#and i cannot condense my thoughts at all

[saint-bestial]

@ygoc-week - Day 1: Introductions

hey!!! this is my first time participating in a fandom event week :D

meet my ygo OC, sylvester sauvage! he's been marinating in my brain since 2021. his dark signer design was the very first version of him i drew, so i thought it would be fitting to start off with that here!

he's a disgraced duel spirit possessing a human body. he originally served the Crimson Dragon as the water attribute Signer Dragon, but was stripped of his body and title after he conspired with the Earthbound Immortals to betray the god. while his memories may be gone, his soul struggles restlessly within its ill-fitting human vessel. meanwhile, it becomes quite clear the gods aren't finished with him just yet.

feral and vicious, Sylvester's about as approachable as a mountain lion. Kiryu, who he met in childhood, is the only human he trusts. their precarious friendship eventually developed into mutual romantic feelings. Sylvester, with his dogged loyalty, would (and does) follow him to the pits of hell and beyond. their bond is one forged in fire and blood.

[iholli]

I would absolutely love to hear about your faves 👀 Tell me everything you know 👀👀👀👀

AAAAAAVUYCDTIGCTUGCH YOU'RE A GEM THANK U FOR THIS 😭😭😭💚

this is super long bc I'm Completely Normal abt J'onn lmao whoops 😂

omfg where do I start. FIRST THINGS FIRST. HE. MY BELOVED. J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter, my favorite favorite of all time. no really it's coming up on 8 years and I still love him sm 😭 my one braincell may wander off to new fixations but I always circle back around to him sooner or later.

I have like 4747058 images of him ofc but these are SO good bc they tell a lot about him ??? he's cute, he's silly, he's dramatic, he's sassy, he's the heart of the Justice League twenty times over despite DC refusing to give him any time to shine (I'm going to fight them with my bare hands for that).

I've never posted this but it's been in my drafts for ever so I'll throw it in here 😂 I have so many thoughts about him omg

ALSO I have a whole thing analyzing J'onn's moral compass & development through Justice League Animated, Unlimited, and some of the comics a while back so there's tHAT WHICH,,, was super good imo 👏

uuuuughghghghh I could talk about him forever 😭💚

When it comes to people Superman wouldn't want to fight, J'onn is top of that list, that's canon. He's OP as FUCK. He has most if not all Clark's powers, shapeshifting, intangibility, invisibility, phasing, telepathy, seriously his powers seem to never end ??? But he's terribly underutilized :") like I get it but come on DC,,,

J'onn is addicted to Oreos. no, really. in MM 98 issue 24 Blue Beetle and Booster Gold have this Super Funny Idea to hide all the Oreos from J'onn, and you gotta applaud the dedication to the prank bc they literally went out and bought ALL the Oreos from the ENTIRE vicinity of the JL Embassy building. J'onn proceeds to Hulk out and tear up half the city chasing them for it. It's revealed by Batman that Martians can get addicted to Oreos. At the end of the issue it turns out this is just a story J'onn is telling Diana but... he winks and asks if she's got any cookies, so it's up for debate if it's really just a story [I think there's some truth to it. bc it's very funny.]. And the Oreo thing comes up many times in many places including JLTAS 😂

He also likes sweet things in general !! he canonically drinks coffee with a TON of sugary shit to take off the bitter taste. I also made the hc that was the case for him just days before reading it in MM Identity and I'm very real for that 👏

J'onn is a cat person. One of his aliases is even an Italian street cat named Tommaso. And he has an orange cat named Double Stuff,,, of course 😂

however,,, he's totally a dragon nerd, he knows everything about dragons, he likes reptiles in general but dragons are his fav. He shapeshifts into draconic creatures all the time and he talks many times abt a specific species of moon nesting dragon called quonars. He also telepathically connected with an iguana once and it was a wholesome experience 🥺

J'onn lives in Colorado, in a suburb named Middleton, which is actually the name of a real ghost town! it's interesting that Denver is his preferred climate bc you can assume Mars was similar 👀

He is THE sass master. He goes toe to toe with Batman constantly. One of these days I'll just make a list of every sassy line he delivers in JLTAS but I think that would be a whole book by itself. There's a video of sassy moments from Batman: The Brave and the Bold that I watch 400 times a week. One of my favorite comic sass moments is when Batman expresses his annoyance at J'onn for leaving on the middle of an important meeting, which J'onn happily counters with a "you're so right, it would look bad on the League if someone just vanished at random all the time, huh Batman :)." he then also takes a crack at Bruce's lack of people skills. iconic.

He's also a silly little guy. The Batman 2007? J'onn OWNS the noir detective role, down to the cheesy old fashioned music. He also has like, a whole list of quotes he's just waiting to use when the time is right. He waited years to say "You're probably wondering why I've called you all here today." love him fr

J'onn is canonically kind of an adrenaline junkie. He loves driving, particularly an 87 Chevy Impala which he affectionately says "vibrates like a Chihuahua with a head cold." He once physically linked with an entire damaged spaceship to steer it out of danger and got carried away bc he was just having fun. He also said it was similar to the video games he plays with GL-- so he's canonically a gamer, too 😂👏

I 100% believe he's got anxiety or at LEAST separation anxiety [and that may be the case for the entire Martian race]. I already thought as much but then JLU issue 24 kinda confirmed it and it was devastating :") the League is taken over by Starro, J'onn is the only one who dodges the attack and he's left to fight his teammates which. is already awful for him. and it triggers flashbacks to a time on Mars when he was separated from his family in a nasty sandstorm. J'onn went pretty much feral with panic until he broke down and then forced himself to calm down enough to think of a plan. Meanwhile back with the League he's frantically trying not to panic again bc, while fire is a Martian's greatest weakness, "being alone is a Martian's greatest fear." I cried the whole time I read that issue and then I bought a copy LMAO. can DC stop putting him through the PTSD wringer for five seconds thanks

One short comic run J'onn spends the whole time being chased by the Martian god of fire, H'ronmeer, bc it turns out he was psychically keeping the souls of the entire Martian population tethered to the mortal realm. he's super powerful and HE'S GOING THROUGH IT. ALL THE TIME.

I don't have the context for either happenstance at this time, but J'onn has been both a Black and a White Lantern in comics. I have no idea what any of it means, either, I just know it's happened. I'll get there eventually. maybe. [I think he's dead for the Black Lantern thing so...probably...not...]

^^^ this is up there with the whole "J'onn was actually an advance agent for the invading Martian species but rather than let them use him as a weapon he essentially committed suicide after fighting the whole Justice League [beat them easily, it wasn't even a competition] and somehow this split his consciousness into like 4 different people" of comic runs that I really don't want to read [even though I own this one] :") help

I don't know what it is about forcefields but his brain just shuts off when he gets near one fr. Multiple times when there's a forcefield, EVEN IF HE KNOWS IT'S THERE, J'onn just yeets headfirst into it. He's just generally super impulsive tho ??? This guy is constantly jumping into action without a moment's thought. pls stop handing off the braincell to absolutely no one when there's danger, J'onn [he does not actually have the braincell at any given time. only Bruce has it. occasionally].

He totally enjoys starting shit. J'onn is Here for teammate drama. He once gave Batman absolutely what for and called him immature just bc J'onn was annoyed with his attitude. He sends people on League missions that will either bring out complete drama or make them find common ground. Though he says the contrary, J'onn is absolutely in the background of every team squabble with popcorn like Thor watching Tony and Cap argue. "You're all so petty. And tiny."

J'onn's name means "light to the light" and it's so poetic 😭😭 of COURSE he's the heart of the League. akdjfndckdnxkd

I'm going to stop there bc I could go on forever but I've held this ask hostage in my drafts long enough 😂😂 ENJOY THE RAMBLING THANK U FOR SENDING THIS ASK AAAA 💙

[yuelun]

/lives and breathes in Guizhong feelings and I hate it here. Get me out. Get me out. /tag rambles because it's the only place I can justify incoherent thoughts.

Edit: /wallows eternally.

[beauzos]

COWARDS

COWARDS

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Simon screwing you in the shower.

The warm water dripped over your bodies like rain, coating everything inside of the shower with a layer of wetness. Sealed inside the oasis, a thick layer of heavy condensation filled the air, making all that you touched from each other to the walls slick.

Simon's large hand dug into your hip, making sure he had a good, strong grip on your thigh that he held up against his side so that he could thrust inside you easily.

Your hand was pressed against the foggy glass of the shower door, using it as a bit of leverage to keep you steady while those wide, muscular hips of his ground into your own as they rolled his cock into your pussy over and over again.

"Fuckin' hell," that husky voice hit your ears over the sound of the running water. His raw lips had just disconnected from around the tender flesh of your neck to move higher up towards your ear as he left a trail of burning kisses all along the moist surface.

Head back as he worked his magic, you felt him hum into your skin, his hips never loosing speed as he kept that's delirious rhythm steady on. "Cannot get enough of ya," he growled. "Even when I'm inside ya, I need more. I'm fuckin desperate, luv. Goddamn desperate."

Two beefy arms shoved you back suddenly as Simon pulled out of you, making you hit the back wall with a light thud as your body bounced off of it, but quickly you were scooped back up as he wrapped those arms back around your waist to hoist you up, making you throw your legs around him to hold on.

"Goddammit, I can't take it, need more... now," the desperation in his tone made your legs vibrate. Your clit twinged as he moved in and caught your lips with his own, squatting down so that he could realign his cock with your entrance and strike back up into you in one smooth motion.

All this wet, all this warmth, all this tepid flesh at his disposal, that only made the primal part of himself gain full control. As your bodies slipped and slid across each other, your back pressed firmly against the shower wall as your tits were pressed into his chest, he could do nothing more that rut into you like some beast hell bent on getting what was his.

His pace caught right back up to where it was seconds before, not a moment to spare. "You've put me under a spell, ya bitch," he grunted with the force of his thrusts. "I can't stop fuckin' pining for this tight little pussy. Gonna go fuckin' mad."

Your forearms wrapped around his broad shoulders as you held on while he bucked wildly in and out of you. The muscles in his back contracted and released under your fingertips, another sign of just how desperately rough his movements were.

His flesh was on fire, burning for you and only you, and even the water from the shower head was no help in taming it's flames. There was a part of him that worried he would not be able to stop until he had completely devoured everything inch of you; that was how strong his need was.

"Mine," he claimed aloud as you whimpered into his shoulder, his cock hitting that specific bundle of nerve ending inside you. "You're all mine, sweetheart. Ya got that? I can't fuckin' stand the thought of anyone else havin' ya, ever."

"Yes," you breathed, "say it again baby."

He smirked. "You're mine, mine. No one else can ever fuckin' touch ya. I ain't ever sharin' all this beauty."

