#as for the story's premise i've not thought that far

[sknolls]

Out of curiosity, are there any writers who like Celeste and would be interested in collaborating on a potentially story-driven mod?

[lesbianherald]

Hi! Just curious. What exactly is that you didn't like about Viktor's arc? I've seen a few people saying the same thing and idk if I'm missing something or I'm just too over the moon about him that my brain has gone smooth haha.

oh no oh no i'm probably going to write like a whole dissertation about this I am so sorry I'm literally cracking my knuckles I have so many thoughts and not all of them I'll even get to articulate here.

Saying this upfront: you aren't smooth-brained for disagreeing with me or liking it. I want to say that outright as I'm a very opinionated person and I am going to state my very strong opinions very plainly.

That being said : I genuinely feel like season 2 needed like... character writing 101 for a lot of these characters, especially the two characters whose names start with a 'V'. I'm so serious if one of my students brought in a story like this, I would (gently) take it apart.

If you don't want to read the whole thing I'm about to unleash, the crux of it is this for me:

Throughout the course of the season, it's very hard to discern how many of Viktor's decisions are his own. He lacks the baseline autonomy that's necessary for satisfying development. The magic of the hexcore becomes a shiny distraction that makes meaningful development impossible. Additionally, season 2 forgets so many of the themes and threads they explored with Viktor in season one explicitly in terms of class and his position on war and weapons manufacturing.

And, like almost everything in season 2, these issues are compounded because his story is done at a pace that's completely lightning-fast and prioritizes the wrong things.

Here's my thesis:

How Does a Man Like Viktor Become the Machine Herald? Arcane's Answer: Magic orb or vague sadness or something idk.

Harry Lloyd said in a season 1 commentary somewhere that one of the main appeals for Viktor is knowing who he is in the game and wondering how you take a man like him, who is so kind and has people's best interests at heart, and see him slowly become the machine herald.

I agree 100% that this is part of the story's appeal for players. And it would be a delight and surprise for non-players.

We... get that very juicy premise ripped from us. We don't see him making decisions grounded in the character they set up in season 1 at all, really. And its very unsatisfying seeing him be rendered a mere victim of circumstance with vague attachments to his past self.

This is not necessarily a complaint about arcane herald vs machine herald (I did not play league and am not attached to the lore) but a complaint that a lot of what happens with Viktor in season 2 seems very unattached to his psychology.

Christian Linke himself said (and I forget where, so I am sorry if I'm paraphrasing terribly) that part of the question he wanted the audience to ask with Viktor is how much of this is really him? Bluntly. That is incredibly silly. It's such an important question that it makes all other interesting questions one might have about him really hard to parse.

That's not compelling. That's a mistake. That's not rooted in character anymore but a vague magical orb.

Here are some questions that would have been more interesting for us to ask, Christian.

How does his desire to tamper out human emotion prompt him to do the unspeakable? What leads him there?

How far is he willing to go to take away human pain and suffering?

Is his version of pacifism really, in actuality, a form of violence?

Will his connection with others be enough to bring him back to his humanity? (this is a question we were not prompted to ask, and if we were, it would have made the final scene (which I love regardless) a lot more satisfying.

What is the root of his hunger for power? How much of his quest is a hunger for power and control over others (rooted in a fractured and tragic sense of self)? and how much is it rooted in his desire to help? Where is that line?

Any of these questions or any other questions we could enjoy exploring with Viktor become tampered with and weakened by the fact that a vague magical entity is controlling him in a vague and unrelatable way.

In short, 'How much of Viktor is still Viktor?' is a far less interesting question than. 'how is Viktor going to act, change, and learn? ' We are forced to ask the first at the cost of the second. He clearly is not fully himself this season.

The Dropping of Themes and Traits

Season 1's exploration of Viktor was multi-layered and fascinating. I feel like we got to see the establishment of a kind-hearted, sometimes awkward yet quite funny, passionate scientist.

I don't feel we see much of any of this in season 2. The stupid fucking orb overrides a lot of the traits we've come to know and love. This would have been cool if done with an ounce of care, understanding, or autonomy.

In season 1, we see Viktor in a position of powerlessness over and over. We see Viktor ignored and looked down upon by those in power both for his disability and, crucially, for his status as a Zaunite.

We're introduced to him as someone who is desperate to prove himself and carve a place for himself. He knows he's brilliant. And he knows he can help people with that big brain of his. That's all he wants. And he wants to make his mark (something I theorize is rooted in his loneliness as well as his ambition)

(Side note: I find a lot of the debate on whether or not Viktor is insecure a little silly because you can be both confident and insecure. He's incredibly secure in his abilities as a scientist, but I fully do believe he places all his worth on his work because he's not as confident in other places - represented visually by him trying to point out his boat when Sky is looking at him in the flashback. A 'don't look at me look at what I've made' type thing.)

Anyways. Viktor is willing to risk his position as an assistant and, honestly, his position at the academy and in Piltover as a whole to help Jayce. This is not just because he's 'lol so chaotic' or whatever. This is actually quite calculated. He knows he will get nowhere in Piltovian society without bending rules, because Piltover was not built for people like him.

"Do you think it was my life's ambition to be an assistant?"

But even in taking that huge step for himself, his new role is complicated.

We see him sit through meetings where his people are talked about like burdens. We see his closest (and honestly only) ally and partner speak over him in meetings and overrule his desires and wants when it comes to the future of hextech in massive ways. We see Jayce call all Zaunites 'dangerous' (I love jayce... don't shoot me please. But we do often forget that this does canonically happen and what makes Jayce so incredible is that he grows from this point)

The moment on the bridge directly causes him not to tell Jayce about what he's doing to himself. Jayce apologizing right after doesn't matter so much as it reinforces one of Viktor's fears: he is alone.

We see his illness, !!!!caused by Piltover's oppression!!!!, take over. We see him and Jayce grow apart. We see the way his loneliness impacts his desperation and the way his desperation impacts his loneliness and we see the way he's so damn afraid and just wants to live. We see how much he wants to help people, and how even though he's tried so hard he never got to achieve that because the limits of this society just don't allow for it.

Season 1 Act one is Viktor taking action for himself. season 1 Acts 2 and 3 are a brutal reminder that no matter how hard he works. No matter how hard he claws. He will always be who he is. And that makes him Powerless in this society. I honestly find it a really compelling storyline in terms of the 'bootstrap theory' and debunking that - but a different topic for a different time!

At the end of the season, he's able to gain a huge amount of power - speaking at the council about freeing his city - through Jayce's platforming and allyship. But at the end of the day it doesn't matter, because what the council is doing is too little too late - people in Zaun are too tired and too hurt - and he gets caught in the crossfire.

Despite all this, Season 2 does not engage with Viktor's being a Zaunite outside of the fact that he returns to Zaun first. But the themes explored related to class and power are gone - as they are with everyone else really.

It makes sense to me that one of the first things Viktor would do when granted a new body and new power would be to go and try to help people in Zaun, but the ambiguous mechanisms of the magic inside him, the immediate divorce with Jayce, and the bizarre way he goes about it don't make this land.

And even the return is rendered sort of meaningless. Where is the personal connection to this place? Why are we given no details related to his past here? Why doesn't he return to somewhere more personal for him?

He speaks in this cold, unaffected monotone. This healing ability seems to be the 'recursive impulse' - so him finally getting to help people just like he wanted feels rooted so much in the arcane influence it becomes murky and strange.

This is more nitpicky, and I'd be okay with it being ignored in the right context - but another aspect of his character that gets dropped is his work as a scientist. His desire to help people not through magic, but through invention. This would have been fascinating. (They try to keep this alive through vague allusions to 'look at what I've created' blah blah but again, so much of it is all ORB)

What inventions would a fully autonomous Viktor who decided to leave Jayce and return to Zaun of his own fruition create? Would they toe the line between inventions of progress and inventions of destruction?

Guess we'll never know!

Speaking of weapons. Let's talk about weapons. Let's talk about Viktor's vehement opposition to weapons not being explored within the context of his relationship with Jayce or outside of the rule that there are none allowed in the commune - which becomes quite meaningless when he agrees to work with Ambessa. Yes - he saw those blueprints on the table. But that's all we get.

Also, the fact that Jayce just unquestionably builds hextech weapons in the finale, and they're used as a good thing and a way to fight off Noxus, makes me want to claw my own hair out. Like - my themes ! Not my precious themes !

Let's also talk about him working with Ambessa. There's no build-up to that decision, not near enough character work to make that believable and considering the way the plot is written elsewhere, I fully believe this is a huge part of the problem of the writer's room dropping the issue of class. The idea that Viktor, the character that they set up, would ever willingly work with Ambessa is laughable. There are so many other ways he could have gotten to the hexcore in his fully evolved form, easily bested Jayce, and evolved. And they did absolutely nothing in the writing of season 2 to make that an interesting or satisfying choice.

An arc is only an arc if there is substance between point a and b. There's no substance here. There's vague orb. There are little glimpses of the pain he's in because of his separation from Jayce. Teeny tiny allusions to him trying to shut down his emotions. That's simply not enough.

You cannot bring a character who values choice and autonomy, whose been made to feel so powerless and is empathetic, to "choice is meaningless" without a deep study of his psychology and pain. Viktor taking away the autonomy of others, inhabiting their bodies. Being super chill with it. Okay. Coo.

Where does his desire for evolution even come from? For real? Because they seem to mistake Viktor's ambition with his desire for perfection, which is something that was never really... brought up? It could be believable that he felt this way. But where were the signs of this? Not just in season 1 but in season 2. He always wanted to help, not make humanity perfect. Because this is grounded in so little emotional logic I assume we're supposed to be satisfied with the idea that magic orb + machine herald form = ??? this ??? like ??? why???

If he wants to create a world where nobody can feel pain or complex emotions of any sort anymore, which is not psychologically where he was at the end of season 1 at all despite all he went through, you have to give us an event (ideally multiple) in season 2 that could break his mind this badly. Jayce killing him could have been this, but it happened so fast and was executed so impersonally that it doesn't work. He doesn't really acknowledge it happened the next time they see each other. Which... would probably be important to do... again emotional logic where?

His entire speech about humanity at the end of episode 6 feels like it's trying to be a catalyst. But it also feels... incredibly generic and impersonal. It felt written to play over a flashy montage of all the other characters fighting. Not for Viktor. If this was Viktor's moment where he finally snaps, we should probably focus on Viktor. And, of course, it doesn't help that he has this odd monotone this whole time, as if he's not fully in control of himself (this is not a rip on Harry Lloyd at all. He did what he was told and did it very, very well.)

Because remember. They wanted us to ask this. They wanted us to ask how much of this was orb. I think because they knew on some level they could not create a compelling enough story to get viktor where they wanted him to be for some reason without orb. That none of this would make sense without the vague spice of the arcane. And guess what it still doesn't.

Becuase people will not relate to a vague arcane influence. Connect to it. We would want to see what actually in his life made him become this. What in his psychology outside of magic orb made him do this? They provide vague tastes of this in the same way La Croix flavors its drinks.

Brought Back Wrong Can Work: Here's Why This One Didn't

I also really hate the trope of killing off characters only to bring them back. And back again. And... again. Because guess what. It takes one of the core elements of the human experience - death- and cheapens it. This for sure happens with Viktor the second time he dies.

But what i do like about bringing someone back from the dead is when you consider how doing so can bring someone back wrong. Or changed.

But because the orb is so impersonal. So bland. Such a vague sinister force that has very little to do with character, it doesn't... work. It doesn't hit. Viktor doesn't really grapple with being brought back from the dead against his will in a meaningful way.

Timing

You can see concepts of a plan, if you will, within this story. I can see how Viktor would naturally go to the undercity after waking up changed with new healing powers. But it happens way to fast. So bizarrely. I can see how he would build a society like this (of course, the power of that is dulled because orb and by the fact that we don't see it happen). I can see how the pain of being rejected and left behind by the only person who made him feel like he wasn't alone (Jayce) could have lead to a category 5 'make me evil' sort of meltdown.

Becoming the Herald, asking Singed to begin the transformation, is the only true time in this show in act 2 (before his final moments) where it feels like he's making a choice for himself. But again, we get so little time with him. To see his emotions. To elegantly point from that moment with Jayce to Viktor's need to transform and in doing so rid himself of emotion (something that they did not expand on enough ) Like oh my god, how much more satisfying would it have been to see Viktor torn apart by his own emotions - in his own viktor way - and to have singed offer him a way out of his pain - and then have viktor take it. There are certain things that should be obvious.

