back to the same point in time in order to beat the bad guy. It's like Groundhog Day, but the entire universe is at stake. Bonus points the angrier the villain gets at the hero's annoyingly indomitable spirit.

[jacksjoke]

he has spoken🙏

[gestureintongues]

:::)

[boinday]

The God and The Devil

Just a little folk-gothic about loneliness, the countryside, and keeping a cat. For the spooky season! 1.8k words ^_^ (Copyright Bóín Day 2024)

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There's a fire in the garden. Again.

I step outside, careful to close the sliding glass door behind me so Cock Robin can't get out. He prowls the length of the glass with performative indifference, pretending he only follows so far to rub his whiskers against the doorframe. Pretending not to notice the orange flames spitting up into the blue-dark twilight sky.

I take the watering can, already full, from the patio and walk to the center of the garden, where the effigy burns. It is bigger than the last one. About as tall as my knee. I douse it before it catches in the dry summer grass.

Our cottage is in the middle of County Leitrim. In that typical part of Leitrim where nothing really is. I bought it because I could afford it, derelict and rotting as it was, surrounded by a sea of disused fields, twenty kilometers from the nearest shop. It still cost more than my parents' first home; a restored Victorian townhouse purchased in the eighties. I do what I can with the cottage. Funnel all my earnings into making it habitable. Close off the rooms that drive me into despair. I think I got Cock Robin because I was lonely. Or because he was lonely. I can't remember which.

I remember I found him quite endearing at the shelter, though. He is a peculiar shade of brown for a cat – almost chocolatey – with a striking ginger breast by contrast. His eyes are yellow, and suspicious. He's large and fat, and maligned by a snaggletooth that gives him a permanent sneer. Despite his unfortunate face, he is docile, cuddly, and a formidable companion. I don't blame him completely for what's happened, though he must think I do. Why else would he be confined to the house, he thinks. Why else would his dear mother jail him.

Cock Robin, for all his lazy mornings and babyish ways, is a talented and voracious hunter. I never exactly approved of him catching mice, but I suppose I tacitly endorsed it by allowing him outside, into the fields where he was undoubtedly the apex predator. At first I would only find pieces of the mice: a half body, a dismembered foot, an internal organ licked clean of blood.

But as Cock Robin acclimatised to the good life of being a kept cat, and gradually grew rounder from tinned tuna and cold cuts of chicken, he must have grown bored with the taste of mice. Because more and more often, he would bring them home alive.

He would bring them home alive, and with them stunned and confused between his careful teeth, he would howl for my attention. Once I would rise from whatever task I was at, he would wait for me to approach, present his quarry, and kill it in front of me. People say this is a cat's way of teaching hapless humans how to hunt, and perhaps they are right. But from the way Cock Robin would proudly deposit the poor creature on the step, whole but for the killing wounds, and bounce along to the cupboard where he knows I keep his treats, I think this ritual is more akin to a crude, kitty capitalism.

'I have rendered you the service for which our two species coexist,' Cock Robin says with his closed eyes and loud purr. 'Now I shall collect my fee.'

I don't like to watch things die. Even spiders, which I hate, I can't bring myself to kill. Even indoor plants, which are a chore to keep, I endeavour to save from my own habitual neglect. And now even mice, already trapped in the jaws of death, I am compelled by my conscience to rescue. Cock Robin objects to my charity, but he is stupid enough to trust my approach whenever he has some poor living thing in his maw, and once I am close enough, I grab him. Sometimes he drops them instinctively when he hears my stern demands, and sometimes I must pry his mouth open, but he always gives up without much fight.

The difficulty then is re-catching the mouse. I keep gardening gloves by the sliding door for this task, now. If they are sufficiently traumatized, I can simply scoop them up, walk to one of the neighbouring fields, and gently release them into the long grass. If they are lucid, though, they jump away; run, climb, scramble for their life. Those times are harder – especially if Cock Robin is still in the room. But I always catch them. Once they're out of his teeth, I find a way to cup them, grab them, cradle them. Out they go to the fields. Alive to survive another day.

I must have caught at least a dozen mice when the first gift appeared. I didn't know it was a gift then, of course. It was four raspberries, piled together on the doormat. I'm sure I thought it was odd at the time, but I simply picked them up and set them on a fence-post for the birds.

A few days later there were twenty raspberries. A whole punnet's worth. I certainly thought that was odd, and it ignited some paranoia in me. There are no other houses in sight of my cottage, only fields. Not even cattle graze there, so there is little cause for anyone to come out as far as my place on the quiet country road. I fretted about axe wielding maniacs, countryside bandits, the sort of nightmarish characters you might hear about on a True Crime podcast. Of course, as far as threats go, raspberries are a tame and obscure one. Hardly worth calling the Gards over. I think I mentioned it to some friends, and they laughed like I was crazy. I think I laughed too. I didn't want to be crazy.

The raspberries continued to appear for weeks, sometimes with a whole apple rolled into the mix, sometimes ornately arranged among picked daisies and buttercups. I tried to ignore them. Hoped if they rotted on the step, that would send a message. But the damaged, old raspberries were removed in the night, and replenished with fresh ones by morning.

At a certain point, I decided it was best to just wait up. I drank three cups of coffee and, with heart pounding and carving knife in hand, sat in the perfect dark of my kitchen, and waited.

It was just before dawn when I saw them. I'd imagined every manner of strange or dangerous person, - I'd spent the night staring at the middle of the glass door, the height you would expect a person to stand - and so I almost missed them. The tiny, moving bumps of darkness scuttling along the ground towards the door. It looked like the patio stones had come to life, and were rippling towards the cottage in little waves.

I stood and approached. Quite a stupid thing to do, in retrospect, but I did it anyway. I could see them in their droves: hundreds of mice removing the old, imperfect fruit and rolling in the new. Some of them carried the flowers in teams of two or three. I crouched slowly by the glass door, enraptured by their industrious energy. By the sophistication of the endeavour.

One of them must have noticed me, and the noticing spread, because almost instantly the bustling and bumbling little bodies went still. I went still as well. It was relatively dark out, the sky just lightening to a gloomy blue, but I could tell they were looking at me. Then, in another wave of collective movement, their bodies stretched upward – stretched towards the heavens, tiny front paws raised above their mousey heads – and then fell down again. Prostrating themselves on the ground.

I watched the motion repeat several times, paws stretching skyward, then falling back down, before I realised I was watching some strange, cultish worship. They were bowing to me. They were bowing to me.

I ran away, as any rational person would. I closed myself into my bedroom with Cock Robin, who was sleeping none the wiser. And I thought about how truly impossible it is to keep a mouse out of your home, if the mouse has a mind to get in.

It was the following week that Cock Robin was attacked. He came in from the fields, mewling in a pitiful manner I'd never heard from him before. There was a piece of wood lodged in his right eye, about as big as a toothpick. I rushed him to the vet. They couldn't save the eye. An unfortunate accident, they supposed. A mishap while Cock Robin was climbing through a hedge. We agreed he ought to be an indoor cat from then on.