A blanket of steamy air surrounded you both as the hot warm continued to pour in, locking out the entire world from the inside of the shower so it felt you were a million miles away. To be in such a place, in the throws of passion as Simon declared his claim to you, it was all so overwhelming that your body ached lustfully for release.

Fingernails dug into his back as the last bits of your sanity had you clinging on for dear life, the raw lines across his shoulder blades stinging from the water pouring down the contours of his back. "Goddamn, I just wanna keep my cock buried in you foreva," he hissed at your delicious roughness as your hips rolled over him, the pressure nearly at its peak. You were panting like a bitch in heat and he was doing everything he could to push you over the edge.

Pumping in and out of you with everything he had, his head wandered down the front of your chest as he squat down a little more, his mouth hungrily searching for it's prize. Finally he is able to reach your tit and greedily he took the nipple into his mouth, sucking on the supple flesh as the tip of his tongue rolled around the silk smooth areola.

God your soft breast felt like heaven in between his lips, the damned flesh so juicy. He had to press his body even harder into your own to keep you from slipping, but it was worth it just to keep your tit locked in his mouth.

"Fuck, Simon," you moaned, your fingers running up the back on his neck to his head where you tangled them into his short, wet locks. That mouth was making you vibrate as the sensation of suction sent shocks of pleasure tingling down your spine.

Not one to ever leave any man behind, Simon unlatched from the first breast to give the other the same amount of attention. It was all too much, the pumping between your legs mixed with the tingling sensation at your breasts, and that heated pressure began gathering in the pit of your stomach, about to violently through you off.

Your hips ground more into him, he knows that telltale sign that you are close. Amber eyes met yours again as he moved back up to his full height; he needed to see it, the look in your eyes as you come.

"I know you're close, luv," he says assuredly. "That's it sweetheart, come for me. Come all over my fuckin' cock. Goddammit I need you to come for me...so bad..."

Simon had to have it, you orgasm; he needed to know that your body responded to his in that very precise way that would make sure you'd never stray. He desperately needed to be the one to get you off. And as he staved off his own orgasm, he would.

"Don't stop," you begged as your head fell back against the wall... as if Simon would ever even dream of such a thing.

"Not until your legs are fuckin' quakin', sweetheart."

His thighs were burning with shooting pain as he continued to squat under you, but he didn't stop; it was worthy any amount of discomfort to see you come completely undone.

Your fingers in his hair clenched down, yanking wildly at his hair as with a few more precise thrusts that warmth finally shot through your torso and you rocked forward against with a cry.

"A-ah... f-f-fuck..." you stammered as your orgasm shook through you.

"That's it," Simon coaxed you through it, "ride it all the fuckin' way with me, luv...almost there..."

And not even a few seconds more he followed suit, a gravely roar ripping through his chest as he milked himself completely dry, his body convulsing with the strength of his ejaculation; fuck did you always make him come so hard.

"G-goddamn..." he said through heavy breaths, his soaking head coming to rest with it's forehead against your shoulder.

He did not let you go until you had both calmed, just letting the sound of the running water and your breathing lull you both back down. Picking up his head from your body, he laid a breathless kiss up on your lips, his face resting against your own from sheer exhaustion.

"Told ya you'd fuckin' enjoy it," he said, playful smile plastered to those full lips.

Carefully he set you back on your feet, your legs wobbling tiredly from the exertion. "You could make me enjoy anything," you admitted freely. "We'll have to do it again sometime."

Simon's fingers twirled the loose, wet strands of your hair between them. "You got it wrong, luv, ya see it's you that could make me enjoy any fuckin' thing. My beautiful girl, I'd have a right ol time in hell if you were the one to take me there."

His large hand lingered against your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft, supple skin. "You've got me fuckin' whipped, sweetheart, and I am more than fine to keep it that way."

He held you close, peppering your cheeks with stray kisses as he moved you both back fully under the shower head, ready to clean up the delicious mess he had just made.

[monocaelia]

with my hand in yours.

as your fingers trace along the lines that make up their palm, they wonder how such a wonderful being like you could ever love someone like them. aka; little abstract thoughts about what their hands would be like.

feat. al-haitham, childe, diluc, kaveh, scaramouche, xiao.

genre : fluff. light angst but it's not that serious.

note : school sucks and i want to hold hands w childe so bad rn so here is the product of that thought.

❀ AL-HAITHAM

contrary to what you may think, al-haitham's hands are large and calloused; not to the point of being overly rough, but enough to know that he keeps his hands busy from both paperwork and dealing with unruly people that come across his way. which is surprising considering that he was always one to take the easiest route out of any situation.

but you suppose someone who is adept at using a sword and dealing with eremites and annoying scholars can't just get away with smooth hands.

your hand is much smaller than his in comparison, especially so when his encases your own while you reach for a book you cannot quite reach within the house of daena. you insist that you could reach it yourself, but after minutes of watching you struggle and nearly make the bookshelf topple over as you lean more and more onto the shelves, he decided to take matters into his own hands. although you hate it when he aids you without you asking for help, he finds it endearing, especially so when he gets an excuse to hold your hand like this.

sometimes, the scribe doesn't understand your fascination with his hands as your fingers lazily trace shapes and lines across his palm while his eyes skim through the book in his hands. your body rests against him, head gently propped on his chest and fingers busy with his. although it was a distracting feeling, it was one he welcomed and preferred rather than the presence of his dramatic roommate.

though, al-haitham cannot deny that he doesn't find the contrast between the size of his hands and you amusing. how different your jaw feels in his palm as he lifts your face up to keep your eyes on him during your study session. your soft skin against his rougher hands was a nice feeling, a contrast that he finds humor in despite the blank expression that never leaves his face.

even if you push him away, fed up from his constant deadpan comments and dry teasing, your hand always finds their way back in his with fingers intertwined as he skims through the next book that catches his attention. with a gentle squeeze and a kiss placed on the tops of your knuckles, al-haitham holds onto you until it is unfortunately time to part ways. but even then, the ghost of your palm presses against his when you're gone and he cannot wait to hold you once more.

❀ CHILDE

the scars the decorate childe's hands are ones that he holds with much pride. they're living proof of the battles that he has conquered and pushed through with mere strength and wit; and there isn't a moment where he would ever hide his battle scars.

childe's hands are rough and calloused with toughened skin from years of fighting, both from training for the fatui and also from surviving through his time in the abyss.

but despite it all, a sign of humanity shines through his hardened hands; light freckles dust the back of his hands and his knuckles and travel up his arm. though they aren't as condensed as the ones that shower his cheeks like the stars, they're still enough to attract your attention to them when his gloves are off around you.

his hand often clings onto yours as he guides you to places you've never seen before in his home nation. with gloved hands intertwined with one another, childe eagerly tugs you along the banks of morepesok, gently guiding you along the more troublesome and icier parts of the path so you wouldn't slip. his hand, sturdy and strong, gently presses against the small of your back while the other holds one of yours as you hop over a rock.

other times, his hand is held carefully by yours as you admire all of scars with him. the young harbinger finds it humorous when you stare at him in shock after telling you about the battles he fought to get them before getting a firm lecture by you about taking care of himself. he doesn't see the big deal; if he's the fatui's biggest asset when it comes to fighting, why wouldn't he want to be used as their weapon?

however, seeing your tearful expression as he comes home battered from a serious battle shatters his proud heart into a million pieces. he warned you about the duties he has a fatui harbinger, and yet you continued to love him and stay by his side. childe wasn't a good guy, per se, and there would be times where there would be no signs of him coming home at all. but you persevered, telling him that he was crazy for even thinking that you would be scared away because of his job.

his thumb, rough and heavily scarred, brushes away the tears from your cheek as you clean up the blood that soils his clothes. you're so much different than he is; someone who is not bludgeoned and terrorized by the horrors of the abyss or the power of the fatui. and yet you hold him like he is your world, like he's fourteen again and didn't have the scars of the world on his body.

❀ DILUC

diluc's hands tell the tragic tale of his past; scarred from years of avenging his father with only his great sword by his side and burned from training and utilizing the pyro vision that dangles by his waist. he is damaged and hurt from years of betrayal and the deep scars that run up his hands to his arms are visual evidence of them.

but, despite his cool attitude and standoffish personality, his hands are the warmest you have ever felt. as if the agony his heart experienced in the few years of his adulthood failed to extinguish the flickering flame that keeps his soul ablaze.

the young master of dawn winery's rough hands hold onto yours gently, fingers cupping your own as he brings them to his lips as a polite, yet cheeky greeting knowing you would fluster at the mere act. they're playful, often traveling up your arms after his small greeting and pulling you into his embrace. the flame that was once ignited by rage, burning with the intent to harm those who have wronged him, now lulls you in with the intent of making your heart race.

diluc is aware of the effect his hands have on you, especially during battles where the two of you are fighting alongside one another. gloved hands quickly reach out to grab you, pulling you behind him as his flaming great sword slams forward to knock the abyss mage into the ground. although the battle was over, his hand does not leave your arm and you knew at this point that he was leaving it there deliberately.

his touch, as playful as they get sometimes, were also one that you found solace in, especially when the cold winter air of mondstadt nips at your skin. although diluc worries you find his hands worrisome to look at and feel, all of his disrupting thoughts melt away when your hand squeezes his in return. and so, hands roughened by the most painful of memories hold yours and give you the comfort that you seek.

and comfort you, they do. when the heavy rain outside the winery drenches you to the bone, diluc's warm, scarred hands quickly pull you inside. he doesn't ask you what happened, instead waits for you to tell him yourself, and with a towel in his hands he dries you as much as he can. attracted to his touch like a moth to a flame, your shaking hands quickly grasp onto his own and cling to his being like he was the sole reason you were still sane.

and just once, diluc is happy that you find relief in embers that once burned with no remorse.

❀ KAVEH

kaveh's hands are slender and smooth, contrary to the fact that he wields a heavy claymore as his weapon of choice. anyone would assume that his hands are rough from hours spent on studying architecture and building miniature and actual scale models of his designs, but those who know the young architect are aware of his fondness towards body and skin care.

if anything, the only flaw that hinders kaveh from having the perfect, flawless hands that anyone would dream of would be the smudges of both ink and graphite from his drafts of architectural buildings that stain his fingertips and sides of his hands.

you can't imagine the amount of times your face had ended up accidentally smudged by the inked fingers of your lover. soft, thin fingers lovingly brush the side of your face, moving a stray strand of your hair that obstructs his view of you, only to reveal a smudge of graphite where his fingers just touched. no matter how many apologies spewed from his lips, the smudge remained and small bouts of laughter escape from your lips before reassuring the young architect that it was fine.

however, when his fingers are clean, they're often found touching you in only the most innocent ways. his skilled fingers gently rub in the moisturizer on your face, huffing in fake exasperation as you laugh and attempt to escape his pinching and prodding. with enough squirming and chuckles, kaveh finally squishes your face in between his soft hands, tilting your face to look directly at him. affection is evident with the way he stares at you, smile warmer than the sunshine that radiates brightly in sumeru city, before he quickly bends down to peck at your puckered lips.

there's nothing but love and care in the way that he touches you, regardless of when or where it happens. his nimble fingers find their way to your arm when you drift asleep against him, waiting for him to finish up his draft of the new building he's designing. they graze across your skin, skimming everything that makes you you, the you that the architect loves so dearly.

sometimes he wonders what you see in a simple architect that shoots too far to land on the stars, but if you're beside him with every step that he takes, kaveh feels as though every star is suddenly in reach.