But It's both the timing of and the structure of the story - how quickly we cut between plotlines - that makes this really hard to follow. That makes moments that could be something feel rushed and sloppy.

Let's Talk about Sky

Viktor's guilt over sky was absolutely reasonable to explore, but it was not.... all that haunted him. To make Sky the sole guide/companion to him in the astral/arcane headspace I found to be a bizarre and honestly kind of offensive choice.

Amanda overton said she was used as a "Jayce substitute" essentially. And... why? Literally why. Why would you write a character whose sole deal is having an unrequited crush on a man only to bring her back to be 'the embodiment of his guilt and loneliness' as well as a 'substitute' - it feels... icky to me? Just in a writing women and especially women of color point of view? And it didn't feel true to Viktor's character either.

I think if we actually got to know sky better in season 1, this would have worked because it would have been obvious how different she was, how she was a product of his mind or the hexcore or whatever (the lore being vague here doesn't help...)

Plot Twist because I keep hating on Orb: They Could Have Made The Orb Really Cool

Here's the thing. Magic influence on its own can be used to write extremely compelling plots. Walk with me.

Imagine Viktor wakes up. Immediately knows something's wrong with him. That something inside him is toying with him. Making him see things (visions of not only sky, but maybe his parents, Jayce, Heimer). He wakes up earlier in act 1. Despite his anger, he stays with jayce in order to better understand himself and his powers. All the while, he is haunted by whispers and visions of the hexcore. What if it whispers to him of his own insecurities and failures?

What if Things with Jayce are tense. Jayce has to admit to making weapons again, in an argument leading to more haunting visions from the hexcore offering him an out: emotional numbness. You would never have to feel again Viktor. If you let me in fully, you would never have to be alone again. You'd be more powerful, Viktor.

Imagine Viktor is there during that attack ambessa orchestrated. That he has the horror of witnessing Jayce wield his hammer in a genuine attempt to defend himself and the people he loves. He sees first hand how hextech is being used for destruction in a way that horrifies him.

Imagine him being accused of being a part of it because he's a Zaunite - humiliated in some way. Publicly. Imagine the emotional trauma of this resulting in a falling out so devastating he embraces his visions of the hexcore - gives into the numbness. And only then leaves. With the hexcore... he feels better than he has in years. He hopes he can give the gift of this to others. Now he is under orb influence, but now the way he's gotten there is more satisfying to me at least.

Now imagine him fighting the orb influence in key moments. Imagine the color in his eyes coming back. Imagine Viktor's relationship with the arcane being more of a dance than a vague entanglement. Imagine its influence haunting him in the same way Jinx's visions haunt her. Imagine it being personal rooted in his character.

Old Man Viktor

Listen. I am the old man Viktor connoisseur. I love him. I love the idea of him. I wrote a whole fic about him, during which I had to spend a lot of time with the story. It's sort of... very much impossible to make much sense of?

I'm not mad at the fact that it's an obvious retcon. Honestly, because I think from a storytelling perspective, it worked a lot better than most of the decisions they made this season.

But I'm not a fan of (shocking) how little time we spend with him. How little chance we get to understand his motivatons. And also. What the fuck he said to Jayce to make Jayce's first line of action killing him? In my fic, I made it that Jayce needed to shoot Viktor to get the hexcore out, so he could communicate to viktor without influence. But that felt like heavy lifting I shouldn't necessarily have to do for something so important. It also doesn't feel like a compelling or satisfying question to make your audience have to wrestle with.

The Final Scene

Want to say upfront I am not one of the people who did not like Jayce's speech.

I was quite moved by it. And aside from the perhaps out of place mention of the illness brought on by Piltover which I can understand the criticism for, I felt it was beautiful. (I am disabled btw)

That being said. I think i'd be a sobbing mess on the floor if the themes Jayce is presenting in his speech were more present throughout season 2. Because we really don't see this enough - the desire for perfection.

I'm also not one of those people who thinks Viktor's insecurities weren't present in season 1. To me, they were and were obvious, but not enough in his motivations and actions in season 2 to make Jayce's speech land like it could.

I really loved Jayce's arc in season 2. Him immediately embracing Viktor after he woke from the goo was surprising but felt right. But I wish they had more genuine conflict rooted in their conflict in season 1 that would allow their final moment to land even harder.

I really liked the final scene, and it made me an emotional mess. But weirdly, I'd almost like it as a short film removed from the context of the season two, which says just how little Viktor's arc this season contributed to the moment.

Final Thoughts

I'm so sorry I went so in-depth. I just love him as a character and feel he was very much not done justice.

We can attribute some of this to the lack of time. But when you know you have a lack of time, you need to write with that in mind instead of trying to do it all. And ultimately, I found a lot of scenes this season a waste of precious time. They had so many characters alone contemplating something intangible or alone and trapped for episodes. They didn't plan this with the care and precision needed to pull it off.

I also want to note that I know I say here a lot that there's a lot they needed to make "more obvious". This is not because I'm stupid. But when you're a writer, you need to know what to highlight and what you can leave vague so you leave your audience exploring the right nuances and asking the satisfying questions.

Anyways umm. The end. Holy shit, I'm so sorry I wrote so much.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Politely affectionately agressively begging for more Furina fics you write her AMAZINGLYYYYY PLEASEEE and it's so rare to see my girl get any fics YOU A REAL ONE FR FR 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫

(Genshin Impact) Furina watching an emotional movie with her S/O

*Imperial Guardsmen Voice* IF SUCH IS THE EMPEROR'S WILL! Also, you can imagine this as an Isekai S/O or Fontaine somehow developed movies, idk you can work the imagination on how movies exist in Tevyat, I'm just here to give you the funny/cute.

Furina's lips trill in boredom as she sits down on the couch, an hand underneath her chin.

Dinner had already been finished, dessert promptly followed but the night was still young.

Her S/O was in front of the couch, rustling coming from a box they were searching through.

She got up from her seat and knelt next to them, curious as to what they were looking for.

(Furina) "S/O?"

(S/O) "Hang on, just looking for something we can watch...ah!"

S/O pulled out a box containing a small CD. Furina couldn't help but flinch instinctually.

(S/O) "Before you ask, no it's not a horror movie."

With a sigh of relief, she grabbed the box and raised an eyebrow.

(Furina) "Oh thank goodness!...A-Ahem, so, what is this?"

(S/O) "It's from Inazuma. It's a super cheesy story about a man and female meka falling in love."

They put a finger to their chin as Furina scoffed as she crossed her arms.

(Furina) "Oh please, I've seen far worse premises in my stage plays, S/O!"

(S/O) "True, but this one might make you cry."

Furina's smirk grows bigger hearing their lack of faith.

(Furina) "Psh! Me? Cry at a love story probably told a thousand times? Please! Put it on S/O! I'll prove you otherwise!"

ONE HOUR LATER...

S/O and Furina were sitting quietly, nearing the end of the film's duration.

The man's head was resting on the meka's lap as he was nearing the end of his life, though the mood was very bittersweet.

With a beautiful piano tune playing in the background, the Meka looked up to the sky, finally getting a revelation for the human it fell in love with.

[Mekaigis] "Not everything needs to be for some greater purpose. Just caring for someone can be enough. That's all we need to give our lives meaning. As for me, I've found my path. And that's to protect you with my life..."

S/O's heart strings tugged at the touching dialogue. Blinking away a few tears, S/O turned to Furina.

(S/O) Furina's been really quiet. I wonder if she's not as affected as-

S/O's thoughts were interrupted the moment they actually glanced at their girlfriend.

Furina reached for her box of tissues, which was already halfway gone, and blew violently into it.

She proceeded to wipe away her tears with her hands while her lips trembled, eyes locked onto the screen the entire time.

(S/O) ...Okay yeah, she's doing as good as I thought she would.

S/O moved in closer to hold her hand and at least give her some comfort for this admittedly tear-inducing scene.

Only for their hand to be almost hurt from her grip strength as she held on with all of her passion, Furina's attention daring not to even turn away.

S/O almost yelped out in pain, but kept strong for the sake of their girlfriend's immersion.

And with the man finally closing his eyes, the movie finally came to a close, with the music's lyrics riding the scene out.

[Movie] "kaze no koe hikari no tsubu madoromu kimi ni sosogu-"

Furina stood up from her chair, pointing to the screen with tears still fresh in her eyes.

(Furina) "T-THE MOVIE ENDS RIGHT THERE?! BUT THAT'S NOT FAIR! HE AND MEKAIGIS FOUGHT TO SAVE THE WORLD, THEY SHOULD BE HAPPY TOGETHER!"

S/O couldn't contain their soft laughter, getting up and attempting to calm her down by gently wiping her tears away.

(S/O) "I agree, but it's a rather beautiful ending to such a tragic story. But what did you think of it?"

Furina pouted at their laughter, crossing her arms and huffing.

(Furina) "I'd rather have watched a horror movie, something like that is way too sad!"

(S/O) "I thought you said you wouldn't cry-"

(Furina) "I-I was simply crying at their performances! They did an amazing job acting out a horrid script, as a performer I couldn't just ignore their handiwork!"

S/O playfully rolled their eyes as they sat Furina back down, quickly joining her on the couch.

(S/O) "Is that right? Anyways, there's a followup sequel where it follows Mekaigis after the events of this movie called the Answ-"

(Furina) "PUT IT ON RIGHT NOW! I HAVE TO FIND OUT RIGHT NOW!"

Her voice cracked as she pointed at the screen, making S/O laugh and comply.

(S/O) "Yes, ma'am."

Furina's leg bounced anxiously as she watched S/O painfully put the next film in slowly, getting immersed again immediately.

===

Author's note:

This isn't actually anything related to the post besides the obvious reference, I just have to get it out of my system because I was listening to the soundtrack of said reference. Ahem. AAALLLL THE JOURNEYS START SOMEWHERE WITH A FIRST STEEEEEEEP NO ONE'S SURE WHAT LIES AHEAD BE BOLD AND BRAAAAAAAAAAAAVE (STAND UP!) ROADS MAY BEEEEEE ROUGH AND TOOUUUUUUGH THOUGH IT WILL LEAD SOMEWHEEEERE (NOTHING EASY GET UP AND GO GET IT GO) SOMETIMES IT'S JOURNEY ITSELF THAT TEACHEEEES A LOT ABOUT THE DESTINATION NOT AWARE OOOOOF NO MATTER HOW FAAAAAR (NO MATTER HOW FAR) HOW YOU GOOOOOOOO (HOW YOU GO HOW YOU GO) HOW LONG IT MAY LAAAAAST (CARPE DIEM NO TIME TO WASTE) VENTURE LIFE, BURN YOUR DREEEAAAAD! (YOU GOTTA VENTURE LIFE GO GET IT BURN YOUR DREAD)

[cleolinda]

I never actually explained why I started playing the Silent Hill 2 remake. As many people have pointed out, it is an absolutely wild choice (complex, difficult, scary, LONG) for my first video game. (I’m a mobile gamer, I wasn’t allowed to play video games as a kid, etc.) 

Since Jacksepticeye has come back to Tumblr, I’ll be a dork and say that I became a big fan of his channel over the last couple of years, and I started watching game playthroughs generally to wind down at night. I’ll basically watch anything he plays, and in October, he played the new remake. I was maybe 20 when the original came out, but I didn’t know shit about Silent Hill. Something about Pyramid Head, The Scariest Games Ever, not really my thing, but sure. I started watching and... didn’t really get into it. Planets weren’t aligned that day, idk. I let it keep running, went on to the second video, and then we hit THIS scene:

That music comes in out of NOWHERE like strong perfume and I was like, what the fuck is this game, why is the acting so good, what is HAPPENING, I love it. 

For several weeks, I was obsessed with the Akira Yamaoka soundtrack (both versions) and the story. The Actual Autism fully kicked in, and it was better than dealing with the rest of November 2024. I watched multiple people play the game, learned everything about it, didn’t care about the combat, never thought I’d play it myself. 

