#but like extremely next level . i presume

[c-kiddo]

heard a taliesin character was up to some dumbass self destructive behaviour again

[dunmeshichilchuck]

For That One Guy On Tumblr

Chilchuck x !fem ! halffoot Reader

So this starts off during the sauna episode. I'm changing it a bit to where that floor has been that cold since the dungeon was created. There will probably be more installments but right now it's just setting things up. Anyway, enjoy.

The last thing you remembered was cold, leeching into your bones. Cold, and the certainty that this would be the last thing you'd ever feel. Your party had left you to die rather than try to heal your wounds, and this floor was too deep for someone else to come along and take pity on you before your body rotted. You were going to become a ghost, haunting this dungeon without ever being able to leave. 

And then you opened your eyes again, and you were all too warm. 

You took a few shuddering breaths, coughing and gasping. Your lungs burned like they were on fire and your whole body ached. You curled up into yourself, shivering. And then you became aware of what was going on around you. And also that for some reason everyone was wrapped in towels instead of normal clothing.

"YOU MEAN YOU HAD NORMAL RESURRECTION MAGIC THAT COULD DO SHIT LIKE THIS THIS WHOLE TIME???!!! ARE YOU STUPID? WE COULD HAVE AVOIDED THIS WHOLE THING!" 

Another....halffoot? Shouted. 

"I already EXPLAINED why I couldn't have used normal magic!!" A blond elf woman shouted back in an exasperated high pitched squeal. "It wouldn't have worked! The thread between body and soul was too tenuous! And we'd never have been able to get enough regular meat down there! Anyway I don't understand why you're so against it, I didn't see you arguing against it at the time!" 

A blond tall man, blindfolded? For some reason? Interjected. "Marcille is right! Even though the body was in a not so great condition the ice kept it from rotting so all the component parts were still there! We just got lucky that we were able to gather them all together! Once the body thawed resurrecting it was a simple matter! There was no need for special magic like with Falin." 

They continued to argue violently while your recently unfrozen brain attempted to make sense of the situation. 

Had the half foot somehow had enough pull in the party he'd been able to convince them that they should revive you? You weren't much use on this floor and presumably deeper ones where small traps gave way to larger monsters, so you couldn't work out any reason they had for reviving you. You looked around the small, actually extremely hot room you were in. It was...a sauna? Was it really a sauna? What the fuck? 

You smelled something delicious and you looked around to see a dwarf with long black hair and a massive bushy black beard peacefully tending to meat cooking over what looked very much like a wok. What the fuck? They were a high enough level party to have fresh meat down here? That would explain why they'd been able to spare the revival for you. 

There was also what looked like a beast girl crouched next to him, watching the squabbling party members with a bored expression on her face. Well. That was just another one of the things to file away and deal with later. 

Almost instinctively you staggered to your feet and crouched down by the dwarf to watch him cook. Your stomach grumbled insistently. Even in normal circumstances getting revived made you ravenous. Now you felt dizzy with hunger. 

"Ah, hello there!" The dwarf looked up at you and beamed. "Always nice to have new folk eat with us! You must be hungry after getting revived, food should be ready in just a few minutes."

He continued cooking, humming softly to himself. 

"Would you...like some help?" You managed to rasp out. Throat hoarse with disuse. 

At this point it seemed like the other people there remembered your existence. 

"Ah! So sorry, you're awake!" The elf said. "You were out for a long time, I didn't know if the magic would fully take with how long you'd been in the ice."

"How...how long?" You said, almost dreading the answer. 

"At least a couple of years, based on the state of your organs and bones" the blindfolded tall man said enthusiastically. "You were lucky! The extreme cold preserved you extremely well and there aren't any monsters down here that would go to the trouble of digging you out of the ice." 

You blinked at him. 

"How did you get all the way down here?" The elf asked. "Was your party wiped out? We looked but we couldn't find anyone else."

"I'll bet they left her behind." The halffoot interjected dourly. "She probably got injured and they didn't want to waste time resurrecting her or bringing her along." 

"what!" The elf gasped. "that's terrible, no one would do that! Why would you even think of that Chilchuck??" 

"Like I keep telling you guys, halffoots are treated as expendable! It'd be totally within the realm of possibility! Especially since she didn't sign on with the union or we woulda recorded when her party came back without her or she just never came back at all!" He frowned. "That's why I started the damn thing in the first place but if not everyone uses it it's not fucking good to anyone."

he (chilchuck?) turned abruptly to you. "Anyway, why didn't you use the union? We would have been able to look out for you so this didn't happen."

You stared at him in utter confusion. "....union?" 