Now they've taken a liking to effigies.

I kick through the smoldering remains of this latest one. Their understanding of human proportions has certainly improved. I see they've stitched leaves together with plant fiber and bug silk to simulate clothing. I wonder how they learned to light the wood. I wonder if this is what we looked like, too, when man discovered fire.

I look up the length of the garden to my rotten little cottage. Cock Robin is sitting politely behind the glass door, watching me through his surviving eye, tail ticking away in simmering upset. He wants to be out here, I know. He wants to exercise his divine wrath.

I wonder, as well, how they make sense of us. It seems impossible to me, that they cannot know how dearly I love Cock Robin. How I infinitely prefer him to any little mouse, no matter what mercy my conscience mandates. How he sleeps beside me, inside the cottage that is so alien and fortified compared to the world of empty fields around it. I suppose it is a contradiction inherent, that they should give me tribute while reviling the cat I openly adore.

I suppose that even God adored Lucifer, once.

I stomp out the last of the embers and wriggle my phone out of my pocket. I've been photographing these things, for posterity – not that anyone would believe them. It would be written off as some natural phenomenon, or AI fakery, or perhaps they'd simply say I'm lying. I photograph it anyway.

Trudging back towards my cottage, I turn on the phone's flashlight. This is a newly formed habit. I hold the light above my head and sweep it over the neighbouring field, in an arc. Tiny pinpricks of light glow back at me. An ocean of beady eyes, watching in the darkness.

I shout at them to go away, please. I say that I have nothing for them, and thank them for their worship but I'd really rather they just move on. There's no response. There never is. They cannot understand my prayers. I am too huge and powerful to be understood. But still, I pray.

[glknight]

So I'm a dumb dumb for leaving this account in the lurch for so long.

Because I commissioned art of The Withered, as drawn by CSP Dood, and never shared it on here.

Rectifying that now. And again, apologies for the lapse in activity.

TWILIGHT'S DAUGHTER CREATURE - THE WITHERED

In this write-up, heavily inspired by John Carpenter's The Fog and Prince Of Darkness, we are introduced to The Withered - poor unfortunate souls who were trapped in The Void Between and left to be worn down by the corruptive and maddening realm of non-existence until they were nothing more than empty husks serving the will of their master.

But then that raises some questions.

Just who do The Withered call "master"?

And second,

2. Why are the so interested in Davrick Bene above all the other heroes of Twilight's Daughter?

(AKA This wholesome goober right here, who prefers to be kind instead of casting one of the MANY INCREDIBLY POWERFUL SPELLS that have been lost to time and only he knows?)

The only way to find out is to read Twilight's Daughter when I finally finish writing it! But until then, I'll continue these write-ups of various monsters from Twilight's Daughter to fill the void (pun intended). Not sure what monster or creature I'll do a write-up for, next. Lord knows I have a lot to choose from.

[daddyhausen]

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ 「 MOTIVATION 」 ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

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「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 MUSICIAN/BAND MASTERLIST 」 | 「 VESSEL MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

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「 SUMMARY 」 — giving vessel some motivation to keep singing

「 WARNINGS 」 — smut, 18 +, [ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ] , oral sex [ male receiving ], throatpie, cumshot, cum swallowing

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 823

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x vessel

「 GENRE 」 — smut

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「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @mjfass @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @janetreader @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @selena-tyler-564 @alyyaanna @nightmare-freakin-viper @nev-danielgarciawife @teenagedramaqueenlisa @them4lice

「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

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he’s been locked inside the basement for the better part of the day. his frustration was evident as he could not lay down the correct vocal track for the song. his intention was breathy, moans and whispers as he sings, but his voice came out croaky and hoarse. a scowl evident behind his mask softened slightly as you stepped into view.

“everything okay, ves?”.

your voice was soft like an angel’s whisper in his ears. his anger and frustration subsided momentarily. your gaze gentle as you stared at him with a mixture of worry and understanding. he’d been recording all day, you could tell, even with the subtle hum in his response you could tell just how exasperated his voice was. 

“no, my darling”, he allowed himself to embrace you, as he stepped out of the booth in order to hold you fully. his lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders, fingers traced shapes between your shoulder blades, his chin rested atop your head. 

he felt content for a moment as he basked in the silence, the only sound was the mingled hums of your breaths within the twilight hours. vessel remained quiet, in a simple silence as he held you, he felt the frustration melt from his tired body with the warmth of your skin against his. 

“why don’t you come relax. you’ve been in here all day”, it was more of a plea than a suggestion on your part. vessel gave a small smile, his lips pursed into a thin line, small dimples indented behind the tips of his mask.

“my love, as much as i want to, i’ve have to finish this tonight”. 

he pulled away from you, as much as he hated doing so. he wanted to revel in your embrace until the end of time, to simply bask in the sensation and warmth of your skin. he began to explain how he wanted the vocals to sound, an attempt to try and to recreate the breathy wisps and sensual shudders he’d envisioned in his mind, although his replications were stark in comparison. 

you noticed the frustration begin to grow across the tall crypid’s features, how his maw would tense and contract with a soft growl, his fists clenched around the microphone stand, he was surely to burn himself out at this rate. 

“i think i may have a solution,” you remarked, a subtle smirk across your lips as you entered the booth with him. vessel cocked his head to the side as two two of you stood cramped inside the small recording booth. 

“just relax for me”.

vessel nodded, confused at your comment. his eyes widened as you slowly sunk to your knees before him, your hand palmed his semi-hard cock through his shrouds. 

“l-love..?” 

“shh ves. just relax” 

you freed his engorged cock from behind his shrouds, the appendage hung heavy in your palm, it softly throbbed and twitch with arousal against your skin. you placed gentle kisses to the tip, you circled the cock-head with your tongue, you adored the way he began to whimper and shudder. 

“start singing, love” 

he gave a small nod in response to your instructions, a choked moan escaped his lips as you wrapped your lips around his swollen cockhead, languid in your movements as you began to suck him off. he stared down as you for a moment, the lyrics beginning to flow from his lips in mutters and whines. 

you took him deeper, feeling his cock stiffen down your throat. vessel had to grip the microphone stand for stability, not wanting to tug at your hair for the moment, he would not be able to control himself otherwise. the words flowed from his lips exactly how he envisioned them, a sense of satisfaction washed over him as he completed the song taking your head in his hands, sinking his cock deeper down your throat.

“fuck…thank you, my love” 

his grunts and groan became more frantic the longer you progressed, taking him deeper, inch by inch until he was nestled comfortable in the back of your throat. he adored the way you’d occasionally gag around his length, the subtle constriction of your throat provided him with nothing but pleasure, ebbing him closer to release. 