And then, two months into this... I kinda... I kinda wanted to fight a leg monster. A mannequin. THEY ARE SO SASSY AND THEY’RE SMART despite having no heads. I wanted to engage in noble fisticuffs (anklicuffs?) with these things. I am proud to say that I have gone from getting stuck in the parking lot on day one to actually being really good at fighting mannequins. (It’s the lying figures that get me. Fucking splash-damage motherfuckers.) Over ten hours of practice play in the first three levels of the game, I’ve only died twice so far (and both times were when the game BOXED ME IN and swarmed me with vomit monsters. Rude).

So anyway, I decided to play the game, and @idoherty451 and I started discussing it in excessive depth, and now I want to do a text commentary for sure, and a video gameplay (voice) commentary if I can get that up and running; I already have some rough reaction audio that I've been posting. I just want all this (and the software I’m learning) to be a new set of tools in my “having fun discussing media” box, really. That said, I don’t know how far I’ll actually take the practice run, now that it’s fulfilled its purpose and I’ve diagnosed that my hapless ass needs to be on light combat. I’ve even played South Vale 2-3 times to develop basic skills! I’m doing so good! So it’s helped to do a first run, get through “I’m lost for half an hour” snarls, and practice moving the camera more smoothly. I may leave off with playing ahead before I get to the last two bosses years from now at this rate and let y’all see that happen, for better or worse, without any prep. 

The whole premise here is that I want to walk through the game and talk about all the lore and easter eggs and theories I’ve learned about. It will be the opposite of spoiler-free (minus That One Big Thing I won’t give away). If you would like to watch spoiler-free playthroughs of this long-ass game, I also recommend Marz (new to the franchise) and Gab Smolders (huge OG fan). 

Anyway, this is what I’ll be doing tomorrow while actively ignoring U.S. politics. James Sunderland has some very specific problems, and unlike mine, he can hit most of them with a steel pipe. Wish me luck with Pyramid Head. 

[enigmatist17]

Dot was not expecting to come home to an ambulance in her driveway during a quick break mid-shift, the car tucked just out of view of the main road. The ranger hopped out of her truck and approached it, clearing her throat while crossing her arms over her chest.

"I have about twenty minutes before I need to return to work, so talk to me now or wait for me to return." There was a moment, before the familiar sound of a Transformer shifting to its root mode filled the air, the ambulance standing a fair height above the human. "Welcome."

"Apologies, wasn't expectin' to get in so early." The mech had a gruff voice as they knelt down, extending a servo. "Name's Ratchet, don't think we had the pleasure of meetin' on the field."

"Dot Malto, I've heard of you." The ranger relaxed a little as she rested a hand on his palm in greeting. "Heavens know how many stories I've heard from Wheeljack and Bumblebee."

"Wheeljack is here?" Ratchet seemed a little surprised as he pulled his limb back, standing with a slight grunt. "That is...nice to hear. Haven't seen much of anyone these days, not with G.H.O.S.T tryin' to hunt us down, or had been anyways."

"Trust me, that's not something you need to worry about anymore." Dot sighed, glancing up at him. "I'm assuming you're here about what happened a few weeks ago?"

"Among other things." His optics dimmed for a moment at the memory of dying so suddenly, only to be revived with the knowledge that something had ripped his Spark from him for just shy of fifteen minutes. It hadn't taken him long to wrangle coordinates from Bumblebee once the initial panic had subsided, knowing Prime wouldn't be too far from the scout, and would hold the answer about what the frag had happened.

Ratchet wasn't scared of many things, but that had rattled his processor to the core.

"Well, I can start by introducing you to the kids, they're going to love meeting one of the "super ultra famous" Autobots." Dot smiled sympathetically, pointing toward a barn further into the premises.

"Strange, most humans don't let their sparklings live outside their home." Ratchet raised an optic ridge, motioning for her to step forward and trailing behind the ranger.

"Oh, my kids do live in the house; these are where my other kids live, the ones who don't quite fit." This had the medic further intrigued, Dot opening the door and whistling down the open large grate in a far corner. "Hey kids, why don't you come on up and say hello to someone!"

Ratchet felt his Spark nearly stop again when he was suddenly bombarded with five wide-open EMF fields, brimming with emotions so openly it almost made him fall to his knees.

No, no, this can't be what he thinks it is.

The first mech to come up from the underground area was so small Ratchet nearly thought they were a Minicon, the little femme zipping up into the air with an excited sqeual.

"Ohmigosh omigosh it's Ratchet!" The medic barely had time to register what she was saying before a blue and white mech ran up into view, his eyes wide.

"Mom, how come you didn't tell us he was coming!" Ratchet looked down helplessly at Dot, who just smiled and shrugged as three more sets of pedes hurried up from the underground area.

"I didn't know, sweetheart." Ratchet remained silent as what looked like a Dinobot, a lanky bot with glowing eyes reminiscent of an owl, and the tallest of the set, sporting a grin and thrumming with a particularly powerful EMF, gathered around him with overlapping questions.

Sparklings....honest to Primus sparklings were around him, a sight Ratchet never thought would come to pass.

"W-When were you all created?" The question nearly gets lost in the din, but Dot silences the bots by merely crossing her arms.

"A few months ago, when Mo and Robbie found the Emberstone and helped make us!" The petite femme smiled, hovering within his sight. as Ratchet stared.

"I see." Ratchet smiled as he knelt down, reaching into his subspace to pull out some tools, along with five glowing purple sticks. "Well, I'm going to assume you've never had a proper medic give you an exam, so I'd like to start with that."

"Do we have to?" The tall femme whined, eyeing Ratchet in slight discomfort. "Robbie and Mo hate the doctor, they say it's kinda scary sometimes."

"I assure you this won't hurt a bit, I've been doing this a very long time." Ratchet held out the sticks to the children. "Why don't you give me your names, and we'll go one at a time. Lieutenant Malto, you're more than welcome to observe."

"Just call me Dot, and I might do that for the first kiddo before I get back to work." Nodding, the medic finally pulled out a scanner before motioning for the bot closest to him. "You're up, come on."

"I'm Jawbreaker." Ratchet scanned him with what he hoped was a gentle smile, the young bot nervous yet curious.

"It's nice to meet you, Jawbreaker; like you heard, I'm Ratchet." The older bot frowned at the readings on his scanner before his optics went wide in alarm. Jawbreaker smiled nervously when Ratchet leaned forward with his scanner again, the readings the same as the first scan. "How are you operating?! I've never seen energon levels this low!"

"Oh that's 'cause we don't need energon, w-we drink magic cave water?" The small dinobot smiled, Ratchet just staring at the youngling before a trilling noise escaped him, unable to vocalize any response as he merely pressed one of the purple sticks into Jawbreaker's servos.

"Off you go." Dot looked amused and concerned at Ratchet's silence, Nightshade moved forward to take Jawbreaker's spot. He's just finishing up with Twitch when there's the familiar roar of Bumblebee's engine, the bot transforming the second he was close enough to the house, whistling a tune as he headed for the barn.

"Oh kids, I brought a surpi- Ratchet?!" The scout froze before throwing himself to the side, narrowly missing the wrench thrown at him.

"You SLAGGING PIT SPAWN!" The medic nailed him right to the face with a second wrench, stomping over to the stunned bot with a hiss. "You have been with SPARKLINGS and didn't think to CALL ME?!"

"W-Wait, I thought you knew!" Bumblebee winced as Ratchet stood over him, optics flashing in irritation. "I've been uncover with them, a-and Optimus would have told you, right?"

"Oh ho ho don't you dare try and distract me, although he will answer me later." The medic sneered, before letting out a long vent and offering a servo. "It's good to see you, kid."

"...it's great to see you too, I didn't know you were even on Earth." Ratchet easily pulled Bumblebee up onto his pedes, grumbling lightly when he was yanked into a hug. "I have missed you, though I didn't miss your wrench sharpshooting skills..."

"Comes with the package." The older bot smirked, the five younglings watching the two from their spot by the barn with wide optics. "They're in good health, despite not being properly checked over by a professional."

"I tried my best?" Bumblebee grinned, doorwings fluttering in delight at the backhanded praise. "Ratchet, why are you here?"

"I want to know what happened a few mega-cycles ago."

"Oh...right." The scout glanced toward the younger bots, offering a servo when Twitch rubbed one of her arms with a guilty look. "Who wants a hug?"

"We do!" Ratchet stepped back to allow the five young- terrans all but tackle Bumblebee with a group hug, his spark practically melting at the sight.

"Can we hug you too, Mr. Ratchet?" Hashtag asked, the older bot chuckling as he placed his data pad in his subspace.

"I suppose I could agree to that." It was Bumblebee's turn to laugh when one of his mentors was suddenly besieged by five eager terrans, sending him to the ground with an amused look, reminding the younger bot of times long past. Ratchet would find himself agreeing to spend the night later on in the day, unable to say no to the puppy-eyed optics that Thrash and Hashtag wielded with deadly accuracy, as well as Bumblebee's not-so-silent pleas for adult interaction of the Cybertronian kind. Spending an entire evening catching up and talking about just about every topic either bot could bring up was...nice, and Ratchet decides the moment when the scout drifts off to recharge that it might be a good idea to stick around for a little while.

Optimus was going to get one hell of a lecture first, however.

[blueraith]

What does fanfiction mean to you?

I'm asking this question because today I came across some ugly, mean-spirited, catty behavior towards a fic author that I haven't seen in a very, very long time, and I think it's important we discuss it as a community.

Y'all know how long I've been doing this? Fanfiction, that is.

Eighteen years.

I've posted across different platforms, on different handles, in different ways for a long, long time. More than half of my life at this point, from fourteen years old.

Fanfiction is how I personally engage with fandom the most. It's THE most important thing to me, frankly, because it is the common thread between each and every single fandom I have ever participated in.

It's self-expression to me. Folk art. Collaborative and fun. I truly hope that most people who engage in fanfiction learn what it is to beta for someone even if you don't write yourself. It can be a fantastic experience in and of itself. Being the backboard to someone else's ideas, watching as they take genuine joy out of spinning a story together to put onto the page, seeing it come to life before anyone else and feeling almost as proud as the author themselves after they finally post it.

It's ultimately why I decided to make this post far more positive and productive than the angry, grumpy, blood boiling rant that I initially was churning over in my mind after the horrible posts I saw earlier.

I'll detail them here purely for context because I think it's important to recognize toxic fandom behavior when we see it. And speak out when we stumble across it.

The first post lauded itself as an 'honest review' of a popular fanfiction in a community I am a part of. That honest review was nothing more than a pop-critique filled with a sort of catty, snarky write up that is so popular nowadays online purely to gain clout more than to act as actual, constructive criticism. It was unnecessary and acted as though the fanfiction author was a professional, New York Times Bestseller rather than someone devoting hours of their free time and effort into a hobby that is ultimately meant to be fun and pleasant.

The second post by the same person claimed that their friend had challenged them to write their own version of the premise of this fanfiction under a read more cut. It spent some time applying a thin veneer of so-called respect to the original author, but was merely nothing more than contempt really. I simply fail to see the need to ever do this while publicly attaching an author's name and work title and arrogantly parade your own work as superior to their own. Why tear down someone else?

I pushed back against them directly on this post, they took it down, but not before childishly trying to excuse their actions and claiming that 'if someone is publicly posting, then they should be able to handle vocal criticism.'

But you know what? One, what that person was doing was not constructive criticism. I think back to the beta session I had with a friend right after this incident and I think to myself, how sad must it be that this is what this person thinks is valuable criticism. That this is the way they chose to engage with the fanfiction community and thought they were in the right to do so.

Two, and perhaps even more importantly, people are accountable for the things that they post. The things that they say. It would have cost this person nothing to never make those posts in the first place. To never risk an author coming across a mean-spirited and malicious teardown of the work they put hours into and risk harming their self-esteem, mental health, or confidence in their own writing.

Because we do not know who these people are behind their handles. We do not know if they're new to writing. If they are experienced but going through a tough time. There are real people who write the content you choose to consume.

Fanfiction is a collaborative process. Writers provide the free content, and it is the reader's responsibility to know when their input would be valuable.

Is what you have to say helpful? Is it kind? Is it necessary?

If the feedback you want to provide does not hit at least two of those things, what you have to say does not matter. Period.

And I daresay that in the vast majority of cases, kindness should be considered mandatory out of the three.

