#and with this I shall depart Tumblr

[lesmismignon]

guys it's a very minor but very important detail to remember Integra's full name is Integral, okay

インテグラル・ファルブルケ・ウィンゲーツ・ヘルシング

it's in the manga, and you can hear the "l" in Japanese OVA

she's the Integral Hellsing

and Integra is what her family affectionately calls her :** (see: "Integra-sama!" or "No, it's goodbye, Integra.")

[cleo-fox]

As the Clock Strikes Midnight - Part VIII

Series Masterlist Chapter Summary: In which you lie to yourself. Chapter Warnings: Sex, p in v sex, dirty talk, praise kink, wall sex, semi-public sex, library sex, unrealistic refractory periods. Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

You don’t know what this is and you don’t know how to navigate it. 

Every night from dusk to midnight, you are in his bed. He makes you no promises and you don’t ask him to. You tell yourself that it’s meaningless, harmless, a bit of fun.

You ignore the fact that most sensible people would not define bedding a prince as a harmless bit of fun. Especially not when you’re a servant. Especially not when there’s so much that you could lose.

You ignore the fact that the longer it goes on, the more the meaningless parts start to feel substantive, the more it nudges at something in the center of your chest.

You ignore it all because if you don’t, if you stop and think very carefully about it, that’s when you will realize that you’ve wandered too far down a path that you ought not to have taken in the first place and by that point, it will be too late.

It is getting late and you are trying very hard to keep your eyes open. Your head is resting on Loki’s chest, your ear pressed against his heartbeat. His fingers have been trailing up your spine and into your hair and back down again. It’s soothing and it also gives you chills—a pleasant contradiction, much like Loki himself.

“I must leave tomorrow,” he says suddenly. “I have business on Midgard.”

“Oh,” you say. You’re not really sure how to feel about that. You’re not really sure whether you’re supposed to feel anything about that. Probably not. “How long do you expect to be away?”

He sighs. “Two months, at least. Likely more.”

“Long enough to cause trouble, I imagine,” you say lightly. There is an unexpected lump in your throat, but you’re doing your best to ignore it. There’s no reason there should be a lump in your throat; therefore it does not exist. You repeat this to yourself confidently, like saying it more than once will make it true.

“Well, naturally.” He rolls over, pulling you with him so that you are on your back and pinned beneath him. “I am the god of mischief, after all.”

“I suppose you are.” You recognize that look in his eyes. “And what mischief are you planning now, your highness?”

He hums and presses a kiss against your collarbone. “The usual sort.” He is growing hard against your belly. “I must have you at least once more before I depart on my journey.”

Despite all your complicated and confusing feelings, your body is warming to his touch, that all too familiar aching need stirring in your hips. “Only once?” you say as you open your legs to him.

“I said at least once. Try to pay attention, darling.”

In the end, he has you twice more, though the last one is quicker than you’d like, motivated by the lateness of the hour. He helps you dress and delays you once more at the door with a long and lingering kiss that you will find yourself returning to many times over the next several weeks.

“I really must go,” you murmur against his lips. “I’ll be missed if I’m away much longer.”

“Surely another minute won’t hurt,” he says, lowering his head to nuzzle the place where your neck and shoulder meet.

“I’m afraid you underestimate the power of very nosy kitchen maids.”

“Well, we can’t have that. I shall speak to Fritjof about the staffing.”

You know he’s joking, but there’s still a flicker of fear that runs through you at the sound of Fritjof’s name. “You wouldn’t,” you say, forcing your voice to sound light and unbothered.

He laughs quietly. “You’re right. I avoid speaking to that old bat whenever I can.”

You are used to hiding your true feelings about Fritjof. “He’s particular,” you say.

“He’s abhorrent,” says Loki. “If I were king, he would be the first I’d release from service.”

You can’t help but feel a little relieved by this statement. Sometimes it’s easy to feel like Fritjof’s unpleasantness is all in your head, or even just an overreaction.

You can’t say any of this, though, so you keep your expression neutral and polite. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says, a hint of a laugh evident in his voice. “You’re simply accustomed to being well-mannered about it.”

“I certainly wouldn’t say so if I was.”

He laughs quietly and runs a fingertip along your cheek. “I suppose not.”

There’s a beat of silence and the lateness of the hour strikes you once again. “I really must go,” you say.

“I know.” He looks at you carefully before leaning in to kiss you. It’s soft and gentle, almost tender in a way that makes you want to indulge in silly daydreams.

But the kiss ends, though his hand remains cupped against your cheek as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll send for you when I return,” he says.

You want to believe him, but there’s a part of you that’s afraid that this might be the end of your extraordinary little dalliance. Surely his attention will wander elsewhere once he returns. You hastily dismiss the thought and force what you hope is a believable smile.

“Safe travels, highness.”

You’re surprised by how immediately you feel Loki’s absence. 

It’s not just the sex, though you certainly miss that. You miss his company, his dry and sarcastic remarks, the way that his eyes light up when you say something sharp or clever. His smile, his quiet huff of laughter against your shoulder, the way his long fingers curl around yours. The way he listens, the way his brow furrows when he’s deep in thought.

You try very hard not to think about what any of that might mean.

You resume your clandestine trips to the library, but you find it’s hard not to think of Loki in a space that you associate so closely with him: here is a book that you know he likes, there is the chair he prefers. The memory of his kiss burns on your lips, the ghost of his touch seared into your skin like a tattoo.

Deep down, you know what this means, though you won’t admit it just yet. Not even to yourself.

The first few days are difficult, but after a few stumbling missteps, you slowly find your way back into the rhythm you found back before Loki upended your days.

You’re soon reminded, though, that these forbidden trips are not without their risks.

It’s only blind luck that saves you. You are coming back from the library, cutting across the dining hall to save time when you notice the lace on your boot has come undone. You bend down to tie it and it’s only then in the sudden silence that you hear footsteps approaching.

You draw back quickly into the shadows, pressing yourself flat against one of the large stone columns. From this vantage point, you can just see the doorway at the far end of the room.

A figure appears and your heart nearly flies out of your chest.

There in the flickering torchlight is Fritjof. 

You hold your breath as he crosses the room. It might be your imagination, but you would swear he looks more sinister in this light, with his beady eyes and the torchlight casting gloomy shadows across his face.

He’s a little past your column when he pauses, the sharp flare of his nostrils the only sign of life in his eerily still frame. Your heart is pounding so hard that you worry it might somehow give you away, impossible as it seems. He doesn’t know about the library, you tell yourself, willing it to be true. He doesn’t know I’m here.

His gaze sweeps over the room, his eyes squinting against the torchlight. The permanent line between his eyebrows deepens, almost as if he knows something is not quite right.

But finally, after a long moment, he seems to think better of it and continues on his way, footsteps echoing ominously in the large room.

You only let out your held breath when he leaves. You wait until his footsteps fade and then you make yourself count to one hundred before you tiptoe your way back to your room, your heart pounding the whole way.

If you were sensible, you would give up going to the library. You know that.

But with Loki gone, it’s the only thing you have to look forward to, and for that reason, you can’t quite convince yourself to give it up, though you do start taking a different route back.

And agonizingly slowly, those first four weeks pass.

On the first night of the fifth week, it occurs to you that you’re a little over halfway through. Assuming, of course, that it’s only two months and not longer like he thought it could be.

Assuming, of course, that he still wants you when he returns.

You decide that you’re not going to think about either possibility or the little blip of melancholy that creates strange tightness in your chest. It’s nothing. Nothing at all.

On the third night of the fifth week, you hear footsteps in the stacks.

It must be Fritjof.

You try not to panic as you set the book carefully on the shelf, listening intently. There was always part of you that knew that this was too risky to continue, that being discovered was always the inevitable conclusion. He’d nearly caught you once already, why didn’t you think this time would be different?

A voice comes from behind you. “And what business does a kitchen maid have in the palace library?”

There’s about a half second of terror before you realize that the voice is not Fritjof’s. 

It’s Loki’s.

Before you can turn around, strong arms are wrapping around your waist from behind, a broad chest pressing against your back. You relax almost instantly, your fear turning to something that you will later recognize as joy.

“You’re shaking,” he says, pressing a kiss against your neck.

“You frightened me half to death,” you say, your heart beating wildly, half from joy and half from fear. “I thought you were Fritjof.”

“Such grievous attacks on my character already?” he tuts against your neck, though you can feel him smiling. “Any sensible man would be offended by such a comparison.”

“He nearly caught me last week. And you’re much earlier than you said—I didn’t think to expect you.”

He presses a soft kiss against your neck. “Are you disappointed?”

“That depends on how churlish you intend to be,” you say.

He laughs and it only makes you ache for him. He turns you around and before you can get a proper look at him, he’s pulling you flush against him and kissing you deeply.

The restless, yearning ache that you’ve felt in your soul since he left finally stills when his lips touch yours. Kissing Loki feels like coming home—it feels so perfect, so right that it would scare you a little bit if there were room in your heart for any feeling other than joy.

It’s a minute or so later when he finally draws back just a little—only enough to speak. “Did you miss me?” he breathes against your lips.

Happy as you are, your first instinct is to deflect. You can’t be vulnerable. Not yet. “I would ask the same of you,” you say.

Instead of answering you directly, he presses his hips against yours so you can feel the hard length of him already straining at the confines of his trousers. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

“Now give me a proper answer,” he says, his voice dipping into a slight growl that awakens that familiar, aching heat low in your hips.

A shiver snakes up your spine. “Yes,” you say. “Very much.”

His eyes flash and suddenly he’s pressing you back against the shelf and kissing you deeply. Desperately. You arch against him as his hands palm your breasts before dropping to your hips to pull you closer still, close enough that you can’t help but feel the hard press of his cock against you.

He pulls away abruptly, grabbing you by the wrist and leading you deeper into the stacks.

“Where are we going?” There’s a breathy quality to your voice that you hope doesn’t reveal too much.

“You’ll see.”

His destination is a dark, secluded corner near a collection of atlases. Before you can ask more questions, he’s pressing you up against a wall and you realize with a thrill that he intends to have you right here in the library.

“We could be seen,” you say as he hitches up your skirts and hooks your leg up around his waist. But your voice lacks conviction and you can both hear it.

“It’s late and no one ever comes back here.” His hand slips between your thighs, pushing your undergarments aside. “And I need you now.”

It’s a thrilling admission made all the more compelling by his long fingers stroking your slick folds and circling your clit.

“Oh, you did miss me,” he breathes as he slides a finger inside of you. “My poor little kitchen maid, so slick and unsatisfied.”

You are aching and a whimper catches in the back of your throat as he presses the heel of his hand against your clit. You grab his shoulders as a second finger joins the first. “Please, I need—”

“What do you need?” he purrs as he curls his fingers. “Do you need to come before I fuck you into this wall?”