“oh darling…please…i’m so close” 

vessel became restless his orgasm nearing and fast. his cock slamming into the back of your throat with reckless abandon, not caring how loud he was being, the booth was soundproof anyways. he came down your throat, his hot cum seeping from the corners of your mouth, down your chin and neck before he eventually pulled out, letting his cock throb against your tongue for a moment, slapping the swollen cock-head against your bottom lip. he brought you to your feet carefully, placing a chaste kiss to your lips, tasting his cum on those petal shaped buds.

he only hopes to keep the last five minutes of the track in the final version. 

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[myzticbean]

Sex pollen made me do it

When I saw the Misty Invasion card about the protocores (and how they can seduce you into feeling...other things), I was immediately inspired. The sex pollen trope makes me chuckle, and I thought if anyone would take advantage of it, it would be our cutie Xavier.

If you'd like to read my fic on A03, you can find Part 1 here. I always appreciate feedback! Update: Part 2 live now!

Title: On The Job Work Hazards | Part 1

Pairing: Shen Xinghui | Xavier/You (fem! reader) Tags: Mildly dubious consent, blow jobs, semi-public sex, sex pollen

It wasn’t a hard battle, but the constant dodging was definitely wearing down my stamina as Xavier and I fought to break through the Wanderers’ shields. This one looked like a giant flower, with purple petals glimmering in the strange twilight of the protofield. If one could ignore the giant gaping maw of sharp teeth, and the violent spray of pollen puffing around its body, it would almost look beautiful.

Finally nearing the end, I briefly glanced down at my hunter watch interface to gauge its remaining health. In that split second, it charged at me, shaking its stems as the razored edge of the petals slashed forward. Xavier dashed in front of me, the slice of his blade light throwing the Wanderer into sharp relief as it fell backwards away from them.

“Xavier!” I cried out, watching as he stumbled, a haze of yellow pollen coating his face and chest. I reached out to grab him, cradling him in my arms. His blue eyes appeared dazed and dreamy - not unusual during his downtime, but he had never appeared anything less than laser focused during our missions together.

“Let’s do it now,” he gasped, choking as he inhaled more of the powder. I coughed as well, the yellow dust sticking to my lips. When I swallowed, there was a strangely sweet though gritty taste in my mouth.

Holstering my gun and removing my sword, we both raced forward, striking with expert precision. The Wanderer’s garbled cry faded as it soon disintegrated into a puff of black and blue matter. 

Xavier immediately slumped to the ground, groaning. I rushed over, falling to my knees beside him. 

“Xavier? What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?” I patted his shoulders and arms as gently as I could, looking for broken bones or blood. I moved down his chest to his legs, squinting as I shifted closer. The navy uniform was good at disguising bloodstains. 

“Not. Hurt.” He panted, mouth open as he tilted his head back. He leaned back on his palms, his legs quivering under my touch. 

“I don’t believe you,” I answered bluntly, hands moving more swiftly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

This time his groan sounded more like a moan, his hips giving an aborted thrust when I stroked my hands once more down his thighs. I paused, looking down to see his arousal tenting the slim, tight fit of his pants. 

He watched me, his eyes hooded and hazy, desire turning his eyes into a dark, watery blue. I felt like I was being sucked into a whirlpool.

“Xavier?” I asked hesitantly. “Is…is it what I think it is?”

Watching his face flush, whether it was desire or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell, but I felt my own cheeks turning red. That sweet and salty flavor once again assaulted my senses.

“Was it the pollen?” I asked worriedly, and he shrugged. His head bobs as if he’s drunk. My hands have stopped their wandering, and he whines a little at the loss.

“Touch me,” he gasps, his breathing turning labored. “I need you.”

It felt like a punch to the gut, and desire seemed to melt through my bloodstream at his words. It wasn’t like we hadn’t danced around each other for the last few months working together. After grandma and Caleb…Xavier was just there, working the same long hours I had. It wasn’t quite so lonely in my almost devastating grief. 

My hands hovered unconsciously above his lap, but I didn’t press down.

“You’re not in any condition to give me consent, Xavier,” I said quietly. “Do you want me to take you to a hospital?”

He was starting to sweat, small beads at his hairline, and he roughly opened the neck clasp of his jacket. A glimmer of his skin peeked through the unbuttoned collar. I pressed my thighs together, trying not to notice my own uncomfortably warm reaction. While I hadn’t been exposed to nearly the same level of pollen that Xavier had, I could feel my own body starting to heat up. 

He caught the hint of my movement, licking his bottom lip in pleasure. He reached for me, pulling me closer and into his lap. I gasped softly, feeling the hot, hard length of him pressed against my backside. I unconsciously rocked back before abruptly stilling the movement, even as he tried to press me down even more firmly against him.

“Honey, please” he pleaded, a term of endearment I had never heard him use before today. Usually he called me by my name (or my full name when he was very irritated). 

“Xav, don’t,” I whispered, my hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, a little desperate now. “I can’t do this while you’re not in your right mind.”

“No,” he said abruptly, his glassy eyes staring straight into mine. “I know what I want, I know what’ll make us both feel better.” He cupped his hand over my pussy, and I whimpered at the heated press of his palm even through my pants. 

He lowered his eyes to watch his hand rubbing slowly against me. I shuddered in pleasure, giving into a small rocking motion against him. With his hot, hard cock now pressing eagerly in the crease of my butt, and his hand expertly fondling me, I wouldn’t need much encouragement to come right then and there. 

“I’m…I’m already…” I was a little dazed by how quickly I could feel myself starting to lose myself in the sensation of his hand and warm body pressed under me. 

“You wanna come?” he asked roughly, his thumb now pressing with expert accuracy against the seam of my pants right over my clit. I shuddered and moaned, pressing my face into his neck.

“Oh, gods,” I whispered, trying not to grind too hard into him, but I could hardly stop the movement. I took a deep, panting breath. His natural scent and the sweet, powdery wisps of the pollen hit me hard. I wondered how damp my panties and trousers had become, and from his swallowed curse, I was guessing it was undeniable now. 

He held me even tighter against him, removing one arm around me to brace behind him. Using the leverage, he thrust up more firmly against me. Even now, I could feel the sweet ache building, and he wasn’t even inside of me. I hadn’t dry humped with a boyfriend since I was in highschool. I chuckled a little breathlessly at the thought, before groaning against the sensitive skin of his neck.

He muttered something unintelligible, I couldn’t hear it over the rushing of blood and the sizzle on my skin. I lifted up, shifting around as I lowered my hand between our bodies, rubbing a little roughly over his cock still trapped in his pants, and it was like a spark of electricity went off between us.

I could feel him, pulsing quickly under my hand, and I knew it wouldn’t take much to send him over the edge. His strokes, previously methodical, were now erratic against my pussy. It helped clear my head, just a little, enough so I could back off his legs a bit.

“No, don’t,” he said desperately, his hands once again reaching for me, but this time I moved determinedly away from him.

“Shh,” I whispered, glancing at him beneath lowered lashes. “Let me take care of you first. Just to take off the edge.” I took another look around, but we were in a deserted no-entry zone with no other nearby teams. I would need to call into headquarters soon, though - we shouldn’t be quiet on the coms too long.