❀ SCARAMOUCHE

ball joints similar to a dolls connect and form the hands that belong to scaramouche, a permanent reminder of the reason he was birthed into this world. as much as he hates looking at them and no matter how much he does to erase his past, they haunt him and contain the memories that he wishes to leave in the past.

maybe then, he would feel more human and let his once fragile heart breathe once more.

similar to a doll's hand, his hands are also smooth and dainty with only a few permanent scars on his fingertips. faint lightning scars trail from his finger tips to his second knuckle and slight calloused fingertips from tending to the doll he calls his "wandering companion."

despite the living proof of his existence as a puppet, there are a few moments where he feels human, where he feels as of his heart could beat once more and hope is flourishes throughout his weathered soul. when your fingers intertwine with his and your palm presses gently against his own, it's as if his forgotten heart had grown wings, fluttering on its own after years of stagnant pain.

feeling your pulse beat against his skin and the gentle tug of his arm as you lead him reminds the wanderer that despite his harsh past and the betrayals that led him astray, he lived through them and is living life anew, a life where he controls the trajectory of his life. and one where he is loved by you.

as much as he hates his hands, he cannot stop you from loving them in his place. when you kiss his fingertips and rub comforting circles across his skin, it's hard for his hatred to fester and grow; for how can he hate something that you love.

not that he would ever admit it to you; always flicking your roaming hands away from his and pinching the fat of your thumb when they reach for his. he calls your touch "annoying" and a "nuisance," but when it's his turn to watch over you during the night, his pinky never fails to interlock with yours.

❀ XIAO

xiaos' hands are rough to the touch, fingertips slender and sharp like the talons of a hawk ready to snatch its prey from where they lay. after centuries of fighting off enemies and protecting the mortals that reside peacefully in liyue, it would be more surprising if not a scar decorated the yaksha's skin.

he is cool to the touch; not needing to generate body heat as he has no need to stay warm and used to the cold from serving his previous master.

blood stains his palms from the lives he took, whether it was accidental or on purpose he doesn't remember any more. innocent lives were mixed in when he dealt with enemies and his karmic debt affected those around him even if he wanted to suffer alone.

and yet, you hold his hands as if he were a small finch; fragile and prone to dying even though he is anything but. your hands are so warm, nearly encompassing his entire being with a mere brush of your fingertips against his. it was inviting, enticing, something that he craved even though he shouldn't.

despite pushing you away when his karmic debt was going to take over, your hands still found his and held on with little to no regard of your own wellbeing.

"as long as i get to you, it doesn't matter," was always your excuse when he demanded why you did something so reckless.

even if he hated the thought of his curse harming you in the worst way possible and feared the mere possibility of losing you, the yaksha could not calm the happiness that fluttered in his chest as if erupting a nest of a million crystalflies within the cavity of where his heart used to be.

you who kiss the scars that litters his hands, as if you were scared that the young adeptus would be the first to disappear from your life, deserve better than him, someone who has innocent blood pooling from his fingertips. but he does not have the heart to deny you from holding his hand and pulling him close, for he loves you too much to even humor the thought of a life apart from you.

[clockwayswrites]

Danny/Constantine, blue, petrichor

@void-of-unparalled-chaos

WC: 537

It was a fucking cliché, that’s what it was: a dark and stormy night. No moon in the sky, lightning jumping between heavy set clouds, and the steady beat of rain.

Constantine shrugged deeper into his trench coat.

At least the rain was helping settled the dust from the building coming down.

He cupped his hand around his cigarette, desperately trying to light it despite the damp conditions. He’d need a smoke to get through this conversation.

Those things are going to kill you, the voice echoed through him. It wasn’t a mental voice spoken into his head, no, this was a voice that was all around Constantine. It vibrated through his very bones like he was inside it.

The voice laughed. Against his own determination to be in a bad mood, Constantine felt something inside of him unwind at the sound.

Inside of my voice, the being pondered, obviously having latched onto that thought. Maybe. If you take me to dinner I’ll let you properly be inside me tonight. And Mi Casita doesn’t count. I want somewhere I can actually sit down.

“Luv, you haven’t even got legs at the moment,” Constantine pointed out and gave up lighting his cigarette. He wouldn’t get it to light if the other didn’t want him to.

You know I can. You like my legs very, very much when I have them.

Well, they weren’t wrong there.

John stubbornly ignored that and gestured with his woefully unlit cig. “Done for the night then? Not any more ruin and destruction you need to rain down across the city?”

Rain drops caught in a light that didn’t exist, flashing like stars for a moment. Oh, you’re miffed at me.

“Miffed? Miffed? I’m fucking pissed, mate!” John said. He ignored the feeling of air pressing around him like a caress. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking into this lot?!”

The rain drops scattered in light again but this time the ‘stars’ stayed. Colors started to catch in the water like a fain rainbow or aurora. It was beautiful, but they they always were.

“Now they’re a fart in the wind and I’ve not a bloody chance of figuring out what they wanted!”

You. The force of the word had John shivering. The world wrapped tighter around him. The colors started to condense. They wanted you and they cannot have you. You are mine, John Constantine, Hellblazer, Laughing Magician. You belong to me.

John swallowed. “Possessive much?”

There was that laughter again. The echoes of the sound stopped existing absolutely everywhere and instead came mostly from the person-shaped mass of colors that was forming in front of John. You like it.

John harrumphed.

“You do,” the voice came from a mouth now, one John could barely see inside of the form of color and light and stars. They leaned in and pressed that newly existing mouth to John’s.

He closed his eyes.

The light still bled through his lids like a supernova.

“You knew what you were getting into with me.”

John sighed and opened his eyes to glare at partner. “Danny, mate, I assure you that no one ever knows what they’re getting into with you.”

Danny just laughed, the git.

[crystaleclipse10]

A look into the Ninja's powers

Welcome to my analysis of the powers of each of the 6 main Ninja. How each power feels and its source for each Elemental Master, and how it reflects in their personalities. This has headcanons and canon explanation. Hopefully it all makes sense

Cole: Cole’s power comes from deep within the ground. He can feel the power of the earth in his guts, strong and steady. It’s grounding. It’s constant. The earth is always somewhere below him. No matter where he is, somewhere there’s earth—whether it’s deep within a mountain, everywhere; or leagues under the sea; or so far beneath the sky it is practically invisible—it will never not be there. It’s reliable. Yet it takes different forms: dirt, rocks, magma, sand; it’s all part of the ground, versatile. It’s protective; it encases and preserves ancient ruins and fossils, it gives shelter to those seeking refuge. It connects all living things—it reaches every part of the world. It cannot be forced to move, but it can be guided. It is the foundation of everything.

“You've never been farther underground. Never been more surrounded by the very thing that powers you. The Skull Sorcerer thought he was burying you, but what if he was actually bringing you closer to the earth? To the source of your elemental power?” “So what do I do? Try to connect with the earth?” “Perhaps. Or perhaps you just have to stop worrying so much and let the earth connect with you.”

Zane: Zane can sense his ice powers in his mind. It can exist in the coldest of climates, and when it melts, turns into something just as powerful; it is not wasted. It carves its way through anything—glaciers. The rivers of ice creep forward slowly but surely, taking everything in its path. It’s steady and cold, but its bite can be unrelenting. Frostbite, hypothermia—just as cold as ice is. And icicles, especially when shot as a projectile, are like daggers; sharp and dangerous. But it can numb pain. It tames something burning hot into something pleasantly warm. It is hard and strong, but it can crack—and if that happens, it can be made whole again with a little time. It is reliable and quiet. It can create a protective barrier. It’s there when it needs to be.

“This isn’t about numbers…it’s about family.” “He’s protecting us.” “I am a Nindroid, and Ninja never quit. Go Ninja, go!”

Jay: Lightning. He can feel it buzzing on his skin and nerves, able to be condensed and controlled. Pure energy, electricity. It’s volatile and dangerous. But it can be essential to life. It’s everywhere—thunderstorms, static, neurons firing in the brain. If it wasn���t for electricity, the brain would cease to function and life couldn’t exist. It’s quick—blink and it’s gone, just a thread of light that comes and goes. But its impact is remembered. A thunderous boom, a scar of soot, sometimes even a blaze set in its wake. Its glow is practically too bright to look at; a source of light for even the darkest of caves. Just one spark can start a fire or illuminate a building. It’s a source of power—for vehicles, technology, buildings. Even though it is not always visible, lightning and electricity are all around, ready to be called upon.

“Control the power inside you. When you feel a surge welling up, harness it.”

Kai: Kai’s power over fire comes from the breath—air is fuel for fire, and controlled breathing can control the blaze. It is not a matter of force—though hot anger can stoke fire—but harnessing the buzzing potential in the air. Fire can be destructive; a wildfire is chaotic, unyielding, and intense, burning everything in its path. But it can be life-giving, too. It’s cozy. It provides warmth on the coldest of nights. It can cook food, boil water, ward off frost. It is the essence of the sun—the largest blaze that allows life to exist. It burns with passion and ferocity, but if it loses strength, there will always be an ember remaining. Almost nothing can beat back a big, hot fire. It can be a weapon or a defense; it hurts to touch, and no one without immunity would dare go near. Without fire, life could not be sustained.

“I just wish I still had my powers. I was Master of Fire. I could've made a new fire like—like...like this.” “Oh, do not worry, Kai. Elemental Power comes from within, like courage. Sometimes it wanes, sometimes it waxes, but it cannot be stolen.”

Nya: The power of water flows through her veins. Water is ever-changing and powerful. Even the strongest rocks erode under the power of water. It’s relentless. It can defeat ghosts because it is always changing and shifting, while ghosts are stuck trying to be one thing and refuse to change. It cleanses and heals. The first thing to do for something dirty is to wash it with water. And it’s part of blood, something vital for people to live. It’s restless. The ocean never stays still; it does not like to be contained. The tides are as constant as they are powerful. The entire ocean moves with the tides; the constant in and out of so much water shapes the coasts. Rivers bend and flow around obstacles; no matter what is in the way, it will eventually reach the ocean—the largest body of water filled with plants and animals. Water supports life and creates ecosystems. It’s the heart of the wild.