You nod, panting. “Please.”

He chuckles darkly. “Darling, you know that’s not good enough.”

Your clit is throbbing as you tense around his fingers. You’re so close and his time away has left you needy and desperate. “Make me come, Loki. Please.”

His grin is wicked. “Good girl.”

His eyes take on a particular kind of focus that you only ever see when he’s got you hot and bothered and chasing an orgasm. His fingers are fucking into you with a slow precision, the heel of his palm grinding against your throbbing clit, nudging you closer.

“You’re so close,” he says, looking at you hungrily. “I love it when you’re like this, all wild and wanton.” He licks his lips. “You’re going to have to be quiet, though. Can you do that, darling?”

You manage a nod, but barely. The leg that’s not hooked around his waist is trembling.

“I’ve got you, sweet,” he murmurs, his arm firmly squeezing your waist. “Let go. Come for me.”

Your breath is coming in quick, shallow bursts. The instruction to be quiet seemed doable at first, but the feeling that’s cresting inside of you is so much bigger and stronger than you thought. You’re not going to be able to keep quiet.

“Loki,” you gasp in the last few seconds. “I can’t—”

Somehow, he understands your meaning because he covers your mouth with his, muffling your cries as you come hard, your fingernails digging into his back as you shake so hard your leg threatens to give out.

He doesn’t stop kissing you until the last shudder pulses through you.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” he says reverently. “Just lovely.”

“Please—”

You don’t have to say any more. He fumbles with the fastenings on his trousers and frees his cock. There’s no teasing, no delay as he positions himself at your entrance—he wants you too badly to play his usual games, his desire heightened by your weeks apart. He slides into you easily, lifting you fully off the floor as he sheathes himself in you. You whimper and he sighs, mumbling a string of curses under his breath.

“Norns, I missed this,” he murmurs, leaning back in to kiss you.

If you’d planned things properly, you would be back in his room or somewhere private where you could be as loud as you needed to be. This reunion has awoken something primal and hungry in both of you and staying quiet is a struggle. His hips take up a quick pace, driving into you with a speed and force that speaks to the profound need that had brought you to the corner of the library in the first place. He quickly finds the angle that makes you see stars and soon enough, you’re trembling around him.

“You take my cock so well, darling,” he mumbles against your throat, teeth scraping against the tender skin. “So good for me, so tight.”

“I’m so close—”

“I know, lovely, I can feel you.” He presses his forehead against yours, emerald eyes intent. “Come with me,” he grits out.

You keep your eyes locked with his until the force of your orgasm tips your head back against the wall, your eyes fluttering shut as you clench around his cock. He is close behind, gasping out your name as he buries his face in your neck.

It’s a good minute or so before he withdraws, and he seems reluctant to do so. There is something decadent and scandalous about his spend dripping down the inside of your thigh, but you decide you rather like the feeling. It makes you feel like his in a very raw and primal way.

You try not to think about the fact that you have any desire to be his.

He takes your hands in his and a green light spreads over the two of you. When it dissipates, you find yourself in his chambers, in front of his bed.

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” you ask.

“It requires some concentration and my mind was singularly occupied,” he says. “I can’t imagine that you would have been very pleased had we arrived in separate places.”

He is right, but you don't want to say as much.

“I’d thought that your skill with magic was too great for such silly mistakes,” you say instead.

“I see my absence has not blunted your tongue.”

You smirk. “I hope you didn’t expect it to. I could not bear for you to be disappointed.”

He chuckles. “Not at all.”

He kisses you again and it’s slow and intimate in a way you don’t expect, in a way that warms you from the inside out.

“I’ve quite forgotten what you look like in my bed,” he murmurs against your lips.

“I suppose I could remind you,” you say.

He kisses you once more. “Turn around.”

He undoes the buttons on the back of your dress with achingly slow precision, pressing soft kisses against the back of your neck and all along your shoulders and spine. Your dress and then your shift and undergarments fall to the floor until you are bare before him.

His fingertips lightly trail along your rib cage and under the curve of your breasts. You suck in a shaky breath. You’ve just had him, but you’re already aching for him again.

His thumbs brush against your nipples and a soft moan falls from your lips.

“You can’t possibly need me again so soon,” he says, but you can tell from the rasp in his voice that this is not one-sided in the slightest. “You’re still dripping with my seed.”

You arch your back so that your ass presses against the growing bulge in his trousers. “You speak as though I am the only one with such a need.”

He hums, pressing back against you. “Perhaps you’re not.”

You look over your shoulder. “Well, your highness?”

He laughs low in his throat, one hand sliding between your legs, gently circling your still sensitive clit. “And here I thought you would be too sated for such boldness.”

“Perhaps you’ll have to try harder this time.”

You’re immediately gratified by the feeling of his bare skin at your back and you barely suppress a shiver. Typically if he resorts to magic to remove his clothes, it ends quite enjoyably for you.

“Perhaps I’ll fuck the boldness right out of you,” he says, his voice growing dark in a way that makes the muscles of your cunt ache in anticipation. You bend at the waist, bracing your hands against the edge of the bed to support yourself as he drags his cock along your dripping folds. “You speak sharply now, but we both know that you turn into a whimpering mess the moment you have my cock in your tight and greedy cunt.”

Quite suddenly, he’s at your entrance and pressing into you, his passage eased by the heady combination of your slickness and his come from earlier. Your back arches and you push up on your tiptoes, trying to take him deeper.

You can’t quite help the sigh that escapes your lips, even though it causes him to chuckle because it proves his point. His fingers massage your clit and you shudder, letting out a soft moan.

“Oh, you’ll have to do better than that, darling,” he says. “It’s been weeks since I last heard you scream for me.”

You cast a glance over your shoulder. “Like I said, highness: you’ll just have to try harder.”

His eyes darken in a way that makes you shiver. “You’ve grown bolder in my absence, love.”

You smirk. “Then teach me a lesson.”

Your intention is to goad him into fucking you hard enough to make the ache of these last few weeks disappear. His wide, feral grin makes you think you might have succeeded.

“Well, darling,” he purrs, his hips snapping hard against you in a way that makes your toes curl, “if you insist.”

He slips easily into a brisk pace, his fingers rubbing languorously at your clit. The contrast between the two is enough to make you moan in a way that’s so so wanton it’s almost embarrassing. 

“Yes, I want to hear all of your lovely noises,” he purrs. “Let me hear how much you missed me.”

His slow pace on your clit is still at odds with the way he’s fucking you and it’s driving you absolutely wild. You’re only getting the added stimulation on every other thrust and while it feels good, it’s not helping you get any closer to coming.

You tolerate it for as long as you can stand, but eventually you can’t help but moan. “Please, Loki.”

“Please what, my love?” he asks and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“More.”

He knows your body well enough at this point that he doesn’t have to ask what you mean—he simply begins massaging your clit in time with the thrust of his cock, making you keen.

“Like that?”

You can only moan in assent and he lets out a low chuckle as he continues with his new pace.

This is what you really needed, you think. His large hand firm on your hips, fingers on your clit, his movements just a little rough, his skin slapping against yours as he drives into you with hard and steady thrusts. You can feel the edge starting to approach, all of your muscles tingling and tensing in anticipation of your release. 

He knows your body well—too well, perhaps—and he recognizes how your muscles tighten and twitch around his cock right before you come undone.

And he stops, withdrawing from you completely. “Not yet,” he says.

The whine you let out is perhaps the most pathetic noise you’ve ever made in your life. “Loki, please.”

He turns you around, silencing your protests with a slow, deep kiss. “I need you closer,” he mumbles against your lips.

You let him guide you down onto the bed. While you like it when he takes you from behind, there’s an intimacy to having him on top of you. You can catalog his expressions, count the flecks of gold in his green eyes. You feel simultaneously as though you are perched on a cliff of great height and peering down, but also warm and safe.

It’s a feeling that you probably ought to interrogate; instead you push it from your mind.

He kisses you as he eases back into you and you wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer.

He’s slow and gentle with you. You thought you wanted fast and rough, but this…this is an unexpected perfection. You can feel every inch of him stretching and stroking the velvety inner walls of your cunt and every movement is somehow better than the last.

The buildup is slow and unhurried, the opposite of the library, the opposite of how he’d been driving into you mere moments before. He looks deep into your eyes, interrupted only when your lashes or his flutter shut against the rising tides within you both. It’s stirring something in your heart and you find yourself wanting to tell him that you missed this, you missed him, but the words stick in your throat and you suppose that’s probably for the best because these sort of things shouldn’t be spoken aloud when you are a servant who is bedding a prince in secret.

You shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now. Probably not ever. Instead, you draw your focus to the coil that is slowly winding in the pit of your stomach and roll your hips up to meet his slow thrusts. You pull him down to kiss you, hoping that his focus on taking you to your peak eclipses the fact that there’s far too much feeling in your kiss.

And moments later, your toes curl one last time and you cry out as you completely unravel. He groans deeply and gives two more sharp thrusts before he succumbs to his own bliss.

He gradually slows to a halt, dropping his head to your chest as he catches his breath. You close your eyes, relishing the feel of him on top of you, still pressed inside you, the feel of his sheets on your back. You missed this. You missed him. You—

You shouldn’t continue that thought. You shouldn’t admit to that feeling, even to yourself. It’s stupid. It’s dangerous.

Don’t say it. Don’t think it.

Loki gives a satisfied sigh, breaking you out of your thoughts. “The next time I say I need to be away for weeks at a time, tell me I’m a fool,” he mumbles.

“I’ll tell you you’re a fool regardless of your travel plans,” you say.

His laughter rumbling against your bare skin might be one of the best sounds in the world. “I would expect no less.”

He eases out of you, vanishing the mess and quickly pulling you to his side. You rest your head against his shoulder and wrap your arms around his chest, draping your leg across his stomach for good measure.

“Did it go well?” you say after a moment of quiet. “Your business on Midgard, I mean.”

He sighs. “It was tedious. I’d rather have stayed here.”

You wonder if he means here on Asgard or here in bed with you. You’re not foolish enough to ask, though you are foolish enough to hope.

“I think it sounds exciting,” you say. “I’ve never left Asgard.”

“I’ll take you, someday.”

The promise in those words—and their sheer impossibility—raises a lump in your throat. “I rather think that would be frowned upon,” you say lightly.

“All the more reason for it.” He strokes a hand along your thigh. “And how did you occupy yourself without my stimulating company?”

“Oh, nothing terribly exciting,” you say. “I started reading in the library again.”

“I suppose I have been monopolizing your evenings,” he says, fingers tickling your thigh. “Though I don’t understand why you don’t simply take a book to your quarters.”