He hissed quietly when my hands went to the myriad of belt buckles across his jacket and finally around his waist, loosening just enough I could gingerly tug the zipper down. He was so hard, he strained against the barrier, and I didn’t watch to catch any skin. He sucked in a breath, watching my hands at work. Xavier braced one arm back to support his weight, while he lifted his other hand to play with strands of my hair. 

“Lift up a little, sweetheart,” I said, tugging a little at his waistband, but I missed the dark flare in his eyes at the unconscious endearment. I wanted to pull down his briefs enough to free him without the band sliding back up. He shifted and without much effort, I watched as he pulled his cock free, his normally pale skin now flushed.

The soft skin over his belly, with sparse blonde hairs trailing down to his cock, was pink with his arousal. The tip flushed an angry red, quivering between us. A small bead of clear fluid seeped from the tip, and without any teasing, I took him into my hand.

I gave a slow, easy pump, and I thought he was going to tumble to the ground, the sound of his pleasure rumbling in his chest. I didn’t have much time to linger. I flicked my gaze upwards, my hand still steadily moving. He covered my hand with his own, hot and a little damp, his gaze dark and wild as he watched our fingers moving up and down together.

“It feels so good,” he murmured, his face lax and sex-drunk. He tipped his head back, eyes closing, lost in the feeling of our hands on his taut, warm flesh. 

“What can I do to make you feel better?” I ask, low and sweet, my hand getting damp and a little sticky from his precum. I leaned over, not really thinking, and opened my mouth, letting a little dribble of spit wet his cock.

He gasped, clenching his hand tightly around mine. “Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” I cautioned, seeing how the red - almost purple - head of his cock swelled. He caught his breath on another gasp, moving my hand a little faster, up and down, twisting a little over the tip before circling down back to the root. 

“What do you want?” I asked again. I knew he was getting close already. I lowered one of my hands between my legs, rubbing lightly over the seam of my pants. I could feel how damp I was even through the thick fabric.

“Yeah, touch yourself,” he begged, his eyes now locked on my hands. “Or let me do it.”

“Just focus on yourself,” I ordered. “Is it okay if I use my mouth?”

I didn’t pause my movements, guided by his hands, but there was a stutter as his hips thrust into our grip, another bead of precum leaking down over our fingertips. 

“Yes,” Xavier hissed, his tousled blonde hair falling forward over his eyes as he curled forward. “Please, please.”

I didn’t draw it out, crouching down over his lap, my knees digging uncomfortably into the rocky dirt. I lapped at the tip, the slightly bitter, salty taste spreading over my tongue as I gently swiped up the moisture. 

“Fuck, yes,” he whispered, finally falling back and laying flat on the ground underneath me. His hips gave an aborted buck before stilling as he tried to catch his breath. Powdery streaks of pollen dotted his uniform, the gritty texture dusting his cheeks. 

Without teasing him further, I swallowed down as our hands pumped down on his shaft, opening my mouth wide to take him in slowly. I tried to pool a little saliva in my mouth, letting it wet his dick as I inched down his length. I tucked my lips closer and twitched my tongue as I tried to widen around him, avoiding pressure with my teeth.

“Take it, yeah, just like that,” he murmured, his eyes locked on me. With his free hand, he cupped the back of my head, tugging me closer. I inhaled through my nose, trying to breathe normally while I swallowed a little around his cock, taking it in further until it bumped the back of my throat.

I swallowed again against the pool of saliva flooding my mouth, trying not to gag. He didn’t press me any further, letting me adjust, the warmth of my mouth sending little quivers of pleasure through him. I could feel his thighs tremble slightly under me.

After a moment to adjust, I slowly bobbed my head, my hand pumping up to follow my mouth as I sucked on him, dragging my tongue in a slow wave against the sensitive underside of the head. His sucked in breath told me he liked it, so I rubbed my tongue there again before swallowing him back down. 

He moaned, his fingers tightening their grip as he cradled my head in his hand. I made little bobs, suckling as I settled into a smooth rhythm. My fingers massaged his cock as my mouth wetted it with each languid slide up and down, my tongue fluttering over the head with each pass.

“Honey, please,” he whispered, voice strained. I liked the pet name, liked the tiny shiver of excitement that shot through me when I heard his voice wrecked with pleasure.

I sucked more strongly, beginning to pump a little faster and bobbing my head into a shorter, faster dip. While I didn’t bottom out quite as much, I could feel him beginning to pulse and flex in my hands.

His hips started to thrust in time to meet my mouth, pressing a little deeper when I sucked down, my nose brushing the soft, sparse blonde hairs at the base of his cock. I moaned, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure rippling through him. I could hear his fast, breathless pants, his hand fisting in my ponytail as he guided me a little more roughly.

I choked, my throat tightening and spasming around him, and he grunted. “Yeah, baby, let me, just like that.” 

His voice wasn’t soft and sweet anymore, a low growl humming underneath the usually breathless quality of his voice. I shuddered, feeling caught in his grip, trying to breath as he thrust a little more deeply, bumping the back of my throat. I whimpered and swallowed, releasing his cock with my hand so I could brace myself on his thighs. He took over, fisting his cock as he pressed forward between my lips.

I could feel saliva draining, my mouth gleaming, the corners of my mouth leaking down and pooling down on his flesh. The wet fap of his hand and my mouth made me blush furiously, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure. 

I was so turned on even as I remained untouched. My nails dug into the rough, thick fabric of his pants, scritching a little at the stretch and burn in my lips and jaw. I mewed just a little, trying to keep a steady rhythm.

“Don’t stop, I’m close,” he warned, his voice tight. I could feel his balls tighten when my chin brushed them, my lips dragging as I bobbed my head, throat working on each swallow. His precum spread over the roof of my mouth, coating my tongue, and the scent of his arousal blocked out everything else.

His thrusts became deeper, more powerful as he let go of some of that tight control he always had, his cock fucking my mouth as he threw his head back, his guttural moans like dark music in the deserted space. Finally, his entire body tightened, taut like a bowstring as he arched, his muffled “fuck” echoing as he spurted into my mouth.

He thrust a few times, erratic now, as a hot, warm gush of his come flooded my mouth, bitter and salty and thick on my tongue. I wanted desperately to pull away and spit it out, but he held my head tight in his hand, still pushing me down a little on his cock as he gave a few final jerks into my mouth.

“Yeah, honey, so good, you did so good,” he murmured, finally releasing my hair and letting me pull back, releasing his cock with a small pop . “Can you swallow for me?"

I grimaced but did as he asked, swallowing down his release before sighing, and settled back on my heels next to him.

“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively as his breathing finally calmed, and he slipped his pants back over his hips though left the belt unbuckled. He looked a little lazy, his eyes hazy with pleasure and a slight sheen of sweat dampening his neckline. He looked tousled and ruffled, and I wanted to jump on top of him and pin him down to the ground. 

