#as in just taking a different character's perspective on the same few weeks

[zincbot]

i started watching win or lose i really like it

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 002. the assignment.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.9k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: chapter twooooo oh my god im so excited for this chapter AUGH IT FELT SO GOOD writing this !! this is when things get GOOOODDDD and im ao HUHUHUHUHU to hear yalls thoughts!! hehe. i hope you like it! <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

You don’t expect to see him here.

The planetarium is dimly lit, the soft glow of projected constellations swirling lazily across the domed ceiling. You hadn’t planned on coming—it was a last-minute decision. Yet, the vastness of space, even simulated, has always steadied you.

But then—

"Of course."

The voice, low and wry, edged with dry amusement, is unmistakable.

You turn.

Anaxagoras is standing just a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes reflecting the cosmic sprawl above. He isn’t wearing his usual academic robes—just a simple, well-fitted dark tunic beneath a long coat, the fabric settling neatly against his frame. He looks different like this. Less like a scholar. More like—

Well. More like a man. 

"I didn’t take you for a stargazer," he says, voice measured, gaze still fixed on the cosmos above.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you, professor."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I do prefer the certainties of physics over the whims of celestial bodies."

"Ah," you hum. "So no fate, no destiny. Just equations and probability."

"Precisely." His gaze flickers up, tracking the slow rotation of the star map. "Though I will admit, there’s a certain poetry to the illusion of it all."

You glance up as well. Orion looms overhead, his belt gleaming sharp and clear. "Illusion?"

"These constellations," Anaxagoras murmurs. "They don't exist as we see them. Stars scattered across thousands of light-years, their arrangement nothing but a trick of perspective. We only think they belong together because of our vantage point." He says, after a pause, “The human mind imposes meaning where there is none.”

Your lips curl. "That’s kind of sad."

He tilts his head. "Is it?"

"Yeah," you say, watching the artificial night swirl overhead. "Thinking you're part of something greater, only to realize it's all a trick of perspective."

For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches you, thoughtful. Then—

"Perhaps," he concedes. "But perspective is all we have."

You glance at him again, but his expression is unreadable. 

There’s always been a distance to him that he maintains… almost religiously.

The hush of the planetarium stretches between you, the weight of his regard heavy. You’re not sure what it is that makes your skin feel so warm, your breath so shallow.

So you do what you do best. You challenge him.

"If constellations are an illusion," you say, "then what of all the truths we believe to perceive?"

His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

You don’t look away.

"We only think things are connected because of our vantage point," you continue, your voice quieter now. "So how do we know if any of it actually means anything?"

Another beat of silence. Then, slow and deliberate, he says—

"We don’t."

Your chest tightens, though you don’t know why.

For a moment, it feels like that’s the end of it. Like you���ll both turn away and let the conversation dissolve into the simulated cosmos above.

But then—

Anaxagoras steps closer.

Not much. Barely enough to notice. But enough that when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Measured.

"We don’t," he repeats, as if the weight of it matters. "But sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

You don’t know what to say to that.

You’re early to class.

Not by much, but enough to claim your usual seat and settle in before the lecture hall fills. Enough to shake off the strange tension that’s been humming beneath your skin since the planetarium.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A conversation wrapped in stardust and metaphor, just another verbal sparring match. Anaxagoras challenged you. That’s all.

But it lingers.

It lingers in the way your heartbeat picked up when he stepped closer. In the way his words—so measured, so precise—felt heavier than they should have. In the way his gaze held yours just a fraction too long, as if entertaining the illusion wasn’t just about the stars.

You exhale, flipping open your notebook. Focus.

The room fills, a murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs against stone. Then, just as the hour strikes, he enters.

Anaxagoras walks with the same deliberate grace he always does, his robes sweeping behind him. But today, as his eyes scan the lecture hall, they pause. Just briefly.

On you.

Something flickers across his expression—gone before you can name it. Then he looks away, moving towards the podium.

"Good morning," he says, voice smooth, effortlessly commanding. "Let’s begin."

You should be taking notes. You should be focused on the equations he’s sketching onto the board, the elegant arc of chalk gliding across the surface. Instead, you remember his voice in the dark, low and certain—

"Sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

Damn him.

You press your pen to the paper, forcing your attention forward.

"Consider the nature of causality," Anaxagoras continues, turning back to face the class. "An event—any event—can be traced backward through a series of causes. But the perception of these events is often subject to our vantage point."

A pause. Then his gaze flickers to you, deliberate.

"One might argue that meaning is an emergent property. That cause and effect are simply the mind’s way of drawing constellations between unrelated points."

Your fingers tighten around your pen.

Is he—?

No. No, you’re imagining things. He’s lecturing. That’s all.

And yet.

His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away, continuing as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just lace the entire moment with subtext so thick it might as well be its own theorem.

Your pulse is ridiculous. You need to get a grip.

The lecture moves on, but now you’re watching him differently. Not just listening, but observing. The way he gestures, the way his mind moves faster than his words, the way his lips quirk slightly when a student offers an answer that surprises him.

You’ve spent weeks admiring Anaxagoras for his intellect. Respecting him as a professor. Arguing with him for the sake of curiosity.

And...

Well, there'a no point dwelling on it, is there?

By the time the lecture is nearing its end, you’ve barely written anything coherent.

Your notes are a scattered mess—half physics, half what the hell is going on? The worst part? Anaxagoras knows. He hasn’t called on you once today, which is unusual. He always prods, always challenges. But today, he’s let you stew in your thoughts, like he’s letting you chase your own tail. 

Infuriating man.

"Before we conclude," he says, dusting chalk from his fingertips, "your next individual assignment."

The room collectively stiffens.

Anaxagoras turns from the board, his gaze sweeping over the lecture hall. Ilias straightens immediately, feigning deep intellectual engagement. You suppress a smile.

"As we’ve explored, physics attempts to model reality through observable forces," Anaxagoras continues. "But what of the forces we cannot measure? What of the unseen variables?"

Ilias perks up at that, intrigued. "Is he finally acknowledging my suffering?"

You elbow him. "Shut up, he’s setting up the assignment."

"Your task," he continues, "is to examine a concept often deemed metaphysical—fate, intuition, divine intervention—" He lifts his gaze, letting the weight of his words settle. "And construct a framework to explain its existence. Or—" his voice sharpens— "prove its impossibility."

A murmur ripples through the students. Anaxagoras doesn’t tolerate pseudo-science in his lectures, so the fact that he’s even entertaining this angle is unexpected.

It’s a trap, and everyone knows it. He’s handing you something abstract, intangible, and expecting you to apply cold logic to it. A thought experiment designed to test whether you’ll break under paradox or force the universe to make sense.

You listen, absorbed—until Ilias leans in again, whispering, "If I were to quantify the force that compels me to sleep in class instead of studying, do you think he’d accept it?"

You stifle a laugh. "I think he’d call it laziness and fail you on principle."

"Damn. Guess I’ll have to go with my second option."

"Which is?"

He grins. "Manifesting an equation that proves I am, in fact, always right."

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. "I’d pay to see you argue that with him."

As if on cue, Anaxagoras glances your way, sharp-eyed.

"Would either of you care to share your insights with the class?"

Ilias, ever the survivalist, doesn’t miss a beat. "We are discussing emergent properties of intelligence, professor."

Anaxagoras arches a brow, unimpressed. "A phenomenon you’ve yet to personally demonstrate."

The class chuckles. You shoot Ilias a look.

"Walked right into that one," you murmur.

Ilias sighs. "Yeah. That’s on me."

His gaze sweeps the class. "You may choose any concept, but your reasoning must be sound. Sentimentality will not be rewarded."

A collective groan. Someone mutters something about dropping the course.

You, however, are too focused on the way he’s looking at you.

He knows you’ll take this further than anyone else. He wants you to.

Then—

"Stay after class," he says smoothly, as if it’s nothing. "I need a word."

You feel the shift immediately. A few students glance between you and him, intrigued. You school your expression, pretending it doesn’t affect you.

"Yes, professor." you say.

He nods, then dismisses the class.

Chairs scrape against the floor. Students file out, some grumbling about the assignment, others already debating what concept they’ll choose. Someone lingers near the door for a second too long, clearly hoping to eavesdrop, before sighing and leaving.

Then it’s just you and him.

Anaxagoras exhales softly, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders before turning to face you fully.

"I’m altering your assignment," he says.

You blink. "What? Why?"

His lips quirk slightly, but there’s something intent in his eyes. "Because the standard prompt is beneath your abilities."

You swallow. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s been paying attention.

"Your mind doesn’t just follow logic," he continues. "It challenges it. So I’m giving you something worthy of that."

You exhale, half-exasperated. "Fine. What’s the twist?"

Instead of answering right away, he steps past you, picks up a book from his desk, and flips it open. When he finds the page he’s looking for, he turns it toward you.

It’s a diagram. A branching structure of choices, converging and diverging like neural pathways.

"Your peers will be arguing for or against metaphysical forces." His voice is measured. "You, however, will go one step further."

He closes the book, meeting your gaze.

"Instead of proving or disproving their existence, I want you to model one."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

His smirk is subtle, but there. "You heard me."

"You want me to… what, exactly? Build a mathematical model for something physics doesn’t even acknowledge?"

"Why not?" he challenges. "If intuition exists, quantify its mechanism. If destiny is real, define its parameters. If the soul endures, find the equation that governs it."

Your fingers twitch at that.

That’s—

That’s significantly more difficult than the original prompt. You’d have to rethink everything from the ground up. 

The soul?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You really don’t like making my life easy, do you?"

His smirk deepens. "Where’s the fun in easy?"

You hate that he’s right.

And worse—you hate that you like that he knows you well enough to give you something harder. Something that will actually make you think.

Your pulse is an uneven rhythm as you meet his gaze. "Alright," you say.

He nods once, satisfied. "Good."

For a moment, neither of you move.

"You’re dismissed," he says, voice softer.

You hesitate. Then turn, heading toward the door.

Just as you step through the threshold, his voice reaches you, quiet but deliberate.

"Don’t disappoint me."

You don’t look back.

But you do smile.

-> next.

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[riverbends]

SECRETARY AU (jack abbot x f!reader)

part one: the blouse | mdni | MASTERLIST

tags: sexual content, mentions of smut, power imbalance, age gap, angst, perv jack, perv reader, dubcon elements??, masturbation wc: 5.6k cat says: this fic is a deviation from the source material, although i will include some of the other characters who play different roles in the story. i also initially wrote the entire thing as an abbotmohan fic and i spent so long deciding if i wanted to keep it that way. i changed all the pronouns and verb tenses to see how it looked and now i can’t be bothered to change it back to abbotmohan but also i think im okay with this anyway. i've planned a different fic for them. i’m also pretty much basing this off of the film secretary and i’m not familiar with the american healthcare system (if that still...even exists today...) so I’m just drawing things from an australian perspective (yeah ew). thaaaaaaank you bye

Five days a week. From 7 AM until only God knows when. Supposed to be 5 PM. Most of the time, 7 PM. On the rarest occasions, 8 PM. If you didn’t get paid overtime, you’d complain about it more. Not to him, obviously.

You never really share anything with him, much less your grievances. Nor does he, save for a random but contextual anecdote from his life in relation to a patient he’s just seen or maybe a very brief retelling of an encounter he had with somebody on the way to the practice.

Apart from that, the two of you tend to keep to yourselves when he isn’t giving you tasks or instructions for correspondence. A few glances when he enters the waiting room, some tight smiles at the reception. No lingering, no small talk, no jokes (it rarely occurs to you that you might be the one avoiding any interaction possible).

Though, to your embarrassment, he does seem to foster a habit of saying something very normal and, arguably, platonic in such a way that sends an agonising heat searing through your belly. This is only an embarrassment on your part because it feels nearly impossible to hide the effect he has. The dewy, sticky mess he leaves underneath your skirt with only a few words in a warm, hushed tone.

He has never indicated any awareness of this apprehension—at least, not to your knowledge—but you fear the patients might catch your eyes lingering on his back as he walks away. Your mouth drawn in tight, eyes shining under furrowed brows as you endure a throbbing ache down south.

The same praises you whisper at night against your sheets while you work yourself up, and up. Fingers pruned, sore—

Fear they might hear your heart punching your ribs or, God forbid, the soft chafe of your stockings against your skin as you squeeze your thighs together.

Thank you, doll.

What would I do without you, honey?

A whole year of casual praises and brief compliments.

You swear there’s something tucked between those words, something that tears away all the lights and the patients and the furniture. Like his voice dissolves the waiting room, sponging up the sludged air until your blood runs in your ears. Only you, in your chair. Him, standing at your side, mere inches away.

Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot

Perhaps, he doesn’t mean it the way you think he does and it only sounds different to you, and you unprofessionally engineer unspeakable fantasies when you shouldn’t be…and you are unfit for this job and maybe you need to leave for good and hopefully you’ll forget the smell of him whenever he leaned over your shoulder.

Robust cologne. Blade slicing through fruit; bleeding sharp, heady wine—

Your name is called.

Out of focus, your eyes flit up. Frank stands behind the counter holding a takeaway box over the top of the glass case displaying sandwiches, pastries, and cookies.

“Oh,” you stop fiddling with the button of your coat and step forward, returning the smile. “Sorry, Frank. Thank you.”

“No need,” he laughs as you take your order from him. “I’d be out of it too if I sat at that desk all day.”

Internally, you grimace. You don’t even really mind the desk job. The paperwork, the phone calls, the patients, the hospital correspondence, the tidying, the pay, the hours of nothingness. You are good at this. Well-rehearsed and comfortably attuned.

It’s the dread that pulls you into wanton lapses, into daydreams. No, ‘dread’ just gives the feeling an ugly suit. It isn’t so much dread as it is anticipation. The anticipation is ugly. For what, you don’t want to admit. It even borders on hope, and it’s pathetic.

From hopping on the bus with a flame in your belly to opening the practice at 7 AM while your head spins to waiting for Dr Abbot to appear at the door half an hour later to bracing yourself for his greeting to expecting a task from him to imagining how his thumbs would pry apart your labia minora, nice and wide, so he can slot his tongue—

To secretly hope for whatever you are secretly hoping for. Yes, you do feel quite out of it.

“It’s not so bad,” You smile, shrugging. “Although, I sort of envy you. I’d kill for free lemon slices after every shift.”

“Okay, you know I don’t get free stuff every shift,” Frank raises his hands as if in surrender, “but all you have to do is ask.”

Two months after you initially got the job at the practice, you were already a regular at the café off the corner. You know all the employees, but it’s always been Frank Langdon who's given you discounts and, of course, the occasional freebie. Maybe he flirts a little sometimes and maybe you flirt back. It’s fun, you can’t lie. You also can’t ignore his momentary glances slipping below your eyes, settling on the valley of your breasts.

The blouse was a bad idea. You knew it the moment you buttoned it up this morning. There must be some kind of dress code that warns against it, but you’ve been having little to no sense these past few months anyway.

The sweet, silken pink flatters the slope of your waist with seven magenta buttons stopping right up at the source of Frank’s inhibited attention. Your breasts aren’t on complete display but anyone with eyes can make out the soft cleave between them, despite your many futile attempts to tug the fabric over the middle of your chest.

(A deviant part of you wore it for Dr. Abbot).

“Will do,” you salute before heading for the door.

Dirty. That is the recurring adjective.

Dirty, old man, Robby had once playfully mocked Jack in response to the small and, in his opinion, insignificant confession about you. Jack didn’t even say anything bad enough to warrant that kind of epithet. Definitely nothing as bad as the things he thinks about. Only that, sometimes, the way you look up at him from your chair puts his stomach in knots. And that, of course, you are pretty.

He didn’t dare mention that the look—the gleam in your eyes when you peer up at him, as if you are lost; unmoored. Like you need guiding and, oh, does he want to guide you—sends him over the edge. That his pants suddenly feel taut over his crotch when your mouth parts ever so slightly. A few warm breaths away from his twitching cock.

Dirty, old man.

Jack harbours a medley of perverted reveries, all of which are the fruit of a desire that has burgeoned from the moment you walked in for the job interview a year ago. He remembers it like it was only yesterday.

It had rained that day. Heavily, and evidently. You hadn’t anticipated the bucketing showers. The bus stop was a fair walk away, so it made complete sense that your hair was dripping and plastered to the sides your neck. Drops of water trailing down your temple, slipping over your throat to settle on your clavicle. You apologised profusely for the state of yourself while Jack tried not to stare at the imprint of your bra through your soaked shirt.

You scrambled for any and all explanations for your late arrival when Jack simply said your name, mouth softening into a half smile at the sight of your stunned, wide eyes. Said it like he had known you for years. You shut up. He had already made up his mind.

It’s still a mystery to you, how you ever got the job in the first place. But you needed it too badly to ask why at the time. Your résumé had listed an odd number of administrative jobs you had worked over the years. Twenty-something and cautious. You were polite and well-dressed (from what he could tell, even with the rain-drenched clothes). It wasn’t like there were people lining up to interview for the job either, so he had to take what he could get.

The practice belonged to his late father. A quaint block in the middle of a strip of stores hiding a small staff carpark out back for everybody. Independent surgery with loyal patients and a dedicated secretary, Mary, who worked for his father for over three decades. Jack took over the place five years prior to your interview, leaving behind his old practice with Robby and Heather, who were now joined with two new providers.

Conveniently, the patients have adjusted to Jack quite well over time, the elderly reminding him every now and then about how it was sad to hear that his father had passed, and does he miss him very badly? Oh, and does he have anybody waiting at for him at home and, if so, what’s the lucky woman’s name? And doesn’t he long for someone and isn’t he getting older? And isn’t his secretary just so sweet and have you settled down yet? And are you really so young and where did he find you?

(And why doesn’t he fuck you senseless?)

So vividly, he can still remember the sheer pleasure ripping through him as he pumped his cock in his hand, picturing you drenched in water earlier that day. He was fond of the tremble in your lips too. You were shivering. Your nipples were probably hard as pebbles from the cold. He came, then.

It had been too long since he bothered to get off like this, a grunting mess in his bedsheets. That first time, ashamed after he rode out his high. Dirty, dirty, dirty.

Jack is ravenous, and he has mastered indifference with great difficulty. It is, however, thrilling to think that his depravity knew no bounds.

Months and months of deterring his want. He has found some kind of succour in your inadvertent touches, his wrist brushing past your shoulder or your foot knocking against his. Your knee just barely skimming his shin when you turn in your chair to face him. Anything, any kind of innocent contact in lieu of your warm, wet cunt milking him dry. He is convinced he can live with that, just the momentary sweeps and grazes. But he’s had to pace himself, stretch out the weeks and refrain from thinking about you every night. Hand wrapped around his base as the showerhead (perversely) baptises him in freezing water, chasing his spend down his thigh. He can get off on the scent of you alone.

There was a day, maybe six months into your employ, where you both ended up in the break room at the same time. Jack had walked in to find you, back turned, leaning against the countertop on both hands. Fingers tapping the laminate as you stared at the simmering kettle of water. The coffee pot he was looking for sat near your left hand.

The hot churning of water seemed to conceal the sound of his footsteps for you hadn’t acknowledged his presence. He paused for a moment, a few feet away from you. You had worn a pair of slim black tailored pants that day, and he thanked whatever God he could for the sight of your ass stretching out the fabric. Thighs perfectly sculpted and visible to him. Had to suppress a groan when he caught the strip of soft, bare skin revealing itself between the bottom hem of your shirt and the low waistband of your pants. His knuckles paled and locked around the handle of his stained, empty mug.

Without a word, he softened his footing and approached you, heavy-lidded eyes boring into your spine. Blade slicing through fruit—

He sidled up to you, a little to your left, extending his hand around your frame to reach for the pot. So menacingly quiet about it. The movement in your peripheral and the sudden murmur of a breath over your shoulder ripped a sharp gasp from your lungs. In an impetuous panic, you stumbled backwards into the wall of his chest, haphazardly trampling over his foot. Jack’s free left hand jerked back and flew to your hip. Both of you were too stunned to realise that his other had abandoned the mug to latch onto to the meat below your right hip and above your thigh, far lower than where his left was situated.