You swat at his hand. “You know that’s not permitted.”

He catches your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “Neither is this, technically.”

“Yes, well.” You clear your throat. “I’d rather not give anyone more reasons to look more closely at my evening activities for that reason.”

“Am I to understand that you prefer my bed to the finest Asgardian literature?”

“That may be your understanding, but that’s not what I said.”

“Well.” He presses a kiss against the top of your head. “I suppose I’ll have to make my bed more tempting, then.”

It’s the sort of offhand comment you write off as a silly flirtation—he doesn’t mean anything by it, surely. It’s entirely forgettable.

Except…the next night, there’s a stack of books for you beside his bed.

“What’s this?” you say, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

“I told you I intended to make my bed more tempting,” he says.

His eyes are glittering with mischief, but the gesture itself is achingly sweet, one that plucks at your heartstrings and reminds you of all the feelings that you’re pretending you’re not having. He had retrieved the book you’d been reading last night, along with titles by authors you mentioned liking back in the garden so many weeks ago. 

That night, he makes you read aloud from a book of love poems while he buries his face between your thighs, his tongue moving in iambs and dactyls on your clit until you come with poetry and his name on your lips. In the afterglow, you curl up next to him and read while he does the same, until you need each other again. It’s a new part of your routine, one that you’ll repeat many times in the coming days.

It’s there in the hazy paradise between prose and the bliss of his touch that a small, secret voice inside of you begins to admit that as much as you say it’s a harmless bit of fun, the situation has spiraled out of control in the worst possible way:

You’ve fallen in love with him. And you know it’s only a matter of time before he breaks your heart.

Next chapter coming soon

[lonelywretchjervistetch]

The State Birds Initiative - Introduction

Before I do ANYTHING else, and before you read anything else...let's start this with a little poll, shall we?

...Look, I'm an overly ambitious person by nature. It's a problem, I'm fully aware. So, in the midst of writing character essays, imagining my own version of the DC Cinematic Universe (I promise, I will return to the Legion of Super-Heroes series; been having writer's block, not gonna lie), and about a dozen other projects that don't include school and my job (one and the same thing, and I love both, but I'll get to that one day)...I had another thought. That I would like to present to the good people of Tumblr (and perhaps beyond).

The state birds suck.

Most people on Tumblr don't know this about me, save for a select few that no me in real life (hey guys, 'sup), but I'm an avid birdwatcher, and am currently working in ornithology as a profession and student. As such, and as a former (and future) teacher, I have a vested passion in spreading the word. And one of the first ways most of us in the United States engage with birds, other than through the world and people around us, is through our national bird and state birds. Oh, and for anybody reading this not from the USA, don't worry, national birds are included here, too.

Now, in case you don't know for whatever reason, each one of the states in the United States has a bird meant to represent the state, designated by the government and often nominated by the state's citizens. This tradition started in 1926, with Kentucky's national bird, the Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis). Now, most states have an official state bird, although Pennsylvania technically has a state game bird, rather than a state bird. We'll get to it. But in any case, there's a bird associated with every state.

But, uh...most of them suuuuuuuuuuuck.

Now, for example, I'm not saying that the Northern Cardinal sucks. Far from it! I love cardinals, and honestly, who doesn't? They're handsome birds, they have a lot of character, they're recognizable in most states in the Union by most people. I love them! But, uh...cardinals are extremely overused as state birds. Kentucky chose them as their state bird first, and were followed by Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, North Carolina, West Virginia, and Virginia. That's ridiculous. Also, wait, really, Virginia? You saw that West Virginia had it already, and STILL went for the cardinal? What the hell?

But why? Maybe there's a good reason for all of those states to choose the cardinal, after all. Obviously, it's present in all of those states, because...well, the Northern Cardinal is basically everywhere. But other than that, why? Well, let's see.

Kentucky: Unclear, but it's likely because of its prevalence, songs, and nonmigratory behavior, at least according to some sources; there isn't a lot of evidence online as to why outside of this.

Illinois: For this one, we blame the children. Yeah, kids voted this one sd the symbol, choosing it over the bluebird, meadowlark, bobwhite, and oriole, according to the Illinois Department of Natural Resources. So, yeah, probably because it's familiar and red.

Indiana: For...reasons. Yeah, even less is known about this choice. Safe to assume, though, that it's because it's familiar and red.

Ohio: Apparently, this is because it's red and has a cheerful song. 'Kay. Again, not a lot of evidence for this one, but we'll go with it.

North Carolina: This one also came down to public vote, after a campaign initiated by the North Carolina Bird Club in 1943. It won over the red-winged blackbird, wild turkey, scarlet tanager, and gray catbird. Apparently, this was the second attempt at a state bird, as the Carolina Chickadee (Poecile carolinensis) had been chosen ten years earlier, but only retained the position for a week because the bird's other name is, and this is true, the tomtit. And that was apparently too lewd for the title of state bird. Jesus. We'll get back to that when I address North Carolina officially.

West Virginia: Again, chosen and voted by schoolchildren, and chosen because it's familiar, red, and has a cheerful song. 'Kay.

Virginia: No idea. Also, don't listen to the sites that say their bird "exemplifies the quality of the state" unless they have the GODDAMN PAPERWORK to back that shit up. If I had to guess, it's possibly because the northern cardinal is one of the first birds seen in the state by settlers to the continental USA, who landed in...Virginia. So, the state's got a historical connection to the cardinal, meaning that the last state to ratify it as a state bird is the one to make the most sense to do so.

So, yeah...only one of those makes sense to me. Otherwise, it just feels...random. And by the way, many of the state birds do make some sense. Utah's choice, the California Gull (Larus californicus), has roots in a Mormon miracle, which makes perfect sense for the Mormon state. Louisiana's Brown Pelican (Pelecanus occidentalis) is an iconic species to the American southeast, and a massive proportion of the species breeds in the state. Same goes for the Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Tyrannus forficatus), the state bird of Oklahoma. Iconic and unique grassland bird, and it breeds within the state in high quantities for the global population.

But others? Why does New York (a state I grew up in and around) have the Eastern Bluebird (Sialia sialis) for its state bird? Because it's blue and nice-looking? Why exactly do Wyoming, Oregon, Nebraska, Kansas, Montana, and North Dakota ALL have the Western Meadowlark (Sturnella neglecta)? I love the song too, and it's an iconic grassland species, but really? All of you? And Maine? Maine...Maine. I mean, you didn't even go for a specific species and just listed "chickadee" as your state bird. Why? There is a MUCH. BETTER. OPTION. OBVIOUSLY. But...I digress.

...FUCK IT

WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH IS MAINE'S STATE BIRD NOT THE ATLANTIC PUFFIN (Fratercula arctica)??? ANSWER ME MAINE GODDAMMIT

Seriously, what the hell? It's the only state IN THE UNION where the Atlantic puffin breeds, and it's an incredibly iconic bird! I mean, look at that thing! They're adorable, fish-eating, clumsy-flying, feathery orbs with a Froot Loops beak (for part of the year), complete with their own fucking cereal that I ate constantly as a child. And their babies are called pufflings! PUFFLINGS!!! DO YOU HEAR ME MAINE WHAT THE FU

...OK. OK. I'm good. Look, this genuinely irritates the SHIT out of me, both as a hobbyist and as a professional. There are near 1,000 bird species that can be found in the United States, and the state birds are, honestly, some basic-ass choices that doesn't BEGIN to explore the incredible diversity of this taxon. And honestly, maybe if we changed up the state birds, we could increase awareness for these animals and their conservation stories and needs. There are so many missed opportunities here for us as educators, birders, ornithologists, backyard birdwatchers, and even Birdblr, to educate those around us who aren't as ornithologically-inclined. Imagine being able to convince a friend to go find the state bird on a trip some weekend. It could be a fun activity, and a fun way to get into birdwatching and the natural world! IT'S GOT POTENTIAL!!!

And look, I realize I'm not alone on this front. Various people have proposed changing up the state birds, including some more powerful professionals than I. If you haven't seen it yet, check out this essay series from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology that came out last year, which asks whether or not eBird could be used to identify better candidates for state birds. And I'll be using it for what's coming next. Because here's the thing. I'm tired of ranting alone in the dark towards nobody while my fiancee is trying to sleep about this. I need to rant to you poor people instead. And what's more...I want people to rant with me. If they want to. So...

TO ME, BIRDBLR!!! LEND ME YOUR BINOCULARS!!!

I propose an initiative to create a new list of state birds for the United States of America. And I'm talkin' EVERY state, baby! Even the ones that have fitting birds, as mentioned above. We live in a GODDAMN DEMOCRACY, and I say that we put this to a vote. So, Imma make a series of polls, one for each state. And yeah, that's 50 polls. Each will have a selection of birds, including the current state bird for that state, and I'll present the options in each case. The rules and selection criteria for the birds I'll present are as follows:

The bird has to be wild and breed in the state in question. No migrants, to accidentals, no introduced species (looking at you, South Dakota), no domestic species (looking at you, Rhode Island and Delaware). They're from the state, they breed there, and they're wild. Don't have to be endemic to the state, but they need to be found there, at bare goddamn minimum.

No repeats! Every state will have a different species! No more repeats. If there are any ties for states to get a given bird, another set of polls will be made at the end to determine which state will get that bird, and the second highest bird will claim the spot for that state. I'll try to avoid that for each state, but we'll see how things go.

There has to be a reason for their selection. For each of the birds presented for each state, I'll make a solid argument for their nomination. This also goes for any birds submitted to me for suggestions (and yes, I mean to say y'all can make suggestions if you want to for each state). If you have a bird you think would be good for a state, especially if it's your state, please give me a reason. Not that it's pretty, not that you like it's song, not that it "represents the spirit of the state's people" for no easily defined reason. GIVE ME A REASON

And for now, that's it! And hell, if this gets popular or demanded (and I'm saying this if, like, 30 people pay attention to this post), I'll also do the District of Columbia and the U.S. territories. And hell (again), I'll even consider doing other countries if that gets demanded, definitely starting with Canada and seeing how things go from there. And finally...if people want it, maybe even the Bald Eagle (Halieetus leucocephalus) will go up for debate as the USA's national bird. Although, not gonna lie, I think that we're stuck with that one. Still, there are other questions that can be brought up if this gets popular enough. For now, though, let's focus on one thing at a time.

So, hopefully you answered the poll at the top, because I am curious as to what you think about your state bird. And just to set this up, the first state on the chopping block is Delaware, which has one of the most offensive state birds, in my opinion. Because seriously. What the fuck, Delaware? What the fuck.