“Jay, the ocean's good for much more than food. As we go deeper, I can feel its elemental power growing. It's almost overwhelming.”

Lloyd: Perhaps the most vague but also the most powerful element is Lloyd’s. Is it Power? Creation? Energy? Life? Lloyd is connected to the Source Dragon of Life, not Energy. Whatever the case, it comes from his heart. If it is Life, that is where it is strongest—the beating of a heart shows life in a living being; it is impossible to live without a heart. It’s everywhere—inside Lloyd, in his comrades, his students, his masters, nature around him. His love for the world is his true self and makes his heart powerful. His goodness gives him strength. His drive to save the world fuels his passion. Life is inside of him, but it can also be taken away. It can heal, but also hurt. When it is taken away, overused, or corrupted, it leaves him weakened and sick. But it can save his life in a fight—and it has. It is a combination of the core elements of Creation: Lightning, Ice, Fire, and Earth—LIFE (thank you @secretlyharumi for helping me realize this!). They can be utilized individually, but also combined into something potent and beautiful. Without life, nothing would exist. It is the thread of the universe, stitching together things similar and different; big and small.

“I’m already the Golden Ninja. How much more power do I need?” “You’ve only scratched the surface! You have the potential to move mountains. Power of the First Spinjitzu Master!”

I like the idea the Ninja's personalities and powers are mixed

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk

[scientia-rex]

Long ask. I didn't see that you had answered anything similar.

How do I do activism? Yes, I could Google it, but I would rather learn from a stranger with claimed yet unverifiable experience on Tumblr than from a stranger with claimed yet unverifiable experience anywhere else, and I'm here and so are you and we can talk and have a [para]social interaction. I won't bore you with a condensed autobiography, but I have a lot of experience fixing mistakes, not unlike being a physician, but far less noble, what David Graber would call a "duct-taper". It's partly what led me to socialism. I fixed mistakes but could not fix the root causes and, when I investigated those causes, I ran into structure. I couldn't explain the human behavior I witnessed as human nature, because it wasn't my nature and, as far as I know, I'm human, so the only explanation I could come up with was that the structure of the company I worked for created the problems I was trying to solve, and I had no power to change that structure, and no desire to join the psychopaths failing up the corporate ladder. I expanded my thinking outward and saw the problem inherent in capitalism and all the associated -isms and -archies, all the while trying to figure out what I could do that could possibly change any of it. I dove into progressive politics, read theory, consumed all the lefty content I could find, and thought, and keep running into the same problems. But even if the root causes cannot be addressed, the effects still need to be, because the effects are people, hence activism.

How do I talk to congresspeople? I email them about issues, but am frankly afraid to call them. Shall I get voice mail, or does a person pick up? If the latter, I'm assuming it will be a secretary. I don't want to be mean to a person answering phones. I've been one of those people getting yelled at or threatened because of events I did not cause and could not possibly prevent or change and, maybe I'm oversensitive or have PTSD or just a hyperactive amygdala, but I cannot overstate the damage those negative experiences cause. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, the lives that can be saved or improved outweigh a few people's hurt feelings or possible psychological trauma, but I would prefer not to turn this into a trolley problem if at all possible. Maybe it's a stupid question. Maybe I'm overthinking it. I can be charming and I have no lack of empathy; I can politely disagree. Shall I have to argue with anyone? Or is it a thank-you-for-your-participation-I-will-tell-the-congressperson-have-a-nice-day situation?

How do I get a job doing good things for people? This is somewhat pressing as I quit my corporate job five years ago, to have what turned out to be a midlife crisis, and have been living off savings (that are running out) ever since. I want to help and don't want to be ashamed of what I do for a living. I've always been able to do anything I've ever tried to do, but I'm 45 with little formal education or qualifications, and am thinking it's maybe too late to go back to school. Most of the non-profits I see seem like little more than scams. And perhaps the most serious complication: I'm a loner, more out of habit than inclination. I'll spare you the background, but I have no connections and no idea how to make them, and I don't believe I have any particular skills so valuable that should confer an immediate advantage or demand for my labor, but then again I don't know what is in demand.

It's OK if you can't answer some of these things. I simply have no one to talk to about them who can give any actual advice and figured you might. Thanks.

How to do activism: The first thing you need to know is your axe to grind. It was easy for me. I've been out since I was 13, nobody ever believes a girl is bisexual, it's always "you want attention" or "you're secretly a lesbian." That was in 1997. I went through hell and I'm bitter about it. So when I realized I liked medicine, I realized I could turn my life into an extended revenge arc by moving home and telling everybody it's OK to be gay. Two birds, one stone. I work with a woman who didn't get her axe to grind until about three years ago. She realized she was fed up with people abandoning dogs. She's one of the most active volunteers at the local shelter now. She's saved a lot of dogs' lives. She didn't start out knowing anything about it, but she told the shelter she wanted to volunteer, and they've helped her grow through the rest of it. My husband works with the local food bank, because his mom's neighbor (who is a family friend and sweetheart) wrangled him in to serving on the board, so now in addition to board meetings once a month he goes in sometimes to do things like help his mom's friend unload trucks. Sometimes the cause picks you, sometimes you pick the cause, sometimes you are the cause. And no matter what the cause is, someone else is already working on it. Someone else already cares deeply and if you show up ready to be hands on and help out, with humility because you know that you don't know everything, they will help you learn how to be effective. I started out in medicine by volunteering at the emergency room near where I lived. I pushed a linen cart around and restocked gowns in rooms, and when I couldn't fit any more washcloths into drawers I cleaned doorknobs. One of the nurses once told me she really appreciated that I cleaned all the doorknobs, because it wasn't getting regularly done. I am in medicine now because of many, many people I asked for help and who helped me because they wanted to contribute to justice and equity in medicine, whether for queers or rural people or women. This is, and has always been, a combined effort. Alone we beg, together we bargain.

Calling elected representatives: Oh god I know, me too, calling strangers is the LITERAL WORST. I'm 40 and I'd rather pepper-spray myself than argue with a human on the phone. Wait until after hours and you'll get a voicemail. I like to leave voicemails that start with "My name is Dr. Rex, I'm a constituent of yours, and I VOTE, and I'm calling about ____." That's honestly about all it takes--when I was hanging out with the lobbyist she told me they keep lists with tick-marks for how many calls, emails, etc., they get on a topic. Calls count for more. The more effort you have to put in, the more engaged they know you are. So call, but if people scare you (and the people who pick up are almost always nice, if you do get a person, and they will 99/100 times say "thank you for your call, we will pass your concerns along to so-and-so"), call at night.

Going back to school is probably unnecessary. Spin your past experience aggressively and start applying to nonprofits. (You "took time off from the working world in order to sharpen your focus on what matters most to you," which will be whatever this particular group does.) It's OK if you pick a bad one to start with; most of them are shit-shows, and lots of them still accomplish good things. Nonprofits are a bloodbath when it comes to actually being an employee--they know that part of the compensation is the sense of living ethically and they will use your altruism against you--so keep your resume updated and be prepared to bail if grant funding doesn't come through, but most areas have food banks and pet shelters and human shelters and jails and medical clinics and hospitals (for every doctor who works at the local hospital there are at least 10 support staff by the numbers, and they are utterly critical and always under-staffed). Sometimes if you start by volunteering somewhere, once they realize you're dependable, you can get a job there. I am zero percent kidding about working for a hospital, clinic, or jail, by the way. Those are places I know well, and there are always civilian jobs available. You want to make a patient's day better? Be the front desk, front line staff who use the right pronouns and cheer them up.

I think it's completely reasonable to have procedural questions about how all of this works, and I am grateful to you for giving me a chance to talk about it a bit. Please feel free to ask any follow-up questions. And for reference, when I was just starting out in research at a time when the market for research-trained people frankly sucked, I applied well over 300 times and got well over 300 rejections (I was counting) before I ended up with a job that I loved (even though it was hellishly stressful and I made just barely more than minimum wage for working well over my alleged, salaried "hours") and felt like I was making a positive difference for the world with. And from there, I kept making changes as I realized what I wanted and needed. Just keep doing it. You don't have to feel good about every step, you don't have to know what you're doing, just keep putting one foot in front of the other as you try to figure out what will make you happy. Because nothing else is a good proxy for happiness, and happiness, for a whole lot of humans, means finding something meaningful to do in life. Helping others. Be okay with changing, be okay with sacrificing who you are right now for the sake of who you can become. You've survived four decades on this bizarre and cruel planet, and you have inherent, intrinsic worth as a human being. You deserve your own kindness.

[abra-ka-dammit]

Here I am again to beg for help paying for my (remaining) cats. Just when I thought I managed to get out relatively-cheap and easy with Zeppelin's quickly solved crystal scare the other week, Zelda cat started having severe difficulty breathing the night before last.

Her lungs look pretty wack on xray and ultrasound, with things that could indicate stuff like cat asthma or long term chronic airway disease, and theres a little air around one lung and under the skin of her chest somehow(???), but she's not presenting in a way that matches up to anything well enough for the doctors to know what's going on. Simply put, while I managed to squeeze the ER visit and 12 hour ICU stay into what had been cleared off my carecredit along with a little overflow on my near-maxed credit card, i cannot afford anything else. I managed to convince my mom* to loan me the $1653 and change in order to bring home a buster kennel and oxygen condenser along with antibiotics and anti-inflammatory meds: basically, I'm home-treating her for the Recover-From-able potential issues this could be. If this treatment plan ends without getting her back to a state where she can breathe "room air" again, the other things it could be are all things that would be irreversible, require serious surgery, or would otherwise ruin her further quality of life, so... you know. Let's hope this works, or once more euthanasia will be added to the bill.

Any help is greatly appreciated, especially since I'm inevitably going to need to go in for a follow up appointment whether this (seems to me like it) works or not, and unfortunately this all happened literally right before rent hit and I don't get paid again until friday of next week (9/13) so i have. no idea how im doing that yet.

*Part of the money my parents paid is refundable upon return of the kennel and oxygen machine but my father has already sent me long guilt trippy texts about how i'm ungrateful (apparently sobbing and thanking them as i continue to live in poverty to avoid further burdening them about my own human needs doesnt count) and essentially need to pick myself up by the bootstraps and afford my own cats (as though this freak timing, the ever worsening economy, or whether better jobs actually hire me is somehow totes under my control) so, yknow. yay for bonus stress

[charcubed]

Individually and together, Loki and Mobius personify Chaos + Order. Their relationship and love is the balance the TVA needs.

Victor is talking about the temporal loom, AND this is related to Loki and Mobius' relationship.

Yes, Loki is chaos and Mobius is order... except they each have a little of both principles in themselves because of each others' positive influence.