His fingers dug into your pelvic bone. Couldn’t resist the temptation to press further. He let the tip of his middle finger prod the crease between your inner thigh and your mons, swearing he could nearly feel the faint imprint of your panties. Jack had half a mind to shove an angry hand under your waistband and slide a finger over that velvety bundle of nerves—

The clash and shatter of the mug drew a memory from your childhood many years ago.

Elementary: third grade. A classmate of yours shared an unusual object for Show & Tell with everyone. You pictured the hunger of it now, flashing in the backyard of your brain. A slender green neck with a pink mouth, eagerly open for prey. Spindly teeth, splayed out like eye lashes. An unsuspecting, though crafty, insect swooping into its treacherous jaws in search of nectar. Treading carefully around the trigger hairs, thinking it had plenty of time before it was too late. You and your classmates watched, enthralled, as the jaws enfolded its guest. Snapped itself shut, like hands interlocking fingers, to squeeze its victim in a carnivorous embrace.

“It’s just me,” he whispered, pinching your flesh between his hands. You shuddered; it didn’t go unnoticed by him.

You could wager this was far more paralysing than getting caught in a Venus Fly Trap.

Jack’s iron hold on the curve of your hip steadied the both of you. But, for him, the heat of your skin burning through your shirt was secondary to the way your ass had rubbed against his crotch from the moment you stepped back. He thought his blood was aflame, the way it surged and swelled between his legs.

Neither of you moved for what felt like an eternity. You could only focus on the steady rise and fall of your breath while he burned his fingerprints through your clothes. It took everything in him not to fold you over the counter and fish his cock out from his fly. Drive himself into your pussy as he toyed with your puffy clit. He wondered if you’d even object.

Split you open, tickle your cervix.

“You can return to reception,” he murmured over your shoulder, stiff cock notching against the cleft of your ass. His breath was strong and hot against your neck when he, to your quiet dismay, released your hips. “I’ll clean up the mess, sweetheart.”

You thought you’d soaked yourself through your pants, but wasted no time to follow his instructions. Nodding and catching your breath, you stepped aside when he didn’t move and spun around to scurry out of the break room.

Neither of you could look at each other for the rest of the day. Didn’t say goodbye to each other either. That was the first night he had left at exactly 5 PM. You kept your eyes glued to your keyboard as he strolled past the reception in his dress coat with his bag slung over his shoulder. Out the door without a word.

Walked around the back to climb into his car and dry-fuck his fist like a madman. Barely spoke to you directly for a week after the fact.

(You, on the other hand, have opted to erase the memory of it entirely. If you linger too much on the phantom pinches and his fingertips almost teasing the place you needed him most, you fear you’d do something mortifyingly regrettable. You’ve gone as far as to convince yourself that the delusion only arose from the lack of coordination between you two. A defect in your recollection. The semi that hardened in his pants and poked your rear could not have been real.)

The practice has always been something you considered near ‘cosy’.

A waiting room with space for at least a dozen chairs. An intimate reception is nestled to the left corner against the wall. You face the opposite side of the waiting room where the small flat-screen is situated on the wall, the glass doors and windows kept to your right. Not to mention the play zone wedged between the window and the short end of your countertop. The children are usually well behaved, aside from a few screamers.

Sometimes, if someone’s tall enough, they’ll stretch on their toes and claw at the countertop to beam at you. Shiny doe-eyes blinking for your attention until you turn your head to the right and smile.

For this reason, you’ve always kept stickers and gadgets behind the desk as small prizes for them when the toys in the play zone aren’t enough. And, if their parents approve, you hold out a jar of candies for their eager choosing (although, this is usually a reward for after their appointment, you’re not opposed to breaking your own rules once in a while. Especially for those damn screamers).

It’s not so bad for the most part. You’re always kept busy and distracted enough to stay awake. There is this relentless creeping dread, though. Working for him will do that to you. Waiting with bated breath when he grows closer in proximity, your fingers itching to hold onto anything. Keyboard, mouse, paper, pen, throbbing cock—

The majority of the patients are easy and conversational, many know you by name. You do your best to keep your eyes on your computer and off the TV.

Very early into the job, you had once been quite visibly tense at the desk and he frowned down at you in his own sympathetic way.

“Just a small headache,” you smiled, your elbows pinned to the desk while you rubbed your hands down the sides of your neck. He didn’t hide his scepticism. How did Mary work in this horrible lighting?

“You sure?” He pressed, and you managed a nod. “You can come in and see me, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you sputtered hastily, fearing he’d take offence to your hesitation. “I’m okay, really.”

A small headache was bad enough. Being in that office alone with him—his soft reassurances and his close assessment of you and his watchful eye and his thumb on your slack jaw—would’ve atrophied your brain.

He shrugged, still doubtful: “Alright. If you say so.”

In the following weeks, he had the harsh overhead lights switched out for softer canned lights, washing the waiting room and reception in warm off-whites and yellows. Whether or not he detected the source for your headaches, the gesture is still fresh in your memory when you open up the practice most mornings.

A rectangular, high-rise countertop frames your workspace like an L and separates you from the patients, leaving a walkable gap between the countertop and the wall where you or Dr. Abbot can easily move in and out near the corridor.

Said corridor leads to the treatment room on the right, while Dr. Abbot’s door is on the left. Only one wall separates your reception from his office, allowing you only muffles of conversations you cannot cognise. There are, of course, many times where you’re both in the break room at the far end of the corridor, but never for long. One of you is either entering or exiting (the incident from six months ago shivers like a ghost between the two of you).

When you unlock the clinic in the morning, you prefer to keep the lights off and blinds drawn, door locked again, so as not to leave an invitation for people to creep in before appointments are actually supposed to begin. This means that Dr. Abbot’s arrival gives you at least five seconds to prepare yourself for a greeting when you hear his key click in the door.

At 7:30 AM, you’re stood and leaning over the printer with a stack of pristine white A4 sheets when you hear that click. To your relief, the blinds over the door always conceal him. And you.

He turns the lock and pushes on the handle to find you refilling the printer tray. Everything feels like a balancing act in front of him.

“Morning,” he greets, calm and mellow, as he locks the door behind him.

You wear the same sweet but not-too-eager smile: “Good morning.”

Looking away from him, you still notice the pause in his step. As if his foot stopped short before a pothole. You tuck the slab of paper into its tray, eyes trained on sharp white, waiting for him to say something.

In the blurred corner of your vision, he rubs a hand back and forth over his jaw. But he regains himself after a moment. Leaves the waiting room and disappears down the unlit corridor. The sound of his door quietly latching shut tugs your head in its direction. Soundlessness fills the practice again.

He lowers himself onto his chair, unbuttoned coat still on and bag between his feet. His hands run slowly up and down his thighs. Dress pants burning electric under his palms. Closing his eyes does little to fight away the image of you and the low neckline of that slippery, salmon-pink blouse perfectly framing your tits. The printer faces the windows so he was able to see you head-on the moment he walked in. Low yellow lights bathing your chest golden.

If he let his index finger tug on the curved hem, he could probably pop one out. Had he lingered near you any longer, he fears that is precisely what he would’ve done. Walked around the countertop and cornered you against the desk just to hook his fingertip in your blouse. Give himself a glimpse of your stiff, peaked nipple under his breath.

Lean down and suck—

Jack can probably get off on the thought of it now, pathetic as he is. First appointment isn’t for another half hour. Not like he hasn’t found release in his office before.

Are you trying to vex him? Part of him (all of him) considers firing you.

By some miracle, he contains his urges. His coat feels tighter the longer he keeps it on, so he tugs it off furiously to relieve himself. Most days, he wears a plain, long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a sweater; habitually rolls the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Pale, freckled skin laid bare.

Jack’s standard consultations run for fifteen minutes at best, with maybe an average of twenty-five to thirty patients per day, many of whom have attended the practise for years and years. The absence of his father, to Jack’s awareness, is somewhat mended. Or, at least, the patients seem to think so. Initially, he had worried he’d find trouble filling the gaps and building over the relationships they had already established with his late father. His worries diminished within the first month as he developed a strong rapport with all the regulars.

The very, very elderly often fall into lapses of time and lost recollection where they confuse him for old Dr. Abbot, referring to memories and stories with which Jack is not familiar (though, he is quite fond of this).

He is also moderately aware of his…charm, however dry it may be. Particularly with the women that come in. There have been too many offers and flirtations to count over the years. He doesn’t mind it, and it’s never gone anywhere dangerous. He knows how to keep things separate. Tidy. Clean. Untouched.

Once divorced and quite content on his own (or so he chooses to believe). He won’t deny that his fist gets old, the way he can only forage for fading memories of you when he gets himself going. He’s all leaky when he remembers the press of your ass in the break room. Or a skirt you wore one day, a tad too tight and stopping halfway down your thighs. You had dropped a pen on your way to the door of his office after handing him paperclipped forms. He watched you leave, as he always does. Didn’t expect to see you bend over slightly, just for a moment, to retrieve the pen.

He fooled himself into thinking that if you had parted your legs and leaned forward a little more, he’d just catch a hint of the lacey garters of your sheer black stockings.

Dirty, old man.

Jack curses himself, alone in his office. That infernal blouse of yours is now slotted beside all of his other decadent memories. His own erotic memorabilia.

Throughout the day, he communicates with you as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. He speaks with you when he needs to, maintains steady eye contact (anything below your nose is marked as a hazard zone in his head). Takes your calls, accepts your paperwork, says his pleases and thank yous. Makes sure he stays flaccid and unaroused. Impossibly.

Some time during lunch, when the waiting room is empty, you hear Dr. Abbot before you see him, approaching from your left with a collection of referrals. He doesn’t get a chance to speak because the front door is suddenly pushed open to reveal none other than Frank. The both of you look up to your right where he stands frozen in the doorframe.

“Shit, sorry. Hi,” Frank pants, mouth splitting into an embarrassed smile. “Uh, am I able to make an appointment? With him? Soon, if that's okay.”

You don’t know why, but you look back up to your left, almost like you’re trying to gauge whether Dr. Abbot is okay with it. You don’t need to, obviously. It’s your job to make appointments for him. The man just shrugs, unbothered.

“Yeah, of course, Frank,” you laugh softly. Dr. Abbot shifts impatiently beside you as Frank walks up to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you. I burned my hand on the panini press pretty bad. Few minutes ago,” he raises his left hand, revealing the flimsy bandage wrapped loosely over and around his palm. “I wasn’t sure if you guys take walk-ins.”

“Not often,” you smile, searching the appointment book on your computer for an open slot, “but I think we can fit you in.”

Frank nods, sighing another ‘thank you’ before silence circles the three of you.

Dr. Abbot places the referrals on the desk, “Fax numbers are in that email from Peter’s mother, thank you.” He’s just about to step away when Frank perks up again.

“You working late tonight?”

The both of you look up at him again, but he’s very clearly beaming at you. His curiosity is endearing.

“I don’t think so.” / “Yes, she is.”

A nervous laugh bubbles from Frank while you and Dr. Abbot flick eyes at each other after clashing your answers. You hope to God he didn’t mean it.

Politely, you try to answer differently, “Maybe, depending on—”

“Y’know what, I can probably just see him now,” Dr. Abbot interrupts, quite gruffly, as if he has somewhere else he desperately needs to be. Taps two fingers on the desk. “He can fill out the registration form in my office,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the corridor.

He slips around the counter, leaving the waiting room before you can say a word. Returning to Frank, you just smile again and hand him the clipboard of forms with a pen, “Here you go.”

“Is he alright?” Frank quirks a brow, accepting the form from you.

“He’s just tired,” you falsely reassure him, very unsure of why Dr. Abbot responded so bluntly. He can be dry in tone, but he doesn’t usually have such an edge with patients. “He gets like that sometimes.”

“Okay, then,” says Frank. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time.”

Frank chats you up at the reception desk ten minutes later, eyes twinkling as he nurses a freshly dressed palm with his prescription in his other hand.

Sometimes, when you really let it, a small consideration crosses your mind. Presumably desperation bred from a lack of…venery from someone you cannot have. So, naturally, you’d feel inclined to look at the options more available to you. And Frank makes himself ludicrously available any chance he gets.

You’re not unaware of it. The dragging glances, the sweet-talking he’s peppered in over the past year. Preening your platonic relationship into this hazy in-between where he hopes he can bribe you into his bed with free food and (arguably) innocent banter. There’s nothing stopping you either. You’re free to latch onto the bait, get his hooks inside you. Curling horribly.

Can’t fill you up nice and good like Dr. Abbot.

Appointments ended at 5. It’s 8 PM when he finally fucking decides to leave his office.

He rounds the counter, ruffling through his pigeon hole at the wall behind you. “I don’t wanna see that Fred guy again.”

“You mean Frank? Was everything okay?”

“Does he bother you?” He ignores your question with his own, straightening up when he finds pamphlets held in a rubber band. He’s never cared to read through them, so it appears to you that he is, for whatever reason, stalling. “He seems eager.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Oh, come on,” a laugh jumps out of him, which compels you to turn your chair in his direction. “The way he looks at you, he’s dying to fuck you,” he smiles and it’s so sickening. Like it amuses him. “Kid probably creamed his pants, seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.” You’re frozen in your seat, barely processing the utter bluntness of his wording. Serrated knives. “Y’should put the poor guy out of his misery.”

In an attempt to brace yourself, you turn back to face your computer. Your clothes kiss your body uncomfortably now. It’s impossible to soothe the ache pulsing between your legs.

He flips through the pamphlets indifferently and sighs. “Anyway, I think I wanna cancel that meeting with the psych rep on Thursday. The ginger with the goatee. Spencer, I think it was? Doesn’t take any of it seriously. You won’t believe the shit he said last time, that ignorant fuck.” Then, he laughs bitterly, running a hand down his face after he tosses the pamphlets in the bin at your feet. You can only nod, acutely aware of the slick flooding your panties. Slippery clit longing for his hot mouth.

The room tips on its side when he gently squeezes your left shoulder.

“Good job today, yeah?”

You swallow thickly, struggling to look up at him, “Thank you.”

Releases his hand. Though, it feels like he almost rips the skin off your shoulder. Like the sheer heat in his touch had fluxed your flesh with his. Amalgamation. The grooves of his fingertips leaving cracks in the molten rock of your arm.

“And don’t wear that again,” he orders as he walks back around the counter.

Your brows pull tight in confusion. “Sorry?”

“The blouse,” is all he says, passing you and disappearing out the door.

One morning, too many months ago, you had rummaged through the storage room at work in search of decade-old vaccination files for a stubborn patient. Hopelessly, you dug around papers in drawers to find the last thing you were supposed to be looking for. Old prints of Dr. Abbot’s headshots for practice advertisements and pamphlets from two years ago...

At present, on your bed, you are kneeling back against your feet, thighs spread. Loose top hanging on your form, pair of cotton underwear. His crumpled photo, pinned to the sheets under the heel of your outstretched palm.

He looks exactly the same in it. White collar folding out of his sweater. Cropped ashen hair, snowy stubble. An indecipherable vacuum in his eyes (if you aren’t careful, you could sink in and deliquesce into nothing). No doubt, he probably cringed at the idea of getting his picture taken like this.

But one of them has been yours for a while now, always folded and tucked away in your bedside drawer. It rarely leaves its nest, but you can’t help yourself sometimes. When your thoughts aren’t enough, the photo acts as a crutch for an orgasm. Something tangible; real.

With shame coiling in your belly and your free hand wedged between your thighs, you screw your eyes shut to think of him. If you try hard enough, you can probably feel the ghost of his hand trapping your shoulder. His hands clutching your hips. His hands on the desk. His loins obtruding your ass—

—seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.

Long breaths pour from your open mouth when you feel your core string itself tight, hole clenching around your sore fingers as you thumb your clit. Electric shimmers dot the abyss behind your closed eyes. You pull yourself forward to lean on your other hand while you aimlessly grind against your working wrist. The hovering and the sustained pressure of your thighs set your knees ablaze with overuse. Pain is easier to endure with the precipice of pleasure drawing closer and closer to you in every stroke you manage to thrust into yourself.

One of many fantasies you’ve fabricated, where he drags his flushed tip up and down the seam of your weeping pussy. Mixing his pre with your slick. Playing with you. It’s almost like a memory to you in the way that it shoves you towards climax and sends your eyes flying open to lock in on the photo scrunched in your clenched fist. A strangled cry catches on your teeth before tumbling from your lips.

You come hard, looking at Dr. Abbot’s paper face in the low lamplight of your bedroom.

[in1-nutshell]

Hiiii! I’m so glad you’re open again I hope you’re doing well!

Poor fearless all this angst could you do a request where it’s Father’s Day on earth and fearless wants to celebrate with megatron but is kinda embarrassed so covers it up with like an excuse?

Fearless just wants to spend some time with their robo dad.

Hope you enjoy!

Fearless and Megatron Celebrating Father's Day

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Human reader

MTMTE

Fearless never had the best experiences with Father’s Day.

It opened a few too many wounds for them and happily skipped the holiday.

But this time, after a year on the Lost Light, a year with Megatron on board, things were different.

For once, they wanted to celebrate it.

The only problem was who they wanted to celebrate it with.

Don’t get them wrong, Megatron had come a LONG way from what he was during and before entering the ship.

His perspective on humans though? It depends…

He still made some comments on humans and their ‘traditions’ like every other bot who didn’t stay on Earth or long.

It was normal for them.

But it didn’t mean that it hurt any less.

Fearless really didn’t want to know what he would think, say or do if they even attempted to tell him about Father’s Day.

At Swerve’s… Fearless is slightly slumped on the bar counter, playing with the straw in their hand. Swerve glances over that the resident human looking a bit down. Swerve: “What’s got you all slumped like that?” Fearless: “Just life Swerve.” Swerve straightens his backstruts a bit. Swerve: “You wanna talk about it?” Fearless sighs a bit. Fearless: “I don’t think you can solve this one Swervey.” Swerve: “Try me.” Fearless is about to talk when a loud noise comes from one of the TV screens in the bar. Fearless: “what did you put on?” Swerve: “Don’t know really. Peggy, the main character is trying to get Ray, her friend, on a date without letting them know their both on a date.” Fearless suddenly perks up. Fearless: “A day off without letting the other know what’s going on?” Swerve: “Yeah if you boil it down like that.” Fearless jumps up to their feet and hugs Swerve best they can before running out. Fearless: “Thanks Swerve!

Fearless was out to make their plan.

Was tricking him good?

… It wasn’t going to harm him so…

They still had a few more days to go.

They needed that day to be free for both of them.

They could manage to get most of their work done for that day, but Megatron was another story.

Bots were constantly coming him in and not to mention his duties as Co-Captain.

If they played their cards right, there was a chance they could pull this off.

It was going to be tough, but it was going to be worth it.

Whirl looks at Fearless struggling to pull a large bucket of paint on a wagon. Whirl lightly pokes his Amica’s side. Their face is flushed and dark circles were starting to form around their eyes. Fearless: “You need something Whirl?” Whirl: “You look like roadkill.” Fearless rolls their eyes and continues to pull the wagon. Whirl is a bit confused why Fearless didn’t reply. Whirl: “Okay…” Later… Whirl is talking to Cyclonus and Tailgate. Rodimus walks up to them. Rodimus: “Whirl, is something going on with Fearless lately?” Whirl: “You noticed it too?” Rodimus: “Fearless just came by and took my paperwork and told me they would do all of it if I didn’t contact them and Megatron on some day.” Cyclonus: “That is strange…” Tailgate: “I heard from Swerve that Fearless has been doing all sorts of weird favors to for the same thing!” Swerve suddenly runs into the group. Swerve: “Does anyone know why Fearless is doing favors and looking like they haven’t slept in a week?”

Time for some of the crew to take things into their own servos.

Literally.

Rodimus plucked Fearless on his way to his office and almost demanded to know why they are doing all this extra work.

Fearless fesses up that they were doing all these things for bots not to bother them and Megatron on Father’s Day.

They explained to him their plan to celebrate the holiday without the ex-warlord fully knowing why.

Rodimus does advise them to tell Megatron, but also understands why they are so hesitant.

Megatron is not blind to Fearless’s odd little runs here and there.

… And he had asked Ravage to eavesdrop on Fearless and Rodimus’s conversation about Father’s Day.

He has many mixed feelings about this.

He feels a bit bad that Fearless is going through so much trouble do make a day free for both of them and that they would think that he’d be repulsed if he found out the truth.