See you soon, hopefully! And happy birding!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction to the State Birds Initiative

1. Delaware - Poll | Results 2. Pennsylvania - Poll | Results 3. New Jersey - Poll | Results 4. Georgia - Poll | Results 5. Connecticut - Poll | Results 6. Massachusetts - Poll | Results

[adventuresofalgy]

There were only a few days left in which to practise before his special Hogmanay Hootenanny, so Algy thought he had better get on with it without further delay, or he might not be ready in time…

Collecting his bagpipes from the place where his assistant had kindly stored them during his absence, Algy set himself up discreetly under a bush in her garden, and started to blow… but the bagpipes just said "Aaooga". Algy thought this strange, as he had played the pipes successfully not so long ago, so he tried again, but the bagpipes would not cooperate: they didn't say "yes" and they didn't say "no", they just said "Aaooga":

It was nine o'clock at midnight at a quarter after three When a turtle met a bagpipe on the shoreside by the sea, And the turtle said, "My dearie, May I sit with you? I'm weary." And the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "I have walked this lonely shore, I have talked to waves and pebbles--but I've never loved before. Will you marry me today, dear? Is it 'No' you're going to say dear?" But the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to his darling, "Please excuse me if I stare, But you have the plaidest skin, dear, And you have the strangest hair. If I begged you pretty please, love, Could I give you just one squeeze, love?" And the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "Ah, you love me. Then confess! Let me whisper in your dainty ear and hold you to my chest." And he cuddled her and teased her And so lovingly he squeezed her. And the bagpipe said, "Aaooga." Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "Did you honk or bray or neigh? For 'Aaooga' when you're kissed is such a heartless thing to say. Is it that I have offended? Is it that our love is ended?" And the bagpipe didn't say no. Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "Shall i leave you, darling wife? Shall i waddle off to Woedom? Shall i crawl out of your life? Shall I move, depart and go, dear– Oh, I beg you tell me 'No' dear!" But the bagpipe didn't say no. So the turtle crept off crying and he ne'er came back no more, And he left the bagpipe lying on that smooth and sandy shore. And some night when tide is low there, Just walk up and say, "Hello, there," And politely ask the bagpipe if this story's really so. I assure you, darling children, the bagpipe won't say "No."

Algy is thinking of the poem for children The Bagpipe Who Didn't Say No by the 20th century American writer Shel Silverstein.]

To join Algy's amazing Hogmanay Hootenanny on his sideblog @lovefromalgy on New Year's Eve/New Year's Day please use the submission form on Algy's sideblog @lovefromalgy or send Algy a link to a post on your own tumblr blog.

[thepatronsaintoffilth]

You Smell Like Trouble - Chapter 7/?

🛑🚫✋���ADULT CONTENT, MUST BE 18+  ✋🏾🚫🛑

AO3 <- don't forget to leave me a comment

Tumblr:  Prologue, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 (TBD)

pairing: black AFAB cis reader x lycan!heisenberg

CW: voyeurism (sleep creep behavior but no somno - not yet), discussion of fertility/infertility/sterility, reader fantasizes about being bred against her will

AN: Wow. Been a minute, huh?

I didn't feel right heading into 2025 without giving y'all something. So I fired up Cold Turkey, blocked the dash and all other distractions, and finally managed to get this draft under control.

I was going to go the self-deprecation route and say this isn't an especially juicy chapter (as you can tell by the dearth of content warnings above), but honestly? I think it came out alright. Much better than all my worrying, overthinking and second-guessing made me believe.

For anyone who was worried, let me reiterate: this story is nowhere near over. Karl and Y/N have many more misadventures ahead of them. Unless or until Pr*ject 2*25 comes in to bulldoze all the smut, I intend to keep at my craft (this has been on my mind, sadly, and it probably didn't help my writer's block)

Let's not waste any more time, shall we?

🛑🚫✋🏾ADULT CONTENT, MUST BE 18+  ✋🏾🚫🛑

It’s been a little over a week since Lord Heisenberg left.

And everywhere you go, you hear whispers. 

This, in and of itself, is nothing new. These are the very same whispers that fill the factory each and every time Lord Heisenberg departs for one of his family visits. After a while, the repetition seems to form a chant:

We’ll know if ... we’ll know if ... we’ll know if …

Back when you were still a newcomer to the village and a new factory recruit, all this chatter seemed rather cryptic and ominous. Now that you’ve been here a while? It’s still ominous, but no longer so cryptic. You can fill in the blanks now and finish the refrain like a tired old jingle everybody knows:

"We'll know if he comes back later than last time."

"We'll know if he comes back earlier than last time.”

"We'll know if soldat security increases at the perimeters."

It’s war. They're talking about war. 

No one says the word, but it's right on the tip of everyone’s tongue: We'll know (we're going to war) if …

You’ve been a resident long enough to have gone through a handful of such visits. And each time is marked by the same feeling of unease and uncertainty. The same tension and speculation. The same whispers.

And why wouldn't it? Along with the whispers, you've also grown familiar with the village's precarious position - the curious razor's edge on which both it and the factory rests:

The four Lords, against all odds, have maintained an uneasy truce in the absence of the puppet-mistress that kept them all (relatively) in check during her infernal heyday.  

An inevitable power vacuum opened up upon Mother Miranda’s death - only to promptly collapse back in on itself when it became clear that none of the Lords were particularly keen on staking their claim over all four territories.

Or getting the wherewithal together to go to war for said claim. 

Or to do seemingly anything but retreat to their own respective domains and continue to quietly loathe one another from a distance.

And so they did exactly that ... for a while, anyway.

For a few years after Miranda's death - or so you had learned through a mix of research, hearsay and context clues - there had been … squabbles here and there. 

Nothing as dramatic as war. More like skirmishes - disputes over taxes and grain and which bodies were dropped in whose territory. Trivial things like that. 

Eventually, a pattern began to emerge:

The longer the Lords stayed out of one another's sights, the more suspicions began to brew. 

The more these suspicions were left brewing, the more these disputes tend to spring up.

And when more of these disputes sprung up, the more talk of honest-to-God warfare was bandied about seriously.

So despite not being able to stand one another, the four Lords realized - much to each of their chagrin - that they needed to maintain some form of close contact just to keep a semblance of peace.

Nothing approaching real unity, but … a mostly indefinite ceasefire, if nothing else.

And so it was decided: there would be a semi-annual gathering.

A "family reunion", of sorts. 

None of their strongholds are ever host to these gatherings, and to the best of anyone’s knowledge (anyone well enough to be alive and running their mouth anyway), no one but the four of them and their approved attendants are privy to these gatherings.

They can't tolerate being in close proximity to one another for much longer than a week, so that’s roughly how long these visits tend to last before they scatter back to their realms. 

How heartwarming, you think acerbically, more than a little reminded of your own purposefully distant relatives ...  

As far as family dynamics go, it's not quite ideal, but they seem to have made it work. You’re hardly one to judge.

You come to a stop in front of the open workshop door. You peek inside, still half-expecting to see him there, as if he never actually left. 

It's empty, of course. Just as you knew it would be.

You step inside, slowly touring the space as though you haven't been here so many times before.

You stop to linger over his desk the same way you did the first time you ever set foot in here.

His absence is an entity unto itself. Everywhere you expect to see him there is only a harsh, crackling void - a cluster of static where flesh, blood, bulk and wrath should be. It has the shape of him, a kind of rough outline, but with nothing inside the lines you have to squint to even see.

Is this what being haunted feels like?

You park yourself in his chair, take a deep breath and try to gather your thoughts, shaking off the uncharacteristic superstition with some difficulty.   

As much as the possibility of war might still hang in the balance, it seems neither more nor less likely than it did the last few times they gathered.

There's really no use worrying about it further. If it's coming, it's coming; if it's not, it's not. Even with your tendency to overthink, you're perfectly fine leaving it at that. 

Besides … even with all the whispers and speculation and the usual hand wringing all around, you can't help but dwell on ... other matters.

…

... Who are you kidding? Your mind isn't on war at all. It hasn't been for quite some time now. Not really.

The only thing troubling you at the moment is the waiting. The loneliness. The knowledge that you're here alone, he's nowhere to be found, and you have entirely too much time on your hands to dwell on how you'll likely fall all over yourself upon his return. 

That alone would be humiliating enough, but of course, your tortured psyche doesn’t stop there. Oh, no.

To add insult to injury, your sense of honor pretty much dictates that you have to thank him the next time you see him. 

You crumple over your Lord’s desk, dropping your head into your folded arms and letting out a wretched groan. 

Kill me. Fucking kill me.

You tried to reason with yourself. You tried to talk yourself out of your resolution. Really, you did. But you have to face the facts. The relief he gave you was essentially by force - no getting around that - but he gave it to you regardless.

An awful, queasy tenderness clenches your stomach. Yeah … Yeah, he gave it to me, alright … 

Your heat seems to have ... not vanished, per se, but ... it's calmer now.

Not calm, mind you, but definitely calmer than it was before he took you in hand.

You still have a libido, to be sure, but it seems to have returned to the state that it was in prior to you getting so close to Karl - perfectly healthy, able to be satiated by one (or two) self-induced orgasms before you fall asleep. 

It's a bit like the banged-up old furnace in the workshop: still chugging along, not in any particular danger of getting out of control, but always just a hair too friendly to leave anything flammable near it without worry.

It's not the dizzy, ravenous thing that it was before, ready to engulf you in flames. For that alone, you have to thank him. It’s only fair.

Maybe that's how this works? Maybe he fucked it right out of me …

The idea seems ridiculous. You can’t help but wonder, though.

You’re wondering about a lot of things, in fact. Even if he did put that fire out, your Lord still left you with a lot of unanswered questions, far more than he did the last time he disappeared on you. 

Chief among them being just how he plans to debauch you the next time you meet.

You try to temper your expectations. After all, who's to say he's got anything up his sleeve?

You've been around the block once or twice. Enough to have known more than a few men who lose interest once the chase is over. 

Who's to say Lord Heisenberg isn't the same? 

Somehow you doubt that. With anyone else you might have called this misplaced optimism or maybe even an excess of confidence in your womanly charms, but … not him.

No, he made himself very clear.

You shut your eyes as his melodic voice breaks into your mind for what might be the millionth time that week: 

… Good girl … 

… We’ll do the rest next time …

A shudder passes through you yet again at the memory of that night and of that moment at the end, in particular. You rub the gooseflesh up and down your arms. 

What did he mean by that? 

What could he possibly have meant by that? 

What in the bloody fuck is "the rest"?

Yes, these are the questions and concerns plaguing you night and day.

Not the prospect of war. Not the possibility of the village and the factory and every living thing therein going up in smoke.

No.

It's what Lord Heisenberg might still have in store for the two of you.

****

Your Lord is standing over you.