They've grown together, they've changed each other, and that's why they're the key to saving everyone and everything.

It can never be only chaos or only order. It's about both.

The TVA was only order, initially.

And when He Who Remains wanted it run by Loki and Sylvie, it was "pure chaos" – as Mobius predicted when deriding the idea of them together, which is partially why they are fundamentally incompatible.

Neither was sustainable, and neither can be the TVA's future.

(A few days ago I was talking about chaos and order and said "in episode 6 they’re gonna be back at the citadel, and it’ll include Mobius, and Loki’s gonna pick up his dagger in a lokius context, and they’re gonna commit to co-running the TVA (maybe with B-15) and also kiss. Meet in peace at the end of time for order + chaos, let’s GO" so you can imagine how thrilled I was by these themes making a blatant return in this episode lmao)

This is spelled out here too, of course:

Ravonna personifies only order, while Sylvie personifies only chaos. Hence why they've been at odds from the start, which kickstarted this whole thing when Sylvie was taken by the TVA.

But...

"All that matters is order versus chaos" isn't true.

"When will you learn that none of your words mean a thing?" isn't TRUE.

Mobius' words were the catalyst for Loki to change – hence the framing during that line – and the ways they personify order and chaos as a result is in a partnership rather than in a battle.

The equal relationship and love between Mobius and Loki is ACTUALLY all that matters in the end.

As a bonus, this episode even provided a pitch-perfect microcosm of evidence that, per usual, Mobius' words mean everything. They're vital.

^^^^ This is what happened in the show at large, but condensed.

Loki was ready to do something rash, like maybe killing Victor Timely. He was panicking. Mobius talked him down, and Loki immediately saw sense and they began to work together to help instead of harm.

Loki, changed by Mobius, then stands in front of Sylvie and tries to keep her from killing.

He tries to get her to stop and think. She doesn't listen and he cannot change her.

It's EXACTLY what happened in the season 1 finale. And it happens on a wheel. 🌀

What actually changes Sylvie and gets her to listen is Sylvie seeing herself in Victor, which I LOVE.

All Sylvie wants is free will. Victor asks her for that. If she kills him – "prunes him" for being a Variant – she'd be no better than the old TVA.

So... one last thought (for this post, at least):

Mobius' slow, deliberate, cerebral approach – coupled with his words – is what Loki needs.

But Mobius needs him just as much for many reasons, including the fact that sometimes Loki sees the obvious that Mobius DOES miss :)

Chaos and order in harmony.

This is a love story, as always.

And now that love story is explicitly irrevocably tied even more to the plot.

---

My Loki metas on Tumblr are under the tag “chars loki posts.”

[greenerteacups]

oooh please someday tell us what you think of GOT

oh, no, it's my fatal weakness! it's [checks notes] literally just the bare modicum of temptation! okay you got me.

SO. in order to tell what's wrong with game of thrones you kind of have to have read the books, because the books are the reason the show goes off the rails. i actually blame the showrunners relatively little in proportion to GRRM for how bad the show was (which I'm not gonna rehash here because if you're interested in GOT in any capacity you've already seen that horse flogged to death). people debate when GOT "got bad" in terms of writing, but regardless of when you think it dropped off, everyone agrees the quality declined sharply in season 8, and to a certain extent, season 7. these are the seasons that are more or less entirely spun from whole cloth, because season 7 marks the beginning of what will, if we ever see it, be the Winds of Winter storyline. it's the first part that isn't based on a book by George R.R. Martin. it's said that he gave the showrunners plot outlines, but we don't know how detailed they were, or how much the writers diverged from the blueprint — and honestly, considering the cumulative changes made to the story by that point, some stark divergence would have been required. (there's a reason for this. i'll get there in a sec.)

so far, i'm not saying anything all that original. a lot of people recognized how bad the show got as soon as they ran out of Book to adapt. (I think it's kind of weird that they agreed to make a show about an unfinished series in the first place — did GRRM figure that this was his one shot at a really good HBO adaptation, and forego misgivings about his ability to write two full books in however many years it took to adapt? did he think they would wait for him? did he not care that the series would eventually spoil his magnum opus, which he's spent the last three decades of his life writing? perplexing.) but the more interesting question is why the show got bad once it ran out of Book, because in my mind, that's not a given. a lot of great shows depart from the books they were based on. fanfiction does exactly that, all the time! if you have good writers who understand the characters they're working with, departure means a different story, not a worse one. now, the natural reply would be to say that the writers of GOT just aren't good, or at least aren't good at the things that make for great television, and that's why they needed the books as a structure, but I don't think that's true or fair, either. books and television are very different things. the pacing of a book is totally different from the pacing of a television show, and even an episodic book like ASOIAF is going to need a lot of work before it's remotely watchable as a series. bad writers cannot make great series of television, regardless of how good their source material is. sure, they didn't invent the characters of tyrion lannister and daenerys targaryen, but they sure as hell understood story structure well enough to write a damn compelling season of TV about them!

so but then: what gives? i actually do think it's a problem with the books! the show starts out as very faithful to the early books (namely, A Game of Thrones and A Clash of Kings) to the point that most plotlines are copied beat-for-beat. the story is constructed a little differently, and it's definitely condensed, but the meat is still there. and not surprisingly, the early books in ASOIAF are very tightly written. for how long they are, you wouldn't expect it, but on every page of those books, the plot is racing. you can practically watch george trying to beat the fucking clock. and he does! useful context here is that he originally thought GOT was going to be a trilogy, and so the scope of most threads in the first book or two would have been much smaller. it also helps that the first three books are in some respects self-contained stories. the first book is a mystery, the second and third are espionage and war dramas — and they're kept tight in order to serve those respective plots.

the trouble begins with A Feast for Crows, and arguably A Storm of Swords, because GRRM starts multiplying plotlines and treating the series as a story, rather than each individual book. he also massively underestimated the number of pages it would take him to get through certain plot beats — an assumption whose foundation is unclear, because from a reader's standpoint, there is a fucke tonne of shit in Feast and Dance that's spurious. I'm not talking about Brienne's Riverlands storyline (which I adore thematically but speaking honestly should have been its own novella, not a part of Feast proper). I'm talking about whole chapters where Tyrion is sitting on his ass in the river, just talking to people. (will I eat crow about this if these pay off in hugely satisfying ways in Winds or Dream? oh, totally. my brothers, i will gorge myself on sweet sweet corvid. i will wear a dunce cap in the square, and gleefully, if these turn out to not have been wastes of time. the fact that i am writing this means i am willing to stake a non-negligible amount of pride on the prediction that that will not happen). I'm talking about scenes where the characters stare at each other and talk idly about things that have already happened while the author describes things we already have seen in excruciating detail. i'm talking about threads that, while forgivable in a different novel, are unforgivable in this one, because you are neglecting your main characters and their story. and don't tell me you think that a day-by-day account tyrion's river cruise is necessary to telling his story, because in the count of monte cristo, the main guy disappears for nine years and comes hurtling back into the story as a vengeful aristocrat! and while time jumps like that don't work for everything, they certainly do work if what you're talking about isn't a major story thread!

now put aside whether or not all these meandering, unconcluded threads are enjoyable to read (as, in fairness, they often are!). think about them as if you're a tv showrunner. these bad boys are your worst nightmare. because while you know the author put them in for a reason, you haven't read the conclusion to the arc, so you don't know what that reason is. and even if the author tells you in broad strokes how things are going to end for any particular character (and this is a big "if," because GRRM's whole style is that he lets plots "develop as he goes," so I'm not actually convinced that he does have endings written out for most major characters), that still doesn't help you get them from point A (meandering storyline) to point B (actual conclusion). oh, and by the way, you have under a year to write this full season of television, while GRRM has been thinking about how to end the books for at least 10. all of this means you have to basically call an audible on whether or not certain arcs are going to pay off, and, if they are, whether they make for good television, and hence are worth writing. and you have to do that for every. single. unfinished. story. in the books.

here's an example: in the books, Quentin Martell goes on a quest to marry Daenerys and gain a dragon. many chapters are spent detailing this quest. spoiler alert: he fails, and he gets charbroiled by dragons. GRRM includes this plot to set up the actions of House Martell in Winds, but the problem is that we don't know what House Martell does in Winds, because (see above) the book DNE. So, although we can reliably bet that the showrunners understand (1) Daenerys is coming to Westeros with her 3 fantasy nukes, and (2) at some point they're gonna have to deal with the invasion of frozombies from Canada, that DOESN'T mean they necessarily know exactly what's going to happen to Dorne, or House Martell. i mean, fuck! we don't even know if Martin knows what's going to happen to Dorne or House Martell, because he's said he's the kind of writer who doesn't set shit out beforehand! so for every "Cersei defaults on millions of dragons in loans from the notorious Bank of Nobody Fucks With Us, assumes this will have no repercussions for her reign or Westerosi politics in general" plotline — which might as well have a big glaring THIS WILL BE IMPORTANT stamp on top of the chapter heading — you have Arianne Martell trying to do a coup/parent trap switcheroo with Myrcella, or Euron the Goffick Antichrist, or Faegon Targaryen and JonCon preparing a Blackfyre restoration, or anything else that might pan out — but might not! And while that uncertainty about what's important to the "overall story" might be a realistic way of depicting human beings in a world ruled by chance and not Destiny, it makes for much better reading than viewing, because Game of Thrones as a fantasy television series was based on the first three books, which are much more traditional "there is a plot and main characters and you can generally tell who they are" kind of book. I see Feast and Dance as a kind of soft reboot for the series in this respect, because they recenter the story around a much larger cast and cast a much broader net in terms of which characters "deserve" narrative attention.

but if you're making a season of television, you can't do that, because you've already set up the basic premise and pacing of your story, and you can't suddenly pivot into a long-form tone poem about the horrors of war. so you have to cut something. but what are you gonna cut? bear in mind that you can't just Forget About Dorne, or the Iron Islands, or the Vale, or the North, or pretty much any region of the story, because it's all interconnected, but to fit in everything from the books would require pacing of the sort that no reasonable audience would ever tolerate. and bear in mind that the later books sprout a lot more of these baby-plots that could go somewhere, but also might end up being secondary or tertiary to the "main story," which, at the end of the day, is about dragons and ice zombies and the rot at the heart of the feudal power system glorified in classical fantasy. that's the story that you as the showrunner absolutely must give them an end to, and that's the story that should be your priority 1.

so you do a hack and slash job, and you mortar over whatever you cut out with storylines that you cook up yourself, but you can't go too far afield, because you still need all the characters more or less in place for the final showdown. so you pinch here and push credulity there, and you do your best to put the characters in more or less the same place they would have been if you kept the original, but on a shorter timeframe. and is it as good as the first seasons? of course not! because the material that you have is not suited to TV like the first seasons are. and not only that, but you are now working with source material that is actively fighting your attempt to constrain a linear and well-paced narrative on it. the text that you're working with changed structure when you weren't looking, and now you have to find some way to shanghai this new sprawling behemoth of a Thing into a television show. oh, and by the way, don't think that the (living) author of the source material will be any help with this, because even though he's got years of experience working in television writing, he doesn't actually know how all of these threads will tie together, which is possibly the reason that the next book has taken over 8 years (now 13 and counting) to write. oh and also, your showrunners are sick of this (in fairness, very difficult) job and they want to go write for star wars instead, so they've refused the extra time the studio offered them for pre-production and pushed through a bunch of first-draft scripts, creating a crunch culture of the type that spawns entirely avoidable mistakes, like, say, some poor set designer leaving a starbucks cup in frame.

anyway, that's what I think went wrong with game of thrones.