Maybe Pre-ship Meg’s might have had some strong comments, but now…

Now things were different.

There wasn’t much he could do; the holiday was the next day.

But maybe there was…

Fearless arrives early to Megatron’s habsuite in one of their better uniforms.

Megatron is ready to get breakfast with them.

Fearless masks their surprise and joins him.

They have a great and relaxing day, or as relaxing as you can get on the Lost Light.

It was mainly thanks to the Rod Squad making sure that the pair had the day without any interruptions.

Whirl has already threatened several bots on the ship.

At the end of the day… Megatron and Fearless are in his habsuite watching an older movie on the screen. Fearless is snugged against Meg’s neck cables. Megatron: “… I know about Father’s Day.” He could feel Fearless immediately tense up. Maybe he shouldn’t have approached this differently. Megatron: “And I truly appreciate what you did to make this day possible.” Fearless looks at him surprised. Megatron: “Admittedly this was… a surprise. No one has ever done this for me before. And much less from someone who would even consider me to be a parental figure. I understand that this is an important title and… I am honored that you would give me this. Thank you, my child.” Fearless wants to say something but the only sound that comes out is a shocked sob. They try to stifle it as they huddle closer to his neckcables, occasionally sniffling. Megatron carefully strokes their back as they continue to watch the movie. Fearless: “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.” Megatron: “Thank you for making me one.”

Megs has defiantly held Fearless like this at one point

[twig-tea]

I'm still processing the end of Love in the Big City the series, but I wanted to jot down a few details and unfinished thoughts that are sticking with me after episodes 7 and 8 [series-only thoughts].

Putting together the timeline made me realize how many important moments in Yeong's life share or are near to the same anniversary; We know he contracts HIV in February (2014), and that Gyu-Ho leaves in February (2022), and that Yeong quits his job in February (2023).

In ep5, we see Yeong's phone where he has three missed calls from Gyu-Ho, and we can see that he's saved Gyu-Ho's name as Q~❤ [hearto], and that probably contributed to why he had hope that the mysterious Q was Gyu-Ho.

We see Yeong finish the soy sauce, and he said it was expired back when they were living together, so that means it's another year out of date. There's something in this metaphor about hanging on past when things are good and finally being able to let go.

When Gyu-Ho first looks at the elephants in the cheap Bangkok motel they were a pair on that nightstand, and he only took one of them.

The metaphor of the ceiling fan hanging over them like a threat the one time they have sex without a condom, how the trust that the fan will not fall feels similar to the trust that the PrEP pills will do their job. Thinking about the way Yeong says Kylie is his and how he wants to be sure she'll remain only his.

And how that ceiling fan ties connects with Habibi and his photos of ceiling fans, how the ceiling is the last thing he saw before he went blind for two weeks and so he takes photos of them in every hotel, how he uses it as his profile picture on hookup apps, how he is hiding from his family and the life he doesn't want by spending time with people on the verge of breaking, but holding on.

The way Gyu-Ho haunts the narrative in episodes 7 and 8 the way Kylie haunted the narrative in 5 and 6.

The perspective we got on the scenes from Yeong and Gyu-Ho's trip to Bangkok in 7&8 contrasted with the version we got in 5&6 was so well done; both versions fit together really well but cannot be fully reconciled because our memories are never perfect, and a person is not a character in a novel.

I also found myself pondering how they shot the scenes that reprise across Parts; did they have both directors on site for these moments and shoot them in the same day? The technical aspect of these is so interesting to me because of the different directors and how different these shots looked (not just in the nuances of how they were acted, but how they were coloured, framed, everything).

There's something in my head about how writing was what drove a wedge between them when they were together, what Yeong tried to use to keep them together forever on the lantern (and instead what tore up the lantern), and what he used to remember Gyu-Ho when they were apart.

Something also about how Eun Su was so much better off not being married, I was so relieved when we found out the wedding had been called off, and how the pressure to hide how he was feeling about what was happening in his life was what made him feel closer to Yeong.

I was just so relieved when the T-aras fell through that door after Yeong tried celebrating quitting his job by himself and instead fell into a depression for six days. I have had friends do a similar wellness check for me and I will never forget how loved it made me feel when I thought I was unlovable. I'm just so glad Yeong had the T-aras in his life; and their presence in this section was complicated but deeply moving. I'm still working through everything I think about how they functioned in the series, but I am so, so grateful for them, and to this series as a whole.

I absolutely loved it.

[theirwolfbicanthrope]

So a few weeks ago I finally watched Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (2023). And I have…thoughts. Some that were vaguely touched on in a post I made not long after watching. (That was just a bit of pondering - and complaining - about the way Thomas’ desire for financial and career security is positioned as greedy in the recent remakes.) Having had a little time to sit on it and think about the film, I’m ready to dive in a little deeper. 

(Aka I started writing this a day or two after initially watching, forgot about it, stumbled on this in my drafts, and decided screw it, I��m gonna finish this.)

Now I admit it probably is a little unfair to bring Nosferatu (2024) into this because it certainly had a bigger budget and more resources, and I acknowledge that. But seeing Robert Eggers’ take before this one by David Lee Fisher did not do it any favors. Additionally, the similarities and differences between these two remakes are truly fascinating to me. Also, the limitations of this one are not the problem, imo. Overacting, underacting, weird CGI, lower production value costuming and sets are not the flaws of this film (I mean the acting is an issue with some characters, but if the writing hadn’t been so clunky and muddled and heavy-handed, that might not have been as grating). 

So really, this post is half review of the 2023 remake and half a rambling examination on the relationship between Nosferatu films and their original source material, Dracula, and how Dracula adaptations would later influence Nosferatu remakes (fitting, maybe more so because elements of Nosferatu would influence Dracula media too).

Because like, on paper the 1979 remake feels like it should be the most obvious one to point to since they didn’t even bother to use the silent film’s names for the characters, choosing instead to take directly from the novel instead - and here we get our first influence from other Dracula adaptations over the book, because they mix up Lucy and Mina. (Which has always, always been one of my more trivial pet peeves yet it will never fail to make my eye twitch.) It also leaned heavily into a tragic romance angle (although in this one it was purely one-sided), seeming to take note of the way recent Dracula media kept leaning more and more towards a doomed, brooding romantic with the titular vampire.

But that brings me back to these two films which are both so clearly made in not just a post ’brooding romantic Dracula’ era, but a post-FFC’s Dracula one. While Eggers’ opted to take his remake and go for a more historically accurate, somewhat grounded approach, this movie is really just an attempt to recreate the silent film but with dialogue, modern perspectives and - of course - a dash (or more) of influence from Dracula adaptations.

What is so interesting to me is that these two films exist in such similar time frames, it’s just that the process of being made and released are drastically different. Based on wikipedia, this particular remake was financed (via kickstarter) in 2014 and then filmed during 2016, and Eggers’ version was first announced in 2015, a script by 2016 which is now floating around online. Then Fisher’s movie finished filming on schedule only to languish in what seems to be post-production and distribution hell, while Eggers’ attempt continued to fall through repeatedly before finally coming together and being filmed in 2023 - which just so happened to be the same year this movie was first screened. Ultimately, both got released in the last quarter of 2024, and I don’t think it’s jumping to conclusions to say that the release of Eggers’ version probably helped this movie at last see the light of day on streaming. 

Despite the fact that their announcement to release time frame overlaps, the drastic difference in the course of events and the disparity in the hierarchy of filmmaking make it unlikely either one influenced the other. AND YET - both films put an emphasis on Ellen having a pre-established connection to Orlok that predates Thomas, and posit the idea that Orlok is ultimately coming to Wisborg for her specifically. 

This goes beyond the infatuation that Dracula has for Lucy in the 1979 film. That particular remake does not imply any connection between them predating Dracula’s glimpse of Lucy’s photo. It does not show Lucy feeling a pull to Dracula - instead she outright rejects him when he comes to her, asking her to join him. She is full of a righteous conviction that Dracula cannot shake - not so much in God, but in the love between her and Jonathan, in herself. (Lucy not only discovers the knowledge that she can stop Dracula if she allows herself to be sacrificial bait to ensure his demise, but she actively works to render his new home unsafe for him so he has nowhere to go if she fails. She is out there sanctifying the house he bought and the coffins she could find, all while Jonathan remains at home in a catatonic state and everyone else dismisses her.) 

These remakes, however, want to explore the idea that Orlok and Ellen already have a connection somehow, that Thomas is specifically chosen for this reason, that Orlok comes to Wisborg specifically for her. And both films - because this is a post FFC’s Dracula world - want their Ellens to feel a pull towards him, too. 

(Sidenote: I’m not saying this as a condemnation, just an observation. And full disclaimer, I personally do ship the Hutters and the Harkers in many versions, and then Orlok with one or both Hutters in most versions. Likewise with Dracula and one or both Harkers.)

But while Eggers’ goes all in with his “Demon Lover”, dark and tragic triangle approach, this film feels uncertain of where exactly it’s going and what exactly it’s doing. Ellen supposedly has dreams of Orlok, but we are never privy to them - we are simply told about them, and only earlier on. Ellen talks to Ruth (Harding’s sister in this, like the original) about her dreams, that she is seeing a shadow in them that lingers when she’s awake. We are never shown such a thing. While we do witness a dream of hers that seems related to the events unfolding, it is bizarre, does not actually feature Orlok in it - it actually starts with Ellen hearing Thomas call her name in the distance, but Thomas does not appear in it either - and is never referenced again. (I’m not even getting into the fact that she’s pregnant in the dream despite the fact that there is no talk of pregnancy or even wanting a child in any other part of the movie.) Ellen also goes on to tell Ruth she feels drawn to this shadow and conflicted over it. 

We have a moment where Ellen is talking about Thomas and also the shadow, and says “She loves him,” and I admit, I am not quite certain which “him” she’s referring to. It makes sense that she’s talking about Thomas, but the phrasing is awkward and unclear. And then this leads to Ruth talking about different kinds of love, including “forbidden” love, and it is heavily implied she’s a lesbian and is sort of coming onto Ellen? This is also never really brought up again. (Okay to be fair, earlier on Ruth and Harding argue over her not being married and she’s very insistent on not marrying, so they did lay some groundwork. Only to then drop it. This is a pattern.)

Oddly enough, during the first half of this movie, Ellen, her relationship with Thomas, and her ‘told but never shown’ dynamic with Orlok felt eerily similar to what I’ve read and been told of Eggers’ 2016 draft. This Ellen feels unfulfilled, unloved; there’s a sense that she struggles to love Thomas, while Thomas seems mostly happy to be married but less interested in who he’s married to (he cannot even tell her he loves her when leaving, after she says it to him). Ellen speaks of her dreams that make her feel confused and feels a pull towards darkness. Thomas is obsessed with attaining wealth and being just like his best friend Harding (here named Wolfram), while Ellen doesn’t care about such things.

To be quite honest, had I not read that this was filmed in 2016, I’d be convinced that the writer/director here had seen Eggers’ early script and took some of it to heart when making his own version. This film’s Thomas even knows, as he languishes in Transylvania, sick from his travels and Orlok feeding on him, that Orlok is specifically targeting his wife. A strong indication that these remakes are both - consciously or not - heavily influenced by adaptations of Dracula as much as the novel itself and nearly as much as the original silent film.

Plus, neither 1922 and 1979 give any indication that Thomas/Jonathan and Ellen/Lucy do not love each other or are not happy together. I already spoke of ‘79’s Lucy and her faith in their love, and on Jonathan’s end there’s plenty of evidence that he loves her in return. While he seems to be unmoved by Lucy’s sacrifice at the end, this feels like part of his transformation. My personal interpretation of Jonathan at the end was that becoming a vampire/nosferatu has turned him into the worst version of himself - rendering him unfeeling and unaffected, detached from that which made him human, which made him Jonathan. Hence not remembering Lucy or their relationship after returning home even before he turns. He is newborn in his vampirism, he does not have the sadness or loneliness of that movie’s Dracula, who has been such a creature for too long. And though financial success/economic concerns are present in the original and maybe vaguely so in the ‘79 film, Ellen/Lucy are not so outspokenly against Thomas’ financial worries. There is no indication that Ellen or Lucy are unhappy, unfulfilled, or longing for some secret darkness. They do not want Jonathan to go, and seem to have some sixth sense that something awful will happen, but it is not due to an already existing psychic or spiritual connection with Orlok/Dracula.

In a lot of ways, 1979 - despite using names from the novel for its characters - honestly seems to be the least influenced by adaptations of Dracula. Probably because it came earlier on, while 2023 and 2024 both came after FFC Dracula and its enduring influence over the world of Dracula media, for better or worse. Coppola’s lavish and over the top adaptation itself drew from Nosferatu (mostly in regards to Dracula’s shadow and I think the noticing of Mina’s picture - I could be completely misremembering, but these seemed to originate from the 1922 film, not the novel itself). The 1992 film went in hard on Jonathan Harker being stuffy and overly prim and proper, with Mina being sexually unfulfilled/frustrated and craving something more, something darker - and though it is not the originator of the reincarnation plot, it was the one to solidify it in pop culture and truly cement the concept of Mina and Dracula being the real romantic story, that they had a preexisting connection that Jonathan was ultimately the third wheel in.

(I did, through an ask sent after my post discussing the remakes’ depiction of Thomas and his relationship with money, find out that an early draft of the 1992 Dracula is accessible online and included Jonathan being very focused on money/coming across greedy, which makes me think that might be the root of 2023 and 2024 taking similar approaches.)

What is interesting is how 2023 and 2024 clearly exist in this post Dracula 1992 world and are influenced by that version, but in different ways both movies seem to try to reject it as well. There’s of course Eggers’ discussing how he didn’t want to do the romantic hero version, he wanted Orlok to be an asshole evil vampire while still exploring a twisted triangle between him, Ellen, and Thomas. But 2023 rejects this influence by basically just…dropping it after a point.

All that foundation laying and variation from the original silent movie? Pretty much goes nowhere and means nothing, and I am left wondering what was the point. Those dreams? That pull? Ellen feeling something for the shadow? Just dropped. The only additional, on screen moment between the two (and calling it that is a stretch) comes when Orlok finally feeds on Thomas - Ellen dreams that she’s there, sort of, and can see what’s happening. While this is indicated through editing in the original, this film explicitly shows her viewing what’s happening through a watery window while she sleepwalks. And…yeah. That’s basically it. The rest of the film sticks much closer to the original version, with a few added moments and minor alterations here and there. 

Harding’s sister Ruth dies and he becomes convinced Knock did it, while Thomas tries to convince him that the plague is no mere plague but the curse of the vampiric Orlok - sound familiar? I swear, did these two directors hang out at some point? - but Ellen’s plot suddenly becomes painfully identical to the silent film. Whatever additional meat was given to her now means nothing. (We even find out in this version she’s of Romani descent, which is what the protection charm she gave to Thomas comes from and I think is supposed to explain her “mystical” nature - but we find this out in a scene between Thomas and the nurse who believes his talk of Orlok and vampirism at the Transylvanian hospital, and it’s never acknowledged again.)

While 2024 decided to give Ellen a connection to Orlok and make her the central figure from the getgo through to the end, 2023 seems to give it to her for a little added flavor that is burnt up early on, and then decided to remain firmly focused on Thomas. Even with the unflattering portrayal of the character, Thomas in this specific film has the most consistent character arc. Which is truly frustrating, because again - this iteration of Thomas is absolutely insufferable and an awful husband. All the negative things said about Thomas in Eggers’ remake, even the most biased? Yeah, all that can be applied to 2023’s Thomas Hutter and more. (In fact, I won’t lie - the dialogue between Thomas and Orlok at the dinner table the night of his arrival reads like a parody fic fed by some of the most outrageous anti-Thomas sentiments I’ve seen on here and heard of from others.)

Where Eggers’ Thomas is allowed to show Ellen love from the start, in this version, Hutter cannot tell his wife he loves her back before he leaves, holds the charm she gave him with little regard even as a token of her concern for him, and happily sleeps with a Romanian local during his stay at the inn before reaching the castle. He’s rude and completely dismissive of her. Also it’s implied that though they’ve been married a year, they have not actually had sex? (As I type this out, I am pondering if this was what the pregnancy in her one dream related to, a desire to procreate with her husband already. It would have helped if it had been acknowledged at any other point. This movie is not overly subtle with a lot of its dialogue, but then it has other elements where I think I get what it’s saying but if I’m not reading too much into it, it is being painfully vague and obtuse.) 

I’ve read some discussion on the original silent film, where it discussed this sort of exaggerated innocence between Ellen and Thomas at the beginning and that they’re ‘childlike’ before Thomas leaves, discussing the influence of the filmmakers’ backgrounds as soldiers. As well as the fact that some of them were gay. Now, I can’t say whether or not that was director David Lee Fisher’s intention, but I struggle to see it. Maybe that’s a me problem. Even if that was the intention, did he have to make Thomas the worst husband who only cared about becoming “the richest man in Wisborg”? 

Thomas’ arc in Fisher’s remake isn’t so different from his arc in Eggers’, on paper. Unfortunately, while Eggers made his Thomas more sympathetic over the years of working on his script, this movie went hard for having Hutter be a shitty, obnoxious, greedy, dismissive asshole of a husband. Instead of Thomas learning to take his wife at her word about these otherworldly things and that money won’t save them, it’s Thomas learning he actually loves his wife and should treat her better, also stop being a greedy bitch, and maybe man up some. But it’s too little, too late, and doesn’t feel that sincere. Perhaps his lesson was that his greed was the root of all this suffering. Which, whoo boy - but I have a whole other post ranting about how frustrating THAT kind of storyline is in this day and age.

There were interesting ideas in Fisher’s remake, which might be the most annoying part of how underwhelming it was and how close it ultimately remained to the original. Trying to emulate the visual look and style of the silent film gave it a chance to explore those ideas in interesting and different ways from the theatrical remake. But probably because it bound itself so closely to its source - despite other adaptation influences - all those different ideas ultimately fizzle out, and it becomes basically a rehash of Murnau. What feels like a building towards something deeper between Ellen and Orlok goes nowhere, and in the end they have as little interaction here as they did in the silent film. Thomas and Ellen declare their love for each other after he returns, but it feels empty and unconvincing. (Not helped that Ellen has no idea he cheated, and he definitely doesn’t bring that up in his apology.) Ellen sacrificing herself to stop Orlok because it’s the right thing to do? I believe it. Doing it to save Thomas because she loves him? In this version? I don’t buy it in the slightest.

I decided against really getting into the acting because again, it’s the writing/direction that I have the most problem with. I will say Orlok and Ellen are both pretty well portrayed but I feel weird naming anyone because I know Orlok’s actor is on tumblr. I will say he was criminally wasted. The rest of the cast give performances ranging from passable to ‘overeager theater kid’. To sum up my feelings on Fisher’s writing and directing - I found both to be underwhelming, murky, clunky, and uncertain. Sometimes it will lay its themes out in overly heavy-handed dialogue, and sometimes it’s so painfully vague I have to wonder if I am simply reading into things that aren’t there - at least to me.

My apologies if this is all over the place and not the most concise review/examination of the 2023 remake and how Dracula/Orlok can’t escape the shadow of FFC. Really this was more about getting my thoughts out. And maybe also work on my rusty as shit meta writing. In a stunning twist, I might make gifs of this movie’s Ellen at some point. Look, she was absolutely lovely, and I have a soft spot for the actress. 

Anyway, come talk to me or send me asks about Nosferatu films or the Throuple if you like! The brainrot is still strong. 

[miss-anachronism]

for requests. i need. valen x male magister merlin. im a sucker for this guy. anything really. thank you!

Ooh, I’ve never read an x reader/MC fic, let alone written one! New territory, as exciting as it is scary.

I’m not so sure I have a good grip on Valen’s character, but I tried to write it from his perspective. I hope this suits your needs! It gets a bit philosophical. And sorry if its OOC :,)

He isn’t sure what to think, really.

They’re sitting around a dying campfire, just outside the borders of the Dark Forest. Lorsan is pacing somewhere in the distance, muttering to himself, or to the wind, maybe. Trying to figure out what’s happened to his home. Korin leans against a tree, tending to his wounds- courtesy of Merlin. The magister himself is across from Valen, wrapping his own wound and chattering with his hamsters.