Hovering, really. With clear intent.

The intent being sex. Needy, reckless sex. Hip-bruising, irresponsible, "daddy's home" sex.

Of course, you have no way of knowing this because you're fast asleep.

He returned to the factory under cover of darkness, didn't alert anyone to his presence, didn't drum up any kind of fanfare. Again: you don't know because you're asleep.

Asleep, less than half-dressed for bed and being utterly devoured by your Lord's travel-weary eyes.

You truly are a sight to behold - all brown skin, soft curves pillowing sinewy muscle, sweet little snores and such delicious vulnerability.

He sinks to his knees beside his own bed, watching the rise and fall of your shoulders and back. You're a face-down sleeper. He can't see your face in this position.

Thankfully, you're prone to toss and turn.

He watches you do exactly that. You toss. You turn. The longer and more intently he looks, the more restless you seem to become.

You roll onto your back. And then your side. You adjust and readjust several times, still deep in your slumber but clearly made restless by your Lord's proximity.

The tiniest smile - the first one he’s cracked in weeks - begins to stir at the corners of his mouth at the notion that even dead-asleep, you can't help but respond to his presence.

He's tired. Nearly worn out from this hellish but necessary trip. Not too tired to put it all behind him and lose himself inside of you again.

He watches you a little longer, the urge to pounce nearly unbearable.

Then his eyes shift to something else, something resting on your bedside table. Something that gives him pause.

Something that shouldn't be there.

He looks at you again. He backs away even as the urge to rut starts to claw at his insides.

Those welcoming curves of yours don't seem quite so friendly now as they did just a moment ago.

He swears under his breath, still tempted to hurl himself on top of you. If not for the express purpose of shooting another load into you, then to interrogate you.

That can wait. He's seen enough for now. Enough to know not to make his presence known.

Not just yet ...

He leaves again, fading into the shadows of the factory. 

****

Somewhere between sleeping and waking, at the foggy intersection of what might be either a dream or a memory, you feel a familiar, thrilling, pulsing awareness rip and crackle through your skin like lightning.

You wake up abruptly, heart pounding, with sweat beading in your scalp and two words blaring like a twin-bell alarm inside your skull:

He's back.

The certainty of it grips your chest so tight you can barely breathe. The excitement measures somewhere between a child on Christmas morning and a helpless bystander bracing for the impact of a nuclear missile.

It takes you a good minute or so, but you manage to get air into your lungs. You roll around, scenting the bed with the feverish determination of a bloodhound.

His scent is there ... but it's faint. Becoming even more faint with each passing moment. As though he was there before, but isn't there anymore.

Your pulse slows back down, becoming almost sluggish with disappointment.

A dream. That's all it was. 

Of course his scent is all around you. 

Of course it's faint.

You’ve been burrowing under the covers on his side of the bed for about six days now, chasing the phantom of his scent even as it grows weaker and weaker the longer he's gone. It's still there, but it wanes more with each night that you're alone.

That doesn’t mean he was here.

You glance around regardless. You were so sure. You could have sworn ...

But no.

You punch his pillow petulantly.

Pathetic, you berate yourself. This is pathetic. You're being pathetic.

You tug the heavy covers back over your head and try to force yourself to go back to sleep. And immediately you know it's going to be impossible. You're already fighting back the urge to climb out of bed and stumble half-naked through the predawn darkness into the workshop.

And then … what, exactly?

Do the exact same shit you've done for the past few weeks? Stare blankly at the schematics and blueprints and gears and jars scattered about the place as though standing where he stood and looking where he looked would somehow conjure the man up? Torture yourself that much more by wallowing in the inescapable fact that he isn’t there?

What good will that do? you try to reason with yourself. Go back to sleep. You have a long day ahead, and it’s still fucking dark out.

You shut your eyes and tell yourself you’re going back to bed - all the while still clinging for dear life to your Lord’s pillow … in your Lord’s bed … clad in one of your Lord’s shirts …

For fuck’s sake - !

It's no use. 

You find yourself drifting back to the last few moments of consciousness you remember prior to your three days of "rest".

Specifically, that unforgettable moment when your Lord spilled himself inside of you.

It's a well-worn memory at this point, every inch of it thoroughly engraved into your body and your brain - yet you still shiver and squirm in his sheets as if it’s still so fresh and new. As if it could be happening all over again, even now.

You remember the preternatural warmth of it, the delicious way it had crept through you, seeming to bridge the boundaries of organs and flesh so that it might seep into your nerves and bones.

You try to focus on that moment as dispassionately as possible. It's difficult because all you want to do is get lost in it again. You want it to overtake you.

By some miracle, you don't let it.

Instead, you consider what came immediately afterwards: namely, that overwhelming certainty that something was ... different. That feeling that something changed in that moment. 

You sit upright in bed, finally confronting the one thing you’ve managed to dance around for the entire time he’s been away.

Something has changed. Something is different. Inside. You don't know what it is, or what it was, or even how worried you should be. But something has definitely changed.

You snort, despite not finding much humor in it. Any other woman would know what that “something" is and not find it all so puzzling.

You place a hand to your belly, allowing yourself a moment to wonder what pregnancy might feel like. Or some other supposedly quintessentially "female" experience must seem like.

You picture your stomach swelling, becoming gradually more distended, a new life forming and growing within, nourished by your body’s resources.

... Then you shrug, bored with what amounts to a useless thought experiment on your part.

You don't menstruate. You never have. There was a time when you were very young when you wondered why, but you've long since outgrown that curiosity.   

When you were young, you grew curly hair under your arms and between your legs. Your shape developed early and opulently. Your features matured, your voice deepened, adolescence carving the woman you are today from the common clay of youthful baby fat, working the same womanly magic as it did on many, if not all, of the other young girls you grew up around.

... But you never bled. Never so much as a drop. Not even once.

Your curious hand had ventured down many times by that point, having discovered the pleasure you could give yourself and the glossy slick that accompanied your arousal - but never blood.

It should stand to reason that Lord Heisenberg couldn't impregnate you even if he wanted to.  

You aren't absolutely certain though. It might be another silly bout of superstition (one too many old wive's tales about men's virility, perhaps?) or your genuine lack of knowledge about lycan breeding, but in the privacy of your own mind, you can admit to worrying about it anyway.

After all ... if anyone's seed was potent enough to find a way around that, it would have to be his, right?

You draw your legs together tightly, crossed at the ankle, knees pressing up against your chest as you fold yourself into a fetal position. Humiliating shudders of arousal begin to ripple through you at the thought of your Lord setting himself to the task of breeding you thoroughly.

You make yourself breathe through your nose, fighting for calm even as the mental image of him hammering his seed into you as you cry and beg him to stop flashes vividly in your mind.

Holy fuck, get a grip, you tell yourself. Even to your own mind, it sounds less like a stern reprimand and more like the desperate plea of a woman on the verge of collapse.

You linger a little longer on the idea, heart fluttering stupidly at the sweet, horrid words your imaginary Lord growls into your ear, all the while keeping up a brutal, steady stroke.

But no. Your own special circumstance and the shared bond of lycanthropy aside, there's one thing that pretty much overrules everything else.

The "gift" coursing like ichor through each of the Lord's veins. The cadou. 

The very thing that makes the four of them so extraordinary. Too extraordinary to replicate or reproduce as every one of the Lords is widely known to be barren, infertile or mutated in such a way as to make insemination and childbearing impossible. 

That's about as close to a guarantee, you think sardonically, as a girl can get.

You wonder if any of the Lords - but Heisenberg, in particular - possess your same incurious stance on their own sterility.

You yourself have had several decades of knowing your particular branch of the family tree won't be bearing any fruit. If there ever was a time when you were saddened or even especially concerned by that, you've long since made peace with the notion.

Ultimately, you do with these thoughts what you did with the collective worries about war, and set them aside for another day. 

No use getting tangled up in hypotheticals. Similar to speculations about war, it wouldn't do much good dwelling on this sort of thing either. Not when there's work to do.

With that much resolved, you crawl to the edge of the massive bed and place your bare feet firmly on the ground. It’s time to start the day.

Your gaze falls on the bedside table, drawn to the cassette player sitting there.

Put that back before he gets home, you think abruptly.

You try to tell yourself you're being paranoid, but you find yourself sitting up and taking the device in your hands anyway.

You stare down at it. You're not sure what this feeling is - apprehension? Dread? Excitement?

Perhaps this is what your dream was really telling you. Not that Karl had really returned, but that you had perhaps gotten a little too … comfortable in some ways during his absence.

Yes, some housekeeping is definitely in order.

You hit rewind on the cassette player, not sure if you're doing so for your own purposes or if you're covering your tracks.

You freeze. There it is again: that curious twinge of fear.

Covering my tracks?

You puzzle at your own phrasing. What an odd thing to say. But now you're wondering: would he be upset if he knew you had been listening his monographs?

Well ... maybe not if he knew why ...

Your face flushes molten-hot at the idea. No. Absolutely not. Confessing to that is simply a bridge too far.

You’ll thank him for fucking some sense back into you, but you can’t cop to anything more embarrassing than that. He’d be so smug and insufferable about it.

Just like he was about his gloves …

Another graphic memory of the two of you together barges back into your mind, sending an unhelpful ripple through your pussy.

GET A FUCKING GRIP, you scold yourself as you march into the workshop, determined to put this whole strange morning with all its circular ruminating behind you.

You're just starting to shimmy the device back into one of the higher cubbyholes over the workbench running along the workshop's back wall when you hear something behind you.

Before you can confirm what that something is, you feel a gust of wind and hear the unmistakable sound of something heavy and metallic connecting with the wall directly to your right.

You turn your head to see what it is and freeze.

A huge, magnetic sheet had been soldered to the wall within the last year or so. Crowding the bottom were a host of screws, wrenches and gears yet to be put to use.

And right at the top was your Lord’s enormous hammer. 

It wasn’t there a moment ago. 

It hasn’t been there for weeks. 

Your Lord took it with him. 

When he left. 

You blink slowly, your stunned brain trying and failing to put the very obvious pieces in front of you together into a coherent picture. 

"Looking for something?"

You finally turn around, unfrozen by the voice suddenly filling what you thought was an empty space.

And there he is, in all his rugged glory. Filling the huge metal door frame like Death come to collect His due.

You stare at him, processing this turn of events just as slowly as you did the sudden appearance of the hammer.

You realize several things at once:

Firstly, that you were right before: he did come back. He must really have been in the bedroom before you woke up in a cold sweat. It wasn't a dream or some weird premonition. Even in a dead sleep, you had sensed his presence.