When he looked at me and met my gaze, I wondered just how much I had revealed, because his lip curled in amusement as he watched the expressions flit across my face. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he answered slowly, his voice back the usual soft, breathy puff. But his heavy-lidded eyes were dark, passion-filled, and I wondered just what he was thinking.

I felt a little awkward, not sure what I should be doing now that the initial burst of desire had passed. I quickly swiped my hands over my face, blushing at the damp saliva and traces of his come still dotting my chin and cheeks, swallowing the taste of him in my mouth. He watched my hands, and I could see he was semi-hard through the tight fit of his slacks. 

I shifted backwards, getting ready to stand, but he grabbed me and lifted me onto his lap. I squealed a little as he settled me down, bending his knees a little to cuddle me closer, his arms looping around me.

Xavier leaned forward a little, pressing his face into the bend between my neck and shoulder, breathing deeply. He nosed my collar out of the way, a soft kiss lightly fluttering over the sensitive skin. 

“Xa…vier…” I whispered, trembling a little in his arms. I was a little confused, and a little unsure of what to do. He could swing hot or cold depending on the day and our mutual stress level and workload. We had never been this intimate before, always dancing on the edge of something more but neither willing to commit to it.

“Come home with me,” he murmured, lips peppering kisses up my neck, cheek, my chin, before sweeping over my lips in a gentle caress. “I want to make you feel good.”

I lifted a hand, cupping his cheek. “Is this from the pollen?” I asked warily. “To be honest, I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

He opened his mouth, getting ready to speak, when a sudden beep from my hunter watch interrupted us. I answered, pressing the interface button. “Hunter, we detected some anomalies in your area. Have you completed your mission?”

“Yes, we defeated the wanderer and closed the protofield. However, we were both sprayed with an unidentified powder, and will be initializing Decontamination Protocol 3.”

“Understood. Report back after decontamination protocol has been completed. HQ out.”

“Hunter out.”

I turned off the watch as Xavier stared back at me, cradling me in his arms. He didn’t clutch me tightly, but soothingly rubbed up and down my spine, which I could feel despite the thick leather vest I wore. It felt surprisingly natural. I wondered if the pollen was also affecting me, especially when I leaned forward in his arms and brushed my lips over his cheek. I drifted across his soft skin, nibbling at his earlobe. It flushed red beneath my lips and tongue, and his breath caught in a light gasp before he spoke. 

“Will you come home with me?” he asked, his voice quiet and subdued. He knew there was a chance I’d say no, and that he couldn’t argue with me. 

“I…” I hesitated, before sighing and saying, “yes. I want to. But it really might not be a good idea.”

He cupped my chin, silently requesting that I raise my eyes to his. I glanced up, a little shy, and unconsciously lifted my hands to cover my mouth.

He pulled the hand away, kissing me deeply. There was no way he couldn’t taste himself on my lips and tongue. He hungrily sipped at my mouth, slicking open my lips so that our tongues could playfully curl together. He rubbed the roof of my mouth before retracting his tongue and gently pulling away. 

He rested his forehead against mine, and I could feel his slowly hardening arousal pressed between us. I unconsciously rocked forward in his lap, enjoying the slow released huff of his breath. 

“You feel so good,” he said, voice a little rough. He swallowed hard. “I’ll do whatever you want. Even if you just want me to take you home. To your home,” he clarified. 

“I want you,” I answered softly. I felt a little embarrassed, but made myself meet his eyes. “I want a shower, and I want you…to…” I gulped. “I want you to fuck me. And then make love to me.”

He groaned, peppering little kisses on her face. “Yes,” he said, his voice quiet and a desperate tinge to the agreement. “Wrap your legs around me.”

I did as he asked, sliding my arms over his shoulders, and he boosted himself to his feet, holding me steady with one palm cupping my butt. I heard the clank of his belt rustling as he held me up against his belly.

“Hold on tight,” he murmured. And with a dazzling flash of light, we were swept away.

[jesncin]

How are you two holding up now that they released the first two episodes of MAWS season 2? Also, I was wondering, what are your thoughts on Clark's characterization in this show?

What show? There hasn't been a Superman animated show in nearly t h i r t y y e a r s...

haha but for real, I am not watching MAWS Season 2 as it airs. My brain is an obsessive analytic (especially when something sucks) in that I'll spend too much time dissecting and complaining about it that I won't be able to focus. And I want to be in a good mood these coming months to promote my book (for AAPI heritage month and Pride month!! YEAA Gaysians it's our time!!), and I need to focus on work for my upcoming books too. I will watch MAWS S2 eventually, but I prefer to binge it all in one go instead of stretching my pain to a weekly basis with panic and dread, haha. Meanwhile I will be avoiding this show at all costs (which I'm very diligent at).

I think MAWS!Clark is a flanderized empty character with no solid ideals. "Nice guy who just wants to do the right thing" is obnoxiously redundant. Every classic superhero does this. Batman does good things for free too. "People are getting hurt! I don't wanna hurt anyone boo hoo" is such an easy moral high ground to have. It doesn't take advantage of Clark's lived experience to inform his heroic ideals. Any time Clark seems to have a statement like ep 6's "I have to believe this world can be a place where everyone is accepted. And I need to help it get there.", he contradicts it in the next episode with his actions (kicking a pleading Mxy out because a date with Lois is far more important than helping people who are "different" like him). In ep 4, Clark only does the right thing when Lois is insulted by Ivo. He's dumbed down from being an investigative reporter to being a himbo nice guy so Jimmy and Lois can be involved. What a hero. It's non-committal, empty, corporate, convenient.

[gestureintongues]

the moon looks pretty tonight. i tried to take a photo of her, but she looks like a jellybean. i wish we had a better camera. look at her beauty being diminished.

but i did get a cool accidental photo with flash on.

[vhaenaera]

— An account from the Stark Chronicles, 141 - 183 AC

Each year, as the snows deepened and the rivers crusted with ice, the folk of the North made their long trek southward to Winterfell. They came not with pleas, but with purpose—knowing well the ancient accord: food, warmth, and shelter would be theirs, as it always was, in return for service rendered. The men lent their backs to timber and stone, hauling logs through the snow-choked gatehouses, repairing broken ramparts and wind-scoured walls. The women, robed in wool and adorned with pins of weirwood and bone, set about the sacred task of weaving—tapestries of thread and blood-memory, passed down mother to daughter, each stitch a vow to the old gods.

These were not idle works. The North remembered. The North prepared.

Lord Cregan Stark had ridden out weeks prior, vanishing into the frostbitten wilds with spear and hound in pursuit of meat and pelt for the Yuletide stores. When he returned, the sun was dim behind a veil of cloud, and the courtyard had stirred to life with the bustle of preparation. Children ran underfoot, snow-soaked and shrieking in mirth, while men shouted over the groaning of carts and the creak of swollen wood. The banners of House Stark snapped in the wind.

Even his children—the young wolves—tumbled over one another in the drifted yard, boys and girls alike roughhousing with all the vigour of their house. Yet Cregan, smiling though he was, noted the absence of one. A pair of violet-and-grey eyes, like twilight before a storm, were missing from the frolic.