Logically, Valen knows that the lesson he should have taken from this scramble is a lot more profound than what’s been on his mind. He should be contemplating the Wilders, the forest, their next steps, how to protect the refugees. And he’s trying to, but it’s just that something- someone- keeps catching his attention.

He didn’t know Merlin could bleed.

It’s such a silly observation. But as Valen watches the angry red wound on Merlin’s forearm, his gut twists. It’s like seeing a god’s flesh tear, and seeing that its blood is the same bright red as his own.

Valen isn’t sure what exactly Merlin is. As far as he knows, no one does, not even Merlin himself. But to the average young Lightbearer, he’s a myth. A legendary figure that you might glimpse once in your life, but would never get to meet. Never speak with, let alone camp alongside. Fight alongside. Merlin throws his head back to laugh at something Chippy has said, and something stirs in Valen’s ribs, something he knows is dangerous.

All of this is dangerous. Merlin is not someone to be loved; Valen has seen what happened to Mirael. Forgotten about, left in the dust, accidentally as it was. The way she watches Merlin, her face made of mixed admiration, bitterness, and regret. He wonders if she would take it all back, if she could. Scariest of all, when she bid them farewell, the look in her eyes sent an ugly pain of jealousy through Valen’s chest. And he doesn’t want that to happen to him, selfish as that may be. Every time Merlin falls asleep, he risks waking up knowing nothing.

Besides, what is Valen to a hero of myth? His whole life has been barely a blink in Merlin’s. Whatever he is, there is no reasonable way Valen could ever mean something to Merlin the way that Merlin is beginning to mean something to him. Merlin will outlive him a thousand times over. And he’s probably met a thousand different people, fallen in love with quite a few of them. Someone who has experienced so much life, so much loss, can they still love? Could they ever?

And yet, he bleeds. It’s such a human weakness that it seems impossible. Valen knew heroes could bleed; he didn’t know gods could. Merlin does not go about the world serene and calculating, watching every moment with practiced ease. He stumbles, laughs, misses with his spells. He jostles Valen’s pauldron excitedly when they win a fight, he’s the last to flee when they lose, ensuring everyone else has disengaged safely. He has only one dimple, on his left cheek. Sometimes he speaks so fast his words blend together, and Hammie has to remind him to slow down. It’s endearing. It’s human. Valen doesn’t know what to do with it. Because it was so much easier, to write off affection as admiration. When the pieces had first clicked, he thought it all made sense. The natural pull that the magister gave off- yes, of course, it was just Merlin’s nature. But they’re a week into this camaraderie, and Valen keeps noticing things like the lick of hair on his neck that doesn’t sit flat.

Pretty fucking annoying, that’s what it is. Valen’s always prouded himself on his ability to swerve out of love’s path. He can flirt and charm all he wants, but at the end of the day all the love letters he receives are ink and paper, nothing more. Whenever someone seriously reciprocates- god forbid- he disengages as smoothly as he can, lest they get the wrong impression.

But Merlin has changed all that, somehow. Impossibly so. He supposes it’s in his nature, to take everything and turn it upside down. Valen doesn’t want to flirt with the Magister, to laugh as he flushes under his praise. Well, it would be nice, he always has liked the attention; but the thing is, that isn’t the point. With Merlin, he just wants to be. No performance, no elaborate courtship. Just… be. Together. All this, for someone who is more myth than man.

It seems like the scariest thing he’s ever faced.

“Valen?”

He jumps as the magister suddenly speaks, and realizes with mounting embarrassment that he’s been staring the whole time. Luckily, the magister grins good-naturedly- and ah, there’s that dimple again.

“Lost in thought?”

“You could say that.”

He leans back on his hands and forces his face into a smirk. It’s easier than he anticipated; despite everything, Merlin makes it simple to be around him.

“I’ve been meaning to say,” Merlin mirrors his position as Chippy and Hammie scuttle away, the former setting off on a quest to climb the nearest tree, “I really appreciate your help in all of this. Coming along, and aiding me- far past your assigned duties. It isn’t lost to me.”

Valen gives him a look. “Of course, magister. I’m not one to leave danger to fester; I’m sorry you ever had that impression of me.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” Merlin’s brow furrows as he collects his thoughts. “You know, you seem so… charmingly nonchalant. Like nothing bothers you. But that clearly isn’t true. You care a lot, Valen, and it’s really, really nice to see. You’re someone who is just… good, you know? And I appreciate it.” He grins sheepishly. “Sorry. Kinda cheesy compliment. I’ve lost all my memories, you know, but being around you- and Lorsan, Cassadee, Mirael- honestly, I don’t feel like I’m missing much of anything. Everything I need is right here.”

He shrugs and turns back to the fire, as if he has not sent Valen’s mind reeling. Functionally, Merlin has been aware for only a week- one week out of thousands of years. He’s wondered how he’s been so calm about the whole thing, and…

And it’s hard to believe, but it’s much harder to doubt what Merlin says, not as he stares into the fire with that soft smile. It dawns on Valen that he probably knows more about Merlin than Merlin does- all of the legends, at least. And yet, despite that insurmountable legacy, despite the name and title that bears unimaginable weight, Merlin is… content. Content in just moving forward, and hoping he’s doing the right thing.

And isn’t that all that Valen’s doing, as well? He doesn’t deserve all this praise; he always shies away from large displays of gratitude, loathing how awkward they make him feel. Because he’s just moving forward, and trying to do the right thing. It’s a simple motive, really. Faith, and what effort it takes to retain it. He always thought Merlin would have some deeper, existential knowledge of the world that would put all else to shame- access to the secrets of the universe, and what not. And, certainly, his magical capabilities are second to none- but his philosophy, the way he lives; it very well might be human after all.

Maybe the usual Merlin, the one with all his memories, is the knowledgeable, immovable sage that Valen grew to look up to. Maybe, once restored, Merlin will become that god-like fairytale hero, wisdom surpassing all others, power knowing no ends.

Selfishly, Valen hopes that never happens. That the Merlin in front of him stays the same, annoying dimple and all, and keeps looking at Valen like that. Like he sees something in him that Valen never knew was there. He hopes Merlin never raises above their quips, their banter.

He know’s it’s all in vain. But god, he hopes.

[mirandasidefics]

But Home is Nowhere- Chapter 9 (Pt2)

Pairing(s): Lucien x Plus Size Reader, Azriel X Plus Size Reader, and Ruhn Danaan x Plus Size Reader

Chapter 9 Pt2 Summary: Reader and Lucien finally get a chance to be alone while the High Lord of Day attempts his hand at subtle match making. However, things don't go according to plan.

Word Count: 9.3k (oops)

Warning(s): 18 + (MDNI), flirting, angst, alcohol use, self-deprecation, low self-esteem/worth, sexual tension (no smut), and nudity.

A/N: Here is the second part. This is a Lucien heavy chapter and was a BEAST overall. But I had so much fun writing it. There are a couple of places where the POV switches suddenly, but I wanted to show each scene from different character perspectives and not have to repeat the same events to do so. Again, thank you to @hardcoremarvelfan for her assistance with this chapter start to finish! And thank you to my team of beta readers! You guys are all amazing! Please let me know what you think. This is a slow burn fic, and I hope it's not moving too slowly story wise.

Series Masterlist Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

Previous: Chapter 9 Pt1

During your breakfast of fruits, yogurt, and pastries, Helion informed you and Lucien of Mor’s return to the Night Court. The story he provided was that she had been called away by Rhysand. You knew that was a lie but didn’t understand why Helion would do so. Lucien simply shrugged, not at all fazed by her absence. You knew that he still didn’t quite get along with many of Rhysand’s closest friends and found family. To your knowledge Lucien never joined the ranks of that found family. Never present for the “family” dinners and only stayed for part of the two main holiday celebrations in the Night Court, Starfall and Winter Solstice.

For your first Starfall, Nyx had been just a bit too young to join in on the festivities. So, you stayed at the River House caring for him. After about an hour of supposed celebrations Lucien had joined you. You smiled as you remembered taking turns reading him a bedtime story.

When the Winter Solstice came around, you had opted to stay at the townhouse alone. You claimed to have your own traditions that you wanted to keep. Which was partially true. However, the thought of not being with your own family yet having to witness the happiness of another kept you confined to your bed. Though you had been pleasantly surprised to find the small gift from Lucien on your dresser that morning. It was nothing fancy, just a small blank notebook. The cover consisted of beautiful, pressed pale-yellow chrysanthemums and daisies preserved in a glass window.

Part of you had wondered if the choice of flowers was intentional. So, you had asked Elain if she was familiar with their meanings. She told you they meant friendship and new beginnings. Fitting in so many ways. You returned the gesture a few days later, baking him some of your Grandmother’s famous fudge. He hesitated at first, but eventually accepted the sweet treat.

One of Helion’s hearty laughs pulled you from the memory. You would have to express your gratitude to the High Lord. For the reprieve from being watched. It was a relief to not find Mor outside your bedchamber waiting for you as she had the past few mornings. Now you could have the conversation with Lucien that you’ve wanted to for over a week. You wanted, no you needed to pick his brain for insight regarding your passage through the Prison wards, your confrontation with Azriel, and your dream. He had left so abruptly. You needed to check in on his well-being as well.

Your eyes drifted over to Lucien; the male’s russet eye crinkled at the corner as he joined in Helion’s laughter. The sight took your breath away. The smile was wide on his features. His shoulders didn’t hold the same tension they had the day before. The golden hue of his skin simply radiated joy. In that moment you couldn’t burden him with your problems, despite the pull you felt to talk to him. At least, you couldn’t burden him right now. You knew that you had to talk to him at some point. The confrontation you had with Azriel and Mor’s blatant comments about your time with your best friend weighed heavy on your mind.

“Oh, if the two of you would excuse me,” One of Helion’s attendants righted himself after whispering in the High Lord’s ear. “I have a few things to take care of, but I will see you later this afternoon. If you haven’t had the chance, I would highly recommend a walk through the botanical gardens.” He winked at you and rose from his spot. While you were happy to finally have the time alone with Lucien, you weren’t sure if you’d be up for a walk.

“That sounds lovely,” the Autumn Court male rose from his seat as well, offering his arm. “Shall we, my lady?” You couldn’t stop the laugh that spilled from you. You soon found yourself rising to your own feet, linking your arm with his. How on earth are you supposed to say no to his smile?

Lucien could tell that she was tired. Her steps were slightly slower, and the light tint of blue underneath her eyes hinted that she hadn’t slept. He wondered if her despondent mood was based on the lack of sleep, or if it had to do with Mor's comments. She had been detached for most of their time in the palace and he was having trouble reading her. He had hoped that with Mor leaving her mood would improve. Seeing as that was slow going, he would have to see to it himself that her good humor returned. 

The gentle breeze jostled her hair. The sound of wind chimes echoed across the oasis, nearly drowned out by the sound of the small water fountain at the entrance to the garden. The lush archway was covered in ivy and wisterias. For a fleeting moment he was reminded of the Spring Court, and the gardens that surrounded Tamlin’s manor. He glanced at the human beside him, her eyes glazed over as she took in the scenery around them. A small part of him felt bad for dragging her out here, but they hadn’t really had any time alone together in over a week. All he wanted was some time with her away from prying eyes. 

Of course, separation wasn’t new to them. There had been times when he would be down in either the Spring Court or Mortal Lands for weeks on end. Yet somehow this past week and half felt different. Perhaps, it was because he had remained in Velaris and…he felt guilty for lying to her regarding his whereabouts. Even more so after learning from Ruhn of her sleepwalking incident. He expressed gratitude towards the Midgardian male for being in the townhouse that night. 

A part of him knew he shouldn’t have let Amren’s admonishing comments get to him. Especially after (Y/N)’s breakdown at the Prison. Nonetheless he stayed away. Those comments, coupled with Morrigan’s penchant for observing the truth of matters, perhaps it was high time that new tactics for the woman’s healing journey be explored. He knew Ruhn would be all too willing to help with how tightly he was warped around the human’s finger. Truth be told, the idea of another male sharing her bed didn’t sit well with him. But if Ruhn could provide her with the care and support that Lucien himself couldn’t… He’d have to bite his tongue and express his gratitude again when he asked him to continue to look out for her. 

As they walked towering hedges, ones taller than Lucien, lined either side of the white pebbled path. Every now and again a small alcove would be carved out. Some with seats that allowed you to bask in the sun, others had tables. One even had what appeared to be a canopy bed. Lucien watched her from the corner of his eye as they made their way through the labyrinth.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” He questioned as she tried to stifle a yawn. She turned her head towards him, eyebrow furrowed. He could almost watch the gears turn in her mind as she debated on telling him the truth. Her focus continued to fade in and out, pupils dilating and contracting ever so slightly.

“I haven’t really slept since our first night here,” Her face fell with the admission. His heart ached at the shame that filled her voice. Prior to the events at the Prison, she had been doing well. At least well enough that he hoped a few days away would not have taken the toll it did on her. And if the tonics weren’t working; then they truly would need to find alternative solutions to managing her nightmares. 

“With Mor around I didn’t want to risk,” She paused. “I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. The tonic isn’t helping. I think I’ll need to talk to the healers directly to find out if there was a change in the ingredients. Or if it's possible that a person can become tolerant of them.” She looked at him then. A sadness mixed with that lingering shame. 

Lucien kicked himself internally. He really should have told Mor to shut the fuck up regarding her opinions on their relationship, especially if she was going to continue to keep the nature of her own romances a secret. The fact that she was now the second of the higher-ranking members of Rhysand’s court to express their thoughts on his friendship was not lost on him. It was also not lost on him that (Y/N)’s feelings were irrelevant to them. In much the same way that Nesta had been forced out of her darkness, it appeared that the Inner Circle believed themselves superior in knowing when a person needed healing and how that healing should occur. The only difference between the eldest Archeron and their new target was that (Y/N) was not on a path of self-destruction. 

“We should rest then,” He took her hand and interlaced their fingers. “There was a nice area in an alcove just a few paces back.” 

“No Lu, it’s okay,” She tried to protest. “I’m okay, I promise.” Lucien continued his path, gently tugging her along. Despite her words, her body didn’t resist him. 

“Then why do I not believe you?” The resting area was the perfect setting for a nap. Tucked behind a wall of green and under a beige fabric canopy was a large mattress resting on a stone platform. Pillows and blankets of varying sizes were tossed about in a decorative fashion. Knowing the reputation of this court’s High Lord, the bed was probably used for activities that did not involve sleep. However, his companion desperately needed some rest. Nothing would deter his resolve in seeing that she had found a few moments of peace.

“Why does he have a bed in the middle of the garden?” She asked, coming to a halt after rounding the corner of what served as the entryway to the alcove. 

“I’m almost certain we do not want the answer to that,” Lucien chuckled, pulling her along. He sat her down on the mattress and began to remove her sandals. 

“I can do that myself,” Lucien swatted her hands away.

“It's fine,” He made quick work of the straps. “I’m already done.” He placed her footwear to the side and kicked off his own boots, setting them next to hers. Gently, he pressed her back to lay on the bed. His own body followed, hovering over her form for the briefest of pauses, and then he was next to her lying on his side. She rolled over to face him, allowing his arm to drape over her waist before he brought her closer.

“Get some rest,” He encouraged as his hand began to stroke up and down her spine. A soothing gesture he often used to get her to calm down when her mind raced at night.

“But I’m not tired,” She fought another yawn.

“Bullshit,” He chuckled.

“Okay, I’m a little tired,” She relented, tilting her head to look at his face. “But I can’t take a nap right now, not when I have so much to tell you.”

“And what is so urgent that it can’t wait an hour or two?” He smirked. She twisted her arm out from underneath her body and pointed her index finger at him.

“You have to promise that this information is cataloged in the farthest and most well-guarded recesses of your mind,” Her tone was serious. “Rhysand cannot find out, even if there is a good chance that he already knows.”

“I swear,” He tried to match her serious tone, but he knew that his smile was getting in the way. Pushing herself up on her elbow, she swirled her head around, looking for any potential eavesdroppers. Once satisfied, she bent down towards his ear. Her breath puffed against his skin, causing the small hairs on his neck to rise.  

“Rhysand’s story of me being his cousin is very likely true,” She whispered. “There is a secret entrance to the Prison that Bryce pushed me into that day. I was able to pass through the ward, in and back out, with no issue.” Her eyes were conspiratorially bright.

“Is that what made you so upset?” He tried to reign in his mirth. “That you found out you are related to an overgrown bat?” Rolling her eyes, she sighed and lightly smacked his chest.

“No,” Her tone became softer as she laid back down. “I cried because I allowed myself to feel a glimmer of hope, just to have it dashed by a failed portal to my world.” The hand at her back reached up to her face, his fingertips brushing the side of her cheek.

“I’m so sorry.” She gave him a weak smile, brushing off her own feelings as she attempted to shrug her shoulders. “Is that what caused your nightmare?” His hand returned to its previous ministration along her back. Again, she shrugged.

“Could be,” He felt a shiver run through her at whatever memory surfaced. “All I remember is a festering and desolate darkness that tried to drown me.”

“That’s not ominous at all.” She released a breathy chuckle as her eyelids drifted close.

“My dreams are never prophetic,” She explained. “Just weird. It’s more likely my mind’s way of trying to process being cornered by Azriel in the kitchen that night.” Her voice drifted, and if she noticed Lucien’s hand freeze at her revelation she didn’t let on. Lucien felt locked in his anger towards the Shadowsinger.

“What did he want?” His voice was clipped.

“He wanted to apologize,” She buried her face into his chest, and the rising anger settled. “I told him off instead. Nicked his chin with a knife as well.” Her exhalation evened into a steady rhythm, and he resumed running his fingers along her back. The repetitive action soothed his nerves as well.

“Good girl,” She hummed in response. As she finally drifted off into sleep, Lucien’s mind swirled.

 You hadn’t even been asleep for 30 minutes when an attendant came and woke you. Begrudgingly, you and Lucien complied, the male putting your sandals back on for you despite your ongoing protests. The attendant led you back to your room where several dresses were laid out on the bed and hanging in the armoire. Dresses in varying shades ranging from stark white to cream to ivory. Some were speckled in golden accents, others all monochromatic. One dress was entirely golden.

The dress that immediately caught your eye was a simple column gown with thick shoulder straps that seamlessly flowed down to create the bodice. The neckline was low and would reveal an ample amount of cleavage. A braided rope created a beautiful silhouette, cupping the outline of the bodice’s breasts and wrapping around the waist several times over. The attendant informed you that the dresses were yours and for your use in the Day Court whenever you came to visit, along with the room itself. While it was a similar gift to what Rhysand had done, Helion’s offer was not one of apology or self-assigned obligation. The true intent of his action had not been lost on either you or Lucien. Helion’s offer marked a standing invitation, and an allyship if ever needed.

With the help of another female attendant, you had changed into the dress. You had to hide the small blush on your face as you watched Lucien pause when you emerged from your room. The two of you then followed the male attendant through the winding cobblestone streets of the town surrounding the palace. He led you to a large building whose entrance reminded you of the Parthenon in Athens.

Helion was inside, sitting at a long central table. A stack of books piled to his mid-chest. He was scribbling on a piece of parchment paper with a feather quill. You smiled at the sight, but you couldn’t quite place why. His greeting was as warm as always. Excusing the attendant, he gave you and Lucien a summary of the central library’s history. The one you were in currently was the largest library within the Day Court, but it certainly was not the oldest. However, he was confident that whatever information you were looking for on Prythian's early history would be located within its walls. You simply smiled in thanks; you had not yet revealed that you were from another world and looking for a way home. 

 After an afternoon spent searching through books, the last thing you had the energy for was another formal dinner. It almost seemed that the High Lord was aware of your lack of sleep when he offered a much less formal affair. An evening in a small intimate chamber. The center of the room consisted of a square recessed seating surrounding a fire pit. Two walls were lined with books, while a third housed a small selection of wine next to the door leading to the rest of the place. The fourth really didn't exist as it was yet another open entrance to a terrace that overlooked the lands. So many of the rooms were open in this manner, allowing the natural sunlight to fill the space.

Currently you were snacking on bits of herb roasted chicken, plucked off one of the wooden trays of food that lined the edges of the pit, a few were even scattered along the empty seats. In your other hand was a large clear goblet, filled with a deep crimson wine. Helion informed that the batch was made from the palace’s ancient vineyard, a testament to a perfect blend of ancient craft and magic. You had to admit that the wine was the best tasting wine you had ever experienced.