In return, writers will often throw in ideas they've read out of reviews, they'll reach out to their most ardent followers for things like beta-ing or joining a discord server nowadays. There's always been a give and take in this community.

Fanfiction is a cornerstone of fandom for a reason. And it is particularly important in the queer community, going all the way back to actual physical magazines in which people mailed in their KirkxSpock fic decades ago. Over time we've experimented on the process, moved to countless different platforms, survived collapses of all sorts of communities, only to rally over and over again around each other to be able to tell the tales we wanted to see but were not getting as queer folk amongst mainstream media.

And in that time, it's been long agreed on in this space that you do not tear down another writer to build yourself up. Ever. Period. This has long been the only thing in fanfiction that has been aggressively policed, called out, and nipped in the bud when experienced members of this community come across it.

It will not be tolerated.

I shouldn't have to make this post, but I suppose this is the changing of the guard, so to speak. We have a new generation of fic writers and readers coming into the space daily and while so many of you are wonderful, creative, and welcomed members of this space that has been here long before me or anyone of my age, there are some who do not know how to act in the fanfiction community.

And it is up to us to make it clear in no uncertain terms that they will need to either get with program or be pushed out.

To become the best version of yourself as a writer requires hours of work, of posting again and again, of experimentation, of putting hints of your own life and experiences onto the page. The vast majority of us will never be published, and that's just fine for most of us. We engage in this hobby because of how joyful it can be to write something dear to our hearts, share it with the world, and be validated that others enjoyed the work that we put in.

Frankly, readers will always owe it to us to respect that process and work. To be respectful and kind when interacting with authors. Constructive criticism can be welcomed but perhaps ask if the author is open to it and do not take it personally if they are not. And if they are, then learn how to give it with the writer's best interest in mind rather than your own ego.

I don't ordinarily request reblogs to my posts, I rant into the void and it doesn't matter to me if anyone really interacts on an ordinary day lol. But today, I want to ask that people share this message out in your fandoms, because I will be tagging it in the fandoms I interacted in, both past and present. Because fanfiction is a common thread that unites so many of us, and I think this is an important reminder on how we need to be respectful and kind to one another in this space.

If you feel comfortable, I would also love to hear how fanfiction is important to you. How you got into it. Why you love to either read, write, or beta it.

This is hobby that is meant to be fun, so let's have fun.

[mask-of-prime]

TLK: What's Your Name?

I don't think I've ever drawn so quickly in response to something in years.

Immediately after watching this TV spot teasing the upcoming official trailer for Mufasa: The Lion King, I just HAD to adapt little Taka into his 2D Universe style.

Speaking of names... so I'm, like, not insistent that his name is Askari or anything, as I've learned that that name is simply meant for the TLG canon, especially since the name was never spoken in the show and was merely suggested by a crew member, but uh...... Even though Barry Jenkins said that he would source no existing TLK material, that name did not come out of nowhere. This story is far too different than that of A Tale of Two Brothers, and is original enough, so why go with that existing name? Did he, like, do a quick Google search with "Taka" popping up and just go with that? I actually thought he was gonna be named something completely else like Elijah or something, like in that old line-up of character names in the early M: TLK news days.

But anyway, guys, my heart is POUNDING the trailer is so awesome 👏👏👏. Immediately got Prince of Egypt vibes from the premise. Also, it seems to be implied that Mufasa and Taka are sent off of their own to settle their own territory as young males, rather than the mess of Mufasa just winning his royal adoptive parents' love over their own prince son like people worried about. The CGI movies have officially established themselves as a much separate entity from the 2D works in this case, where it seems to follow more IRL lion behavior where it's not so much a human-like monarchy, but a grandiose lion territory. Though... that does feel SO different that it almost feels like a whole other lion-related franchise :p

[missameliep]

A long time ago I've stumbled upon a post rec about the IF A Tale of Crowns and the premise was so amazing and I fell immediately in love with the diversity of characters and the LIs, but up until this past week I hadn't had the chance to actually play it. The writing is so good with all the vivid descriptions, the worldbuilding is so well-thought and fascinating, every time a new detail was added to the Royal Codex I was thrilled (there's an entire calendar with holidays and festivals), the humorous dialogues, and the LIs...

I have to confess flirty X was my favorite before even reading it, the idea of the relationship of a mercenary and the Crown, the impending conflicts of interests, the long absences etc etc were too delicious to ignore and I was soooo sure I'd pick their route first ...

But...

When I started reading the story and saw what the other LIs were like... OMG!!! How to even pick only one of them?!?!?! During the first chapters I was shifting from X, to A and back to X, and then to R...

I had to restart a few times to pick other options and the first route I played was with A and it's so good to see the MC and A getting closer and learning more about them and their past and this line.

Then I played R's route, and I can't deny it's been my favorite so far and I love them either as LI or friend. I love R's character and how complex and relatable they are underneath their calm and composed facade, all the dialogues with the MC and the other characters are so good and to have a flirtatious MC making him flustered was too cute (and everyone notices and teases them lol). And the hand-kissing?! The talented writer of this IF just made hand-kissing very sexy (even sexier if MC was shy what I thought wouldn't be possible)... And I even changed my Crown's height only to have her carrying R to the ritual at the water temple after reading this post.

And finally I played X's route and it sure doesn't disappoint!

There's nothing there that's not enjoyable, the flirtation and banter are so fun (and sensual) and there's also depth to X's character and the angst and the conflict. And I have so many favorite quotes and moments from the MC and X, and their interactions with the Blades (I love Tujo and Heval). And that kiss?!?! OMG!!! And X immediately wanting to show the A and D they're together?!?! Lovely!

[avelera]

A few random thoughts about the comic issue of "Men of Good Fortune" in The Sandman and how they pertain to Dreamling as a ship based on the show.

I get the sense when reading MoGF that it's a... shall we say, "young" story? It's the sort of story that has its seeds in your high school creative writing class. You're learning about English history and you're also writing short stories and you think, "Wouldn't it be cool if two guys met every 100 years to talk about these events I'm learning about and it's the same guys because they're immortal?"

I say this in part because I wrote a similar story in high school without having read MoGF, but also because it's a very simple story with no actual plot arc, nothing actually changes by the end in the original comic. The addition of Dream "missing" the meeting adds a lot of weight and consequence that isn't there in the comic. The closest it gets is, "Dream says he's not going to come to the next 1989 meeting but then a bunch of stuff happens off screen and he shows up anyway, thus confirming they are indeed friends." That is barely a plot beat of any kind, nothing really changes, it just clarifies that they are friends, which we could have suspected the whole time.

Anyway, on that note, I've got a deep-seated suspicion that in the very earliest drafts of this story, Dream was Death. Because it makes sense. Death spares a commoner on the condition that he report back every century to tell about how his life is going. Also, Death is certain that this mortal will want to die at some point because of all the horrible things he's living through, but in the end he doesn't and they become friends.

Again, this is a very simple story, basically a fable. Then this story is lifted into a new setting, the Sandman universe, and the antagonist of Death is turned into Dream but Death is still there, because Death as a figure makes much more sense than Dream as the basis for this wager.

I've commented many times before that Hob has less than nothing to go on as far as guessing Dream's identity but that one very natural conclusion he could come to is that Dream is Death because Death is much easier and thematically consistent with what happens in the story than Dream. Dream even remarks in the show (paraphrased) that, "[He] is far more terrible than Death," which objectively makes very little sense other than in their personal mannerisms.

But Dream's curiosity as to Hob's will to live isn't all that consistent with his function as Lord of Dreams, can you really tell me that the Lord of Dreams can't conceive of a mortal that would want to live forever, who wouldn't dream of living forever? IMO this is one more piece of evidence that the story was lifted from an earlier draft where there is no Dream and Death, there is only Death and Hob, with Death left in as sort of a homage to the original premise and to explain why Dream would get involved at all in such a wager.

It also kind of explains why the implications of this centuries-long friendship get largely ignored until quite late in the Sandman comics. Dream would be Hob's only constant, at least that he can speak to and isn't like the Sun and the Moon or something, and yet our only nod to this is very very late in the comics.

Again, I think this is because in a fable about Death and A Normal Guy meeting over and over as a commentary on English history, it makes perfect sense that you wouldn't really explore the interpersonal implications of how Hob feels about this guy, if Hob cares about this guy, because it's Death, clearly this is just a fable.

But once it's not Death, once it's someone else, once Dream's interactions with this guy actually don't align with his function, actually rather glaringly doesn't align with his function such that his relationship with Hob actually becomes Dream's biggest singular point of individuality, the biggest piece of proof that he is an individual person and not just his function because watching this guy live has nothing to do with his function because he's not Death, then we also begin to wonder how important are these guys to one another, as individuals, because it's not a simple, streamlined fable anymore about Death and Just A Guy meeting.

Basically, I think that as is often the case, the inconsistencies are what give some of Gaiman's juvenilia works the charm that they have. They raise more questions than they answer, because they're not rigorously plotted and the implications of certain story decisions aren't explored, for example even how magic like immortality works in this world doesn't really make consistent sense (ex. Orpheus and Hob have very different immortalities within the same story despite both being gifted by Death, one can't choose to die whenever he wants and there's no explanation as to why this is other than The Story Demands It, which is rather clumsy but does lend to a sense of myth).

It's not until much later in the author's career in the comic and (retconned with) the show that the narratives begins to inquire into things like, "What do these two individuals mean to each other as people. Does Hob mourn Dream, or think of him when he's not there? Does the singularity of Hob in Dream's life matter to him, or give him pause?" all questions that would be absurd in a simplistic fable about Death and Just A Dude but once lifted from that original context, create fascinating inconsistencies that begin to matter and become fodder for deeper explorations as seen in fanfiction and shipping these two characters.

[brakken-spideyverse]

Hi, first things first I *love* the whole Makeoververse premise, I've browsed through the page and many of your ideas seem so fresh for these characters, accompanied by the great art. So it got me wondering, are you mostly done with this AU? Like, don't, get me wrong, I see you've been still posting some stuff lately, like the F4 redesigns or other fun little arts, but you didn't really do much posts about the lore or story of this 'verse like you did in the past. If you feel like you've told in this regard everything you wanted or just don't have that much time to do that anymore, I must respect it. But damn, would love to hear more about the lore of this Spider-Man again someday, especially since you've said you thought of this as a story with an ending planned. Anyway, keep up the great work!

Thank you for the kind words! It is genuinely so heartening to hear that my AU has made an impression on you.

Am I done? That is a good question - sorry it took me a bit to get to it. The short answer is that no, I'm not yet done with this little 'verse - or at least don't want to be. My mind is always orbiting Spidey, and I have sketches to spare of various characters and comic ideas.

The longer answer is that this year has been pretty tough for me so far, in some respects. I had my askbox closed for a bit while I was busy managing other projects and some life stuff, and just when I reopened it with the intent of a nice big return, I got hit with what may have been the most stressful months of my life - which culminated in an unexpected moving of house, and the internet dropping out for nearly a month.

Not to dwell too much on frustrating stuff, but it was pretty upsetting to not be able to come back full force like I'd intended. I still want to get to people's requests, and finish up my set of Sinister Six strips, and also would really like to try streaming as a frequent thing.

So it's been a lot, and there are continuing things I'm managing, but I still enjoy developing this 'verse when I have the time, and to interact with folks here.

Ideally you'll see things pick up more steam in the near future. At the very least you should see more of the occasional design pop up. Glad for folks who continue taking a look :)

Keep climbin', keep swingin' 🕸🤟

[toshidou]

woe to the deer who is courted by the wolf . . .

pairing // könig x f!reader

word count // 7.2k

tags // 18+ ONLY, afab reader, vampire!könig, predator/prey kink, mentions of blood and injury, minor elements of horror (very minor), slightly misunderstood lonely vampire könig, unprotected sex, stomach bulge, rough sex, creampie, biting, blood sucking, blood play

an // after battling with writers block for over a month, who would have thought it'd take a blood sucking giant to free me from the shackles of having no inspiration? anyway this is the most i've ever written in one day, which is only slightly concerning. bone apple teeth!

thank you to @erosology for beta reading this, and forever being my number one hype man ;-;

Pale moonlight peaks through a frame of eerily still clouds, reflecting off the polished black steel planted in the ground at your feet. You can hear the whispers of your friends behind you, a little too old to be snickering and giggling behind the palms of their hands, although you’re entirely too old to have taken their bet in the first place. 