Second ... during all the commotion, you had instinctively snatched the cassette player back out of the cubby, fearing you might drop or crush it during the chaos. As a result, it's still in your hands when you turn to face him. And even you can tell: it looks awfully suspicious that you’re holding it. 

Oh ... This doesn't look good, does it? you think dumbly as he begins to move toward you.

His eyes fall to the player clutched in your hands.

… Yeah, this doesn't look good at all.

[syrupsyche]

Is Musichetta floating around in the Teacher au somewhere? :O

I do!!! I've been trying to find the spoons to draw her, but I still can't muster much 🥺 so heres a little group doodle I had of all the ladies!

Musichetta is the outsourced dance club instructor, so not an actual teacher in the school! The dance team trains in the studio right opposite the classroom where Joly and Bossuet's St. John Ambulance club practices in, so the Bini keeps accidentally-on-purpose bumping into her in the hallway like "omg hiiiii Miss Musichetta!!!!! oh wow are those the new costumes for the team? let us help you carry it in!!!" and Musichetta finds it hilarious.

And ofc, Éponine is also in the AU! There's an actual proper backstory about her and Gavroche coming to the school that involves a lot of Bahorel and jail-time shenanigans that ik Emile you have already heard; hopefully I'll be able to post it on Tumblr one day 😭 She's a TA/substitute teacher/teacher assistant/odd jobs extraordinaire at the school. They have a lack of maths teachers so she subs maths alot, to the point where she's a regular at the Maths department meetings and Javert unwittingly gets closer to her. She takes advantage of this to get Gavroche out of classes sometimes.

Hopefully more actual world-building info for Teacher AU shall be shared!! 😭 once my sad little brain decides to cooperate :p

[statustemporary]

take my hand, take a breath

SUMMARY: Viscount Bridgerton was stubborn, frustrating, got in his own way more often than not, and there was a melancholy about his person most times when she saw him, but she gave him more leeway than she did nearly all of the rest of the Ton.

Except when conversing with her charge before an introduction, a conversation that is decidedly not their first.

//

Or Lady Danbury notices Kate has given them the slip during the Conservatory Ball and she finds her charge having a conversation with the viscount in the garden.

RATING: General Audiences

WORD COUNT: 1,760 words

TAGS: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conservatory Ball AU, First Dance, no beta we die like edmund bridgerton

AO3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: ahhh not only is this the most i've written since like october??? but this is also my first work for bridgerton. kanthony brainrot has never left me so time to put it to paper. anyway this was inspired by one of my 87 different fanfic prompts i've been posting to tumblr (on @myficprompts) in hopes others will write it but i got impatient on this one and figured i'd just do it myself. (would love to see someone take on the original prompt though! please!!!!! thanks!!!)

***

Despite the way they have butted heads since their introduction, Lady Danbury had a begrudging respect for Miss Sharma. Her obstinance in the face of harsh truths was admirable to a degree. Frustrating, to be certain. Ill-mannered, to some extent. Yet the firm set of her shoulders, straight back, and words infused with a note of smugness proved she would be a formidable gatekeeper for her sister’s suitors.

If only the miss would not write herself off so young. Old maid by the Ton’s standards, unfortunately, but by her own, she had a full life still ahead of her.

Miss Sharma may have rejected her suggestion of a match but the curious way in which she admired Viscount Anthony Bridgerton also proved that the walls fortified around her young heart were not impenetrable.

Which meant that Miss Sharma’s disappearance in the midst of her sister’s first dance raised alarm.

As much as she had written herself off, she was still under Lady Danbury’s protection. Personal declarations of not being on the marriage mart did not make her unsusceptible to being compromised or other scandal. A thought that she would have hoped Miss Sharma to consider before wandering off but as Lady Danbury learned earlier, there was still much for her to learn about the Ton.

The dowager parted ways from a nervous Lady Mary with nothing more than a quip about watching her thirst before she moved about the room. The music covered the sound of her cane clacking against the wood floor and gave Lady Danbury the ability to slink along the walls of the conservatory.

Her stop at the set of windows near the entrance door proved most fruitful. She heard the faint sounds of gentlemen departing for the smoking room and, just before she continued her search, she spied her own charge stepping into close proximity to the viscount.

In view of the ballroom and still a respectable distance to not cause scandal, Lady Danbury did not appreciate the familiar nature in which the two conversed, especially as they had not been introduced. Huffing, she made her way to the entry garden.

“…as deficient as your horsemanship. I shall bid you goodnight.”

Lady Danbury came around the hedge at the same moment as Miss Sharma, their bodies nearly colliding.

“Miss Sharma,” she drawled, resting both hands on the head of her cane. She scrutinized the young woman, her eyes traveling to the flustered man who gaped at them like a fish out of water. “Viscount Bridgerton. How curious to find you both out here. Together.”

“My apologies, Lady Danbury – ” Viscount Bridgerton attempted to speak before Miss Sharma cut in suddenly, louder.

“I simply needed air. I did not realize I had to alert you of my need for a break.” She smiled, thin-lipped and with a hint of frustration – at the viscount, at her, at the situation – before bowing her head to Lady Danbury.

“Yes, well, seeing as you are under my protection,” Lady Danbury said, a warning glance to Viscount Bridgerton as he looked equal parts fearful and thrilled at the information, “I fear I did not stress the seriousness of some of the Ton’s etiquette specificities. It is of the utmost importance that they are understood, to lessen any troubles of your sister making a good match. Understood?”

Miss Sharma bit her tongue, her eyes darting to the side to the silent viscount behind her. “Of course, Lady Danbury,” she forced out.

“Lady Danbury, if I may – ”

Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the boy she’d known since he was in leading strings. A boy no longer if the title of Rake he’d worn without care for years meant anything. She always had a soft spot for the Bridgerton family. Her own connection aside, to find a love match such as the one between Edmund and Violet, a love match that proved fruitful until the eighth viscount’s death, was a rarity in the Ton. The strength of the family bonded by that love match showed in the closeness of the children and the genuine love and affection they showered upon each other. Even when she’d watch the children squabble and fight, it was never with the nasty cold demeanor of the rest of the Ton.

Then to watch as Anthony took on the role of viscount, father, and provider before heading to university had softened her more. Lady Danbury admired the way he took care of his family and how he not only kept them afloat following his father’s death but ensured that they thrived. He was stubborn, frustrating, got in his own way more often than not, and there was a melancholy about his person most times when she saw him, but she gave him more leeway than she did nearly all of the rest of the Ton.

Except when conversing with her charge before an introduction, a conversation that is decidedly not their first. She did, after all, recall Miss Sharma’s slip of the tongue on the edge of the dance floor.

“You have done quite enough, Viscount Bridgerton.”

Her glare silenced the viscount as his mouth thinned and his brows furrowed in displeasure.

“Lady Danbury, I must go see to my sister – ”

“Your sister is being looked after by your mother, Miss Sharma. Perhaps you should let those of us seasoned within the Ton take over from here.”

Miss Sharma pressed her lips together for a moment before she responded. “With all due respect, as I mentioned earlier, I was the one to prepare my sister for her debut and I really should be helping to vet the quality of her dance partners…”

The young woman’s words never made it to Lady Danbury’s ears as her eyes were too busy taking in the scene before her. They flickered between Miss Sharma and Viscount Bridgerton with a quick and startling realization.

Cut from the same cloth, they stood before her as the eldest siblings of their families, the caretakers and providers, with strong shoulders upon which the heavy burdens of their families laid. The protectors who cannot see the wood for the trees in regards to the marriage mart.

Equals.

“Hm,” Lady Danbury cut Miss Sharma off. “A dance is a brilliant idea.”

“My lady?” Miss Sharma asked, blinking her eyes in confusion.

“Pardon me?” Viscount Bridgerton asked behind her.

Lady Danbury hit her cane against the ground. Even without the sound of its impact, the two before her stood just a hair taller. She raised her voice as the doors to the ballroom opened. “How wonderful of Viscount Bridgerton to ask for your next dance. Splendid indeed!”

Miss Sharma huffed. “He absolutely did nothing of the sort. He cannot even dance.”

Viscount Bridgerton rolled his eyes. “Now you object to my dancing abilities?”

“I saw how you nearly trampled the young miss on your last dance.”

A smug grin worked its way onto his face as he stepped closer. “So you admit to eavesdropping and watching me now?”

“As I said, it is not eavesdropping if you speak loud enough for the entire party to hear!”

Lady Danbury cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows expectantly at the two in front of her. She swung out her cane, hitting their shins and watching in satisfaction as the two stepped apart though neither were entirely pleased.

“Yes, a dance will be a nice way to tidy this situation up. Afterall,” she said, lowering her voice, “it would not do well for others to know of your conversations and familiarity prior to an introduction. And I will require to know just how familiar you are with each other.”

Miss Sharma laughed off the suggestion. “That will not be necessary, Lady Danbury. I do not host any of the, what was it,” she turned to the viscount for a moment with a saccharine smile before facing Lady Danbury once more. “Ah, yes, impeccable qualities that Viscount Bridgerton is in search of in a wife.”

This time, the huff came from the viscount’s mouth. “That is completely unfair and you know it, Miss Sharma,” he said, a teasing lilt endearing to his voice as he said her name, negating the frustration that colored it prior. He cleared his throat before she could respond and grinned at Lady Danbury much like the cat that ate the canary. “However, you are right, Lady Danbury. A dance is a wonderful idea to mitigate any chance of scandal.”

She watched in amusement as Viscount Bridgerton’s grin widened when he turned to Miss Sharma. He lifted his hand and held it out to her, waiting for a moment.

“Miss Sharma, may I have this dance?”

Despite his proud swagger, the viscount’s request came out soft and like a whisper. His eyes crinkled and his gaze warmed, melting the arrogance that so often moved him forward. For a moment, Lady Danbury felt as if she was witnessing Edmund charming Violet all over again.

Miss Sharma’s breath hitched in the back of her throat at the intimacy that laced his words and she swallowed before quietly answering her agreement. Her hand shook, though Lady Danbury assumed she was the only one to notice, as she lifted it to place in the viscount’s.

Lady Danbury hummed in satisfaction as she allowed the two to enter the ballroom before her, Viscount Bridgerton’s perfect posture only lending to the peacocking he did as he led Miss Sharma to the dance floor. If she knew the viscount as well as she believed to, his peacocking, was less of a matter of besting Miss Sharma at their undisclosed challenge and more at having her on his arm, contrary to what he was currently telling himself. The way their eyes never strayed from one another as they readied themselves only proved her point.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Violet’s jaw drop minutely before their eyes met.

Did he willingly ask…? Her oldest friend seemed to ask. Lady Danbury nodded with a smug smile. The viscount who saw finding a wife more of a duty and chore than a chance for happiness, bewitched by a so-called spinster.