Fae Wine was much sweeter than you had expected. Flavors of dark cherry and bergamot coated your lips and tongue.At first Lucien didn't want you to drink the intoxicant. After plenty of reassurance from Helion, Lucien only warned you to pace yourself. Of course, you didn’t listen, not fully realizing that Fae Wine was much stronger than normal wine. You found yourself with your walls and inhibitions considerably lowered. For instance, if you had drunk regular wine, you wouldn't have been unabashedly staring at your friend for the better part of 15 minutes. Despite his continued conversation with Helion sitting across the way, you could tell he watched you as well.  

“Forgive me for asking,” You sat on your knees, leaning towards Lucien as he sat in front of you. His legs stretched out on the large couch in a relaxed posture. “I know it must be a sensitive subject, but how does that golden eye work?”

“I can see out of it just like my real eye,” He explained, turning his gaze fully towards you. “My friend from the Dawn Court enchanted it, allowing me to see. I have complete control over the device, and it responds and reacts in all the same ways my natural eye does.” Your eyes went wide, and you felt your cheeks burn from your smile.

“Absolutely fascinating,” You crawled over to him, the alcohol preventing you from caring about personal space. You climbed into his lap, straddling his hips, and began to examine the contraption. You had never looked at the eye up close. The mechanics were definitely a marvel to behold.

“It does more as well,” He smiled at you, his fingers playing with the ends of the cords holding your dress together. “It has the capability to see through magical deceptions. Glamours, spells, and occasionally lingering traces of magic.”

“How?” You cupped the right side of his jaw, turning his face to get a better look. Accompanied by a faint whirring the pupil of the mechanical eye expanded.

“When there is lingering magic on an object, or even a person,” He began. “The image becomes hazy, out of focus. The eye focuses until the image is clear, which allows me to see the true nature of the object.”

“What do you see when you look at me?” He turned his head forward to look into your eyes. His lips open and shut like a fish causing you to giggle. You gently rubbed your thumbs on each side of his face as you held it.

“I think your boldness has put him at a loss for words,” Helion laughed from his seat across the way. You had forgotten that you weren’t alone.

“He’s spent too much time in those stuffy seasonal courts,” Lucien scoffed at the High Lord’s comment, the puff of air hitting your neck. “Perhaps he needs a proper demonstration on how to respond when a beautiful woman seats herself upon his lap. Care to join me for that demonstration?” The High Lord patted the top of his muscular golden thigh. 

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. Biting your bottom lip, you started to move off Lucien’s lap. You only managed to move about 2 inches before you felt his warm hands wrap around your hips pinning you against him. Heat bloomed in your core at the friction. His lips curled up in a snarl as he stared at the other male. Helion merely grinned. 

“Oh hush!” You smacked the redhead in the center of his chest, your other hand moving to his shoulder to keep your balance. “He’s joking. We all know that I’m not beautiful.” Your voice became softer as you said the words out loud. Despite your slightly drunken state, you felt the shift in the air as both males practically began to examine you. 

“How would you describe yourself my dear?”  Helion asked. It was your turn to pause. You had never really seen yourself as beautiful, but you also knew that you weren't exactly ugly. 

“Plain,” You hummed, twirling a bit of Lucien’s long hair around your finger in your attempt to feign an air of nonchalance. “Homely, unappealing, just shy of decent.” You rattled off each synonym. Your attention shifted to Lucien as your name drifted past his lips. You unraveled the hair from around your digit. 

“What?” You honestly didn’t understand why he appeared displeased with your statement. “Oh don’t give me that look, Lu.” You playfully pushed his face away from yours, but remained seated in his lap. 

“How should he look at you?” Helion asked, leaning forward on his elbows. The merriment that filled the room was slowly dissipating. “Because from what we see the description you provided for the woman in the room with us is a bit harsh.” Your face flushed with irritation, leaning back and away from Lucien’s chest. Why couldn’t they understand that you had accepted the fact that you weren’t beautiful and just leave it at that? 

“Well for starters I don’t need false praise,” You tried to keep the air light, the following lie floating off your tongue. “It’s not harsh when what I say about myself is objectively true.” You shifted your weight, but Lucien’s hold on your hips was firm. 

“Then by all means,” He waved his hand, smiling as if he had won. “Tell us some of these objective truths.”  

“I’m not conventionally pretty, but there are parts of me that are…nice,” You stated, turning your upper body  to lock your gaze with the High Lord. You square your shoulders before speaking again. 

“Like my legs.” You felt Lucien’s hands drag their way down your hips down toward your thighs. You felt exposed by the soothing circles he rubbed into the bare flesh as the dress’ fabric fell at the slits. The alcohol coursing through your veins gave the impression that his hands were warmer than usual. 

“What else?” Lucien’s voice was barely above a whisper. A reassuring squeeze to your outer thighs sent a scorching heat through you. Your legs tensed and your hands fell to your sides.

“My eyes,” You swallowed, your attention returning to the male underneath you. “I think my eyes are pretty.” As Lucien’s mismatched eyes bored into you, you noticed a fire burning in his russet iris. 

The flame grew as he stared at you, and your heart began to flutter. You watched as his golden mechanical eye expanded and contracted. His lips twitched with unspoken words. Words you were suddenly afraid to hear. His fingers danced around yours, trying to interlock them, but you kept them at your side. You needed to curb this conversation before you were set on fire by the intensity of his gaze. 

“But it has been my experience that when men give me compliments they only do so because they want something from me, not because they genuinely believe their words to be true.” Your head whipped back to the High Lord. “As soon as they don’t get what they want their pretty words turn to ash.” 

“That last one is not objective then,” the High Lord pointed out. “Rather those are the words of scorned human men, not Fae males who understand and see the natural beauty in everything the Mother has created.” Your body felt hot, and you shifted your weight as far from Lucien’s hips as you could. Poised and ready to leave if this conversation continued. 

“I’m sorry High Lord,” Irritation flashing over your senses, causing the filter from your brain to your mouth to momentarily slip away. “But those are just more pretty words.” Lucien’s hands gently followed your body’s every shift with a sense of hesitation to them. You didn’t want to focus on what that hesitation meant. 

“No need to apologize to me dear one,” Helion leaned back in his seat. His honey eyes flashed to Lucien, whose grip on your upper thighs tightened unconsciously. At least you hoped the action was unconscious. You didn’t want to believe that he would ever want to hold you close in what was certainly a compromising position. Hastily, you stood up from your perch on his lap.

“I’m sorry,” The apology tumbled from your lips, and you ignored the flicker of disappointment on his face. “If I made you uncomfortable…I sometimes…I should go. Excuse me.”

“Wait,” Lucien swung his legs to the side of the couch and grasped her hand, desperately trying to interlock their fingers. “Please, love.”

“Let go, Lu,” Her breath was ragged as she gripped the wrist of the hand trying to hold on to her. “Please.” Her fingers slipped through his, and he could tell that something wasn’t right. His eyes fell to her legs, the fabric of her dress parting at the high slits showcasing their shape as she raced for the door. Helion sat up again, watching as she darted past, calling your name as well.

“I didn’t intend for the conversation to upset her,” Helion apologized as the door shut behind her. “It’s a shame she doesn’t see her beauty. She is remarkable.”

“She is,” Lucien continued to stare forward, his voice breathless as his eyes lost focus. “She’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful, yet in a very different sense from your mate. I have nothing against the Archeron girl, but (Y/N),” Helion’s eyes lingered over the space that she hurried from. “She seems much more your speed. Don’t let her go so quickly.” 

“She doesn’t belong to me,” Lucien stated simply. His eyes regained their focus on the male before him, schooling his features in the process.

“Hmm…Then should I see if she’s interested in joining me in my chambers tonight? Worship her like the goddess she is.” Frustration built up inside him, nearly boiling over and  Lucien’s mask of indifference fell ever so slightly. The High Lord raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps not.” 

The two males sat in silence for a few moments longer. The once light atmosphere now dulled in the human’s absence. Lucien could feel the beginning effects of the alcohol on his mind, as he drummed his fingers along his knee. Her departure didn’t sit right with him. The way she spoke of herself. If Helion sought her out, his words and actions may only solidify her beliefs about herself. She should hear it from someone she trusts to be honest with her. Lucien had to make it right. She had to see that she was stunning in her own way.

Abruptly, he stood from his chair and strode over to the wine rack. Grabbing two bottles of Day Court’s best he then stormed out of the room.

“Have fun,” Helion smiled as he watched the door close behind Lucien. “Son.”

Lucien didn’t even bother with knocking on her door when he arrived at her room. With one bottle under his arm, he simply turned the handle and strode right inside. 

“Why must you go and say such things?” He demanded.

“What things?” She was grating his nerves.

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“I’d really rather not fight with you Lu,” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we have this conversation when we are both sober? My head is starting to hurt, and I’ve not slept in two days!” She walked over to him, hands wrapping around the fabric of his white linen top. A playful pout danced across her features. Almost instantly the anger drained from him.

“By the Cauldron,” He dramatically rolled his eyes. “How can I say no to that look?”

“You can’t,” She smiled, tucking a stray strand of his hair behind his ear. “You are my best friend here Lucien. I just want to change and relax, preferably by curling up with you on the balcony. The weather is so nice here.” He gently clasped her hand, holding her palm against his lips. 

“As you wish,” He watched as something crossed over her features, but it was gone too quickly for his buzzed mind to process. With surprising grace, she walked over to her luggage and pulled out her nightclothes before proceeding to the ensuite bathing chamber. With the tap water running, he made himself busy by finding glasses and pouring each of them a fresh glass of wine. 

When she emerged, he was lounging on the “L” shaped couch set just at the opening of the bedroom as it led to the balcony. The khaki-colored cushions were plush and soft as he leaned against them. She sat down next to him, and he handed her the glass he poured. She immediately consumed half the glass, before she tucked herself into his side.

The town below Helion’s palace glowed a soft warm golden hue. It almost reminded him of Autumn, with the torches and gas lamps lining the streets of the village nearby the Forest House. Together they drank their wine. His arm over her shoulder, her free hand raised to hold his dangling fingers. They sat like that for a while. They sat for so long that he almost thought she had fallen asleep.

“Azriel thinks you and I are fucking,” Her statement pierced the comfortable silence.

“What?” Lucien nearly choked on the last dregs of his wine.

“Yep,” She emphasized the ‘p’ with a pop of her lips. “Apparently, I am a shameless human whore corrupting the right and virtuous Fae Lord.” She giggled to herself. “Oh! That rhymes!” She lightly smacked his chest in delight.

“He called you a whore?” Lucien could feel his fire just under the surface of his palms.

“No. No,” She took a small sip from her glass. Her eyes still focused on the flickering lights of the town surrounding the palace.

“But there was a clear disapproval of the fact that we share a bed whenever we are together,” She sighed, Lucien’s nod was barely visible as she continued to ramble. “Remember when I told you about how he cornered me in the kitchen? That’s when he insinuated that I must enjoy having another female’s mate in my bed. Apparently, beds are no longer used for sleeping. Just fucking, and since we share a bed that must be all that we do. Fuck.”

That now made three. Three members of the Inner Circle expressed their disapproval of his actions. Already believing that he was not a male of his word. He knew he didn’t have the best reputation after…while living in Spring the past couple centuries. If he had to be honest, he was an absolute rake. So why was he trying so hard to prove otherwise now? He was startled as she let out a dramatic gasp.

“What if that’s the reason my sleep tonics don’t work!” Uncrossing her legs she spun to face him. “What if one of those fucking assholes switched them out? For contraceptives!” Lucien blinked at her a few times, his brain trying to process the near ludicrous statement she had made.

“That is an interesting theory,” He couldn’t hold in his laughter. “But you always fall right asleep after taking your tonic. So how does that fit in?”

“That could be the placebo effect!” Her animated movements caused him to laugh more.

“The what effect?” He laughed. She groaned and slapped her palm against her forehead.

“So, the horrible cliff notes explanation is that my brain had adapted to falling asleep right away after drinking my tonic,” He nodded along even though he had no clue what she was saying. “So, if someone switched it without my knowledge, my brain still thinks it’s taking the same tonic. Therefore, it behaves in the same way by flooding my brain with the “sleepy time” signals. My brain is tricking itself into falling asleep, but the tonic isn’t actually in my system to keep me asleep. I have nightmares because my brain isn’t getting what it had been before.” Her eyes were wide, and if she hadn’t drunk nearly three bottles of Fae Wine on her own since the start of dinner a few hours ago, he may have believed her.

“Okay, well then for the sake of the argument,” He placed his empty glass down and began scooting closer to her, “Maybe they are doing us a favor. I do sleep in your bed more often than I sleep in mine. And I was known as a male with many dalliances.” Waggling his eyebrows Lucien clutched her arm and leaned into her side. She looked at him with round wide (e/c) orbs.

“Perhaps we should take advantage of these contraceptives and ravish each other,” He buried his face in her neck, playfully growling and nipping at her skin. She yelped and pushed at his face, all the while giggling. He grabbed the back of her knee, the act of pulling her towards him resulted in her back landing on the couch cushions below. Taking her wine glass out of her hand, Lucien set it on the small table. Her laughter was contagious, and he felt lighter than he had in days.

“Be serious,” She continued to giggle from under him. “You wouldn’t want me.” He leaned down, hovering above her. 

“What makes you think that?” He brushed his nose against hers. This time she didn’t laugh.

“The fact that you are a good male,” She squeezed his cheeks together until his lips puckered like that of a fish. His vision blurred as the skin was mushed around. She let go and slipped out from under his arm. He sat back up and watched as she picked up her glass. His mouth dried up as her ass jiggled from her prancing a few steps out of his reach and back into her bedroom proper.

“That has nothing to do with wanting you or not,” He said smoothly, standing and following her inside.

“You’re right,” She mused. “But you don’t want me.”

“How do you know? What makes you so sure?”

“First, you have a mate,” Her tone took on a more serious edge. “One that is beautiful beyond comparison.” He remained silent. It was true that his mate was the most beautiful female he had ever seen. So then why did he feel guilty when he saw the sad recognition in (Y/N)’s eyes.

“Secondly, this,” His eyes followed her hand as it waved up and down the length of her form. “This is not attractive. This-”

“Yes, you are,” He was breathless. He watched as she clenched her jaw.

“No,” Her tone was indignant. “And I’ll prove it to you.” She set her glass down on a nearby table and her hands immediately clasped around the hem of her top. In one quick motion the emerald top was gone, and Lucien’s breath caught in his throat. Mother spare him, he tried to look away but wasn’t quick enough. His eyes caught sight of her bare breasts as they gently bounced from the movement.

“I hereby challenge you to a game of chicken,” Picking up her wine glass, she sauntered over to him, swaying her hips. “The first to show physical signs of arousal is the loser.” She held out her free hand to him. He knew that the terms of the little contest were set in her favor. She’d have to allow him between her legs for him to see any evidence of her arousal, but he convinced himself that the wine swayed him to agree.

“What does the winner get?” He asked, pulling his shirt up and over his head. Her eyes roamed over the expanse of his chest.

“The right to determine where the night goes,” Her saccharine smile practically sent him to his knees. “Anything goes, except the direct stimulation of genitals.” Suddenly, the room became unbearably warm. She continued her path towards the bed. She set the glass back down on the nightstand, and slowly removed her matching emerald silk sleep shorts. 

He felt himself stiffen at the view of her shapely bare form before him. While he could blame the wine for influencing him, he had clearly already lost. He said a silent prayer in thanks to the Mother that his trousers were still on, and she was facing the opposite direction.

“Though I do believe that the odds are in your favor,” She giggled to herself as she turned to face him. She placed herself on the bed as she watched him, picking up her glass for a final time. He took the opportunity to finish undressing, watching as her throat bobbed from swallowing the rest of her wine. Her eyes sparkled as he shed the last bit of his clothes.

“You know how I know?” She practically purred from her position on the bed. “Because you’re too good a male to find anyone except your mate arousing.”

“Being a good male is a burden really,” He smiled, and began to crawl up the mattress. A fox hunting its prey.

“Poor baby,” She leaned against the headboard, arms settling over her stomach, blocking it from view. He was vaguely aware the pose served a double purpose of hiding what she felt was a flaw while perfectly framing her assets. He reached where she sat on the bed. She allowed his fingers to trace up along her bicep, over her shoulder, and across her collar bones. His golden eye focused on the skin that pebbled in the wake of his touch.

“Poor baby indeed.”

“If you were to relieve your burden,” She allowed his hand to continue its travels up the side of her neck and cup her cheek. The scent of arousal permeated the air, but he didn’t call her out on it. He lowered his face towards hers, their noses barely touching.

“I would wrap my lips around your nipple like a starved babe,” Her eyes went wide but were quickly filled with doubt. He watched as she visibly started to close herself off. Shoulders slumping forward and her knees rose to her chest.

That was not exactly the desired effect he had wanted from  her. He wanted her to know just how gorgeous and tempting she really was. And Cauldron boil him she was tempting. His gaze wandered over her form to the ivory lace bottoms she still wore. Even without the alcohol coursing through him, he knew in that instant that if she were completely bare before him, he would bury his face between her legs. He should have called her out for the sweet scent she emitted.

“We should sleep,” Her voice whispered, as she turned away from him.

“And miss the opportunity to prove to everyone, to ourselves, that-”

“We are just friends,” She interrupted, turning back to look at him. Her gaze traveled over him. “Besides, you lost the game.”

Lucien sighed as she fought back her own giggle. The tension in the air evaporated just as quickly as it had arrived. He didn’t need to look down to know that he was hard as a rock. He should have known better than to agree to her terms.

“Fine you win,” He turned and sat next to her on the bed, his left leg bent to block her view of him. “But you are a cheater by wearing those panties.” She stuck out her tongue. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm his erection. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

“You know,” Her voice trailed off as she covered herself with the cotton sheet. “I feel a little bad about your situation. But I really do believe that…”

“I wouldn’t have proposed anything more than sleeping, love,” He reassured, pulling the sheets back and climbing under them as well. “Not because you are right, but because you desperately need sleep.” She nodded, humming thoughtfully to herself, before she turned on her side facing away from him. He started to scoot over towards her when she pushed her hand in his face.

“Nope!” She warned. “No cuddles until you’re flaccid.” 

Lucien was just on the cusp of waking. His base senses and instinct were the only things drifting through the fog of early morning slumber. The room was quiet, as was the still sleeping city outside. A cool early morning autumn breeze danced over the bare skin of his shoulder as it peaked out from under the light cotton sheet. The air caused the flesh to rise in small bumps, each one threatening to bring even more awareness to his consciousness. However, it was a welcome sensation compared to the stuffiness of the room. Then again, the shifting body next to him was pleasantly warm. 

Slowly he became aware of his hand resting on a soft plush thigh that was wrapped over his hips. The weight of the limb was comfortable and grounding. A steady rhythm of warm air ghosted over the pulse point of his neck. His voice involuntarily gave way to a whispered hum. With the slightest shift, to not wake himself nor the figure next to him, Lucien merged into the softness. Hand wrapping around the waist to bring the plush figure flush against his, he allowed himself to meld with the body resting nearly atop him. Soft full breasts pressed into his chest and a hand found its home near the top of his shoulder.

The scent of vanilla and honey lulled him back into a relaxing sleep. He didn’t even notice the touch of jasmine was missing from his mate’s scent. It was replaced with another soft warm earthy aroma. Amber. She felt so good sleeping against him. A slight nudge of the tip of her nose against his throat caused his hips to buck ever so gently. He didn’t dare open his eyes or move as the female took a quick inhale of breath. Nothing sharp enough to indicate wakefulness. The nose again brushed along the column of his throat, a set of plush lips quickly following. 

He was nearly awake now with the blood rushing to the growing appendage below his waist. He didn’t know what had entered Elain’s mind to where she felt the need to crawl into bed with him, but he was glad she had. Except…that didn’t seem right. He hadn’t fallen asleep in the Night Court last night. Therefore, there was no way that Elain could be here right now. His heart went into an instant gallop as his eyes shot open. It most certainly wasn’t Elain that was so tightly wrapped up around him. Carefully he pulled his head back far enough to look at the sleeping woman. As he looked down at her figure he tried to prevent his length from stiffening more. 