It started off as a simple reunion between old friends, a short trek into once familiar woods to the spot you used to set up base for the night, roasting marshmallows over a concerningly large campfire, sharing cliche horror stories whilst swaddled in blankets. This very night had gone about the same, until someone brought up the old manor. An imposing house that watches over the village that surrounds it, well kept and suspiciously pristine, withstanding the tests of time despite the fact that not a single soul has ever been seen to enter or leave the premises. 

It had been a longstanding dare, an easy way to get someone to down their drink, ‘I dare you to jump the fence and knock on the door’. No one has ever been stupid enough to go through with it, a couple tried, but got as far as the black iron that surrounds the perimeter before they gave up. And yet, here you stand, too many years later, an individual who should be both older and wiser than to commit several crimes for the sake of a stupid bet and childish curiosity, staring at that very same railing. 

You can hardly hear the whispered words of your friends from where they cower behind you, your eyes transfixed on the looming building that seemingly stares back at you from where you remain fixed at the bottom of the hill. Mahogany brick unblemished, barely touched by weather, towers three stories high, trimmed ivy crawling up the walls as though attempting to reach out to the moon that watches over it. Each window is blocked by scarlet wooden shutters, an old-fashioned touch for a house surrounded by new builds; looking at it now feels like taking several steps back in time. 

Not a single spec of light leaks through any crack in the shutters, each room bathed in darkness, the same way it always has. Surely, you think to yourself, surely no one can possibly be in there. Your theory has always been that the house is long since abandoned, its previous owner having died, looked after by a previously employed caretaker who hated to watch a building they loved go into disrepair. And although that doesn’t explain the suspicious lack of activity, it’s the only sane thought that you repeat to yourself as your fingers curl around sturdy black bars, and you begin to haul yourself over the iron fence. 

A moment later, and the dull thud of your feet hitting neatly trimmed grass breaks tense silence, your eyes meeting with several widened pairs through steel bars. It’s the furthest anyone’s gotten, and even now, you feel like you’ve gone far enough. It’s certainly not too late to change your mind, to do the sensible thing and throw yourself back into safety, and just as you’re contemplating backing out of the bet, you feel the hairs on your nape stand on end, a chill down your spine so sharp it causes a physical flinch. When you turn around, you’re met with the very same house, not a shutter or brick out of place, yet something, somehow, feels different. 

It’s like a siren call, luring you from the safety of your friends that remain frozen on the other side, hardly breathing as though they daren’t make a sound, apprehensive eyes focused on your shadowed form as you slowly make your way up the hill. It’s more daunting up close, no longer a silhouette against a twilight sky, now you can see details the distance has never gifted you, the way the wood shutters that plaster the windows are carved with swirls and intricate patterns, how the ivy hides bloomed flowers amongst pointed leaves, speckles of pink and purple that ease the tension that coils your muscles, only bolstering timid curiosity. And now you’re standing within feet of the house, you’re left in awe by the sheer size of it. It never seemed particularly small, not even from the gate, but the front door alone has you gulping down nothing but frigid air. You take a few tentative steps, eyes raking over the magnificent details carved into thick black oak, the centrepiece that catches your gaze being the solid gold knocker that sits just above your head, halfway up the door. 

Two hollow eyes stare back at you, a skull with two rams horns that curl from golden bone, and between its bared teeth lies a ring that rests against ebony wood. It stands out from every other detail of the house, a spine-tingling reminder of where you stand, echoes of the myths that surround this house whispered by your trembling conscience, and yet shaking fingers reach for the ring, curling around cooled metal before lifting it, preparing to knock. 

But you never get the chance, because in true horror movie fashion, you’re met with the slow creak of old hinges as the very door you stand before begins to open, and in the void of black it reveals, you swear you see two pinpricks of red that greet you in the darkness. Your entire body goes stiff, still clinging on to the gold loop of the knocker as though it’ll somehow ground you, yet it does nothing to chase away the overwhelming sense of impending doom that screams at you to turn, to run, to get as far away from this wretched place as your legs can take you.

You turn just in time to hear the worried calls of your friends before the door is yanked wide open, dragging you over the edge of the premises with it and sending you careening onto the floor, sliding against wood and scrambling up only to watch that very same door slam in your face. 

Frozen. Every single part of you remains stock still as you try to adjust to the darkness. Not even the moonlight dares follow you inside, leaving you alone to dart your eyes in the pitch black, searching for some semblance of light you can latch onto. Yet the house offers you nothing, and you can’t help but see red dots every time you dare close your eyes. In the moment of still you’ve been given, your brain reels as it tries to think of a logical explanation for the door seemingly dragging you into the house with no human in sight to operate it, and in your panic, you can’t help but pray that you’ve fallen asleep by the campfire, and this is all an elaborate nightmare you’ll be able to laugh about when you awake.

A creak from behind you sends you hurtling back into reality, a sure reminder that this is no nightmare, not one you can wake up from, at least. Your head whips to the side, terror freezing your muscles solid as you lock onto crimson orbs once again, so bright they can be seen even with the absence of light to reflect off them, your blood curdling in your veins as they remain fixed on you, unblinking. You scurry backwards, the sound of your back slamming against the solid wall behind you echoing through the dark, fingers curling against peeling wallpaper in a last-ditch attempt to find the door handle. 

Your pathetic scrabbling is interrupted by the harsh sound of a match striking against rough material, your eyes drawn to the responding flame it produces, but moreso, the large fingers that dwarf the stick they clutch. 

“What a curious thing you are.”

Each syllable rumbles through very walls, practically shakes the structure of the house, a low timber steeped with an accent you can’t quite place, but certainly isn’t local. You daren’t breathe, let alone move, not even when the ground creaks and shakes with every purposeful, creeping step the stranger takes towards you. The flame grows as the match is brought to a wick, the flame whittling away the wood until all that remains is twisted charcoal, before transferring to the candle, the dying fire roaring back to life, casting a flickering golden glow onto the one holding it. 

You’re met once again with red, but now you can see bleached tear tracks running from shoddy holes cut into black cloth, a mask fit for the monster that wears it, and as they stalk ever closer, you belatedly wonder how they’re going to navigate the stairs that must separate the two of you, certain that even someone familiar with a house must need more light in order to not fall. But they never begin their descent, and it’s only when the flame lies mere feet from you, yet so far out of your reach, you realise there are no steps. You’re face to face with a giant. 

Adrenaline douses you like a torrent of water, your widened eyes alert and stricken with obvious fear, yet you didn’t expect the gentle touch that encircles your wrist, lungs sucking in a stuttered breath as you stare into the hollow red of its eyes. Large fingers draw your arm upwards, moving your frozen limb with ease, until it’s stretched far above your head, your fingers bumping against the smooth wax of the candle the giant passes off to you. Your brain scrambles for words, screams against the shackles of your fear-addled mind, waiting to release a slew of incoherent pleas for your freedom, yet your lips remain firmly sealed.

You feel a weight in your trouser pocket, eyes darting down to see his fingers pushing a box of matches into the gap of the material, only for your gaze to snap back to him as he hunches down, the material of his mask flowing down as his torso towers over you. You’re left caged against the wall, nowhere to run as his face levels next to your ear. It’s silent for a few horrific seconds, until that same spine-chilling voice purrs one single word. 

“Run.” 

It’s as though all your body needed was the instruction, responding immediately as you tear away from him, feet slapping against hardwood flooring as you careen towards what vaguely resembles an entrance way. The flame flickers dangerously, threatening to leave you in the dark once again, your fingers curling around the candle, whispering prayers that it doesn’t snuff out, that it doesn't leave you alone with whatever stalks you in the pitch black. 

You don’t stop running until you reach a hallway, sprinting down the claustrophobic corridor until you finally reach an open door, rushing inside and pushing hefty wood until it clicks in place, sealing you within, safe for now. You hold up the candle to illuminate more of the room, watching as the soft glow bounces off a glinting gold frame and painstaking strokes of oil paint. An obscenely large portrait hangs on the wall in front of you, the image of a handsome man draped in fine purple robes, shoulder length brown hair pushed back with a crown of golden leaves. He sits in a chair, grand and crimson, lined with bronze, legs spread over the expensive velvet, one large hand curled over his thigh, the other propping his head up, his elbow resting against the arm of the chair in a way that can only be described as unbothered, and unamused. But the thing that has you utterly transfixed are the two red irises that stare right back at you, playful and taunting, and hauntingly familiar. 

Surely this isn’t the man under the hood, the one who dragged you into his house and watched you scramble out of his grip the second he told you to flee. Because why would a man so handsome hide his face? Why would someone who looks so young own a house that has stood at the centre of your small village for far longer than you’ve been alive? Nothing seems to make sense, not a single aspect of the past 10 minutes feels real, and you can only hope your friends saw what happened and ran to get help, because you’re not sure there’s a way for you to conquer this man alone. It’s as you’re floundering for answers that you hear a noise from outside the room, instincts taking over as you quickly hide under a small dining table and blow out the candle, praying you haven’t given yourself away. 

You’re not entirely stupid, you know the meaning of red eyes, and although you could attempt to soothe your psyche with whispered lies about contact lenses and make believe, you know better. The thing that chases you is no man, and certainly isn’t human, at least not anymore. And as terrified as you are, there isn’t a chance in hell you’re about to let yourself become this monster’s dinner. 

You sit in the darkness, clutching the smouldering candle to your chest, and wait. Ears alert as you listen for the slightest sound that might give away your hunter, a breath, a sigh, a scratch, you do little more than hope that your hiding spot remains occupied by you, and you alone. 

After a tense few minutes, picking up on no other sounds than the thrumming of your own heart, your fingers slowly make their way to your pocket, gingerly plucking the box out and pushing the case off. Despite the lack of light, and the trembling that consumes your body, you manage to fish out a match, and strike it, holding the newly lit flame to the wick of the candle. 

Bleached tears. Red eyes. Large fingers. Looming body.

“Boo.” 

The scream rips from your throat before your brain can catch up, the candle abandoned as it’s flung towards him in a last ditch attempt to throw him off, knees and hands protesting as they’re dragged along grooved wood, leaving grazes in their wake. The momentary pain isn’t enough to stop you, however, lungs heaving as you tear out of the room, clumsily bumping into walls and ornaments, impeded by the dark, motivated by sheer determination to live. 

Your decision to toss away the candle comes to bite you firmly in the ass the second you find yourself tumbling down a set of stairs, and in a move of sheer instinct your hands attempt to slow your fall, only for the skin of your palm to get caught on a loose nail, slicing the flesh and leaving you wailing as your body finally slows to a stop against the cold stone floor you now find yourself lying on. Every bone in your body hurts, aches, but is overshadowed by the sharp sear of white hot pain as you cradle your torn skin to your chest, warm rivulets of blood oozing down your wrist, tracking rivers of red down your forearm until you hear the steady drip, drip, drip of your blood hitting stone.

A light appears above you, a halo of pastel yellow emanating around black cloth, and within a second, the fight leaves you, slumping further into the floor as you accept your death, hoping none of your friends were stupid enough to follow you only to meet the same pitiful fate. 

“Please,” You mumble, voice finally found, entirely too late, “Just make it quick.” You hear little other than a hushed chuckle in response, a cat toying with its food. 

“I imagine it looks worse than it is, kleine maus.” 

You pause at that, curiosity ebbing through once more. You may not have paid enough attention to languages at school, but even in your state, you know enough to recognise those words.

“You’re German?” You mumble, fear forgotten in your shock-ridden state. The man shakes his head as he crouches next to you, extending his free hand towards the injured one you have secured to your torso, tittering again as you flinch. But you have little other choice than to let him pry your hand away, watching with wary eyes as he examines your sliced skin. He holds the candle closer to the wound, a soft tut passing his lips before he holds the candle towards you, urging you to take it with a gentle nod. 

“Austrian. But close.”

It all feels strange, foreign, as though you’re being lulled into a false sense of security just so he can tell you to run once again, laughing maniacally as he watches you bleed over his floor. The fear returns once you have the candle securely in your grip, eyes locked on the way his fingers curl around the material that hides his face, and begin to remove it. Inches of once cloaked skin is revealed, a defined chin melts away to pursed lips, a smattering of dark facial hair that frames his mouth and curls up his jaw, the material pulled further only to reveal a hooked nose, and two narrowed eyes that reflect the candlelight in a way not dissimilar to precious gems, rich and vibrant. Maybe it’s the shock, or limited blood loss, but you can’t help but marvel at just how pretty he is.