[girlishwhimsies]

erm can we have your cherry cola thoughts and headcanons and such pleaseeeee🤲🤲🤲

OFCCCCCC

okay i’ve yapped about other previous general headcanons but this has gotta be devoted to the teen parents cherrycola au that lives in my head CHRONICALLY

first of all like hidden love cherrycola 🤭 like they know her parents would probably kick her out and she’d lose her social status and even the greasers would be a bit taken aback so they don’t tell anyone and have their own little secret dates. sneaking into each others houses, longing glances, holding hands when no one is around, all the hidden relationships tropes my beloved.

cherry finding out she’s pregnant and just like freaking the FUCK out, they haven’t even told anyone about them yet and now they’ve got this to deal with, soda is also freaking the fuck out but like semi holding it together, at least til he gets home and lock himself in the bathroom and breakdown. eventually cherrys parents find out and kick her out so she shows up at the curtis’s doorstep to find darry at the door (who doesn’t even know she’s dating soda) and just breaks down so darry yknow lets her in and soda comes running in soon after. they have to tell darry and dude is just SHOCKED like 🧍‍♂️he doesn’t know how to react but ofc says she can stay in the extra bedroom. later on tho he talks to soda and is like dude. you cannot have a baby you do not have the money you’ve gotta figure this out (this turns into a massive argument but that’s another post tbh)

pony is NAWT happy simply bc he is like wowwwwww soda stole the girl who liked me (even tho she never liked him, pony was just in denial that he was in love with his best friend and needed a win okay) and was a little salty 14 year old abt it as yknow a teen boy is. he is also upset cause he’s like ummmm no soda is MY best friend, don’t act like you know him better cause once again pony is a salty 14 year old.

cherry would still go to school despite the way everyone there would treat her after cause she is SET on graduating (she’s smart af so as she should) and she does graduate 4.0 my brilliant queen and ends up attending college there eventually, but oughhhh just imagine the way her old friends would treat her… (this also could be a whole separate post) soda who finds so much meaning in being a dad and realizes how much he loves it and how he can be good at things despite how “dumb” he is. soda is also a girl dad fight me. i’m lowkey sick so idk how much sense this post made but send me asks on this au please this is legit the most condensed version i could form

[luonnon-varainen]

I had it in mind for a while already so I here are my thoughts and headcanon about Collie or rather the „bodily functions” of the eldritch god, here the "species" is archivist

There are some extra notes on doodles but oh boi the amount of typos there is unbearable x"d

Starting from the beginning and basic - the core:

The core is a semi-conscious substance of unknown molecular structure, if with any molecular structure, functioning as magic carrier/vector(similar to the ATP). It's a mystery whether it is really an elemental structure, a condensed energy or a form of electromagnetic waves beyond our current knowledge. In general it is said that core is pure celestial magic. It has many physical qualities of a fluid. The closest liquid to the core would be a Non-Newtonian fluid. It is a blackish, very sticky, dense liquid similar to pitch, which is highly sensitive and "reactive" to a electromagnetic field like ferrofluid. The core, most likely due to its structure and origin, is very unstable. Visible light exposure is enough to cause a spontaneous rapid reaction which ends with an explosion. Making existence on its own very unlikely. In case when the core happens to be sealed inside the archive - the semi-conscious body made of mostly gold, iridium, wolfram and glass, which contains all collected life forms - it creates what is known as an god, in this case an Archivist. This amalgamation allows to not only creat a stable form of both elements, but also develop an fully conscious eldritch, who is able to exist actively. Archivists possess almost full control over their core: shaping it, moving around, grabbing different objects with it, shielding themselves

The core is a more "human" side of an archivist. The element capable of adapting, blending, learning mortal structures both anatomical and social and rebuilding it to their own standards, experiencing emotions and many more. It plays the main role in defining what kind of person the archivist will be. Yet, the core is not equal to Archivists. It possess it's own "personality" and "opinions", similarly to the archive. Sometimes the core and the archivist are quite different and are working not very well with eachother. Situations like these are called "speaking" - a small part of core presents, usually visually, it opposing opinions against whole god's will. It's not harmful, just annoying and uncomfortable

The core is like a liquid - almost incompressible. It's quite an issue when you are a planet size entity who needs to shrink whole your body to be able to fill the archive and keep on existing, but also need to protect "guts" from exploding during day. The long, baggy robes come to aid in this case. Dresses, veils, hats, too puffed trousers and sleeves allows to hide quite a lot of the liquid from external conditions, by creating the precious shade, controlling the temperature amplitude and keeping it away from other liquids. Extra protection are given by their characteristic cloaks, which inner lining is a portal to the Grand Archive. The Grand Archive is a pocket dimensions away from intense light, where the core can be a bit safer and longer outside the capillary archive than usually. Also in order to work in an unwelcoming environment such as a planet, archivists developed a pulsating movement of the core. As the whole core cannot be at the same time in the archive, to prevent the destabilisation and consequently explosion, it is constantly flows through the body and around their closest surrounding. It's quite similar to the cytoplasmic movement around vacuoles in a plant cell or blood flow in Mollusca' s vascular system. The free flow of the core is the key reason why archivists avoid intense light and making them rather a "nocturnal" creatures

The core is inside the archive, where it's well secured and stabilised. However, there are many passages for the core to leave its shelter. These channels have no protection besides a thin membrane. They have a crucial role in an archivist's life as they are the doors to the inside of a god. All collected mortals eventually will end up inside the archive, but that requires a special spell that will reduce the mortal to smallest functional elements. Even smaller than the scrolls provide. That is possible thanks to these exact entrances. The mortal, whether in a scroll or not, will be pushed through one of those channels, encapsidated by the core, " dissolved" and placed inside one of bazillion capsules of the archive. It's unknown if the final archivisation is an painless process, but the truth is that it doesn't matter at this point - whoever was placed inside will stay there forever. The main passage are eye sockets-

The eldritch gods and deep sea creatures are extremely similar in terms of their adaptation to the environment, conserving energy idea and their life motto "eat or be eaten". So no wonder that archivists put a lot of effort to become the most efficient and effective as they could. The core shaped the archive to resemble intelligent life forms displaying a beautiful example of aggressive mimicry. As mortals are the most troublesome in terms of catching them without excessive energy loss. Looking like a young and lost in the forest nymph can really boosts chances of putting hand on curious mortals. After all who wouldn't try to figure out who the hell is this and why it's in my forest at 11 pm(at least I would, but I'm the natural selection's target for a while so I'm not the best example xd). Why go and chase when you can make them come to you. There are way more of the adaptations but it's more the archive than the core topic and I'm not writing it down today

A skilled archivist can use the surrounding matter, even quite reactive one like water, to temporarily shield the core or divide it and archive in order to create the "puppet - puppetmaster" form. A terrible thing to encounter on a long voyage or while wandering on the desert, especially if your specie decides to resist god's will-

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER FOUR: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense). Cannot stress the ED/anorexia warnings more strongly for this chapter guys!

This is chronologically the fourth chapter in the series

--

You sit with your back to Dr Lecter as he readies himself to leave for his morning appointments, feeling like an ancient sacrifice to some forest beast, blindfolded and anointed, its snail-fed bride; the dread of unseeing, of not knowing what he does as you stare at the wall is so clever a punishment that you comprehend entirely why more brutal forms were inflicted before it.

He is ingenious in his malice, this man. The fear of the worst of things is the stick that will make you the supplicant to his merest whim.

In cyclical paths you think of Hannibal’s attack at the breakfast table, how he had intuited your intent to cut his throat before you had finalised the thought. The gymnast's grace with which he’d caught you, the psychic recognition of revolt— he has held others captive, before you, surely.

Likely he has killed.

There are many like Dr Lecter, in the medical field, rapists and murderers in their masses, scything the weak, and allowing their names to fall through the cracks in the system, where few care to retrieve them. Already you feel yourself staggering into that hopeless black, soundless as your gaoler guides you back into the en suite by a hand at your nape.

“You may take a bath, if you wish,” he says— how had he known you’d only stood at the sink that morning? “I have provided toiletries for you. No razors, I’m afraid. If you desire to shave, then Will or I must be present, which I doubt you would prefer, at this time. Besides, I have to leave for my first appointment in a few minutes. I trust that you will enjoy the solitude.”

You keep your back to him, half-swooning under your dread of those pitiless eyes.

“I hope that you will not do anything unwise, while I’m away,” says Hannibal, into the frigidity of your silence. “There is no mention of active suicidal ideation in your records. I would be surprised if you drowned yourself; of all the poetic figures you resemble, Ophelia, in her madness, is not of their number.”

“Why?” you whisper. “After what’s happened, I should want to die.”

Hannibal’s arm glides past you, twisting the faucets of the bath until water beats a war drum rhythm against the porcelain.

“But you do not,” he says, his voice so close to your ear that you jump. “Death, to you, would be an unfortunate symptom of the habits you keep. You are ambivalent about life, at the best of times, yet your goal is not to leave it. Your inherent belief is that you can maintain starvation at such a balance that you defy both those who have hurt you and God Himself.”

You watch hot water spin the air into steam, and a tear condenses on your left cheek, quite as warm.

“Does God even exist?” you ask. “If He did, He’d get me out of this.”

Dr Lecter unscrews the top of an expensive soap bottle and pours it into the bath, smoking the room with the scent of dusky vanilla; of course, his perfume for you would be gourmand.

“God kills and aids with equal relish. Who is to say that it is not your suffering that he would prefer?”

“That’s what you want?” you ask, in a whisper like a fragment of snow. “For me to suffer?”

“No, little one,” says Hannibal, touching your quivering lower lip with a gentle thumb. “If that was so, I would have left you to die in your parents care. What I want is for you to eat, and gain trust in those that yearn to help you.”

He straightens, smoothing down an imaginary crease in his suit.

“I have prepared lunch for you to eat while I am at work. I expect to see that you have eaten it.”