The early morning rays of sunlight filtered through the sheer white gossamer fabric hanging down around the marble columns surrounding the bed frame, cascading down across her skin that wasn’t covered by the sheets. Her features were relaxed as she continued to sleep on his chest. Something deep in him, deeper than where his magic lingered in his bones, hummed. He knew that he should be separating himself from her, but he couldn’t get his body to comply. It was as if it would only respond to a higher power, one that was perfectly content to have him remain right where he was.

He must still be drunk. That’s the real reason for his lack of control. Bits and pieces of the night before tried to stitch themselves together. He remembered entering her room, another two bottles of Fae wine in his hands. Mother above, two bottles. Internally, he rolled his eyes at his past actions. That had been a mistake. He didn’t remember if they finished said bottles, which then led to his conclusion that they must have. It had been a long time since he had woken without his memory fully intact. As much as he wanted to continue to lie like this with her, he knew that should the wrong person decide to enter the chamber they would have a more difficult time dissuading any rumors. However, he couldn’t bring himself to jostle or rush her out of her slumber.

A gentle tracing ghosted along the skin of your back. The shiver that passed over you slowly brought your mind to consciousness. You knew instantly that Lucien was with you simply from the fact that you were not screaming. You felt like you were floating, you were so at peace. Your own fingers twitched along the warm skin of the chest beneath you.

“Good morning sweet girl,” Lucien murmured. Perhaps you were still dreaming, but you could have sworn you felt his lips press against your forehead.

“Hmm, morning,” You didn’t want to open your eyes. Pressing further into his warmth, something stiff poked at your inner thigh. Your eyes shot open. You bolted upright, flinging the sheet to the side and stared at the expanse of golden skin before you.  

“Why are you naked?” Your voice rose in pitch and volume with each word, your cheeks flushing crimson. ‘Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look!’ You really tried not to look down, but you apparently lost the ability to maintain control of your own body. Your (e/c) orbs darted down and back up. You desperately wanted to rid your mind of the image of his hard cock, if even just to prevent yourself from wandering to it late at night, but you knew that that sight would be forever burned in your brain. You shook your head of the fleeting thought that the females in his life must certainly have had a good time with…well, him. 

“I think the better question is why are you?” His own eyebrow quirked up in mirth. He clearly found this all much more amusing than you did. So far, all this has just proved that maybe it was time for distance. You glanced back down at your own body to see that you were in fact mostly nude. You sighed in relief when you saw that you still had a pair of underwear on. However, your relief was quickly replaced by horror in the fact that Lucien was able to see the rest of your naked form. You were aware this wasn’t exactly the first time you’d been in a state of undress around him, but he had always averted his eyes.

Your head snapped up to look at him. Had you been any slower you would have missed the fact that his gaze rested on your chest. Hastily pulling the blankets to cover yourself, your face flushed a second time. You likely would not have minded his stare had you been wearing a bra or a tank top. You knew that your full heavy breasts were eye-catching and enjoyed that fact when you had your short bouts of confidence in your appearance. But that wasn’t when gravity had full control of them as it does now. 

“What happened last night?” You wracked your brain for any explanation as to why you’d both been in your current nude state.

“What do you remember?” He asked. You wrapped the sheet around you, tucking the ends in at the top to form a makeshift robe.

“I remember returning to my room,” Your brows scrunched together. “The rest is blank. Fucking shit balls, I’ve NEVER been black out drunk before.” You pressed the heels of your palms against your forehead. Your head hurt and nausea washed over you. You were going to be sick. Grabbing the bottom of the sheet you ran towards the ensuite bathroom.

The porcelain toilet was cold against your fingers as you heaved your guts into the bowl. Within seconds, a pair of hands carded their way into your hair and pulled it back out of the way. One hand continued to hold your (h/c) locks back while the other rubbed your back in soothing circles.

You were grateful for him. He seemed to always know what you needed and would support you in any way you needed support. And you knew you’d do the same for him. So, the least you could do is support the fact that he has a mate by putting some distance between the two of you. And he’d need to know exactly why, even if it meant being hurtful at this moment.

“The others have been talking,” You started, but another wave of sickness left your body.

“Shh,” He continued to rub your back. “I-I know. We can talk about that later though.”

“I think it's best if there is some separation between us,” The words felt hollow in your ears even though you say them. “I’m not about to be labeled a homewrecker, despite the fact that no home exists for you and Elain right now.”

“Nothing happened between us,” He tried to reason, but you could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. “Did it?”

“You don’t remember?” You turned to look at him as he continued to kneel next to you, you noted that he had yet to cover himself. His hands paused for the briefest of moments. As the waves of your nausea subsided your attention went towards your lower body. You knew your body well. While you were no virgin, it had been a few years since you had sex. Given Lucien’s size, and the lack of a dull ache between your legs, you could tell that at least no penetration

had occurred between the two of you. He was certainly a much better male than anyone gave him credit for.

“I’m quite certain nothing happened,” You rested your head against the bowl. “And why would it? Look at me, I am nothing compared to her.” You wanted to ignore the flame that shone in his eye. The one you knew was sparked from irritation.

“Surely you must not think that I’d be so shallow-”

“Aren’t all men-males?” You were going to win this fight. You would always make sure you won this fight. Anytime someone tried to convince you that your appearance didn’t matter you would argue against it. You had been scorned too many times by men in your past. You knew that your appearance certainly did matter a great deal to anyone that wasn’t just looking to get his cock wet.

“Then again, men don’t care what you look like if they know the night will end in sex.” But they certainly cared when it meant introducing you to others as a potential partner. And as far as you were aware, your physical appearance wasn’t ‘girlfriend or wife material’ worthy. Lucien just stared at you, so you stared right back. Even if he had to lie to you, lie to himself, you could not afford to hope that Fae males were any different. You could not hope that any of them could find you beautiful.

“I will not lie to you-” His voice almost sounded defeated.

“Good,” You cut him off again, looking up. “Then we can move on.” You hoped he didn’t miss the pleading look in your eyes. Flushing the toilet, you made to rise from the floor. Lucien helped you to your feet, and continued to hold your hair as you took small sips of water from the sink’s tap. Removing his hand from your hair, you interlaced your fingers with his.

“I’m not cutting you out of my life, Lucien. You are very important to me. We are friends and can still support each other. I love being with you. We just need to be mindful of how the others see it.” You knew that space was needed. It was necessary, even as something inside you felt like it withered.

“Alright,” He relented, as you splashed your face with the cold water. “What are the boundaries?” He was leaving it to you to decide.

“We have to be the most careful while in the Night Court,” You started. “Physical contact in public should be reduced to linked arms when appropriate. Verbal greetings only. No more nights spent at the townhouse.” You tried to maintain eye contact with him and not let your eyes drift along the expanse of his still exposed body. As much as it scared you, you would have to brave being alone. 

“You and I both know that you sleep better with someone next to you,” He reasoned. “If I can't be there then at least…at least have Ruhn with you. I’m certain he’ll be willing to step in wherever I can’t.”

“He can’t always stay with me,” You informed him. “He has a battle for his own world that he is trying to fight. What am I supposed to do when he’s in Midgard? It terrifies me to think what would have happened that night.” The fact that you nearly walked right off the roof of the townhouse was a chilling thought.

“Then let’s ask Helion for assistance,” Lucien supplied. “Ask him to speak with Thesan. He’s the High Lord of the Dawn Court, a healer in his own right. Surely, he will have knowledge about other sleep or dream preventing tonics.” He raised his hand and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“That could work,” You quickly turned away from his gentle touch. Something deep in you screamed as you walked away and out of the bathroom.

“What do we do when we’re alone?” You tried to stop your heart, but it’s pounding filled your ears. Naturally he followed you, but it was a long while before he said anything else. He slowly got dressed, as did you. Anything to keep yourself occupied while you tried to think.

You didn’t know what to say. If there was nothing between you now, then there shouldn’t be any need to change what you did when alone. Except, being alone with him may only continue to fan the flames of rumors. You needed to do what you could to keep each other in your lives, even if that meant you couldn't touch him in the ways you wanted. Why did this feel like a breakup?

“It’s probably best that we remain consistent,” You watched as sadness flashed across his features."At least for now."

“As you wish.” 

Next- Chapter 10 (~ 7/12/24)

General Tag list: @loving-and-dreaming

BHIN Tag list: @jenniferpendragon @impossibelle @sweet-chai-amore @myheartfollower @iimichie @fightmedraco @nikkitch0703 @eerievixen @ang-taylorsversion @randomness-it-is @thehighlordishere @rachelnicolee @hardcoremarvelfan @awkardnerd @sundayysunshine @jpgtae @cheneyq @morganwdarius

Crossed out names wouldn't let me tag you, or tag the correct blog.

[kiththecat]

how do you make the plot of your fanfics? do you just wing it? or do you have a plot outline or a lore document of some sort

ok this answer became longer than i intended but i love talking about writing. im just going to talk about it from ajwiaap perspective but this is my general experience with all longer works. 

i kiiiinda wing it. i'm good at storing ideas in my head so i rarely put them on paper because everything changes so much all the time that it'd be a lot of effort to write down.

i'd say the main thing i do for plotting is just thinking about it. a lot. like every time i go for a walk, or before falling asleep, or when im doing every day tasks, or sometimes just sitting down somewhere and jumping into my head for an hour to play out scenes and tweak ideas.

my outline and all the lore exists pretty much only in my head. i have a short list of acts of physical affection that i'd like for clownzy to do and turn to that for inspiration every time im writing a scene. i also have a list of park-related ideas. and i did keep an outline for the first few chapters but, well, the level of effort put into it can be shown in the way i wrote chapter 10 plot down:

- “Watch and learn, Kaboodle.” fucks shit up!!!!!!!

- (gets depressed)

with the "watch and learn, kaboodle" dialogue never happening and the (gets depressed) being his stir crazy arc.

i DO have a vague plan, but i also give myself a lot of freedom to switch things up. i find it more fun to write when the scene im writing can take a sudden turn because i came up with something new on the spot.

a few instances where this has happened:

chapter 12 was almost fully written and edited before i came up with the breaking the wrist conflict, so i had to rewrite and edit almost all of it

despite setting up ash and squiddo spending a night in the park, i only came up with the idea of them being there the same night as minute as i was writing the start of chapter 9

the chapter 13 clownzy renegotiation is literally two drafted scenes with vastly different contexts and atmospheres in a trenchcoat. honestly have no idea how i pulled it off.

for the first two months of writing i imagined clowns house to be a much smaller, cosier place, until they finally got there and i was like.... this is no place for branzy to go insane

when i wrote the halloween murder scene i too had no clue who the murderer was. all i knew was that clown knew.

the scene where rek and branzy call the kids on new years eve simply did not exist until i was editing, but now it's important to the plot.

(for every new lovely idea made on the spot there's like two drafted scenes that will never see the light of day also god bless)

in the earlier chapters, back when i was updating every week (insane behavior) i was much more focused on writing... clownzy. in a way. like, yes, still big clownzy now! they're weirder than ever. but back then, the plot was kind of a background thing to me and i prioritised silly and weird flirting. but as my attachment to the fic grew (and as i started getting a lot of feedback from you guys like !!!!!!!!!!!!! holy motivation) i started wanted to just flesh things out more, build the world a little better. one reader asked me some worldbuilding questions in chapter 9 and i found it really fun to think out the answers.

which is also why the updates are slower now. i spend hours thinking about how to make the plot work and how to set up the concepts that need to be introduced (it's either thinking deeply about the world and the complexities of the character dynamics or me just thinking about clownzy kissing. no in between. one is much more productive). i dont wanna post something if i have this sense that there's a better direction to take it, or if the dialogue sounds clunky to me. im also mildly upset that i didn't get into proper worldbuilding a bit sooner but i think the evil capitalism workaround + branzy being unreliable narrator has helped it make sense, even though there are things i would go back and change in earlier chapters to make the worldbuilding better (if i wasn't too lazy to be bothered)

all that being said. in short terms. what happens with me and writing long fics is that usually, i'm like "ah, this will probably be about 20k words" and then i get to 20k words and the fic has taken over my life and i'm suddenly saddled with the task to think of a proper storyline. and the "taken over my life" is not hyperbolic, it is literally all i think about.

and as of now, the outline is as polished as it's ever been. it also still only exists in my head, but ive set up things for the major plot points im planning, so im not winging it entirely, just keeping it in my head! :D

[jupiterswasphouse]

WASP REVIEW - WASPS (GROUNDED)

[Image IDs: A screenshot and a render of the wasps from Grounded /End IDs.]

Now this is a game I've been interested in for a while, one that has a rather large and lively cast of bugs throughout it, all viewed from an up close perspective (although one that is often detrimental to the player character)! This, of course, includes plenty of wasps, specifically for the purposes of this review, those directly referred to as Wasps, including the Drones and Queen. Now, some of you who have read these reviews before may be wondering "Ms. Jupiter, doesn't this game also have bees? You usually cover those too, if they're present!", and that is true! I will be covering the bees as well, however, I will be doing so at a later date, alongside the ants! Unfortunately I've neglected ants for some time now (despite also being, taxonomically speaking, wasps, as Formicidae evolved directly from Vespoidea), due to not knowing as much about this subset of species. I'm still learning, but excited to look into them more, so be sure to tune in later for the Grounded revisit!

For the time being, lets start this review the same way we always do, taking a look at their appearance. It's clear to me that the face of this wasp is based directly on the yellowjacket species Vespula germanica, with the distinctive trio of black spots on its clypeus (the broad front sclerite plate above the mandible). The mesosoma markings seem to support this theory, although the metasoma makes things a bit less clear. One could argue those markings do bear some resemblance to the spots on V. germanica as well, although they're far from the same.

[Image Sources: Wikimedia Commons, Entomart, and Wikimedia Commons, no further source information provided | Image IDs: A photo of the face of a Vespula germanica yellowjacket, followed by a screenshot of a dead Wasp in Grounded, followed after that by another image of Vespula germanica, this one in front of a pure white background /End IDs.]

The legs should also have a black marking around the coxa, trochanter, and femur if this is the case. Speaking of the legs, they're mostly accurate, but there should be one more short tarsal segment than there is. The antennae are close as well, but should have more segmentation on the flagellum than they do here. Furthermore, the eyes aren't quite the right shape, and they should be black, rather than the oddly glowing red they are in this game. The presence of ocelli, ie simple eyes, is unclear. Lastly, it's missing some distinct yellowjacket fuzz! Overall, though, I feel like this is close enough to correct! Certainly much closer than last week's example, that's for sure.

Although, these are just the standard Wasps! There's also, for one, the Wasp Queen!

[Image IDs: Two screenshots of the Wasp Queen from Grounded /End IDs.]

It's mostly the same exact story here, except for a few points. Notably, I can see the ocelli on top of the head more clearly on this model, and the initial leg segments have all the black markings they should now! The facial markings, though, while admittedly closer to a real Vespula germanica queen's markings than to a worker's, aren't quite right, with its asymmetrical and oddly placed spots. On top of that, the Queen, for whatever reason, has antennae with a yellow scape and pedicel but black flagellum, when the entire antenna should be black.

[Image Source: NatureSpot, David Nichols | Image ID: A photo of a Vespula germanica yellowjacket, more than likely a queen, on the end of a green-leafed plant /End ID.]

Lastly, we have the Wasp Drones, and, realistically, these guys should look very similar to their sisters, just a bit smaller than the queen and bigger than the workers, and with longer antennae. But, strangely, these guys don't seem to have longer antennae at all, but do have different coloration, with red in place of black, as well as yellow tips on their flagella, on top of having this sort of odd bend in them as well. It honestly brings to mind the mental image of a yellowjacket mixed with an executioner wasp (Polistes carnifex).

[Image Sources: iNaturalist, Eric van drn Berghe, and DeviantArt, Eldar Zakirov | Image IDs: A screenshot of a Wasp Drone from Grounded, followed by two photos, one of a Vespula germanica yellowjacket drone on a small branch, and the other of a Polistes carnifex paper wasp on a wooden board /End IDs.]

I think that's all that can really be said in regards to that, however, so let's now discuss their nesting behaviors, and honestly, it's a little bit strange. There appears to be one main nest, within which the Wasp Queen resides and can be summoned to fight, looking about like a standard yellowjacket nest (enclosed structure, vaguely teardrop shaped), oddly found inside of an old bin. But, there are also much smaller nests found throughout the yard, in a more paper wasp type configuration (open structure, umbrella shaped). This would be entirely normal, if they belonged to different species, of different subfamilies or at different stages of construction, but they don't, and, in fact, every small nest comes with only two Workers and one Drone, with no additional Queens to be found, seemingly all under one collective hive.

[Image Sources: Ohio State University, Joe Boggs, and Flickr, Bob Peterson | Image IDs: A screenshot of the main nest in Grounded, followed by a render of a small nest. These are then further followed by photos of a nest of Baldfaced Hornets, which are actually a type of yellowjacket, and a nest of paper wasps, species Polistes major, subspecies major /End IDs.]

The interior of the main nest is also a little strange, but it's not too far off, appearing to have proper layers of cells on the inside. The nests themselves seem ok, though notably different from each other, but this nesting behavior is odd no matter how you slice it. I've heard of multiple queens/foundresses working together under one hive in some Vespidae/Polistinae species (Polistes fuscatus, Polistes dominula, Parachartergus colobopterus, and potentially others), but not one queen ruling over multiple nests simultaneously.

With regards to their behavior outside of nesting, they seem to be notably more aggressive than the real thing would be towards something as small as the player character (which they're not trying to hunt), at least comparatively to how I've observed wild Vespids to be. I've witnessed various different creatures pass by Vespid nests at relatively close distance with no issue. Speaking of their aggression, each variant of these wasps has its own offensive and defensive behaviors as well!

The standard worker Wasps have the sting and bite you would expect, yellowjackets being known for both while defending and hunting, but they also have... A venom shot projectile. It's odd just how common this is to see in video game wasps! It's an interesting attack, yes, but it's also a notably inaccurate thing, only being an ability found in a select few ants, as mentioned in certain reviews. I do have to mention that there is one alleged incident of an Asian giant hornet spraying venom into someone's eye, but given this appears to be an isolated incident with not a lot of research done regarding it, I'm more inclined to believe this was an instance of incidental venom discharge from an "angry" (defensive) wasp.

When it comes to the Wasp Drones, they have two abilities themselves. One of these is the aforementioned projectile, which is even more odd for them, as male wasps (the drones) do not have venom due to not possessing stingers. The other ability, however, is a scream that applies beneficial status effects to them and their wasps. The ability that they and their sisters have to create somewhat complex vocalizations is odd, as most noise-making wasps have simple stridulating chirps, and these species do not include yellowjackets! Side note, their loot table also includes Wasp Paper, which is something that drones would not typically be out collecting.

Finally, the Wasp Queen mostly has similar attacks, those being stings and projectiles, with a scream that summons worker Wasps and Wasp Drones (usually, in the real world, they'd be summoned to attack with pheromones or just with the fact an invader is in their nest at all). Although she does have a couple more things that can deal damage to the player, the first being landing on the player, and the second being POISON BOMBS, FOR SOME REASON. I don't think I need to tell you guys this, but yellowjackets and other wasps are not capable of producing noxious projectile explosives in the real world.

Now, for the first time in this series of reviews, we get to talk about attack weaknesses! and, strangely enough, these wasps are resistant against Chopping, Stabbing, Slashing, Explosive, and Spicy attacks, but are weak against Salt of all things? I can't speak for real world yellowjackets' ability to take proportionally small explosions and sharp weapons, but insects in general are known for having an extreme distaste for capsaicin. As for salt... I mean come on, they're not snails, it may be harmful if it got into an open wound but they still need salt to live, and are in fact often attracted to sources of salt.

In conclusion, they have quite a few features that are fairly accurate! But they made quite a few decisions that baffle me as someone who takes a loving interest in these creatures. Visually, their markings can be notably off but their body structure is almost entirely accurate, meanwhile their behaviors often quite odd. So, my rating for these wasps would have to be...

-

Overall: 6/10

-

Leave your wasp review suggestion in the replies, tags, or askbox!