Of course, it doesn’t last much longer, not when survival instincts kick in, the realisation that your bloodied hand is now near the mouth of a creature that lives entirely off the thing that keeps you alive. But the grip on your wrist is ironclad, strong yet not uncomfortably so, a strange juxtaposition between monster and man as he cocks his head at your wound. With a nod, seemingly more to himself than you, you can do little more than cry out as you’re hauled over his shoulder, his arm secured tightly around your waist, the hood forgotten in a small puddle of your blood on the stone flags. 

It’s mere minutes later that he places you down on soft sheets, your body sinking into a plush mattress, left to watch him as he ambles around the egregiously large room, muttering foreign words under his breath as he roots through an ornate chest of draws. You must be in a fever dream, unsure how you went from running for your life, to being patched up by the very thing you were certain would kill you. And yet, here you are, watching as he almost awkwardly sidles to your seated figure, and kneels in front of you, once predatory eyes unable to hold your gaze as he sets out various medical items by your feet. 

“Your hand, may I see it?”

You present your palm to him, watching as his eyebrows knit together, giant hands placing tentative touches against your skin as though he’s concerned about hurting you, the thought of which does nothing to aid your spiralling confusion. But you say nothing, you simply watch as he takes a damp cloth and begins cleaning your cut, fixated on the way his eyes snap to you with every pained hiss and suppressed whine, picking up on the way he ensures each subsequent touch is a tad gentler than the last. It’s not too much longer until he’s wrapping your hand with bandages, making sure the gauze is tight enough to keep your blood in, but not enough to cut off circulation, the type of gentle care you never would have suspected from the giant at your feet. Your curiosity has increased tenfold, not a trace of fear left to lick at your nerves and render you speechless, replaced only by the overwhelming need to know more, to learn everything. 

“What’s your name?” 

It’s his turn to freeze, ruby irises briefly flitting to yours, rounded with surprise, before they snap back down, making himself busy as he gathers up a scattered array of bloodied cloth. 

“I… I have had many. The one most people knew me by was König.” It’s strange, the croon of his voice sounds almost nothing like the one whispered to you in the dark, from low and horrifying, to gentle, almost timid. You’re nothing short of fascinated, leaning forward as you scan over the contours of his face. 

“Why’d you drag me into your house and tell me to run?” 

“Why were you trying to knock on my door?”

Touché. 

Heat licks at the skin of your cheeks at his brazen reminder of your attempted trespassing, your uninjured hand coming to rub at your neck in lieu of a response. After a moment of silence, he sighs, deflating into the plush carpet below. 

“It has been a while since I last had any visitors. Your arrival was… Unexpected. You caught me off guard,” He pauses for a moment, pupils dilating as his fingers curl around the rags he holds in his hand, covered in your blood, “It has been even longer since I have been around fresh blood.” It feels surreal to have it confirmed, that the creature that sits before you is one you’ve seen only in movies and read in far-fetched romance novels. Yet, you feel no fear, that emotion all but vanished the second he halted everything just to care for an intruder's wound.

“My friends dared me to knock.” He cocks his head at that, a single eyebrow arching, bemused at your admission. “It’s been a dare for years, no one ever actually had the guts to do it.” 

“Until you.”

A pause, your head dipping forward in an unsure nod.

“Until me.” 

He’s staring at you unabashedly now, your eyes wandering over the rich details of the bedroom you reside in as an excuse to save yourself from his piercing gaze, an unreadable expression swimming in carmine eyes. 

“I am glad it was you.” 

You hate the embers of arousal that spark at his words, perturbed by your body’s reaction to seemingly innocent words spoken from a man you were sprinting away from less than an hour ago, and yet his eyes do nothing to put out the fire, intense and smouldering. You can’t bring yourself to look away, nor to quash the way your heart flutters as his torso leans closer to your thighs that subconsciously part to make room for him. The action doesn’t go unnoticed, nostrils flaring as sharp eyes zero in on the way your legs spread against silk sheets. 

“And why is that, König?” 

It’s as though you uttering his name opens the floodgates, black engulfing vermillion until only a sliver remains, thick fingers circling your shins as he leers further into the gap your parted thighs created, that same ravening stare that once sent fear trickling down your spine now leaves you gasping for breath for an entirely different reason. 

“Because I haven’t seen something as pretty as you for a very long time, and I don’t know if I have the strength to stop myself again, maus.” 

You couldn’t prevent the whispered whine of his name if you had tried, eyelashes fluttering as you move to curl your fingers in his shirt, giving pathetic little tugs to the soft material of his silk shirt, eyes dipping down to where loose material tucks into black pants. Your back arches, a shameless display of desire as you slide your body closer towards the edge of the bed, and further into his touch.

“Who said anything about stopping?”

Your words remain suspended in the air around you, two sets eyes locked onto each other, blown black with barely-suppressed lust, and yet you don’t dare to make the first move, waiting, wanting for him to shed his timid skin and swallow you whole, become the beast that stalked you through rooms just to feel the thrill of the chase. His hands leave your legs, instead balling up into tight fists against his own thighs, the skin around his knuckles taut as though restraining himself. For a mere moment, you fear he may have changed his mind, that is until he utters the word you craved to hear.

“Run.” 

You ignore the lingering ache in your joints, your thighs burning as you dash from the bedroom with renewed purpose, fuelled by the all-consuming thoughts of what’s to come, excited to finally be caught, a far cry from the unbridled terror that sent you scrambling before. This time, he makes no effort to prowl in the shadows, your heart beat soaring as the loud thuds of footsteps echo from behind, the floorboards quaking under your feet from the force of his steps. 

You know there isn’t a chance he’s running at full speed, but even then he catches you almost embarrassingly quickly, built arms encircling your waist and crushing you against his torso, bringing you to the floor in an instant, leaving you to writhe helplessly between his body and the floorboards. You don’t give in, however, limbs thrashing, nails clawing against whatever they can reach, whether it be the arms that pin you down, or the wood underneath you, feigning an attempt to escape. 

That is until you feel two sharp points dig into your nape, not enough to break skin, but the threat of it leaves you frozen under him, a doe caught in the wolf’s jaws. But you don’t fear the bite like wild prey would, somehow, you crave it, to feel his teeth sink into you, to let him lap at your blood and drain you near dry, anything just to feel like you’re his. 

The pressure of sharpened canines begins to lessen, his teeth slowly peeling back from your skin, although anticipating your body to begin thrashing once again. But you remain subdued, the embers now engulfed by crackling flames that lick at your nerves and set your skin alight. It’s only when his hips shift do you feel the tent in his pants pushing against the top of your thighs, your eyes fluttering shut as you push your ass down to grind shamelessly against his cock. 

“Temptress,” The word is almost incomprehensible through the growl that reverberates through his throat, a sound that gives away entirely how affected he is, rough and wanting. “You should be trembling beneath me from fear and yet…” 

His words trail off, a stuttered gasp replaces your heavy breathing when you feel sizeable fingers trailing down your sides before sliding under your body, cupping your inner thigh. Your heart hammers against your ribcage from the chase, now bolstered by the scandalous touch as his fingers skim past your clothed core, only catching onto the way his fingers curl into the material until it’s too late, hardly leaving you enough time to yelp before he’s tearing you bare below him. The tattered remains of your pants are haphazardly discarded, joined soon by the threadbare silk of your ripped panties, one of your favourite pairs torn in half with hardly an ounce of effort. 

“Yet here you are, schätzchen, quivering with need, dripping for the cock of the one that hunts you.” 

The rough pad of calloused fingers swipes against your exposed cunt, unable to suppress the heady whine that leaks past your agape lips, your forehead meeting the hardwood floor with a soft thump. That single touch renders you limp, muscles going lax as you melt into the glide of his fingers as they tease your folds, slowing on every up-stroke to rub slow circles against your clit. It’s maddening, the pace in which he picks you apart, leaving you to grind on his fingers like a wanton whore just to feel the surmounting pleasure that builds in response to his touch. A tut sounds from above, heavy breath cascading over your nape as his head dips down, lips dragging from neck to the shell of your ear.

“What a desperate little thing you are, maus, you know what we call things like you in my native tongue?” Your head shakes, a breathy ‘no’ muffled into the floor, “Schwanzschlampe, cock slut.” Embarrassment mixes in equal measure with arousal, curling one of your arms under your head to hide your face, the action short lived as strong arms flip you onto your back, one large hand gathering both your wrists together and pinning them above your head, exposed before him in every way. It’s undeniably more intimate in this position, your eyes given little other option than to lock onto his as his other hand continues to tease your dripping cunt, carmine swimming with unrestrained desire pinning you to the floor as effectively as his near crushing grip on your wrists.

“You can’t hide your pretty face from me, liebling, I want to see how much you crave my touch.” He presses his forehead to yours, low candlelight from lamps that line the corridor walls glint off the two long fangs that peak past reddened lips with every word spoken. And it’s seemingly your turn to catch him off guard, your head tilting upwards to push your lips to his, swallowing his surprised gasp down greedily, arching your chest to push against his. The kiss is desperate, messy, a combination of saliva drips down your chin, moans and rumbled grunts creating a symphony that drifts down the winding halls of his home. With a nudge, you ensure his eyes are locked to yours as you part your lips, your tongue curling over his teeth before brushing over the point of his elongated canine. 

With a push, you feel the sting as his fang just barely dips into soft flesh, a drop of blood beading at the surface before you push the muscle to his, locked onto the way his eyes roll to the back of his skull, the growl momentarily starting up again before his lips lock around your tongue, sucking at every morsel of blood that springs from the pinprick cut like a man starved. A man that has most likely been starved of blood directly from the source for more years that you’ve been alive. 

If you thought that you’d unlocked the beast within him before, the taste of your blood brings out an entirely new side. His lips part from yours, the crimson in his frenzied eyes transforming before you, as though enriched from just a taste of warm iron. You watch as his pupils dilate and constrict, each push and pull between black and red prove hypnotic as his eyes slowly begin to refocus, the colour to his irises seem dull in comparison to the bright vermillion flecked with gold that peers down at you, still wild with hunger, driven by need. 

The moment is broken mere seconds later when his head drops to your neck, sharpened teeth dragging along the throbbing pulse at the base of your throat, and just when you expect the bite, you’re left gasping for an entirely unrelated reason as your shirt comes apart against sharp enamel, shredded where it surrounds your naked torso, leaving you entirely bare. Yet all it takes is a singular glance to realise he remains fully dressed, not a single article shed. 

“König,” Your voice comes out strained, practically whining as though prepared to beg, “Let me undress you?” 

He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking up to you from under his lashes before the grip on your arms lessens, his legs folding under him as he rights himself into a kneeling position over your body. He suddenly seems unsure, maybe a little self-conscious as you lean up brushing your fingers over flowing pristine white silk, taking your time as you unfasten each button, never once letting your eyes stray from his. And despite the hint of bashfulness, he keeps his gaze pinned to you, a wary lion caught off guard by brave prey. 

After the last button falls undone, you let the tips of your fingers trace up revealed skin, before pushing the shirt from his shoulders, and watching as it billows onto the floor, exposing a defined chest highlighted by a smattering of scars that tell stories you could only dream of hearing. He’s nothing short of ethereal, otherworldly in every sense of the word, a behemoth of a beast, with the face of an angel. 

“You cover up a lot for a man as handsome as you are.” Your disguised question prompts a flinch, solid fingers clutching into fists at his side, but before you can rush to amend your words, he slumps, resigned to your curiosity. 

“I have garnered a reputation I do not wish to catch up to me. It is safer to keep myself hidden, maus.” You make a mental note if you somehow find yourself in his company after this night to ask him more, a carnal need to know everything that makes up the being knelt above you. But you tuck them away for now, refocusing your attention to the waistband of his trousers, deft fingers wasting little time undoing the silver clasp and dragging down the zip until the front peels open. 