It was then the cry rang out.

Shrill. Drenched in terror.

The courtyard stilled as if gripped by a sudden frost. All turned to see a child—small, pale, her breath steaming in frantic bursts—fleeing from the mouth of the crypts. Her sobs tore through the air like a knife through linen, and the thumping of her boots across the packed snow echoed louder than it ought. She threw herself at Cregan’s leg, clutching him with the desperation of one drowning. The stench of earth—dank and old—clung to her like smoke.

He knelt, boots crunching, and took her cheeks in his gloved hands. Her skin was ice-cold. The eyes that met his own were those he had sought: mismatched, wide with panic. Serana.

“Hush now, little one. What frightens you so?” he asked, gentling his voice though his heart had begun to thunder.

“B-bad man… in the tunnels,” she whimpered. “Papa—bad! Bad bad bad!” Her trembling finger pointed to the gaping maw of the crypts, flanked by two stone direwolves whose eyes seemed darker than usual.

Cregan followed her gesture. The shadows beyond the threshold did not stir, and yet… the longer he gazed, the more his unease grew. The air seemed stiller there. He had known the crypts all his life—knew their winding halls, their old kings laid in silence beneath heavy stone. A place of reverence, never dread. But now, his flesh prickled.

He lifted Serana into his arms. She clung tightly, her small fingers twisted in his cloak. His shoulders ached from the long ride, but the weight of his daughter was familiar and grounding. He stroked her hair with a steady hand.

“You are safe, little wolf,” he murmured. “There is no man down there, only bones and memory. The mind plays tricks in the dark.”

But before they crossed the threshold of the keep, she shrieked again—this time louder.

“Big!” she cried. “White, big, scary! He looked at me, Papa! In the deep! He had eyes like—like snow!”

He halted.

Her breath hitched as she continued to weep, but her words had already planted their seed. Cregan turned his gaze once more to the crypt entrance. The wind had shifted. It whispered now.

He said nothing further. But he did not sleep that night, even with his wife’s warm presence at his side. His flesh was warm, but his mind remained cold.

[creepinonmen]

The night of March 17, 2025, wrapped Curtis in a suffocating shroud of sensory overload as he emerged from Academy Sports, his hands empty after deciding against any purchases, no new holster, just the lingering scent of gun oil and polished wood from the store’s interior clinging to his "Custom Offset" t-shirt. The parking lot sprawled before him like a desolate wasteland, the air biting with a sharp, metallic chill that prickled his skin, carrying the faint tang of exhaust and damp asphalt. The last gasps of daylight had been devoured by a bruised, violet twilight, casting jagged shadows that slithered across his battered silver F-150, their edges flickering with an almost sentient menace under the sodium lights’ sickly yellow glow. His brown leather boots, scuffed and worn, pounded the pavement with a gritty crunch, each step grinding tiny pebbles into the asphalt, releasing a sharp, acrid whiff of oil-soaked tar that stung his nostrils. The distant highway’s guttural roar thrummed through the ground, a low-frequency vibration that pulsed in his chest like a predator’s growl, while the air hummed with the faint buzz of flickering streetlights overhead.

Unseen, Victor lurked in the shadows, his presence a malignant stain on the night. Shrouded in a hooded jacket that reeked of damp wool, stale tobacco, and the sour musk of unwashed skin, he crouched beside his gray van, parked two rows away. The van’s tinted windows shimmered with an oily sheen, reflecting the sodium lights in greasy streaks, while the cracked side mirror framed his predatory gaze, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian. In his gloved hands, a thick plastic bag crackled with a sharp, electric rustle, its surface slick with a faint sheen of condensation, the chemical stench—a harsh blend of polyethylene and a faint undertone of bleach—burning the air with each crinkle. The van’s side door gaped open like a hungry maw, revealing a blue tarp within—its frayed edges curling like desiccated skin, its surface slick with rancid stains that glistened faintly, the suffocating odor of mildew, old blood, and a putrid, sour rot—like overripe fruit left to fester—wafting forth in a nauseating wave that coated the back of Victor’s throat. His breath came in shallow, jagged rasps, the bitter tang of adrenaline and the metallic bite of his own fear coating his tongue, his pulse a relentless drumbeat in his ears as Curtis approached his truck, the keys in Curtis’s hand jangling with a shrill, discordant chime that sliced through the silence like a shard of glass.

The moment Curtis’s calloused fingers brushed the truck’s ice-cold, dented handle—a surface so frigid it sent a jolt of frost through his fingertips—the night detonated into a sensory maelstrom of terror. Victor erupted from the shadows, a reeking phantom of tobacco, sweat, and malice, the plastic bag hissing like a venomous cobra as he yanked it over Curtis’s head. With a brutal wrench, he cinched it tight around Curtis’s throat, the plastic’s edges biting into his skin with a sharp, stinging pinch, snuffing out a strangled gasp that tasted of dust, panic, and the faint metallic tang of his own saliva. The bag clung to his face with a clammy, suffocating grip, its acrid chemical scent searing his lungs like acid, each desperate inhale pulling the plastic tighter, molding it to his nose and mouth with a wet, crinkling suck. The ground beneath him remained bare—no gear to spill—only the faint scuff of his boots against the asphalt lingering, a gritty rasp that echoed with the sharp crack of a stray pebble skittering away.

Terror exploded in Curtis’s veins, a molten inferno that scorched his every nerve, his senses assaulted by a cacophony of raw stimuli. His arms thrashed with desperate fury, an elbow smashing into Victor’s ribs with a bone-shattering crack, the impact releasing a pungent burst of bruised flesh, sour sweat, and the faint coppery tang of blood that mingled with the tobacco stench clinging to Victor’s jacket. The assailant’s feral snarl reverberated through the air, a guttural roar that vibrated in Curtis’s chest, raw and animalistic, as he writhed with primal desperation. His boots gouged the asphalt with a screeching grind, kicking up a storm of dust that stung his eyes like a thousand needles, the particles gritty and sharp, coating his throat with a choking film that tasted of earth and ash, while gravel scraped underfoot with a high-pitched, grating wail that clawed at his eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. His muffled screams—“Get off!”—warped into a guttural, desperate howl that vibrated against the plastic, the sound trapped and distorted, his fingers raking at the bag, tearing fragile slits with a faint, papery rip that whispered false hope, the chemical burn of the plastic searing his fingertips with a fiery sting that radiated up his hands. Victor’s knees slammed into Curtis’s spine, the pressure sending a white-hot jolt of agony radiating through his back, the coarse fabric of Victor’s jeans scraping against his shirt, the leather of his gloves creaking with a sinister groan, slick with the salty tang of perspiration that dripped onto Curtis’s neck, warm and rancid. For a heart-stopping moment, Curtis nearly tore free, his muscles screaming with a lactic burn, tendons straining like taut wires, the acrid scent of his own sweat mixing with the chemical tang of the plastic, but the air withered to a bitter, suffocating void, his vision collapsing into a tunnel of black speckled with blinding, pulsating stars. With a final, shuddering choke that tasted of bile, despair, and the metallic tang of his own blood, he collapsed, his body a broken marionette sinking into the cold, unyielding ground, the asphalt’s icy bite seeping through his jeans as unconsciousness dragged him into a velvet abyss.