[transmechanicus]

look this is really probably unnecessary, but I've seen tons of posts about how everyone is mad about the page that's going to post unmasked pics of the st guys and how outrageously disrespectful it is to them and well... I gotta say that it's just not that deep.

it's been pointed out that they've only ever said that 'their identities aren't important to the music or the story'. and that's it in terms of the "extreme lengths" they go to hide their identities.

i'm a regular follower of the reddit page where their identities are openly discussed and there is a decent amount of evidence that one of them or someone from their team lurks there and plays around a little with that community. ie, a few of the recent "the summoning solo shenanigans" were suggested in that thread and then seen on stage the next show. but who knows.

some of the guys are actually still participating in other media to a small extent. one of them still streams with a friend on twitch often. one of them just put out some older official music project on Spotify. one of them gets his new tattoos posted unmasked on his tattoo artist's page.

look, I'm not saying that this person who plans to bring this stuff to Tumblr shouldn't be warned about and of course everyone should have the opportunity to block and avoid it to keep their experience of the band how they prefer. that's no question how it should be.

but like... everyone is saying that this person who's starting the unmasked blog is like, evil and so disrespectful to the band. and I think that's just not right. it's their right to start whatever kind of page they want. it's everyone else's right to avoid it.

like I said, this is not really going anywhere, and it's not personal, I just have seen so many people bashing that person on a personal level and I just gotta tell someone, it's not that deep. thank you for reading

To me it is that deep, from what i’ve heard there was a major panic on Instagram in 2023 bc freaks were using info on there to harass II and his family. Hell he still alters his voice in videos, which you only do if you’re concerned someone is dedicated enough to scrape the internet with audio of your vocal patterns. I’ve seen video footage of Vessel cussing out a guy at a festival for yelling real names in the audience. There is direct evidence that the band members dislike off-stage info being known and shared, and that a portion of Sleep Token’s fanbase cannot be trusted to respect the secrecy that allows the band members to live comfortable lives relatively peacefully and out of the public eye.

In my personal opinion, your examples of how they’re still on other social media, and that you know that info abt them are reinforcement of my dislike for unmasked data aggregates. Unless the tattoo artist’s posts or the twitch stream is tagged #SleepToken there is probably a reasonable expectation that they don’t want band related attention for those things. Even if somebody does recognize them as the band members, it would be a minority population if it weren’t for subreddits and archives directly connecting dots between those things and Sleep Token, which is presumably why you have that info yourself in the first place.

By aggregating and collecting unmasked info, a resource is being provided that essentially says “Hey i know these guys have almost entirely retreated from the internet for their own safety and comfort…but here’s their names and faces and loved ones and colleagues and past projects and every little activity they do in their spare time. All gathered together and directly tagged and marked in relation to the band they’ve purposefully tried to anonymize and distance their real lives from”.

It’s stalker behavior, it’s unhealthy, it could be genuinely dangerous for the members if the wrong person made use of it, and i reserve the right to passionately condemn it.

[thewertsearch]

Well, fuck.

On some level, I always knew this was coming. In an RPG, the survival rate of one's parental figures is close to nil, and we've known the Alternian custodians were doomed for a long time. Why would the human Guardians be any different?

And - oh, god - John is in the area. Even with his new powers, I doubt he can stand up to Jack, but he might be about to try. This is going to get messy.

Ooh, are we going to be hearing from Mindfang herself?

This is big, and not just because she's Vriska's mom - it's also the first time we're hearing from an adult troll. We know next to nothing about their lives, culture, or history, so whatever's in this journal is sure to be illuminating.

I'll lock in a last-minute prediction that Mindfang will be extremely similar to Vriska. After all, Vriska essentially modelled herself off the woman, so her own personality is probably based on what she's read about the Marquise.

The Orphaner poses a caliginous riddle like no other I've met. I am presuming him 8othered 8y jealousy, and it would 8e sickening if it were not so marvelously amusing.

Right off the bat, we’re presented with another ancestor – the Orphaner, who Eridan is presumably emulating. He and the Marquise had a caliginous relationship, which makes me wonder if Eridan and Vriska were deliberately trying to emulate it.

Anyway, the Orphaner appears to be the jealous type, which is Eridan through-and-through. It sounds like all the Ancestors are going to be reflections of their descendants.

Actually - we’re probably about to meet the other Ancestors, so I think I'm going to pause the liveblog for a second, and try to predict what they'll be like. Stand by!

[halfblood-princes-crown]

Hello I have some outside perspectives to the “Is Snape an abusive teacher” argument.

So, I work with middle aged people who have kids of their own, and none of them have ever touched Harry Potter. At all.

I laid out a scenario for them of two teachers. One teacher was Snape and the other was McGonagall. Mr. S and Ms. M

I laid out how Mr. S is mean and verbally rude to the students. I gave examples of some of the things he said, such as threatening a students pet and making a joke about a students physical appearance.

The response to these things was:

My boss: oh, I’d never call for a teacher-parent conference so fast. What warrants a comment like that?

My fav coworker: He said something about a girls teeth? I’m not a violent person but I’d make his teeth look much worse if that was my daughter haha

Next, I laid out Ms. M and how she told a student in front of his class that he was useless, sent three children into an area that was extremely dangerous as a punishment, then locked a student out of the class when there was presumably a school shooter around.