Your stomach, hard with breakfast, is nevertheless hollow enough to moan.

“All of it?” you ask.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “It is only a light portion. Will is joining us for dinner tonight.”

You sit down on the edge of the bath, your voice rising to a petulant note, as though Will were an unsavoury family friend, and not a man driven to rape by a whisper in his ear.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Nevertheless, you will,” says Hannibal. “Like hunger, he is the spectre you must face, regardless of your fear of him.”

Hannibal switches off the taps and smiles down at you, undeterred by your unchanged, fearful disgust.

“Goodbye, little one,” he says. “And be good.”

You don’t reply, refusing to turn as he pats your shoulder and quietly retreats from the room. His leaving should be a relief, but his presence drenches the house like blood through a shroud. He scarcely seems to leave it at all.

You bathe rapidly, loathing to be at one with your nakedness, seeing it through your captors’ eyes.

Another set of clean clothes has been set out for you, a perfume of further vanilla, a clear bag of cosmetics, a weighty tome by Dostoevsky, and lunch in a pristine Tupperware box, which you avoid as you would a sleeping asp.

The bedroom door is locked, the sole, small window barred— new additions, you note from the shine on the steel. Hannibal has made definite your inability to escape; the only hope left bare to you is to draw attention from passers-by.

Desperate, you write a haphazard ‘HELP ME’ message in lipstick upon the window, hoping that the letters are large enough to be glimpsed from below.

That done, you sit in a convent-goer’s silence, cowed by the enormity of danger that has found you. The only thing that protects you from the engulfing depths of your abjection is anger, defiance that Dr Lecter thinks himself dictator of what may enter your body, food or flesh.

With a reedy surge of courage you vow to challenge his every attempt on your autonomy, even if you must do so quietly.

You begin with lunch. With a percussive gusto you throw the Tupperware into bathroom bin, thinking you’ve done well to avoid another round of narcotics, and to deny yourself what you do not think you deserve, after failing to abstain at breakfast.

The pasta smells delicious, of cloves and some ingeniously mixed sauce you know would break across your tongue in a tide of exceptional flavour. You pace from the bedroom to the en suite, close to retrieving the plastic tub from the clean trash bag and eating from it, unashamed of such a low; you’ve done worse, in your time, giving in to an animal urge to forage.

You lean against the wall, breathing in and out with trembling difficulty. Then you prise the Tupperware from the trash can and empty it out into the toilet bowl, flushing again and again until every remnant of food is washed down where even you cannot salvage it.

You are exuberant in your resolve, barely weakened under the burden of your captivity.

You shouldn’t be hungry, so soon after breakfast, yet you are— not in the way other people feel hunger, the ordinary cues having been lost to illness, long ago. Your desire for food is like that of a man-eating animal, driven more by a taste for flesh than necessity to eat.

That Will and Hannibal have given you a secondary conflict to wage war against your obsession is almost a gift— there is no longer much room amidst your crowding fears to pine over the food in your stomach.

Yet, there is enough. Purging has never been your particular habit—you’ve found it too difficult, requiring water you are too afraid to drink more than a glass of for fear of the added weight on the scale.

The French toast lies upon you like a sleep paralysis apparition in its density. Hanging over the toilet bowl, you choke on acid spittle, and promptly abandon the venture. Had there been laxatives, they would have been a fair alternative, but Hannibal has kept you as simply and functionally contained as a vivisectionist’s subject, which, to him, it seems, you are.

You bow to your defeat, on this count, allowing yourself another indulgence of tears. Only the fear of the calories you must burn thrusts you back on your feet, striding laps of the room until your vision swims with sparks.

Light-headed, you sprawl on the bed—the same that you were raped in, you think, and move to lie on the floor instead, comforted by the changed perspective of the room.

As a child you used to lie on your back like this, imagining that you could walk upon the ceiling. You’d lived years in such imagined lands, and would have remained in them, still, had they not grown dark, and overgrown by infiltrating matter. As you stare at the ceiling now it seems to blacken at the edges as though with a quickening mould, or else the fingers of some unseen thing, folding over your eyes until they shut.

*

You start from unsettled sleep to the gentle purr of an expensive car drawing in at the front of the house. Recalling your lip-sticked message, you blunder in a drowsy panic to the window and rub at the glass with your dress sleeve, spitting on the hem when the cosmetic merely smudges obstinately under your ministrations.

You cannot tell if the monster in the sleek Bentley below can see the window clearly, but you work rapidly, your breath sawing a panicked melody through your throat.

Though your dress is black, the cosmetic shows tellingly on the fabric. You wrestle the garment over your head and hide it at the back of a drawer, shoving on an almost identical item as movement stirs in the house below.

You sit down on the bed, picking the skin at your fingers as Hannibal approaches. When his key clicks in the lock you start, tearing a hangnail up to the cuticle. You suck your thumb like a child to soothe the wound, aware how infantile you must look.

“Hello, little one,” says Hannibal, politely, as he enters the room.

“I ate it all,” you say, in an all too eager rush. “The food. You don’t have to punish me.”

Your jailer looks at you levelly. His eyes are crow’s eyes, clever, and gelid.

“Let me see.”

He picks up the Tupperware, examining the box. Abruptly he circles the room, then the en suite, his slow tread an axe-man’s gait.

“You have lied to me,” he says, suddenly. “Lunch was disposed of. The toilet, I presume? Please do not insult me by claiming to have eaten it.”

You stare at him, nonplussed.

“I... how did you know?” you falter.

“I have a keen sense of smell. The scent of herbs is very clear in the air. An unusual aroma, for this particular room.”

There is a humour in his voice, but of a sinister kind you know well to fear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t. I already ate so much, and you said I have to have dinner, so I...”

Hannibal shakes his head gravely.

“You must never waste food, if you can help it, little one.”

On a whim, you reach out to sieze one of his hands in yours.

“I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me, Dr Lecter.”

He shakes his head regretfully.

“That is not for me to decide.”

You squeeze his hand as tightly as you are able, aware of how cold your fingers are in comparison to his hale warmth.

“Please, I’ll stay in solitary, or... or forfeit stuff, like they do at regular hospitals. Just don’t... touch me again. I can’t take it.”

“You discredit your endurance,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “It has presented itself as your greatest strength. It would be startling to see it fragment so early into your induction.”

You snap your hand back from him, cradling it as you would a broken bone.

“What’s wrong with you?” you hiss, and Dr Lecter releases a little grunt of amusement.

“I can only echo the interrogative. You have never opened up to any therapist about the most crucial traumas in your past. I am intrigued by their mysteries.”

You glance away, lips tightened. You will give him nothing of your secrets, not even the sheerest slip. He will use them against you, this you know.

“I must prepare for dinner,” says Hannibal. "Come along, little one. You will assist me. It will do you good to be in the presence of food through its preparation.”

*

As anticipated, your presence in the kitchen is fraught with excruciating temptation. As you grate vegetables and slice meat you often clear your throat to mask the thunder of starvation in your abdomen, which Dr Lecter politely ignores.

Though he maintains a flow of light, one-sided conversation, you know how narrowly he watches you, analysing every twitch and attempt to mentally detach from the scents and sumptuous plenty spread out on the countertops before you.

At last, he relents, an unexpected mercy.

“That’s enough. You may wash your hands and sit at the dinner table.”

You linger, gawking at him, not quite believing in your release.

“Go on,” says Dr Lecter, chuckling slightly. “I will join you presently. Our guest will be arriving, soon.”

Blinking, you say, “I’m... allowed to sit in there alone?”

With an almost fond glance, Dr Lecter says, “Certainly. You will not run, for you know that I will follow.”

Will arrives half an hour later, smelling of night rain and cologne. His expression is sullen and furtive as he greets you, his eyes floorwards, lashes fluttering behind his glasses.

You clutch the sides of your chair, silent, sickened, resentful; the man behaves as if it is he who was injured by the assault, as though the shame gnaws down to the core of him, leaving him raw and naked before you.

He sits in the chair closest to the door, whether to guard the exit or to forge the path to a quick egress you cannot say.

Hannibal sets a glass of wine before him; you he only gives water, as though you are not old enough to drink.

“The first course will be served presently,” he comments, surveying the tension at his table. “I hope that you will both enjoy it. You must be hungry, little one.”

You shake your head, afraid that if you open your mouth to speak you will only scream. This meal isn’t meant to tantalise the senses, but to torture: you know it from the unwilling reunion of his guests, of the punishment that leers from a narrow future upon you.

A quivering shrew, you stare at your untouched glass as Will clears his throat, pressed by the pains of your silence to speak.

He invokes your name, making it as foul as a curse.

“I don’t claim to be a master at first impressions, but the other night...”

“Please don’t talk to me,” you whisper, and Will flinches, pushing his glasses up his nose with bumbling fingers.

You’ve upset him, you realise, with a cold start of revulsion. Him, the violator, bruised by his own brutality, as though he’d no choice in the matter. Had he expected you to be his friend, to care for his sensitivities?

There is something wrong with Will Graham, you think, like a flaw in some creaking ship apt to annihilate the vessel, under pressure. That, or bleed all around him in his shrapnel, while he tends to their many pieces with all the moroseness of Beauty’s beast.

It strikes you that you should make him your ally, this hopeless Caliban, if you can stand it. You will need his favour, against Dr Lecter, to convince him to set you free.

Still, you cannot yet bring yourself to earn it. When Hannibal returns to set the first of many plates upon the table you are wordless in your terror, your fork as slippery as a salmon in your grip.

Will and Hannibal make conversation about a murder case in the area— both seem intricately involved in the psychology of the killer, discussing at length his motives in the poetic lexis you are becoming accustomed to, in this prison.

Still, their eyes and words wind back to you with a potent eventuality, displayed before them in your borrowed dress like a goldfinch chained to an elaborate perch.

Your food remains on your plate, flattened beneath your knife, a childish attempt to conceal your inability to eat it. There is too much weight in these scarce morsels, calories that would swell you into some fantastic horror, or so your thoughts inform you.

If you could eat, you would do so; even to save yourself it is beyond you.

Only water do you swallow, the bottom of the glass thick with a bitter sediment.

“We should talk about her, shouldn’t we?” asks Will, reluctantly, his gaze darting to your plate.

"Indeed we should," says Hannibal, his hand tracing the stem of his wine glass as he would the length of your throat. “Specifically, your response to her residence here, and to her treatment. You feel guilt for having carried out a punishment you feel was not entirely deserved.”

Will swallows, the click of saliva in his throat like the folding of a leaf underfoot.

"That's the problem," he says. "It did feel deserved. Violence for violence. There was a righteousness in defending you. I've felt it before, with GarretJacob Hobbs."

The name holds significance you cannot grasp. Who was this man, and what does he mean to your wardens?