[larkingame]

so, i don't usually crosspost these posts, but this week's update on patreon is available to everyone and I know I have a bit of a larger following on tumblr, and I'd really like everyone on the same page so I'm dropping all I have to say here too.

good evening friends!! i hope you're all doing well! welcome to the first update of 2024. momentous for me personally, because this is the year we finish larkin. i am making this post available to all patrons, (paid or not) because I'd really like to start 2024 on the right foot with everyone aware of the road ahead. i am so determined to get it done you have no idea. this is my year. 2024, i christen thee: the year of the vampire cowboy.

okay, so big things ahead, lets talk about the update, explore some of the features we have in the game, plans for this weekends release, the schedule and a couple other things.

so, if you've played at all with the new version of the game, you'll take notice that it's a little bit different than my first image of the game. at first larkin was just a straight interactive fiction following the likes of cog like games, with choices and avenues and split stats and the like. but now, as of 2024 (crazy) we're seeing a game that is more reminiscent of a ttrpg, like dnd or cyberpunk, with stats, classes and dice rolls. admittedly, the very first encounter of the game is well (it's a little rigged) the game, of course, could not really get started if the preacher gets cooked before they've even made it to nevada, so, the odds are a little bit stacked in the players favor this round, but at least, it gives you a little bit of a taste of whats to come. to dive into the specifics of what's important with this first encounter (or just, how to avoid getting your ass really kicked) these first few rolls give bonuses to players with high dexterity and athleticism—-but that's not to say you need to make your character beefed up in these departments. each stat will get their time to shine later down the line.

but let's talk about what i'm really excited to discuss: classes. so with the new version of larkin, i've introduced a system of classes that operate somewhat like your standard dungeons and dragons class, but with a little bit more of that classic background from the original ttrpg mixed in—coloring the way your character sees the world of the game, sort of how a race might effect a dnd character--(a dwarf player is going to have a much different worldview than say, an elf.) for this i was heavily inspired by games like dragon age origins and baldur's gate, and while I do have those original background ready to be dropped a little bit later on the game in relation to your character's perspectives on the abrams family, I really like how these have come to form.

in total there are seven new classes: con-man, outlaw, healer, thief, gambler, showman and slayer. each of these classes warps the perspective of the player character, giving them new motivations, dialogue options, and affects their relationships with the other characters in the game and the world around them. to illustrate this, I'm thinking of making a little bit more of an in depth explanation screen to be added to saturday's update to really get that point across, but I'm still toying with how I want to phrase the specifics of it. what i might do is something similar to baldur's gate with little pop-up tutorials that can be turned off/on depending on how you'd like to play.

to give an example of some of the more in depth motivations/choices each class offers lets talk about the thief and the outlaw classes. the thief class i am especially excited for, because like the con-man class and similar to a few others, it really allows your character to be very money/materialistically motivated. it opens up routes later in the game, like romancing one of the sokolovs—with motivations reminiscent of gold-digging (hehehe very excited for that—i think it will be very fun to write—because you have this idea of a cold hearted player who is entering into a relationship with them strictly for business, versus a cold hearted player who is in it for the cash but also. might be falling in love with one of the sokolovs? ((a lot of fun dynamics afoot here.)) the outlaw class is also one i'm excited to work with because it really puts something of a strain on the preacher and wyatt's relationship—-mostly because you see a strong division in terms of their ethics—the preacher in that case is very 'do what you gotta do to survive,' whereas wyatt believes (key word—believes) he's living by some sort of moral code—that he's failed to instill in the person he views as his child. so like there are layers here boys. layers of resentment, failure—to connect, to teach, to bond. a final tidbit about the slayer class before I move on: if you would really like to play into the enemies to lovers trope with one of the vampires, I would highly recommend giving your player this class ((that's all I'll say))

so: saturday, that takes us to the bar, where each class will get a unique scene, similar to how the scheming tactic section worked in the original game. we're gonna finish up the encounter with the first vampires, meet our guild pursuers and move to the bar. I'm planning also to implement the character customization here—(sort of a way to prep before the player heads out to the bar.) most likely won't get to all classes by saturday's code, but after that, I'm planning to release again on next wednesday, so we're keeping on track. I'd really like to give a full picture of customization for the player character, with all the original options for physical appearance (i might keep clothes vague for now though and let you dress your character later on, until you get a taste of the inventory/bartering system-—you have to deal with MY poor fashion choices for a little bit.) but that being said, about character customization, if there's something that's lacking here and you'd like to suggest an addition I'd be all ears. This is what I'm planning to implement so far:

skin tone

body type*

hair color

hair texture

hair length

hair style**

height

skin details (acne, scars, vitiligo, rosacea)

facial hair

make-up

piercings

eyewear (glasses, no glasses, eyepatch, prosthetic eye)

gender-affirming customization (for ex. use of binding)

* a note on the body type section, I kind of had this idea of digitally drawing some silhouettes of different heights, shapes and sizes, and allowing the player to click through arrows to select a rough estimation of what their body-type might look like. I'm going to do an art dump later this month, and I have a few sketches of what I'd kinda like to do with that, but I'm still toying with it, because even that could be a little limiting in terms of options. if any of you had thoughts on that, I'd love to hear them.

**I think it might also be cool to kind of have drawings of different hairstyles available to the characters, arranged in the card formats like the previous gender options in that same red colored sketch format.

speaking of art though--and this is purely tangential so I apologize, I'm sure you've taken notice of some of the art being repetitive--for the moment that's purposeful. I'm planning to commission some work for the cards to be implemented in a later update--so what you're seeing are just placeholders for now.

okay! with saturday's notes out of the way, plans for the rest of the week. I need to finish the timeline and then I need to make it readable to people other than myself. it is currently incomprehensible and of the few people that have gotten their eyes on it only one (1) could make sense of my mad ramblings. (shout out to friend of the game bianca from exiled from court if any of you are familiar with her or her stuff, we are  big bianca fans here.) After that I need to do some edits with the new update and such, and poke at the code.

Tonight after I post this, I'm specifically working on sending a few more emails to betas (know that sending emails is. my personal hell because of intense social anxiety. BUT we must persevere. emails will be sent tonight.) after that, I have to work on the phillip/kc/sam schedule + calendar for this month, just to keep the three of us on the same page. I'm in the process of looking at some stamps.com printers for sending out packages with this next round of physical rewards and ordering the merch (hehehe)

okay. super long update for our first one of the year, but I am so excited to get to keep working with you guys :) i'd like to thank you all for your continued support and I can't wait to show you more of the little universe i've crafted :)

until friday! i'm gonna be posting some cyrus asks/scenarios for you all to enjoy, so look forward to that! <3

[gameo-archive]

"I asked them to send an encouraging word or two for those of us in helping professions."

First of all, so glad you two are doing this cameo event. George's cameo fundraiser brought such joy to our community. [pause for applause] I am a social worker, who works in a pediatric a&e, intervening and supporting kids and families in crisis situations and bearing direct witness to a lot of suffering. DBD is such an emotionally intelligent show that my colleagues and I discussed each episode as we saw it from our clinical perspective. Months later, this show still means so much to me. A hazard of this job is a high risk of developing PTSD. This autumn has been full of hard cases at our hospital."

Jayden shares some of his character prep for Charles' abusive back story.

Jayden: And we got you. No matter what. So you can always fall back on this and listen to us two idiots talking rubbish.

George: And we're just a mirror away.

Edited to add transcript:

J: Hi, Erin! It is Jayden and George here from G: Dead— J: The Dead Boy Detectives. Did you think we were going to say that in unison G: [nods] [J&G laugh] G: He’s already forgotten about! J: So, you have said—I’ll read this out: “First of all, so grateful that you two are doing this Cameo event. George’s Cameo fundraiser brought such joy to our community—“ [Claps.] G: Aww! J: “I am a social worker who works at a paediatric A&E, intervening and supporting kids and families in crisis situations and bearing direct witness to a lot of suffering—“ G: Wow… J: “DBD is such an emotionally intelligent show that my colleagues and I discussed each episode as we saw it from our clinical perspective.” That’s really, really interesting. “Months later, the show still means so much to me. A hazard of this job is high risk of developing PTSD. This autumn has been full of hard cases at our hospital. Can you give me/helpers some words of encouragement?” J: Well, first of all, the fact that you guys can come together and, you know, discuss some of the themes of the show and relate it to your personal life was kinda the whole reason we kind of took on these characters, and that was the aim. You know, we wanted people to be able to take, you know, the-the things that Edwin and Charles go through and put them into their real-life situations, so, yes, thank you so much for that. J: Um, you said here that you intervene and support kids and families in crisis situations. I think that really relates to Charles’s story. I remember when I was doing my research for-for Charles, I actually spoke to people that do the same job you do and they kind of spoke me through how people, you know, act in them kind of environments, and how, you know, they—the different coping mechanisms and stuff like that, so I have massive, massive respect for what you do, and I really hope that, you know, continue to do it and be a positive light for everybody, and… yeah. G: Mm. J: I hope that’s a good-enough few words of encouragement. G: That’s a lovely few words. J: George? G: I would say, just to add to that, I-I would just say, you know, I think you’re no better than anyone else. You can’t control, like, how many hard cases there are at a time at a facility like yours, but, I’m sure the winter isn’t helping, so we’re nearly at the end of the year, um, it’s been a tough year for for everyone, um, I would say to you and your coworkers and your helpers, lean on each other, because, you know, I speak on behalf of me, Jayden, and the cast, like, having, having a core group that you can lean on in times of difficulty and strife is-is really, um, the most powerful thing, cos it makes you feel like you can overcome anything. So keep doing that, but it sounds like you already are. Um, and have, I hope you have a less heavy week, um, but even if it is heavy, you clearly have capacity for it—your helpers have capacity for it. Keep looking after yourself. And, um, thanks again for [???] J: And we got you. No matter what, so, you can always fall back on this and listen to us two idiots talking rubbish— G: And we’re just a mirror away!

[nerdieforpedro]

A Certain Fae's Melancholy

Jack Daniels (Fae) x GN reader

My entire masterlist and blog are for readers 18+ MDNI. I do not consent to my work being used in AI, recommended on TikTok, borrowed or plagiarized.

Summary: You were lulled into a world you never asked for and the reason that Jack Daniels wanders.

Warnings: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Shifting perspectives, Drinking, Alcohol. References to Depression, Scheming, Stalking, Lonely souls, Mild Sexual Content, Aging, Sorrow, Character Death

Word Count: less than 3k

Notes: This is for the Monster (S)mash challenge hosted by @quinnnfabrgay-writes and @hauntedhowlett-writes. This wasn't this fic I intended to write, but it's the fic that I wrote. I certainly smashed something with this, just not what I expected.

Not Beta-read, back on my "shoot it out there and hope for the best" mantra. This is the first thing I've written in a few weeks so...could be why maybe? 😅

Main Masterlist/ Jack Daniels-Agent Whiskey Masterlist/ Challenges Masterlist/ AO3 Link

The low rumble of laughter rouses you from your slumber. You don’t remember falling asleep. Only that you’d come to these woods while it was daylight. The sun is setting, it must have been at least a few hours but you suspect longer. Looking down at your arm, your wristwatch is gone. No use trying to tell time now.

Taking a deep breath, someone is watching you, likely the same person whose laughter woke you. He’s tall wearing a tan stenson, tipping it toward you like a greeting with a grin as he steps toward you from underneath the shadow of one of the towering trees. It’s then that you realize two things: the first is that the trees look different from the gray-brown wood that are near your home; the second is that you know this man. Your conversations have been increasing in number and you found yourself coming to appreciate his appearances at your local bar. They weren’t too often, meaning he wasn’t there every time you went, but enough that he seemed to be a regular.

“Now that’s sweet of you sugar. You got that little rabbit’s foot I let you borrow for your interview. How did that go?” The observation and question don’t match the situation. You find that despite the unease you feel, you take his large hand as he guides you to your feet and steadies you. The grin softens into a smile and he pats your head, pushing questions that your should be asking him aside, you utter two words that bind you closer to him without realizing: 

“Thank you.” His hand glides from your lower back to the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking your exposed skin and it is warm at the friction, but cool to the touch. “Your hands are cold Jack. That old saying might be true, ‘cold hands make for a warm heart’ and all that.” It’s your turn to join him in making birds vacate the trees at the boom of your combined glee. 

Looking up into Jack’s eyes and they flash a bright shade of green and it catches your attention, to both the color and the direction that you both are heading. You don’t remember walking with him or him stating a direction. He takes one of your hands in his and interlocks your fingers. “Now, now, gorgeous. Don’t be scared. You’ve already given me so much, a little bit more won’t hurt.” Slowly making your way up the steps of an all white house. It appears almost brand new, everything is painted, the door is a crimson red with emerald ivy having overgrown and covers up part of the front of the porch. It’s a stark contrast, given that the shutters are a sienna brown as is the roof. Jack says your name and points down, your name appears after his on the doormat welcoming any would-be visitors to what you presume to be your shared home now. Once inside, Jack eases you down on the couch and pats your thigh. “Now. I’ll give you time to adjust, I see the wheels turning in the noggin of yours.” His rough palm cups your cheek and you place your hand on his, to remove you had thought but then you remember some of the conversations you’ve had with Jack at the bar. 

The first time you met Jack, you made a cowboy joke. He expected it given the form he decided to take on. He finds that many men and women are attached to the allure of a rugged cowboy and possibly being the one to tame them. Daniels had gotten this same sense and considered just having some fun romps in your bed and not thinking twice about it. Unlike many of the humans he’d encountered, he found you funny. Jack normally laughed when he’d perceived that it was socially acceptable to do so. Thankfully, being alive for five or six centuries, he’d gotten the hang of figuring out when to do so. The years blend together and so do the various humans, you stuck out to him. He genuinely laughed while the two of you drank that night. He was able to have the first two pieces of getting his next fix of companionship: deciding on you as his partner and your name. 

The second time Jack saw you at the bar, he was upfront and told you what he was, a fae. A creature that has seen empires and civilizations come and go, explored a myriad of cultures and experienced maybe that many lovers. Not many companions though. Powerful beings are typically lonely after all. You followed that up stating that you had Scottie beam you down and were going to give the humans in area fifty-one to talk about. You could make some of those probes happen with a tentacle or two and would ask to borrow some of Daniels’ fairy dust to sprinkle on a few of your friends to give them some good luck. Also to get a few of them laid, they whined about that a bit. While Jack did get a kick of what your plan was if you were an alien, he assured you that indeed he was a fae and not a fairy. “That’s some Disney horse shit sugar.” 

Subsequent nights were spent with you sharing different details of your life with Jack and him telling you different stories of his adventures. He knew you weren’t taking him seriously, likely believing him to be full of tall tales and bluster, but it was the night that you told him of your interview for a higher position at your job that his eyebrows raised. He’d been trying to think of something to give you that wouldn’t seem too out of the blue, something that you would accept with limited questions. He just needs it to be something of his, that way he can draw you further into his world. Most people would have blown off someone seemingly talking out of the side of the neck or giving so many false (to you) accounts of different events, but Jack knew that glint in your eye. He’d gotten you excited to hear what outrageous tale he would tell you next. “Next time I see ya, I’ll have a little somethin’.” You’d mentioned that your interview was next month, so Jack would take a week, maybe a week and half off. Distance creates longing and it would be less suspicious when he saw you the next time. 

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t still see you of course, you just wouldn’t know. That was how he discovered you’d spoken to someone about him. Actually that same friend group you wanted to use his so-called ‘fairy dust’ on. Daniels does appreciate that you speak of him in a positive light, it’s nice to hear, but the fact that you mentioned him at all is the third piece of his plan. One he hadn’t been counting on and he considers a happy accident. Encounters with fae are not to be spoken of, not that you wouldn’t have known. It’s part of the game and Jack is more than half of the way there. 

Feeling you embrace him in a side hug with a hand clasped on his shoulder, Jack Daniels can be honest with himself that he’s begun to care about you and that it may not be just a companion he wants - he may want a relationship. One of those give and take sorts that he hasn’t experienced since the Industrial Revolution, after a shot or three of whiskey is when he gives you a good luck charm - the rabbit’s foot. The very same that you hold in your hand as you sit on the couch. He’d wished you good luck on your interview then. 

Jack has taken to the kitchen and is making black tea with honey. Normally it would have milk, but as he mentions when he gives you your cup, he despises the taste of milk. “Only good in cereal, baked or cooked in something. Don’t want none unless it’s one of those three.” 

“So, am I just going to be here now, with you? I also didn’t get the job. Guess the charm didn’t work.” You look down at the tea, unable to meet his eyes. Your anger at the situation is starting to seep in at how you’ve been lulled into coming to a secluded house with this man and he’s clearly targeted you, but he’s being polite about it. “All of this is disconcerting Jack.” Your lips nearly touch the mug before he speaks.

“I was upfront with everything darlin’ and told you I’m a fae. We ain’t like them fairies in the story books or movies. We like entertainment and mischief. Think like that twiggy guy who’s always fightin’ with his brother but less daddy issues and no delusions of grandour.” Slurping his tea, he runs his tongue along his upper lip and smirks as you watch. “You can act like you don’t wanna be here, but I didn’t ask you to keep talking to me, give me your name, or to even come to these woods. You were trying to get promoted because your job is always putting the cart way before the horse and making you deal with it for less pay. You’re lonely just like I am and tired of it. Now if you wanna stay, you drink that tea and I can stay by your side until the end of your days. I’m a man of my word.”

“Is something in this tea?” You stare at it and it smells and looks ordinary. His words sting, you’d told him too much about how you feel about your life right now. His ochre brown eyes are fixed on you, matching them you see it. The emptiness that looks back at you when you ready yourself in the morning and when prepping for bed at night. “The void. It truly is the same for you isn’t it? But won’t be painful for you when I’m gone? My life has got to be a few blips in your lifetime. Wouldn’t I be getting more out of this?”

“One might see it that way, but I’m different from most fae. They’re fine being on their own for the most part, but allows those in who I feel I may be able to build a life with, even if it isn’t that long. If there’s one enviable thing about you humans, you match one another in time where I also seem to have too much of it.” Jack removes his stenson and lays it on the coffee table, sipping more of his tea with his eyes still on you. “Tea’s getting cold sugar. What’s it gonna be?”

Maybe you were swayed by his words, maybe it was your own feelings of someone who understood what it feels to know the pangs of heartache were, maybe it was the chance to escape everything and start anew on a curious journey that very few have had the privilege of. Gulping down the tea gave you your first view of a surprised Jack Daniels. His mug clattered on the table next to his hat and he grabs you by the shoulders. “Hot damn baby! Looks like you’re ridin’ with me for the long haul!” 

Slowly, food you had been used to eating lost its taste. Jack explained that because you were now eating food he prepared, you were becoming more acclimated to the fae world. About a month in, Jack showed you where he gathered the food he prepared. It turns out, it’s actually odd little berries that he uses magic to make them appear and taste like foods you’re more familiar with. Picking the fruits is a fun outing and leads to the two of you getting caught in the rain, where you had your first kiss with Jack. The only reason it took this long is because he was indeed a fae true to his word and wasn’t going to force you to do anything you weren’t ready for. He also explained after you kiss, that he may have had to initiate soon because his kiss or other intimate contact would protect you from the Fae Queen. It sounded like one of his many jokes, but by this point, all of them as they relate to fae have proven not to be jokes. 

Things progressed quickly after that, it seems having less of an appetite for substance led to other needs strengthening. At first you thought it was just Jack’s libido that was high as he normally sought you out around the house, but when you pushed him on his back flat on the dining room table and you riding him like one of the bucking broncos he normally joked about, it was clear that sex had replaced food for you too. 

Over the next few decades, Jack took you across the seas, continents, deserts, plains and more. In the span of ten years, you’d nearly crossed off all the places on a bucket list you’d compiled. You aged slower due to your consumption of the fae fruit, but time still marched on and Jack looked the same as the day you’d met him. Mustache still dark and bushy, all his hair atop his head and a beautiful shade of umber. His excitement and joy at watching you marvel at what he could show you kept him going. Jack knew he could do it as long as he had you with him, holding his hand and laughing like in that forest all those years ago. 