Victor’s breath rasped like a predator’s growl, the sour reek of his exertion—a mix of stale tobacco, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline—saturating the air as he seized Curtis under the armpits, dragging him across the jagged asphalt. The gravel tore at Curtis’s flesh with a wet, ripping scrape, the sound a sickening counterpoint to the faint, ragged gasps escaping Victor’s lips, each drag leaving a trail of grit and blood that smeared the ground, the coppery scent mingling with the asphalt’s oily musk. The blue tarp loomed like a shroud of death, its crinkling a sinister hymn that crackled like dry bones, its surface slick and cold, the rancid stench of mildew, old blood, and a putrid undertone of decay—like rotting meat left in the sun—assaulting his senses as Victor hoisted Curtis onto it, muscles straining with a low, guttural grunt, the tarp’s icy, clammy touch seeping through Curtis’s torn clothes like a deathly caress, its faint stickiness clinging to his skin. With trembling hands, Victor ripped a roll of duct tape from his jacket, the tearing sound a shrill, banshee-like scream that pierced the night, the adhesive’s sharp, chemical tang—a blend of glue and solvent—stinging his nostrils as he bound Curtis’s wrists behind his back, layer after layer sinking into his skin with a tight, burning pinch that left a sticky, tacky residue, the tape’s edges cutting into his flesh with a fiery sting. He lashed Curtis’s ankles next, each loop a tightening noose that creaked with a strained, leathery groan, the tape’s texture rough and unyielding, its adhesive scent overpowering as it bit into his skin, radiating a searing heat through his limbs. From a duffel bag, Victor snatched a red ball gag, its rubber surface gleaming dully with a faint sheen of condensation, forcing it past Curtis’s lips as a low, guttural moan clawed its way out—consciousness surging back with a tidal wave of pain, nausea, and the acrid taste of his own fear, the gag’s bitter, rubbery taste coating his tongue like a toxic film, its straps digging into the corners of his mouth with a raw, chafing burn that tasted of salt and blood.

The van door slammed shut with a thunderous clang that reverberated through the metal frame like a gunshot, sealing Curtis in a tomb saturated with the choking stench of gasoline fumes, mildew, and the faint, metallic tang of rust, the tarp writhing beneath him with a dry, papery rustle that scraped against his skin like skeletal fingers, its cold, slick surface sticking to his back. His head throbbed with a relentless, pounding drumbeat, each pulse a hammer against his skull, the gag a cruel clamp on his jaw that tasted of rubber and despair, its straps pulling at his skin with a burning friction, tape searing his wrists and ankles with a fiery, unrelenting sting as he twitched, senses sharpening in the oppressive dark, the air thick with the musty, suffocating odor of confinement, the faint, sour tang of his own sweat, and the lingering chemical burn of the duct tape. The driver’s door creaked open with a groan that grated on his frayed nerves, the rusty hinges squealing like a wounded animal, then slammed with a bone-jarring finality, the engine roaring to life with a guttural snarl that vibrated through the floor, sending a shiver up his spine, the vibrations rattling his teeth. Victor slid into the seat, his head snapping back, a sexually devious smile splitting his face—eyes blazing with a twisted, insatiable hunger, the faint, cloying scent of his cheap cologne—a sickly mix of musk and artificial citrus—clashing violently with the van’s stale, rancid air, the odor so thick it coated Curtis’s throat. The van lurched forward, tires screeching over gravel with a high-pitched, banshee-like wail that clawed at his ears, the sound a piercing assault, the empty parking lot behind him a silent witness to his vanished presence, the asphalt’s lingering scent of oil and dust fading as the vehicle plunged into the night, hurtling Curtis toward an abyss of unspeakable dread.

[spookymultimedia]

Swap AU guide

Morning Frost- a mysterious tabaxi priest of a cult who wears a mask, he has a very smooth tounge and generous heart. Extremely mysterious

Lethica Nightborne: A twilight elf who was stolen from her family for having a psychic gift and raised in the Psionic Order. At 18 years old she escaped and ran away.

Gricko GrimGrin: a goblin who's followed by a demonic old gross wolf who wears a muzzle around his maw. He has the abilities to let Virgil possess him and transform him into a warewolf. He was caged by witches until Virgil killed them and ran away with Gricko.

Jericho: A misunderstood scarecrow druid who is friendly with crows and likes to sing them pretty little songs. He was raised by a village of scarecrows and got banished after befriending the crows that were eating up their gardens and causing chaos. Jericho could control the crows but they didn't listen and forced him to leave.

Captain Kremy LeCroux: a pirate with a greedy gambling problem who made a deal with Mr.Crossroads and ended up with a curse. He collected the dead souls of his crew and uses them for magic

Briggsy Kratch: a smooth talking con artist who's best at scams and thievery. Eventually his lies caught up to him and he owes money to Remy Garou.

Gideon Coal: a fire genasi who burned his village to the ground and wears a tombstone on his back as a reminder for his sins

Yorgrim: an orc who was captured by hobgoblins and used his strength to do heavy work and hard labor. He can see ghosts and would talk to them during his capture. With their help he escaped captivity.

Torbek: a valiant knight with anger issues who was cursed by The Dutchess to take the form of a hideous bugbear and have power over his soul. He desperately wants to be a human man again and hates his beastly form. Torbek still talks in third person.

Marius Renathyr: a strange man who Briggsy found in an allyway after being bitten by some kind of creature. He was nursed to health in return for working for Briggsy. He's a dhampir who doesn't know who's a dhampir until he's taken to a lab and had witchlight injected into his blood, causing him episodes of uncontrollable blind attacks. He thinks very poorly of himself and feels like he's not deserving of love.

Farryn isn't in this AU as I have no one to swap her with

[thegreenhordes]

Field Guide Part 2: 4-A and 4-B Mimics. 4-A and 4-B were discovered during a scouting mission led by Princess Luna herself. The first specimens found were corpses, all Stage 3s in the middle of progression to either of the two Branching Paths. What killed these Mimics is not certain, but there is evidence of both sudden death and fighting between the individuals. 4-A: Hungering Maws Notable Characteristics: Loss of Mane and tail, Fat stored in pockets between loose skin and muscle, Rare, Have periods of dormancy for currently unknown lengths of time, Highly aggressive DO NOT ENGAGE. Only four Specimens have been located. Three inactive, one active. The single active Specimen is- or was- a Changeling. It is now the sole known resident of the Changeling hive. Currently the only method of survival is to simply not be in the vicinity of a 4-A. Princess Luna and Princess Twilight are trying to find a way to move the Dormant Specimen within Ponyville somewhere else, preferably somewhere it can't harm or infect anypony. Doing this without waking it will be a difficult task. The Changeling Mimic has been observed from a distance since the first encounter went so poorly, so information on it is limited. It rarely leaves the Hive, and unfortunate animals and survivors have been noted entering the Hive as if in a trance. Worries that this 4-B may have hung onto old abilities from before infection has lead to Princess Celestia Quarantining the entire area. Currently, there is no information on the location of Queen Chrysalis and her Subjects- however many still live.