“Good thing you don’t have to keep hidden in front of me, huh?” Your lips tug upwards into a playful smirk, your hands planting on the solid muscle of his chest before you’re pushing him backwards, letting his legs splay out either side of your now free body before easing both his pants and underwear down the corded muscle of his thigh, marvelling at each inch of skin revealed to ravenous eyes. His trousers join the crumpled mess of clothes that lay scattered across the floor, giving him no time to adjust to his new found nudity before your head is ducking down, tongue flitting out to lick a long strip from the base of his cock to the tip. 

Your enthusiasm is immediately rewarded with a faltered whine, watching from under your lashes as his head lolls backwards, trembling fingers coming to cup either side of your face. He’s big, his cock twitching against the defined muscle of his abdomen, thick and long, and nothing short of daunting. Yet you choose to focus on the way your pussy clenches around air at the mere sight of it, overwhelmed by the knowledge that you’ll understand what it is to be split open by him, to be fucked by him. Your tongue darts out once more to press against the tip, the small cut on the surface only just healed over, your spine shuddering at the dulled sting that follows as you begin to take the head of his cock between your lips, mouth stretched almost painfully around the girth. 

It does nothing to dissuade you, however, tears clouding your vision of his blissed out expression as you swallow him down deeper, hardly taking more than two inches before your throat spasms around him in protest, coaxing a throaty whimper from spit-shined lips that has your hand darting down to your clit, fingers rubbing desperate circles into soaked flesh. 

The following whine that reverberates around his cock swiftly gives you away, crimson eyes focusing in on the way your hand disappears between your thighs, before flitting back to the way your watering eyes remain locked to his, hissing out several curses in German at the sight of your lips wrapped around his straining cock. 

“Your mouth… Gott, your fucking mouth,” strong fingers guide your head off his cock, your lips separating from the tip with a lewd pop, strings of saliva and pre-cum connecting your lolled out tongue to his cock. “Need to fuck you, schätzchen, I can’t wait any longer, verdammte hölle—” 

You’re not given any warning before he’s pinning your back to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest and bending you in half, a feat you didn’t know you were capable of before his strong fingers moulded you into the perfect position to take his cock. Folded like this, you can’t help but feel like a doll in his hands, your height and weight rendered meaningless under the sheer size of the monster above you. Trepidation begins to simmer under the surface of your skin, trying to imagine just how your body could ever make room for him. 

But he doesn’t leave you much time to fret before his head falls to your thighs, thick fingers twitching from where they hold up your legs as his nose buries into your pubic bone. Long strands of brunette block your vision, startling as you register the feeling of something thick and wet pressing against your folds. 

“K-König!” Your cry prompts a responding groan from the man below you as his tongue licks firm stripes up the length of your cunt, glassy eyes drifting up to you as though intoxicated, drunk of the heady taste of your arousal. With a jolt, you’re left helpless to watch as one of his hands slides down your thigh, stuttering through another gasped moan of his name as you feel a single thick digit slide into the wet heat of your pussy, eyes watering at the stretch that merely one of his fingers provides. 

He doesn’t hold up, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking the second he feels your walls clamp around him, slowly easing your muscles into accepting a second finger, distracting you from the momentary pain by lapping his tongue against your engorged clit. But even so, taking two of his fingers feels like more of a challenge than any cock you’ve taken in the past, eyes rolling backwards as he begins to crook them within you, calloused fingers rubbing against the gummy walls of your cunt in a way that has you convulsing around him, warbled sobs hiccuping past your lips as you feel your first climax rip through your body. 

“One more, maus, I need you to take one more so I know I won’t hurt you.” 

Tears track down your face, still processing the intensity that just wracked your body, but you nod down at him anyway, rewarded with a gentle smile and whispered praise as he cautiously eases a third finger into you, pausing the second he hears a pained hiss after the first knuckle. He hums, placing tender kitten licks against your still throbbing clit, letting you push past tender overstimulation to help pull your mind off the burning stretch, refocusing your attention to the pleasure his mouth provides. 

“Doing so well, liebling, almost there…” His words are whispered against your glistening pussy, eyes firmly fixed on yours as he guides you through, until finally all three of his fingers are pushed to the hilt, cooed praise following immediately after. 

“König, need you, I need you inside of me, please.” Your sniffled plea evokes nothing more than a playful smile from him as he cocks his head to the side. 

“Am I not inside of you right now, maus?” His tone is teasing, words accompanied by a wiggle of the fingers that remain buried in your cunt, coaxing a depraved moan from your already raw throat. 

“Your cock, wan’ your cock so bad,” It takes a second to search for the word that sits on the tip of your tongue, your eyes sparking when it finally comes to you, “Bitte, König.”

It’s immediate, the way his fingers pull from your cunt and secure themselves back around your thigh, darkened rubies glinting with that same predatory stare you’re all too familiar with now. He wastes no time as the tip of his cock bumps against soaked folds, your fingers wrapping around his veined shaft as you guide him inside, mouth parting in a silent cry as the tip pushes past the first ring of muscle and leaves you breathless. 

There is no mistaking that three of his fingers gave you a mere taste of the stretch, belatedly wondering how on Earth he’ll fit amongst the tight walls of your cunt, and the other organs that surround it. But by some grace of God, he continues to move, inch after thick inch swallowed by your cunt as though it were made for him, a perfect match, the monster and his plaything, the predator and its ever willing prey. 

A rush of air finally fills your lungs once the dull slap of his hips meets your ass, unfocused eyes widening as you take in the protrusion of his cock, the bulge obscenely large where it stretches out your skin. 

“S’big, you’re so fuckin’ big, what the fuck—” 

Slurred rambles are cut off with a searing kiss, passionate and fiery as his hips begin to draw back, swallowing down frenzied curses as he slams back into you, setting a cruel pace right from the start. You never had a chance, you should have known, and yet you regret nothing as he pounds into your abused cunt, your cervix meeting the tip of his weeping cock with each forceful thrust, thick veins rubbing against the walls of your pussy and leaving you glassy eyed and cock-drunk. 

Mindless babbles flow from drooling lips, your neck drooping to the side as you hope your eyes convey your needs without resorting to incoherent words. But it takes little more than exposing your throat to him before his lips latch onto the flesh, sucking a line of bruises into your skin before finally settling over your jugular, the only pre-warning of the oncoming bite being the scrape of fangs before they’re puncturing skin, flooding your veins with a venom that has your toes curling, fingernails digging into the muscle of his back and dragging thick red lines against shuddering flesh. 

His pace never falters, hips still careening against yours as his lips suck around the two minute incisions, drinking down your blood with a thirst you’ve never witnessed. Whether it’s the subduing poison that flows through your bloodstream, or the shift of hips as his cockhead nudges the walls of your cunt in a way that has stars blooming behind your eyelids, you find yourself hurtling into another climax, whimpered cries and bloodied nails evidence of your earth-shattering orgasm. 

His lips finally part from your skin with a slick sigh, lips painted the most beautiful shade of crimson that drips down his chin, a line that marks your possession, evidence he’s consumed by you, drunk on you. And it’s as you lean down, your tongue dragging against the bloodied stubble of his chin, lapping up what remains of your scarlet ichor, that he finally succumbs to the pleasure, his cock jolting within you as he releases seemingly endless spurts of cum against your cervix, buried as deep within your body as biology will allow. 

Panted breaths intermingle as his forehead presses flush to yours, lidded eyes, now nearly entirely consumed by gold peers at you, an interesting mix of fascination and something that looks almost fond discernible in his gaze. You still have so many questions, intrigued and just a little bit obsessed with the man above you, yet it’s apparent that your feelings are far from unrequited, and one day, every question that burns at your tongue and begs for answers will be satiated. For now, you’ll bask in his looming presence and tender care, grateful to have found him in the first place, however unfortunate the initial meeting was. 

Just as his lips ghost against yours, the distant sound of creaking has you both freezing in place.

“H-Hello? You still in here?”

“... Scheiße.”

[zahri-melitor]

So I've read the opening story of Tim Drake: Robin.

The opening issue is solid, highlighting a lot of Meghan Fitzmartin's skills as a writer. She picked up threads neatly from her earlier stories, showed her hand to the audience, and did do a fair amount of subtle character work. If I'd picked it up with no background knowledge of the fandom conversation about the title, I'd have been very excited for where it was going.

I liked the links back to how part of what prompted Tim to move out was Bruce being fussy over Tim having been shot in the throat in Batman #125. That felt realistic and a nice little link between titles.

As far as a story goes: I didn't mind it. Parts of it were very obvious, especially when you clued into the themes - if I'd actually been reading it as it came out and had a month between issues for things to soak in, I probably would have been tapping my toes over the reveal of who Moriarty was disguised as.

I would like to specifically dunk on both Meghan Fitzmartin and Moriarty for the detective novel writer selections, because...hmm. Kinda misogynistic there. Fitzmartin uses 6 writers for this, and 6 specific stories/franchises:-

Edgar Allen Poe – Murders in the Rue Morgue

Mark Twain – The Stolen White Elephant

Arthur Conan Doyle – Sherlock Holmes

Raymond Chandler - Goldfish

James Gelsey – Scooby Doo

Wilkie Collins – The Moonstone

What do you notice about this list, that I immediately noticed? They're all men. Who is an immediate name that comes to mind, who even had public domain stories as of 2022, who probably should be on a list like that and who also has incredible influence over the direction of the genre? Oh, I don't know, maybe Agatha Christie? (Also Dorothy L. Sayers is also right there and available, but skipping Christie?)

And once she'd built up this "it's all the detective stories" premise, Fitzmartin then went for a book code (cool!) from non-existent books (not cool). If you've just spent all this time glorying in how this is all related to Specific Classic Detective Stories, why not...use a real book code and refer to their actual stories? You've already done it for the plots! Commit to the bit!

Also I spent a good chunk of issue #4 staring at the page going "Carol Donovan? You mean Deb Donovan's judge daughter who recently appeared in Mariko Tamaki's 'Tec run? Tim, how are you missing something this straightforward? Also she's dead?" and then it never came to anything. Maybe do a quick check if anyone else has been using the name you just invented for the story.

"I even tried making a new costume for myself. It doesn't fit." - I did find it interesting that Fitzmartin was once again playing with the "is it time to move on" themes for Tim that were popping up around here in various conversations. Especially given she had Tim and Dick relitigate their conversation from Urban Legends #10 and similar themes in DC:YJ. It does suggest to me that she was working her way around to getting Tim into a new identity, but cancellation has once again left that in the 'not happening' basket.

In terms of the art: Riley Rossmo was the wrong pick for the title, but I do see the thought process that led into him getting the nod for the opening story, given the whole claymation villain set. It was very 2D animation style. I don't mind Rossmo (and interestingly he's developing a whole line up of detective stories he's done art for, given he's also had a Martian Manhunter book and got Wesley Dodds, he did one of the Batman/The Shadow crossovers...) but his highly malleable art style loses a lot of background detail or makes what is there harder to parse.

I did very much appreciate the way Rossmo drew Tim's detective work, though. I liked the technique for highlighting details and clues, and it actually very much reminded me of how some computer games present clues (including how it's done in Gotham Knights, in fact).

I know everyone has said this, but Bernard needs to develop a personality AND to commit to whether or not he knows Tim is Robin. Because sort of hinting that he knows, while Tim worries about hiding things from him, but not actually confirming either way is only really acceptable if you actually do build up to a big reveal moment where the whole drama has been paid off.

I did appreciate that MegFitz had clearly taken feedback and returned one of Bernard's two pre-existing personality traits (conspiracy theorist who thinks the Bats are urban legend cryptids), because one of the weaknesses of using Bernard, a side character with 6 preboot appearances, is that at lot of his existing personality was sketched in. He was a conspiracy theorist, and he desperately wanted to be popular but wasn't, so he presented himself as having a Cool Guy's Personality (see: 'your step-mom is hot'). Now, Meghan Fitzmartin wants us to read into that second trait as a facade that Bernard was putting up to deal with the fact he was gay and hiding it, probably even from himself, at the time. Which, fine, it's a perfectly reasonable reading of Bernard (and to her credit, MegFitz has Bernard spell it out a little on page in TD:R), but the problem is...you've just lost one of the two identifiable traits of 'Bernard' and it hasn't been replaced with anything else. And while 2004 in comics was still trying to hold onto the Urban Legends reading for the Bats to an extent (though it was failing), 2022 comics has so long since abandoned it that Bernard having kooky theories about Batman's connection to Mothman or whatever is very...why?