The music started and the two moved in perfect harmony. Their connection was palpable and they enchanted the room as they seemed to float through each step. Only when they began to whisper amongst themselves, a mix of bickering and flirting, did Lady Danbury notice the queen’s arrival at her side.

“What an interesting season this will be,” Queen Charlotte murmured, her smile pleased and mischievous.

“Interesting, indeed.”

[ravenstargames]

✦ Lost in Limbo Devlog #7 | 11.02.23

And November is here! 💜 This month has been packed with work for all of us and a few of irl events like birthdays, family vacations and so on! We hope October has been a good month for y'all—we have made some progress on different areas, so let's jump right into it, shall we?

For the spooky month we had Kayden work on both the Halloween Special Ravenstar icon and an art piece of our dear Master Gael enjoying the festivities! I wanted to feature this piece in the devlog as we only posted it on Twitter—my fault! I came back from a trip with my parents last saturday so everything was a bit chaotic and I didn't schedule the tumblr post T_T But here it is! We hope you like it as much as we do!

And now for the actual progress of the game, Raquel has finished Amon's CG and has been working on Envy's (we are giving you this little sneak peek!). She's also getting ready to work on Gael's, and we estimate that as soon as Gael's is finished, we'll be able to open our itch.io page! I have also been working on the itch thumbnails, covers, etc! 💜

We have also started working on the concept art of the first secondary character you'll meet in the demo. They had a sprite already, but we have improved so much it didn't sit right with us to just use the old sprite. We are redoing their design for it to be more attractive and unique!

In previous devlogs we talked about having six supporting characters in the first demo, but that changed along with the script. Don't worry—you'll meet them eventually!

The programming department (me) has been working hard to finish the last few screens of the demo, those being the Extras screen, the Gallery selection screen, each LI's individual gallery, and the credits. I have also been testing how to unlock the CGs and adjusting a few more things. This month I'm confident I'll finish the last screen left and then there will only be a few adjustments left. We'll see, hehe. I like to remain positive! 💜

The demo script is officially done and being revised by Allie, our lovely editor! As of right now, they have finished reading the script for the first time and we have already talked about having a meeting to discuss some things. We are beyond excited! I have also sent the script to a few friends who are interested in the project to gather as much feedback as I can, so hopefully I can start coding the script really really soon! 💜

In this devlog, you can tell some departments are finishing their work! Writing and Programming are coming to an end, so I (Seyl) will most likely move to other areas that need help. We are still working hard to bring you the demo around February, but we'll see how things work out for us. There's still a feeew things to do, but we hope you are as happy with our progress as we are!

See you all very soon! Remember to rest, take care of yourselves, and remember that your best and your worst looks different every day! 💜

[aniketsanimationblog]

The SUMMARY Of This Whole Current Debacles Of Animation Industry

Netflix Canceled Majority of their Original Animated Kids Content after the Realignment of their Animation Department and their Stocks Plummeted at NASDAQ e.g. City Of Ghosts!!

HBO Max (Now called Max, By Warner Bros. Discovery) Canceled and erased majority of Cartoon Network Content and their Kids Animated Original Content, e.g. Over The Garden Wall, Infinity Train, Final Space etc. To Cut Costs!!

The Walt Disney Company is just replacing Human Jobs with AI, for Art Creating and Script Writing Purposes, however there's no Animated Content in this year's massive Purged Content list of Disney+ had been announced, but who knows what will happen next!!

Nickelodeon and Paramount Pictures are going to rely on Popular IP based Movies (SpongeBob, PAW Patrol, Avatar, Transformers) to be released in Theatres over the Original Ideas based Movies!!

Speaking of Nickelodeon and Paramount, their Streaming Service, Paramount+ removed several Animated Content from their Platform, after the Cancelation and Removal of Star Trek: Prodigy, e.g. Pig Goat Banana Cricket, Becca's Bunch, Digby Dragon, Monsters vs. Aliens and Most Notably, My Favourite Nick Jr. Show after Oswald ended, Peter Rabbit!! Also, Star Trek: Prodigy has been removed everywhere on Nickelodeon, including, Nickelodeon's Website, nick.com!!

As of August 2023, Cartoon Network Studios at Burbank, California, got officially Shut Down, as the Studio Operations merged with Warner Bros. Television Animation, just like Hanna-Barbera Studios!!

And Finally, when WGA and SAG-AFTRA Strikes are ongoing, The Unemployment Rate in The Animation Industry has gone at an Insane High!!

The Animation Fandom have gone way more Toxic than ever before!!

Disney Channel, Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network are not interested to Greenlit any project for the better or worse!!

Ain't this Depressing, as an Ardent Animation Fan?? When Last Year, The Owl House got canceled, the fans protested on Twitter/X by using #SaveTheOwlHouse, and when this year, Star Trek: Prodigy got canceled and removed from existence, we are protesting by using #SaveStarTrekProdigy, I will ask you this question!!

"Will you Accept these Debacles in Animation World as The Future of Animation??"

Because, right now, it is true fact, that the Animation Fandom is not quiet ready to see the destruction of Animation in their bare eyes!!

But what shall we do?? The Fandom of This Miraculous Ladybug/PAW Patrol Duopoly and the Bootlickers of Egoistic Showrunners like Thomas Astruc, will still support the Duopoly, no matter how much we make them the noises that respect and give other shows a chance, don't sleep on them!! We will listen, we will see, we won't take any action, and we still be in Silence after all the Debacles, and the Freedom of Speech will be taken away from us!!

And in Next Year, when The Animation Guild (TAG) goes on Strike, we see more and more animated series gets the Cancelation and Purge from Streaming Services, like suppose at this rate of condition, if Next Year, Disney Channel's Series, Marvel's Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur, cancels at Disney TVA, and the fans will again protest on Social media by Using #SaveMGADD, I will come back and ask the Question again!! And this cycle will go on and on and on!! Unless, we have to take action against the unfairness, this Corporate Studios and Money-hungry Showrunners have created!!

So, let me ask you this question one last time, Animation Fans all over the world!!

"Will You Accept these Debacles of this Animation World as The Future of Animation??"

We have to Take Action Right Now, Before it's too Late!!

But,

Is this one Tumblr Post enough, to Reach Out to Others, and Talk about this Issue???

[iced-blood]

Sugar, Spice, and Everything Ice.

I’ve been quiet this year.

This isn’t to say I haven’t been doing anything, as folks may have noticed. I’ve put up a whole mess of links to the work I’ve been doing in 2023—a grand total of 105 chapters—and that’s what I want to touch base on, at this tail-end of the year.

I found out early on in January that a dear friend of mine, my creative partner and the reason for my Paved with Good Intentions series, passed away in 2021. I’m not sure what it was, but that news hit me in a particular way. I realized that two of the projects in that aforementioned series, Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes and Lightbringer, were unfinished.

That didn’t sit right with me.

I set out to fix that.

There are many projects I’ve started that I never finished, and have been left languishing for . . . ten years? Yeah. Ten years.

That’s just ridiculous.

I decided that 2023 was going to cooperate with me whether it wanted to or not.

So, I bought a day-planner and set to work. Let’s go over the list, shall we?

Coronam Crepusculum

This was first on my list because it was a work that I owed a good friend of mine, who is no longer a regular user of Tumblr. It’s a take on the Soulsborne universe, built around a series of personal interviews with relevant characters conducted by an OC I created specifically for this purpose, Wandulfin of Vinheim.

(the latin title translates, hopefully, to “crown of twilight”)

                                51,377 words.

Paved with Good Intentions: Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes

The first of the two stories I knew I needed to finish in memory of my departed friend, I resolved to write the 19 chapters required to reach a clean finish line for this one-shot collection of 100 installments. It felt like the right way to go about things, and I think I worked out a lot of important elements of the Kaiba brothers through those 19 chapters.

                                165,386 words.

Paved with Good Intentions: Lightbringer

The second of the two stories written in my friend’s memory, this is still being published every Saturday. I wrote what amounted to the second half of this story, 55 chapters to be exact, for a grand total of 110 (of which 98 are published as of this post). I think it’s some of my best work to date, and I can only hope my partner would have appreciated what became of it. Have you ever wondered how Seto and Mokuba would react to meeting their parents again? If so, this is the story for you.

                                Published + Rough Draft: 159,930 words.

The City That Wouldn’t Die

The first full storyline of my personal take on World of Warcraft and my main character’s place in it, this story has undergone a lot of changes since I last touched it. This year, I resolved to end it at a part that made at least some amount of sense, but I won’t pretend that it’s entirely satisfactory. All I can say at this point is that I do intend to come back to Azeroth eventually. And this time, I hope to give my characters the story they deserve.

                                41,890 words.

Cult of the Dragon King

I’m pretty sure this is the one that’s been left alone the longest; if it isn’t, it’s close. The basic thrust of this story is that Atem failed in his quest to gather the Millennium Items and put them to rest properly, and so it falls to Seto Kaiba to try this time. I could go into detail why I picked Seto to be Atem’s successor, but I think y’all know what to expect here. I picked Seto because he’s my favorite. Anyway, this one isn’t ready to resume publishing, but it has been drafted. Anyone who’s been waiting for this one to continue will want to pay attention to this blog in 2024.

                                Published + Rough Draft: 175,246 words.

The Lost Dragon's Lullaby

Another AU centered around the Kaiba family (what can I say? I'm a creature of habit), this story wonders what it would have been like if Noa had lived. What if Seto and Mokuba had another brother when they were adopted? What if they had a mother? What would the Kaiba family look like if it were whole?

Approx. 62,609 words.

Watching the Lights Go Down

One of two stories I revived this year, and will resume publication in the new year. Do you Blueship? Do you wonder how Seto and Kisara might interact in the modern world, regardless of romantic intentions? This is the story for you. I took a set of 100 words to use as prompts to build this story, and through these 100 snapshots I think you’ll get a pretty clear picture of how I imagine Seto’s relationship with his favorite dragon would unfold if said dragon was a woman. And his bodyguard.

                                Approx. 52,789 words.

Letting the Cables Sleep

This is a sister story to the one I just outlined. Taking place concurrently with Lights, this story explores the relationship between Noa Kaiba and Ryo Bakura. Why these two? Why not? I don’t really have an answer, except to say that I found their dynamic interesting. Unlike its other half, Cables is explicitly romantic. So if you’re interested in Domino City’s resident white-haired cryptid hooking up with an android, well, here’s where you wanna go. I used the same list of 100 words, but in reverse order, to build this story.

                                Approx. 52,708 words.

Butterflies and Hurricanes

The other contender for “story Ice left to languish for the longest time,” I’m not sure I have to explain to anyone reading this why I might have stopped working on a Harry Potter story. Put basically, this story is an exploration into what would happen if a fae prince took an interest in taking down Lord Voldemort, and then settled on Sirius Black as his instrument. It’s a time travel story at its core, with all the nonsense you might expect from such a thing.