4-B: The Everfree Monster Notable Characteristics: Highly unpredictable, mostly stationary with only occasionally moving, never leaves its cave, seems to be curious about creatures that draw close- so long as they stay outside its attack radius.

Currently only method of Survival is to stay outside the 12-foot radius it attacks in, and to flee immediately if movement is detected from the subject. Specimen possibly communicates with another of its kind, through loud grunting that is always returned from an unknown source farther in the forest. No attempts have been made to find this potential second 4-B. Occasional cackling sound, most commonly after a kill, more rarely at random. The most basic intelligence tests we can implement place it at the same or similar level of a raven, suggesting the cackling may be it mocking its prey. Capable of mimicking coherent speech, but close enough examination shows that the 4-B doesn't truly understand the words it uses, it only knows how best to use them to convince prey to draw near. First encounter with 4-B went as follows: Princess Luna's scouts hear Grunting, choose to approach and identify the source. Scouts find the cave with a Manticore nearby, leading to the assumption that the Manticore was A.) Source of the sound, and B.) inhabited the cave. However, upon drawing closer the scouting party was left in shock as the mouth of a Mimic clamped around its face and dragged it into the cave at absurd speed. Scouting party proceeds to listen to three full minutes of cracking bones and wet noises as they process what they just witnessed. Cackling was heard from the cave mouth shortly before the scouts fled back towards Ponyville. Unfortunately, Treehugger is the suspected former identity of this specimen.

[nitewrighter]

Take your maws scenario, where Clark meets green lantern abin sur, gaining a mentor in hero work and introducing him to the greater cosmos, only for him to meet his canon death.

Clark: abin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help.

Abin: all is well kal el. My ring is already looking for my successor.

Clark: I promise, whoever they are, I will do everything I can to help them, like you helped me. If they’re half the hero you were, it will be an honor to know them.

And then he meets Hal Jordan

Clark: oh, you are the grand central station of disappointment

Oh--OHHH but also what if Hal actually did shape up and become a brilliant Green Lantern, but Clark is just watching him get repeatedly screwed over by Green Lantern practices and policies and like, he wants to help, but the more he tries to butt in the more Hal pulls away because it's just one more way he's not good enough as a hero.

-Month 1 of Being a Green Lantern-

Clark: Wow, you really leveled up with that ring, huh? Look, I know I kind of gave you a hard time when you started out, but I'm sorry about that. I think it's because I put a lot of pressure on myself and--well, I guess I thought things were already easier for you because you're human, and you don't have to worry about other humans not seeing you as human, you know?

Hal: *not making eye contact* Yeah.

Clark: ...

Clark: *clears throat* So, um, I guess training with the Corps went well?

Hal: *noncommittal grunt*

Clark: Really, the only other corps member I knew besides you was Abin, but that Thaal guy seemed to really know what he's--

Hal: Can we not talk about Sinestro?

Clark: ...uh, yeah. Sure, sure.

Anyway I would love to see Clark basically witness Hal become one of the best and brightest of the Green Lanterns, but also, ALSO, he's seeing all the red flags that will eventually lead to Emerald Twilight the whole time, but there's also only so much he can butt in on Hal's life and on Green Lantern business in general, and also the Green Lantern Corps themselves are very weird about Clark and Kara in general, because MAWS Krypton just occupies such a complex and messy part of their perception of a 'balanced' universe. Like "Yeah, um... we didn't stop your empire, but also stop you from being wiped out because you were an empire." So by the time Emerald Twilight starts happening, he's not in any position to stop it.

Kyle Rayner: So you knew the Green Lantern before me? What was he like? Like, the little blue dude who gave me this ring was really sparse on the details.

Clark: *presses his hands together in front of him* You want to go get some coffee? I feel like we should get coffee for this.

[libby-for-life]

Part 2 of A Sperant's Mate

For @lilacwriter07 who wanted a second part.

Adam's heart raced with a mix of terror and confusion as he found himself being carried away, his body limp and unresponsive. Moments ago, he had been navigating the familiar paths of the forest, eager to return to the safety of his village. Now, his world had twisted into a nightmare where reality blurred with the fantastical.

As he glanced up between fading trees, he caught a glimpse of his captor—a beautiful creature, a snake-human hybrid, or a Naga. Its scales shimmering ominously in the dappled sunlight. Fear clutched at his throat, rendering him silent except for the low whimper that escaped his lips. His limbs felt heavy, and a strange lethargy washed over him, a sinister consequence of the creature’s venom that coursed through his veins. Adam struggled to comprehend what had happened; the sharp, piercing pain of the creature’s bite replayed in his mind, but the memories of how it all began were fading quickly, like the receding twilight.

As they ventured deeper into the dense wilderness, they stumbled upon a vast cave, its gaping entrance resembling a colossal maw, dark and inviting, as if it yearned to engulf Adam whole. "Welcome, my dear," the Naga said with a sense of pride, his voice echoing softly within the cool, damp air. "This is my home."

He guided Adam further inside, revealing his nest—a remarkable structure that blended seamlessly with the natural surroundings. It was a grand nest, intricately woven from branches and leaves, adorned with the delicate skins of various animals that glimmered faintly in the dim light. The earthy scent of the forest filled the space, mingling with a hint of something wild and untamed.

Gently, the Naga placed Adam within the warm embrace of the nest, its soft materials cradling him like a comforting blanket. Adam's heart raced as he took in the sight around him, feeling both enchanted, apprehensive, and fearful in this unexpected sanctuary. The shadows danced along the walls of the cave, creating an atmosphere that was both eerie and enchanting, leaving Adam shaking.

The creature tilted its head, its tongue flaring as it took in the air around them, searching for Adam's unique scent. With a deliberate motion, it sniffed at the gland located along its neck, eager to capture the essence of the human standing before it. His tongue leaving a wet trail on the sensitve gland. Adam felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment as he met the creature's curious gaze.

"I love your scent," the Naga remarked, a warm smile spreading across its serpentine face. "It’s not powerful or overwhelming in the slightest; instead, it’s subtle and inviting." The compliment washed over Adam like a gentle wave, igniting a warmth within him that he had never experienced before.

He had grown up hearing people say his scent was off-putting, often remarking how he seemed to lack one entirely, a notion that had plagued his self-esteem. But here, in the presence of this remarkable creature, the validation he had yearned for was finally bestowed upon him. The praise felt like a soft caress, leaving Adam feeling appreciated for a part of himself he had long considered invisible.

"My name is Lucifer, my darling mate. I can't wait to know your name~..."

Adam blinked in astonishment. Mate?!