And because both of these pre-existing personality traits are under strain from the context, it really is sort of necessary to give Bernard something else about him for people to latch onto for his personality. And it doesn't really seem to be there yet (as of #6). It's the same complaint that people have about Jon/Jay and a whole host of other partners for recently out superheros: they're generically pleasant, supportive and bland, with about the depth of a mirror. Give me some of the toxic drama the 30 year old lesbians are allowed. Where is my breakup over custody fights with an ex and one of the two getting seduced by a vampire.

[tossawary]

A handful of random thoughts about the "Ultraman: Rising", with some vague, marked spoilers here and there:

I like the fact that they didn't explain kaijus or where Ultraman came from. After so many superhero origin stories where we have to be slowly introduced to the existence of the supernatural, it's refreshing to get dropped in the middle of a "second-gen" (unclear how many generations of Ultramen exist in this universe so far) superhero's story. The movie isn't apologizing for its genre or its premise. It just goes, "Yeah, you know what a superhero is and what a kaiju is, so let's go already. No, we're not even really going to explain how Ultraman's powers work. That's not what this is about!!! It it about our protagonist's daddy issues!!! Keep up!!!"

If I think about the world building, I do have some questions, like who built the protagonist's fancy tech house that's also a superhero base, but it's not too important. I assume his dad built it and then moved out to give his kid space? OR: "Why do the kaijus seem to attack this place specifically?" This movie works mostly because it's like "this is classic superhero stuff and we're just not dwelling on the logistical setup too much"! It leaves you to fill in some blanks on your own or just suspend your disbelief, which works.

The pacing was a little weird in places and the movie does get a little ridiculous in parts, I'm never quite sure of what the capabilities of these characters are, but it's a superhero vs. kaiju animated movie and that's to be expected. I still enjoyed myself well enough.

A few of the character designs didn't super work for me, like the big-headed kid characters. The kaiju baby is maybe a little too cutesy, but she was very cute and I've forgiven them because they didn't shy away from babies being gross. (There is... A LOT of baby kaiju vomitting.)

I did really like some of the other character designs. I liked the protagonist's big nose and pierced ears and bangs falling in front of his sharp face; he looks like such a dirtbag pretty boy. I like the lean in the industry right now towards more stylized and geometric 3D character designs in general, because I think that the shapes are fun and they'll age better this way.

Dirtbag guy to single dad is a winning story formula, huh.

They did a lot of 2D-style effects in this movie that I thought looked fun. I dig that trend in the industry right now as well. Some of the scenes were a little clean, almost bare, in terms of environmental design, but the colors generally looked great. Some of the scenes were really bright and vibrant and pretty.

(Mild vague spoiler?) There's no romance in this movie, which was surprising when they definitely set up a female journalist in the position for a love interest. No, it's a "strangers to friendly acquaintances" relationship for them. The female journalist is also a single mother, which was interesting, because you don't get a whole lot of career-minded single mother love interests in animated movies.

(Unimportant spoiler:) She told the protagonist to his face that she thinks he has daddy issues. Not stated quite like that, of course, but it was pretty funny. She was also right about that.

The emotional focus in this film was instead about the protagonist, Kenji, repairing his relationship with his father and also taking care of the kaiju baby. Kenji's only friend and co-parent for a chunk of the movie is an AI assistant (Mina) his parents made.

(Unimportant spoiler:) Stumped by an issue, Kenji makes a frustrated comment about how maybe he should ask Siri instead. Shortly after, in response to a different statement, the AI assistant Mina makes a passive-aggressive comment about how maybe he should ask Siri instead. I found that pretty funny.

(Mild spoiler:) Ultraman in this universe is a known and popular superhero and has been for decades. At one point, the baby kaiju gets out into the city, and Kenji has to go get her before she gets hurt or hurts someone else, and he publicly tells her to "Come to Daddy." And this is overheard by a bunch of nearby civilians, who gasp loudly. It is quite funny. It doesn't really come up again, but even if that wasn't recorded, you just KNOW that the news and the internet went wild over that revelation. "Ultraman had a baby with Gigantron???!!!"

(Another mild spoiler:) At one point, Kenji asks the female journalist for some parenting advice, and she IMMEDIATELY asks him if he has a secret love child. (No one is quite sure why this baseball star suddenly came back to Japan from the U.S., as they don't know he's Ultraman.) Kenji denies it, but I'm pretty sure that she must still think that he does.

(Continuing:) Kenji's baby kaiju parenting struggles (along with his ego) are fucking up his baseball career, due to stress and lack of sleep and conflicting commitments. We aren't shown a lot of interactions with his team, but I desperately hope that he also asked a couple of his teammates for parenting advice or something, so that his team could also immediately assume that he has a secret love child.

Like, "Yeah, yeah, Kenji Sato's secret love child, we all know about it. The poor kid is really bad at hiding it. We're trying to keep it hidden from journalists for him, but the whole team knows he's a new dad, for sure." (They do not know that Kenji is Ultraman and the baby is a kaiju.)

All in all: this movie was fun! Very silly, but cute! I think that I might try to pick some other "Ultraman" shows or films out of the dozens that exist, and try some of those ones out. The property seems to exist in a similar vein as "Transformers" where Rule of Cool rules world building and canon is whatever the newest iteration wants it to be.

[rayshippouuchiha]

Had a Thought™ about KHR. (excuse spelling mistakes because I WILL be making them)

So the giglio Nero family canonically has the strongest skies right? Like this matrilineal family of Skies has, as far as we know, always held the strongest skies in existence. It doesn't matter who they have a kid with, their first kid is 1) always a girl (far as we know) 2) an insanely strong sky 3) has some type of foresight.

So my thought (story idea/premise IG). Nana is descended from this family in some probably convoluted distant way. This could explain her space cadet behavior. She is LITERALLY not mentally present in the, well present. But she's enough removed from the family line that what she's seeing is probably really confusing and has little resemblance to reality. Also, let's be honest, if you're seeing visions of an alternate or possible future existence and aren't aware what that is about? You probably think there's something wrong with you. To the point you probably instinctively disregard A LOT of things that would be odd or concerning because well, they don't make sense so are probably made up. (Nana basically taking masking to the extreme meaning she doesn't notice/pay attention to the Flame and Mafia stuff because nobody else around her notices/talks about it. So it's probably Not Real)

And then she meets Iemeitsu. Who let's be honest, also has something DEEPLY wrong with him. ( A sky with no guardians? When that's what they DO?! Something is wrong with him on a literal soul deep level.) But he just acts like a mildly eccentric goofy guy, who otherwise is Normal™. So Nana gets attached to him, because she sees something similar in him. And she ignores anything pretty obviously WRONG because well, it's not REAL is it? She's just seeing things again. Plus of course Iemeitsu can't act Normal™ all the time, SHE struggles with that and that's something else she feels they have in common. (Very much modeling the fact that neurodivergent people tend to gravitate towards each other, and ignore stuff that's 'not normal', because for them normal isn't a thing that exists.)

And then they have Tsuna. An insanely powerful Sky child (I think there's mention of him possibly being the future sky acrobaleno at some point? Might just be fanon tho) who from a pretty young age has Hyper-Intuition.

Nana probably assumes her son has inherited her problems regarding seeing non-existent things. She probably ignores the general weirdness of Iemeitsu bringing his boss home and her son changing entirely after the visit, because she can't figure out a logical reason for Tsuna to change, so OBVIOUSLY there can't be anything wrong there, he's just going through a growth spurt!

Tsuna gets bullied in school? Well, so did Nana growing up. The fact the teachers are in on it? Not outside her perception of reality, because that's just how people treat those who are different, who can't 'Act Normal ™'. The problem of course here is that this behavior was Normal™. She was gaslit into believing this was expected and tacitly encouraged by society.

But, there's that little part that's still a mother, and doesn't understand WHY people act like this, and SURELY it's NOT Normal™ for people to treat her son like this!? It can't be reality! Right?! So obviously it's something ELSE her brain is making up, so something she should ignore entirely!

It would take ..... A LOT to have her come to terms with the fact that all that stuff she was convinced wasn't really happening, and just something else her brain was lying to her about, is actually reality. She's closed herself into a teeny tiny box of what she considers reality and anything outside of that obviously ISN'T.

ohoho now this is an interesting take on Nana that I've never seen before and it's so fucking cool

[wolfsbane-if]

Hey just so you know, the two wolves meme originated from a racist invention falsely attributed to many indigenous folk! no need to publish this ask, just thought you should know! Love the if and its premise btw!

Thanks for the heads up! This prompted me to do some research, and here's what I found:

More specifically, the "wolf you feed grows stronger" story (or, at least, the most popular version) most likely originated with Christian pastor Billy Graham in the 1960s and 70s, who first falsely attributed it to Inuit people, then changed it to Cherokee after being publicly ridiculed. The wording has also changed over time to omit most of the details, such as the colour of the wolves involved or the fact that there were ever physical wolves at all.

In my research, the general consensus I've seen is that, while you should not share the original story unironically, the meme version is A) dunking on the original concept and its author by taking the moral to ridiculous and/or nonsensical places, and B) so far removed from its original context and wording that it's often treated as a separate thing entirely, with many of the affected people looking on the meme-fied versions neutrally or even favourably.

If my understanding here is incorrect, however, then I apologise and will refrain from referencing it in the future.

[cripplecharacters]

Feel free not to answer this question as it's more a research-type question, I'm just not sure how to go about finding what I need: do you happen to know any fiction books with portrayals of medium to high support autistic people that are considered realistic and positive? All I can find is rep of low support autistic ppl (unless it's in semi-educational children's books) and it's making it harder to figure out how to write medium to high support autistic ppl myself.

Hello!

When I was diagnosed, it was before the levels were used (Or at least before they were used where I lived). I suspect that I would be considered 'level one autistic' today but would likely have been 'level two', bridging into 'level three' as a child. This is all just to explain my perspective with this.

That being said, here are some of my recommendations:

A Step Toward Falling by Cammie McGovern

I just finished this book earlier today and while it isn't specifically about autistic characters, it does feature several autistic characters with high support needs as well as other disabled characters. The book is written from the perspective of two characters, one of which is developmentally disabled (Belinda). Although her disability is never specified, I do see a lot of autistic traits in Belinda. The premise of this book is a bit heavy. It's about two characters (Who are not disabled) who end up volunteering at a centre for adults with developmental disabilities. One of the things I appreciated about this book was how well rounded the characters are. Each of them has their own stories, interests, and ideas. I also like how it discussed sex and relationships in the context of people with developmental disabilities. Something to note is that this does have some sensitive topics such as ableism, sexual assault, and bullying. It is also written by a parent of an autistic child but, as far as I'm aware, the author herself is abled. I did have some conflicted feelings about specific parts of it but I'll leave that for you to make your own decisions about. Target Audience: Young Adult

How to Speak Dolphin by Ginny Rorby

I also read this book recently and I personally really disliked it. There were several scenes that made me feel very gross and I found that the autistic character was dehumanized very often. One line that stuck with me was another character about a blind character, essentially saying, "I thought she was going to drown herself. If I was blind, that's what I would do." Although the character does get to know the blind character and changes her mind, it really felt awful to read and seemed so unnecessary -- especially given the target audience. The way it talks about blindness in general bugs me. That being said, I have seen several autistic people recommending the book (Which was why I read it in the first place) so I'll include it here anyways since my opinion seems to be in the minority around this book. Target Audience: Elementary/Middle Schoolers This is a brief review from another autistic person. [Link]

Planet Earth is Blue by Nicole Panteleakos

This book centers around Nova, a young autistic girl with high support needs. Nova is a foster child who is missing her older sister and the story is told through a mix of narrative, letters to Nova's sister, and flashbacks. It's been a while since I've read this book but I remember really enjoying it (And maybe crying a little bit too). The author is autistic herself and also consulted many other autistic people with a variety of experiences, which I appreciated. Target Audience: Middle Schoolers This is a more in-depth review on the book from a reader who (I believe) is also autistic. [Link]

These are also a couple books that I've seen recommended but can't personally recommend as I haven't read them myself yet:

Real by Carol Cujec

Remember Dippy by Shirley Reva Vernick

I know it's not very much but hopefully it's enough to get you started! If anyone has any recommendations for anon, feel free to mention them in the notes.

Cheers,

~ Mod Icarus