Regardless of anything this series’ author might have to say on the matter, my writing this story does not in any way endorse or condone transphobia or any of her other myriad bigotries. I have not given this woman money in 20 years. I do not support her in any way, shape, or form. This story’s completion is for my own satisfaction, and for the interest of anyone who might want to read it. That is all.

                Published + Rough Draft: 80,506 words.

The Whitest Lace of Light

A continuation of my pet take on the Bleach setting, focused again on Toshiro Hitsugaya and Rangiku Matsumoto and their Tenth Division. Throughout the 50 chapters of this story, they face off with a new threat to Soul Society as they try their hardest to rebuild after the Thousand-Year Blood War. Throughout this . . . suspense? Thriller? Thing. They come across new faces and old, and might just learn some things along the way. Or something. Look, I just wanted to write one of my favorite ships again.

                                Rough Draft: 30,033 words.

At Sixes and Sevens: A Prince for His Kingdom

The shortest work I completed this year, but certainly not the least important. This is a continuation of my pet take on the “Kaiba Bros Age Swap AU” as first shown to me by my dear friend @kintatsujo. How might Seto have handled an invitation to Duelist Kingdom if he’d been 9 years old when it took place? What about Mokuba, if he was 15? Shenanigans abound. I hope you like where I took this one, Kinta.

                                5,000 words.

Last but not least, I resolved to break my record for my longest NaNoWriMo project this year, because I’m ridiculous and don’t know when to quit.

Much like I approached World of Warcraft,I take every MMORPG I play as an excuse to build a story. Nowhere is this more obvious than Final Fantasy XIV. My take on Eorzea and its various magical idiosyncrasies—which I call The Song That God Forgot—set me on a road to 125,000 words this past November.

These projects, alongside various redrafts of my older stories in preparation for what I hope to be 2024’s migration from Fanfiction.Net to AO3, netted me a grand total of 902,580 words written in 2023.

I don’t say this to brag or to pat myself on the back (okay, maybe a bit), but to say . . . just hold on. Keep going. You’ll hit your stride eventually, even if it doesn’t seem like it. I’ve struggled to write regularly and with consistency for a decade now, and here I’ve got nearly a million words in a single year.

I believed in me this year, and I believe in you too.

Keep on truckin’. You’ll get there.

Happy New Year, y’all. I love you.

[scotianostra]

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin today’s anniversary posts!

On 5th August 1923 Scottish broadcaster, Eileen Mitchell, was born.

I wonder how many of you recognised the words at the top from your childhood, maybe not so many here on my Tumblr page, but many on my Facebook group. Well Eileen was the presenter of the programme, Listen with Mother, just imagine that being suggested as a title for a show nowadays, Listen with a parent just doesn't have the same ring does it!

While it wasn’t Eileen who spoke those words, they were spoken by the various storytellers, Eileen has always been associated with them, it's more about the actual show rather than the introduction.

Born in Edinburgh as Eileen Browne, she studied at the Royal College of Music for 18 months - the piano was her first instrument. But the war interrupted her career, and she worked in Novobax’s precision engineering factory from 1943 to 1946 as an inspector and tester of aircraft instruments. While at the factory, she wrote to the BBC asking if there were any vacancies in the schools music department. The correspondence dragged on for over a year, at the end of which she was given temporary employment as a junior programme assistant.

During the next seven years Eileen Browne’s assignments included Music And Movement, Music Box and orchestral concerts. As well as a popular performer, she became a gifted scriptwriter, dramatizing a series of lives of great composers for Adventures In Music. She was also asked to compose variations on nursery rhymes, sing and accompany them for four programmes for children’s television.

Yet although she was very much involved in the musical content and presentation of the programme, the memorable words of introduction - 'Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin' - were not spoken by Eileen Browne, but by the various storytellers, such as Daphne Oxenford and Julia Lang.

Eileen Browne left the BBC in July 1953 shortly after her first marriage . She felt she could not combine running a home with a full-time job. However, in 1955, she was the voice of Jenny Woodentop in the Watch With Mother television puppet series and she was asked to return regularly as a part-time producer in schools radio, which she continued to do until 1964.

In 1956 she married Robert Mitchell, who died in 1996, and after her final retirement devoted her life very happily to being a farmer’s wife and mother, looking after a son, daughter and three stepchildren, who survive her. But during her broadcasting career, she touched the lives of a much wider family of children.

[webslingerofthegalaxy]

It pains me greatly to say this, but I shall be retiring from Tumblr--FOR NOW. I'll be back after November 17th, mostly cause I'm slightly addicted (at least it's not drugs, right?). But I must depart temporarily, lest I get spoiled. I love everyone here, but I've waited 3 years for this movie and 7 years for a boyband-themed trolls movie, and I will NOT have it spoiled for me this close to the finish line. I'll occasionally pop on to blindly like a few things specific people post (I'm looking at you @stressfree-tea , your posts in particular make my day 😊) but other than that, I shall be gone till the 17th. In the words of the famous SpongeBob

PEACE Y'ALL ✌️

[doomandgloomofficial]

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!! INTRODUCTION POST !!

Hello and welcome to the official "Everything's Not All Doom & Gloom" blog!

Everything's Not All Doom & Gloom, or Doom & Gloom for short, is a comic that I've been working on for 3 years now. Yesterday, at the time of making this, was its 3 year anniversary. It's anniversary date is June 11, 2021.

This blog is here to be a documentation of my progress and just to have fun!

Feel free to ask me anything related to Doom & Gloom.

⚠️ Brief Warning!! ⚠️

This story IS intended for mature audiences. I'm not going to say 18+ because I am a minor writing this, so that'd be very hypocritical, I'd think. But it IS intended for a mature audience.

In this story, you will find:

Blood, guts, and gore, as this is a horror story

Depictions of poor mental health

Rough familial relationships

Depictions of bullying of various kinds

Dark Humor

Explicit language

Nudity (nothing sexual, don't worry)

Sexual Implications (no nudity, nor is it explicit. Its only implied)

And possibly some existentialism

Story Synopsis:

Everything's Not All Doom & Gloom is the story of two boys growing up in their totally real and totally not made-up hometown of Loveland, North Carolina. One boy, a miserable, wannabe paranormal investigator, and the other, a mad scientist who wears his heart on his sleeve.

The two go on a journey of self-discovery, growth, and maturity. During the process, however, the two have experiences that are far more unusual than what other angsty teenagers have to go through. Experiences that combine both boy's niches and personal ails.

What Content Can You Expect To Find On Here?

The type of things I'll be posting on here all pertain to the story. It may be a variety of things including but not limited to:

Drawings of the characters

Images I find that remind me of the story and it's characters

Quotes that remind me of the story and it's characters

Small updates of my progress

Music that reminds me of this story

Genres:

Genres are a very important part of a story, as I'm sure everyone knows. I have a love of many different types of genres, so I combined a lot of them to create Doom & Gloom:

Horror (of many kinds, paranormal, body, and gothic, to name a few)

Sci-Fi

Supernatural

Coming of age (this one was on accident, but expected)

And a few more that I shall not disclose

Comprehensive Major Character List:

Moxie Velazquez Rosales

A miserable, wannabe paranormal investigator

Dexter (Dex) Gore

A mad scientist who wears his heart on his sleeve

Nico Velazquez Rosales

The cutesy yet callous little sister of Moxie

Victor Velazquez Jimenez

The negligent father of Moxie and Nico

Diana Gore

Dex's trashy southern mama

Valentina Rosales Martinez

The dearly departed mother of Moxie and Nico

ALL.E, the little blue robot

Dex's hyperactive, little, blue robot

Pete, the zombie dog

A little undead Chihuahua that Dex brought back to life via jumper cables

Persephone

A spooky black cat that appears out of nowhere and scares everybody doing so

And Finally, The Credits:

Profile Picture found on pinterest (not sure who made it)

Quote in header: "Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly" - Charles Addams, creator of "The Addams Family

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

Active Authors Masterlist (10)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 /

***Active (on this blog) is defined as a blog/writer who has updated within the past year. Inactive (on this blog) is defined as a blog/writer that has not been updated at all in the past year+. On THG Writing Hiatus (on this blog) is a blog/writer who has updated within the past year but has not posted a fanfic in the fandom in the past year BUT they may return to writing in the future. Lists will be updated as needed based on activity. ***

Created: February 10th, 2024

Last Checked:-----

atleastmymomlikesme-ao3, ff.net, tumblr

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Popular fic: The Meek Shall Inherit the Eldest Everdeen-The boys all wanted Katniss at the slag heap. But Peeta Mellark just wanted Katniss.

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Popular Fic: Blooming in the Spring Summary: I am empty and want nothing more than to drown it all out--all of the fear, the guilt. The guilt. There is so much of it, all the time. Guilt for those I've killed. For those who I could not save. They haunt me every second of every day, always there, always in the back of my mind clawing their way forward. Today, it is Finnick. Yesterday, Cinna. The day before that, Castor. Prim. Always Prim. ~ In the months following the fall of the Panem's Capitol, Katniss Everdeen is continuing to fight a battle-this time against herself. After surviving two Hunger Games and leading a revolution, losing countless loved ones along the way, Katniss is forced to learn how to live on with her trauma and how to navigate a new life with the boy that saved her life.

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Popular Fic: First Impressions-Her whole life, Katniss Everdeen had been raised to believe her only goal in life was to find a suitable husband and marry. Upon meeting the standoffish Peeta Mellark, she could not be more put off by the notion of marriage. However, unbeknownst to her, there is a reason behind Peeta's demeanor, if only she chose to look beyond her biased first impression. Hunger Games/Pride & Prejudice cross-over.

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[misc-obeyme]

Okay, friends & followers.

I think I jumped the gun and inadvertently caused some concern but ngl I got spooked.

Just please remember that I DO NOT know why these things have happened. Remember that Solmare is a corporation & has laws to abide by & likely an entire legal department. I don’t think they did it just to be shitty.

Although it’s tempting, I shall not get on my capitalism destroys creativity soapbox lol.

I appreciate everyone who followed my main - I see you guys! But tbh I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. I’m pretty sure this is about data mining or perceived data mining & all I ever do is write so. I should be okay.

It sucks that it happened & I wish there had been a better way to resolve things.

In the meantime it’s always a good idea to back up your stuff because the internet is a cruel mistress! Here’s a post I saved back when we had the Tumblr skeleton crew scare that tells you how to download your entire blog. I haven’t tried it yet & there may be other options for such things, but there it is for those that may wish to save their stuff.