"And like that day, protecting Abigail," Will continues, "I'm left looking at my own hands, repulsed by my own readiness to engage in a taboo and... enjoy it. But she isn’t like either Hobbs."

This, directed at you with a glance of murky guilt.

"She's unwell. Confused. And, as far as your patient was concerned, she was as in her right to protect herself as I was in correcting her."

"Stop,” you say, quietly.

Both men turn to you, startled by your sudden interjection.

"You disagree with Will's analysis of last night's events?" asks Hannibal, with interest. "By all means, tell us what you see. There is no sole analysis of any art; what picture do you glimpse from within the canvas?"

"I'm not yours," you say. "You can't correct me, like I'm something you own, that you made."

Dr Lecter examines your face with a dangerous patience.

"But we are making you. Or remaking, it you prefer. That is why you are here: a construction of what we two will define from mortar and broken glass."

You cannot respond to such unhinged logic without lowering yourself to entertain it, an undeniably clever tactic.

Hannibal brings another course to the table, another, another; Roman emperors could not have gorged like this, yet the two men—both lean, and Will particularly small—clear their plates as though swallowing mere air.

You pretend to eat, chewing food and spitting it into napkins or an empty glass when the other diners look away. It is only when Will barks at you suddenly that you realise he's been watching you, all along.

"What are you doing?" he asks, sharply.

"Nothing,” you mumble.

Will scoffs.

"Nothing? Nothing is not why you're here. You’re starving yourself. Why?"

Disgust pours from him like a vapour, tainting the air you breathe with his unearned judgement.

"Because... it's just what I do,” you say, limply. “It... helps. It's taken over everything.'

“Then stop letting it,” snaps Will; you don’t understand why he’s so affronted, why he has suddenly taken up the reigns of the game. “You're giving into this, letting it cut holes into you. You'll die trying to achieve some abstract state of being that you will never reach. Do you want that?"

Strange, the echo of your conversation with Dr Lecter by the bath.

"I— don't know,” you say, after a strained pause. “Sometimes I'm not sure if I care what happens to me. And sometimes, I get scared."

Will speaks through gritted teeth.

"So let go of it."

You could laugh at so preposterous a command, but instead you say, "I can't."

The atmosphere at the table has subtly changed, all players on the board at last.

"Why not?” asks Will, softly.

You perceive something like care in his voice, an impossibility.

"Because it makes me feel better," you say. "Stronger. I don't want it to go away."

Hannibal sits back, listening in purposeful silence.

Will removes his glasses, placing them into his pocket.

"Today, at this meal, you’ll try,” he says. “Appreciate the effort that was made for you."

At this you do laugh, a soft, broken sound.

"Go to hell. You're a monster. You did what he told you to, and— and you jumped like a dog to do it. Aren't you ashamed?"

Dr Lecter’s posture tightens slightly, and Will flounders, losing a little of his confidence.

"I know it's probably not what I should have done,” he admits. “It’s a radical treatment. And dangerous. But I— we can't take it back. And if I can contribute to you evolving from this then I'll do whatever it takes."

There is honesty in this confession, somewhere, even empathy.

"Don't act like you care about me,” you mumble, and shove your plate away from you, across the table, knocking over your glass in the process.

The effects of whatever drug was in the water are taking hold, making you feel loosely unstable, your inhibitions cast down, and forgotten.

Hannibal’s smile has fallen.

"Will,” he says, curtly. “I think you have tolerated quite enough from our obnoxious guest. I suggest that you consider discipline. She has already broken the rules in place for her today. A meal discarded, a message for help written on her window— It is fortunate that no one came close enough to the house in my absence to see it."

You stand up from your seat, swaying slightly, your heart shuttering like cards on a bicycle wheel to find yourself caught you in your efforts to escape.

"I hate you,” you say. “I want to leave. Let me go."

"Hannibal,” Will cuts in; his face is white, and greasy with anxiety. “I'm not ready to handle this again."

Dr Lecter’s expression shifts darkly.

"Then I will fulfil that responsibility on your behalf."

He rises from his seat and is behind you for the second time this day before you've the sense to run. Shunting you forward onto the table top, he tears your dress methodically up your back, his free hand holding you down with the same carelessness with which he’d handle unsatisfactory meat.

"You are sure that you do not wish to participate?" he says, over your shrieks of protest.

Will shakes his head. His eyes are rolling like a bull’s in his distress.

"No. I— can't."

Hannibal stills; you feel his hand between his belt and your behind, on the precipice of setting loose his sick lust.

"Then should I choose another punishment? There are many at our disposal."

"Don't leave it up to me to decide,” croaks Will. “I feel... precarious."

"I forgive you your uncertainty,” says Dr Lecter. “I, however, have none."

A drugged swell flows through you, looping a weird ecstasy about your abdomen as Hannibal leans down to speak to you directly.

"You are a very disobedient girl. You know the consequences, and yet you do not abandon your misdeeds."

"I'm not playing your stupid game,” you whine, dimly away of how foolish you sound. “I'm not playing.”

“Of course you are,” says Hannibal, coldly. “In time you'll forget that it was ever a game, to begin with.”

He forces himself within your cunt in a smooth and gliding viciousness, sending another brocade of sensation through your loins. The drug you’ve ingested makes the pain a most succulent wonder, playing your nerves with all the sinister beauty of the Theremin.

You sob as he fucks you, slow, and sure, and deep. It should not possibly be pleasurable, is intended only to exert power, and to humiliate— but he cannot help but create art, casting you on the stage of his design.

As Hannibal hurts you, he is looking at Will, whose face bears a quickening darkness. It strikes you quite suddenly that Dr Lecter wants the other man’s approval, perhaps even his jealousy; you understand that you are a disposable object that holds the temporary interest of these two.

It may not last.

Should they tire of you, what then? Thrown back to your parents, perhaps, more broken than you arrived. Surely not, for you may spill their secrets to the world, and ruin their lives.

Something worse, then.

You circle back to that earlier thought, and terror flies back in all its night glory.

Suddenly you twitch and shake in horrified spasms, and though Hannibal continues to fuck you something alters almost imperceptibly in his pace.

"Stop," says Will, suddenly. "That's enough."

"You cannot leave a deer half-killed, Will,” says Hannibal; glancing back over your shoulder, you are horrified by how calm he appears, even now. “Maimed, it will stumble, weakened, until another predator picks it from the herd. I must hunt her to the end, Will. It is all that can be done."

You see your tears soddening the tablecloth, mucus pooling beneath your cheek.

"Don't kill me," you whimper. "I don't want to die."

Hannibal stills a moment, pulling your head back to look into your eyes.

“We do not intend to kill you, little one," he says. "Only for you to accept what you are. You will humour what we ask of you?"

"Yes!” you cry, with a delirious bray in your voice. “I— I’ll try!"

Blue eyes, black eyes, both pairs so equally bright.

"Good girl,” says Hannibal, and resumes his use of your flesh, his cock making a gauntlet of you, every thrust grinding you against the elaborate tablecloth with such intelligent pressure you groan beneath him, juddering with the effort it takes not to come.

Will's gaze has changed, and there is colour in his cheeks. He grips the edge of the table as though to prevent himself from falling, or else rising to join his companion in your debasement.

"Please stop," you stutter out, wanting to bite your own tongue off for the embarrassment of the utterance. “I won’t be bad anymore.”

Hannibal slows deliberately, his cock withdrawing to the point it almost slips from your cunt before he sinks it in the lake of your arousal again.

"Come, then," he says, simply. "And you may go to bed."

In a wailing convulsion you climax at once, scrabbling at the floor on steepled toes as the pleasure rolls from your cunt through your thighs. Hannibal waits for your last twitch to cease before he finishes within you, utterly soundless as he leans down, kissing the back of your neck in a gesture that is curiously gentle.

He steps away from the table and helps you stand, holding you to his chest as you whimper in the after bursts of sensation.

"Are you still troubled, Will?" he asks, over the top of your head.

The other man looks shell-shocked, his pallor an almost grey.

"I'm... undecided."

You pull away from Hannibal, remembering with a flare of insane joy that you are released from the table, that you need not eat, after all.

"Then I am mistaken in perceiving another response in you," says Dr Lecter.

Will looks hurriedly away, and it is only as you push past him to flee for your room that you understand Dr Lecter's meaning. The younger man adjusts himself, flushing, sitting as close to the table as space will allow.

He is hard, having watched his friend fucking you.

Will Graham is not so repentant as he'd taken such pains to seem.

[multi-fandom-lunatic]

i am OBLIGATED to give my valued opinions on the miraculous ladybug london special.

(Spoilers!!)

WHAT THE FUCK HOLY SHIT WHAT JUST HAPPENED??? OH MY GOSHHHHH

ahem well to be more coherrant:

I love the more emotional/angstier vibe of the special. It's just sosososo fitting to the occasion and I'm glad the writers were not hesitant to be dark with it.

LILA AND MARINETTE ARE LITERAL FUCKING GENIUSES. They're both on Einstein's level smart.

Mari's yellow suit was... interesting. I can't tell if I like it or despise it.

The double portal thing. Oh. I gasped out loud. THE GENIUS OH MY GOD.

Lila flipped a whole fucking table?? She would kill at boxing (literally....)

Final peak at the old animation and I don't know how to feel AT ALL. I grew UP WITH THIS SHOW. I'VE BEEN SEEING THE ANIMATION STYLES SWITCH FOREVER. But this... oh. THIS. I can't tell. (I've watched snippets of the s6 trailer and YES it is gorgeous but it will 100% take some getting used to.

I REMEMBER WATCHING THIS SHOW AS A KID. I'VE BEEN HERE SINCE THE BUBBLER. SINCE EP1. AND NOW IT'S THIS. I feel like a proud mom. I remember when Heroes Day parts 1 and 2 were the big thing-

I am very very very excited to see how Lila (as Hawkmoth) and Ladybug's dynamic will be in s6. I can assume that the whole season won't be as intense as the special, but Lila's being so smart is definitely something I hope the writers explore.

Also, I wonder how Adrien will be portrayed in s6. PLEASE THE GRIEF FROM THE LONDON SPECIAL HAS TO CARRIED ON. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DON'T MAKE HIM IRRELEVANT AND STRIP HIM OF ANY ARC.

I fear I know the show's writers all too well, which is why I predict they'll be sidelining some important character for the sake of Mari vs Lila. Betting it's Kagami.

I KNOW KNOW IT WAS NESSESARY but half the special was the flashbacks- I wish that they could've condensed it. Don't know how so I'm settling with this one, but it just felt like I was watching s5 finale all over again.

I can't help but wonder how much shit the writers made up along the way. You CANNOT tell me that they had THIS in mind when they were writing Bubbler, Troublemaker, etc. But regardless, it works SO FUCKING WELL.

thats my thoughts =)