Daniels had also taken you to explore the fae world, it was on a different plane than the human one, almost overlapping at different points but also had fixed pockets of space. He told a few of the fae about your old joke about fairy dust and they did give you some. It was disappointing though, only made your hands itchy. The fae would come visit you both at your home as they found you quite interesting. Apparently, you’re the longest lasting human Jack has been with, usually they’re dead by now according to them. Jack hushes them but you wonder how many have been before you, it can’t have been that many but it does cross your mind sometimes, even when Jack it rutting into you or if you’re looking up at him as you help relax with your throat after spending another afternoon watching the sun set again in Aruba. 

With your advancing age, you and Jack travel less and he’s more careful with you. Almost like you’re made of glass which you assure him you’re not. Neither of your parents were glassmakers. Still with that humor that Daniels loves. He’s thankful that you’ve made it to your twilight years, well past your eightieth year. Daniels still sees that funny soul that keeps his heart feeling light with every touch and verbal exchange. A rather odd couple that draws many an eye when you’re out and about, such an older partner for this hearty cowboy, if only they knew the truth. It is not for them to know.

Just as it is not for anyone to know what Jack Daniels sounds like when he assumes you were asleep when he arrived home from gathering more fruit for the two of you. Your body, always so pleasantly heated when he’d rest his head in your lap or on your shoulder. Even the touch of your hand was a tepid treat against his cool skin, but today it matches his. Jack wants to toss the idea away and just carry you inside to warm you up by the fire but he knows it will do nothing. Your skin will remain cold as that humorous soul he loved is no longer there.

Jack Daniels finds that your death is the hardest he’s experienced thus far. He was able to have you with him for decades. His home is now barren and the fruit he has gathered doesn’t matter. The solitude he had eliminated with your presence has returned with such an abrupt embrace. Daniels fights it as he picks your body up and carries it to the backyard, though he did not stop there.

No one, fae or human has seen Jack Daniels since. It could be he has assumed a new form and identity, but most believe that he’s still wandering somewhere with the remains of the one he loved the most in both worlds: You.

A few people who may be interested in the sads 😭: @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @readingiskeepingmegoing @604to647 @lady-bess

@morallyinept @trulybetty @maggiemayhemnj @tinytinymenace @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@guelyury @yorksgirl @fhatbhabiee

[deputyrook]

2024 Writing Round-Up

Thanks @soupandsorcery for tagging me!

Tagging: @ex0rin @the-darklings @glitteringdust @darethshirl @gastlygallows @brightaxe @envysnest @fenharael and anyone else who would like to!

words posted: 29,066 on A03 | 3508 misc. on tumblr | 9601 on pythium (some of that is coding, though, so I'm going to count ~7000)

additional words written: 8439

grand total of words: 48,013 (slower year, most of this was written in the last few months- I blame crazy work burnout and recovery)

fandoms: dragon age, rogue trader, saw, bg3, original fiction

highest kudos: 837 on Playing Cards (!!!)

highest hit oneshot: Same fic, Playing Cards, with 5984

new things I tried: Besides learning how to code an interactive fiction game (which has been a fun challenge), I also experimented more with writing in different perspectives.

fic I spent the most time on: I think probably Alliance of Three, I worked on it off and on for a week and then two days straight (20+ hours for sure.)

fic I spent the least time on: I banged out In Her Absence in around 2 hours.

favourite thing I wrote: Either of these drabbles: Chocolate/Kitchen Fluff, or Alliance of Three, though I think Mala Suledin Nadas is the best thing I wrote.

favourite thing(s) I read: In terms of novels/novellas, some of my favourites this year were Blood Standard by Laird Barron; The Murderbot Series by Martha Wells; Thrum by Meg Smitherman; and I've been loving Kushiel's Dart but I'm only 25% of the way through.

Favourite fics this year include (mind the warnings):

River Rushing Through My Veins - LunarLich/ @nerendus

I've read this fic like at least once a month since it was posted. One of those rare fics that hits every note perfectly for me specifically, on top of being gorgeously written.

the hand you deal & pray for rain - mafalda_157/ @darethshirl

Absolutely stunning command of language- and the characterization work that gets done through the prose! Not a sentence is wasted. Also, so hot?

How the Game is Played (series) - TheEvilScribbler

This series had my jaw on the floor. Not just from how brilliantly it's written and how wonderfully in-character everyone is, but from the places the fic is willing to go. Truly, I was gagged.

To Tame a Wild Yakboy - BeeKazoo

In contrast to some of my other favs, this fic is just incredibly wholesome, and was a lovely read. It takes the bones of the good romance story from the game, and makes it a great romance story.

Uccellino - 2Wardens1Blight/ @2wardens1blight

This fic is exactly what I wanted to read after finishing Veilguard. I've read it a few times, and it's made me cry each times. It just brings me a lot of happiness to read.

Pity the Mayfly- envysnest/ @envysnest

Speaking of fics with unbelievably good character writing. The Tav in this fic is one of my favourites that I've ever read. She's a likeable, relatable protagonist, and both she and all of the companions are written with depth and a particularly strong character voice.

Inferior- Anonymous

I would be remiss if I didn't mention this mysterious little fic, which was deleted two days after I bookmarked it. I somehow found it again via Wayback Machine (and saved a copy). The dirty talk in this fic... woof. I'm taking notes.

Finally, everything I've reblogged in my fic-rec tag. I've saved many incredible fics and drabbles there. In addition to those I've mentioned, some of my favourite dragon age writers right now include (in no particular order) @glitteringdust, @writerfromshikahr, @soupandsorcery @ode-to-fury and a number of others!

writing goals for 2025: Definitely to both read and write more in general! I would love to really concentrate on writing this year, both more fanfiction and original fiction. It's something that fell a bit by the wayside this year, and rediscovering how much I enjoy writing has been a really fun process (now that I'm not being crushed by crippling work stress and burnout).

new works: Alliance of Three for my most recent full-length fic; this little Illario/Rook drabble; this fluffy drabble about Lucanis and Rook cooking.

There are so many inspiring fic writers out there whose work I enjoyed this year ♥ There was no way I could include every fic that left an impact on me. But thank you!!!

[yggdraseed]

An Incomplete Analysis of the Sukunadome

I stress the point that this is an inherently incomplete analysis. It's getting late, I'm tired and unhappy, and… well, the fight isn't over yet, so there's no way this analysis could be complete even if I felt like it. However, it's on my mind, and I feel the need to start exerting myself more on these things. Sometimes sweat is the better medicine. I know this is a long one and doesn’t have any pictures, but if we all support each other, we’ll get through it together.

Full disclosure, I wish more people had gotten filtered by this fight and just stopped talking about Jujutsu Kaisen by now. Like yeah, I think it's great different people see things in different ways, but let's all be honest with ourselves here, most of the people criticizing this fight are not doing so with any sort of literary or artistic perspective or good faith. Most of it is Gojo fans who are still crying, seething, vomiting, pissing, and shitting over the fact that the character they attached their ego to didn't win Jujutsu Kaisen like they wanted. If this describes you, well, this post will probably do you some good, but I'm confident nobody who takes the stance that Gojo should have won would have the space in their mind for what I'm about to say about Sukunadome.

Because that's what I'm calling it. "The Sukuna Cycle" was maybe a little funny for a week or two, but like most memes about this series, it wasn't really based on the story so much as it was on an agenda. Kusakabe was part of the fight since Yuji and Higuruma entered, and up until Miguel, we knew all the combatants who would be tagging in were there. We knew Yuta was off dealing with Kenjaku and would return, we knew Maki was in play, and there really weren't a lot of switches. Just Choso leaving and coming back, Ui Ui retrieving Higuruma's and Gojo's corpses, and… you know, actually, I think that's it. Sure isn't as much as the "Sukuna Cycle" memes made it out to be, huh?

Okay, if you haven't noticed yet, I'm a big JJK fan and a big JJK fandom hater. I think JJK has the worst Western internet fanbase I've seen in a long time, with only a few oases scattered across the internet where you can find intelligent life. Like it's insane what kind of bullshit a person can convince themselves of.

However, I'm not analyzing JJK's fanbase, I'm analyzing JJK. Someday we'll litigate whether or not Lobotomy Kaisen was really funny enough to justify how badly it ruined this fanbase's ability to objectively, productively engage with with one of the most competently written and culturally impactful manga to come out this century. Today is not that day.

So Sukuna's got four arms and knows how to use them. He's got four eyes and so much sass one mouth wasn't enough for the amount of trash he's got to talk to the youths of today. Just on a basic level, having four arms would be such an insignificant power in any other Shonen as to almost be a joke. Yet with how jujutsu sorcery functions as a power system and how adept Sukuna is at using every possible advantage at his disposal - even going so far as to take what probably should be disadvantages and twist them to work for him - having the ability to make hand seals while fighting hand-to-hand, and being able to chant without interrupting his breathing, are inseparable from Sukuna's godlike fighting ability. I love how something seemingly so mundane is such a huge x factor for Sukuna.

We continually see how Sukuna is a complex, but fundamentally vile antagonist. He has a very rich, detailed view of the world, but one that fundamentally reduces every other human being to be his playthings and food. It's just that Sukuna says, "Don't like it? Then get stronger." It's a very Social Darwinist, late stage capitalist view to be coming from the Heian Era, and I think that maybe it's intentional. Shitty people are shitty in mostly the same ways, it's just they find new things to be shitty about or to use to be shitty with.

Like if that were all it is, it'd make Sukuna so effective as a villain to hate and would slot so nicely into Jujutsu Kaisen's overarching social and political commentary. Cruelty within suffering, selfishness as a strength and a weakness, the unfairness of how the strength to pursue one's agency is unevenly distributed and how the haves don’t realize how easily they could have instead been have-nots, it's all there.

But there’s this inherent charisma to Sukuna that I think is intentional. He has this noblesse oblige where he’s so inherently aware of his greatness that he doesn’t have a problem with giving credit where credit is due. Like he talks all the trash when he’s fighting Jogo, but where Gojo’s insults come across as puerile and blunt, Sukuna’s always displaying this wit to him. And when the battle’s over, he acknowledges that even though Jogo wasn’t as strong as him, he was stronger than most and could have gone even further if he hadn’t held himself back. He starts off belittling Gojo in their fight, but by the end, he expresses a profound respect and gratitude towards Gojo. Like it’s a very warped form of those sentiments, but I think it’s sincere. Even with Ishigori, when Sukuna fails to cut him the first time, he just acknowledges it was disrespectful to hold back and that he’ll give it full force the next strike.

Something to keep in mind is that everything Megumi warned Yuji about when it comes to ancient sorcerers applies to Sukuna as well. They’re not treated as uniformly, unambiguously evil anymore than anyone else in JJK is, and are acknowledged as having fundamentally different world views about violence and the value of human life. Kashimo, for instance, seems to value his life only because he’s able to risk his life and lay it on the line. They’re people from an era where children died so young that parents often gave them numbered names so as to not get too attached until they’d see if their kids actually were going to make it or not. If you didn’t give your whole life over to a goal, you probably wouldn’t achieve it. Whereas modern sorcerers, modern people, have all these complex and sometimes contradictory views and needs, ancient sorcerers show a tendency to shave everything away except their one singular conviction because that was what you had to do in an era of much shorter life expectancies and peril on all sides. You’d be very lucky to accomplish one life goal, let alone as many as people of today set out to achieve: graduating high school, graduating college, getting a job, starting a family, and hopefully having one or two passions on the side. Fundamentally different worldviews from fundamentally different periods of history.

And Sukuna is no different. His goal is simple: partake in the many colors and flavors of humanity through mortal combat in the arena of sorcery. Sukuna’s love for sorcery runs deep. He’s always curious about different cursed techniques, even ones that are pedestrian to a sorcerer of his level, like Nanako’s smartphone-based technique. He reminds me of a quote from Baki: “Someone who works hard can never beat someone who enjoys himself.” Sukuna has clearly put forth great effort to master sorcery, but clearly doesn’t see it as work. He sees it as just doing what he enjoys and is good at.

Unfortunately for everyone else, he enjoys killing and is extremely good at it. Sukuna is the ultimate ethical heat death of the “live for yourself, cherish your own agency, don’t let yourself be controlled” mindset that is the ideological starting point of JJK. It’s a very dark, extreme interpretation of Buddhist non-attachment, where even compassion is an attachment to ultimately shed. Sukuna lives perfectly freely, including being free from guilt or compassion.

Naturally, there’s an exception. All things seem to have exceptions. In Sukuna’s case, that would be Uraume. I’ve been fascinated by their dynamic since we first learned of Uraume’s allegiance to Sukuna during Shibuya and I still can’t wait to know more. Suffice to say, Sukuna dotes on Uraume, forgiving their mistakes and seeming to enjoy their company not just because of their service to him, but because their existence makes him happy. I’m reminded of Power in Chainsaw Man, how she was seemingly incapable of empathy or mercy until she met Meowy.

Honestly, Sukuna reminds me a lot of a lot of characters in Chainsaw Man. People who are trying to climb from this state of misery, of struggling just to meet basic desires, and learning to be human. Yet Sukuna is so strong he never needed to learn to be human. He never needed to cooperate with others to survive — or at least, doesn’t seem to believe he did — and so he never saw the value in it. And so he’s basically brute forced his way around having to undergo an arc like Denji’s, and has instead ended up a hedonistic black hole devising all these complicated philosophical arguments to justify what is, really, a very simplistic, predatory desire to only satisfy his basic material wants and creative interests and nothing else for anyone else.

But like, it’s not that simple. If you give to others, you get something immaterial in return. I can’t quantity it or define it, but I’m sure most of you know what I mean. The happiness that comes from taking care of others’ needs, and the deeper levels beyond that happiness. Like I do believe that’s the subtext behind Binding Vows as metaphor: that you almost never give without getting in return. You might not get the same thing back, in the same form, but being changed by the act of putting the needs and wants of others before your own even temporarily still is part of the exchange. It’s part of becoming complete as a human being.

Sukuna has defied that exchange and broken the cycle, and I don’t think it’s inherently for his own benefit. There are some thing about being human that you don’t just get to opt out of, no matter how much you claim you’re more than or less than human. Even if Sukuna doesn’t think he’s lost something of value, he has. And that something of value is inherent to the whole point of this final battle.

Jujutsu Kaisen is basically working on two big problems. There are lots of ideas at play in the series, but there are two fundamental problems for which every fiight, every character arc, every turn of the gears consitutes part of the calculus to solve one or both of those problems.

The first problem, a thematic and philosophical one: “How do you love and fight for something when you know you’re going to die?”

The second problem, a metatextual one: “Is there any artistic and social value left in the Shonen formula as it stands in the modern day?”

And this fight is, ultimately, where GeGe is showing their work. It’s where Yuji has to defeat Sukuna, if not in terms of out-boxing him, then in terms of prevailing over his beliefs about humanity and the world as a whole.

GeGe has stripped Yuji of everything that is supposed to determine the worth of a Shonen protagonist’s victory. He’s not fighting alone, he didn’t go off and train all by himself, he trained with a lot of powerful, smart people who helped him. And Yuji is arguably not even the most important participant in the fight. So why should we care if Yuji wins?

The answer is so simple it’s easy to lose track of it. Yuji is risking his life to rescue someone, his friend, from being exploited, and to save the people of Japan from being exploited. Even after everything that’s happened, Yuji plants his fucking feet and takes a stance that no, shithead, there is such a thing as the right thing. Maybe it isn’t obvious all the time, and it sure as hell isn’t always easy to know what it is, but he knows now with certainty what it isn’t: to exploit others or to destroy yourself. We can find our answers somewhere in-between.

Sometimes we can’t resolve our problems with a tidy solution that makes everyone happy and sometimes we have to carve a piece of ourselves out and give to something we won’t be sure to see the fruition of, but that’s just life. It doesn’t mean we have to throw away all hope for things to get better. Even if the world won’t become utopian, it can still become better, no matter how many nihilists hide their own inequities behind assertions that there is no point.

Nihilism is not a solution to the problems of life, it is the choice to run away and hide. To give into nihilism is to give up the fight even while other people are still fighting all around you.

So that’s the fucking point of the Sukunadome. Nobara already said it better than anyone else has before she made Mahito look like the bitch he was and always will be: “Sometimes you need to fight even when you know you can’t win.” Because you won’t always win and you won’t escape death, nor will you know what lies beyond death. However, you can still live according to your principles and fight for the things you see as meaningful even if other people don’t.

That is why so many characters have come and gone from the fight. All gave some, some gave all. Nobody is truly useless — even if Miwa self-deprecatingly jokes about being useless, she still was the one thing standing between Maki and Malevolent Shrine’s eviscerating hellscape. Even Amai’s sweets-conjuring joke technique saved Hana from a would-be fatal fall and helped to supply sugar to the brains of people using reverse cursed technique in Shoko’s triage. Larue couldn’t do much, but they caught Sukuna’s eye at the perfect time for Yuji to land a Black Flash, and that means something. It all means something.

Given how deeply GeGe clearly respects Hunter X Hunter, I want to end off by citing one of the quotes in Hunter X Hunter that has been the most impactful for me and I suspect has been about as impactful on GeGe: “It seems small things… infinitesimally small things… are needed to build the entire universe. The size of a thing has nothing to do with its power.” We always seem to direct our senses to the superlatives. The largest, the oldest, the loudest, the things that hit the hardest. But while it would be wrong to throw those out, we often lose sight of how many little, important things there are in the midst of those huge, important things.

Seeing someone’s smile when you remembered something they said that showed you were listening to them. The feeling of a warm breeze on a summer morning. The smell of honeysuckle on your walk home. Waking up to rain on a Sunday. The taste of watermelon. Getting married. Having your heart broken. Songs that make you smile, songs that make you cry — songs that do both, and songs that make you feel things you can’t describe. When you’re always looking to those immense, monolithic things, always comparing your seemingly small, seemingley meaningless life to them, you lose sight of just how meaningful all of it is.

Just because it doesn’t have cosmic, absolute meaning doesn’t make it meaningless. Every little thing that means something to you is worthy of being cherished. The people around you, the things that bring you happiness, even if that happiness is going to ebb and flow. It’s all worth fighting for and living for. It just takes bravery and conviction to keep fighting and keep living with authenticity and love. And if there’s an artistic value, a greater meaning to Shonen, now and always, it’s the unerring, unabashed belief that there’s a reason to aim high and not give up.

Because sometimes, life hurts. But if it’s just pain, Yuji Itadori will never stop. We’ll see what I have to amend, reconsider, or elaborate on when the fight is finished. I hope this gave some of you a new way to look at it.

[alevolpe]

Hello hope you doing well!

I have a question when you started learning how to draw did you start with the basics like drawing lines and shapes every day?or did you start a different way I just don’t know where to start or how to start.

I hope I’m not bothering much😓.

Hi, please don't apologize, you're never a bother hun! I'm doing well indeed, thank you.

So I'll be quite honest, I'm aware I have a talent for art. Might be cause I've been drawing for as long as I can remember, but I know this stuff comes easier to me than some others for some reason. BUT I'm really not the best person to ask for art advice.

I never tried to go out of my way to learn in a class or learn from life (outside of the most basic high school art classes you can think of). I liked anime, I started drawing anime stuff cause I loved it and it gave me attention, but I should've taken a step back at some point before now and REALLY tried to learn the basics first, cause now I'm suffering the consequences..

Most of my art leaves me incredibly unsatisfied, I've been too lazy recently and nothing has humbled me more than starting this project where I have to actually know what I'm drawing and I have to make it make sense for an inking process, instead of just posting sketches

I cannot stress enough, please don't do what I did, learn and study from life first. (even if it's at the most basic level)

It's boring! Trust me, I know! The past few weeks, I've been spending almost exclusively drawing from life and studying anatomy, perspective and inking.

If you wanna start from scratch like I'm doing now, I really recommend buying an art book or finding a good place for references online and copying them. To prevent burnout, try to split your practice between drawing from life, then sketching characters that you like using those same principles (use references pls!)

Pinterest is also a really good tool for artists, I highly recommend it for references and small tutorials and tips! (Avoid AI like the plague)

The "just draw every day" thing people tell you will help you to an extent, but you do have to understand at least the basics of what you're drawing. Personally, drawing everyday mostly helps me 'stay in shape' as to say, making it easier to not get rusty and taking a long time to warm up before sketching.

Anyhow, this was very long. Sorry, it most likely wasn't the answer you were looking for, but I'm really not as good of an artist in the technical sense as some people think I am, just.. lucky I guess. At least for now.