The responses were:

My boss: I’d go to prison! What the fuck? This school sounds like it has a problem with verbal abuse overall, but to actually put my child in physical danger is another level. Anyone who can confidently put a child in danger like that needs to be under a prison

My fav coworker: Mr. S suddenly looks tolerable…so wait, how dangerous is this area she sent them? Like dead body dangerous? (Yes) Oh, yea, I’m joining him in the prison she’s under HAHA WHAT oh my god…

At this point in the conversation, another woman walked in. She’s definitely a grandmother, and they told her the scenario. She basically said Ms. M needs to be investigated. Talking shit and doing shit are two different things, and Ms. M could be thrown in jail for the bull she’s pulling. I actually hate this lady but she ate down right there

The conversation quickly forgot about Mr. S.

Counter arguments would ask if I laid out Mr. S backstory. I ended up revealing that I was talking about HP and I laid down the Snape lore in full. I’m telling you now, they didn’t give a damn. In their eyes it’s like…Ok he’s obviously not mentally fit to be a teacher, but he’s doing it out of a promise to protect a kid, which he succeeded at doing, and he wasn’t the one putting a kid in physical danger, he was putting HIMSELF in danger. It solidified their opinion when I said he died saving everyone.

Parents for Snape💪🏽

I think I want to show them snater arguments next to see how they respond to those. It wouldn’t be fair if I only gave them pro Snape arguments (although I laid everything out in full and they easily could have came for Snapes neck), so I want to see if they agree with anything from anti Snape arguments. They seemed invested enough.

The only thing “anti Snape” they seemed to agree with is that he was dead wrong for joining DEs, but I think we all agree on that. Duh.

[circeyoru]

The Boy & The Witch _ Part 2

[Human!Alastor x Witch!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 2 (here)

The boy, now named Alastor, came often to your little home in the forest. His attitude could be described as excited, eager, and twisted. You’d say that it was near your level and perhaps over as time goes by. You weren’t wrong

Alastor was more adapt in learning darker arts. While you can heal, Alastor shows no talent in such. Though as if to make up for it, he was extremely talented in shadows. A form of magic you have trouble with due to your abilities in the purer magic. Soon, his shadow came to life with glowing eyes and a crescent moon as its smile

You told him that he needs to control his shadow as it started doing it own thing when it came to life. It was harmless to you, but if anyone were to find out, there’d be hell to pay. It took a while but Alastor and his shadow got used to each other. When dealing with sentile beings, it takes time, you told him while he mediated, if he wants more control, he must be of sound mind and body first

Once, you were in town again, gathering on some supplies to stock up and saw Alastor. You were going to greet him, but you saw a women step into the frame. You figured it was his mother, but you were conflicted, his smile was genuine, familiar to how happy you saw him when he was learning and mastering the darker arts of voodoo magic

Thinking back, he never mentioned his mother to you, only his father that he loathed and seeked revenge on. The conclusion you came to was that he was doing it for his mother too, the mistreatment included her

You left, reminding yourself to talk with Alastor the next time he visited

“You know you can’t go to Heaven now that you meddle in voodoo magic, right?” You leaned against the door frame of your little experiment room, your arms crossed over your chest while you looked at the back of Alastor’s form. You noticed his shadow’s smile turned to a frown and shivered, but Alastor reminded focus on his task “What brought this along?” Alastor questioned as he grind down some animal bones accounting to one of your many books “The other day, I saw you with your mother I presume. She’s a nice lady that will go to Heaven and you’re damned for Hell.” You continued “You’ll be there with me, right?”  “Well, of course, I’m the one that brought you into this, so naturally. I think my family and relatives made some sort of clan down there. They living the life ther.” You chuckled, “And Hell is supposed to be a punishment too.” “If you’ll be in Hell as well, I can live without my mother there, she belongs in Heaven. I’ll treasure my time here now while I’m alive.” Alastor spoke softly Your eyes narrowed, a small frown on your face, you turned to leave but not before saying, “Then you shouldn’t be there with me. Go back home, boy.���

Like Alastor was listening to you, he didn’t come back the next day, or the day after. For a while, your home was void of the apprentice you took in and given the name of Alastor to. You’ll admit that you felt lonely and thought if you were being too cruel to him

You waited for a week longer to see if there was any change in Alastor’s visit to the forest. Oddly enough, there was no sighting of him. Why you say that because when he was younger, he’d play disappearance for a few days to catch your attention. You found him hiding within the tree branches when you went to look for him

But now it was a teenager, nearly adult. Some can say you two grow up together, you’re not shy to admit that he has grown to be quite the lady’s killer. He has gonna popular in school and town. Getting a nice internship at the radio station to prepare him for his future career

You knew that under his perfect front, how painful and cruel his life behind closed doors was. Not to mention his cruelty and heinous thoughts he habour to those that do him wrong. So you left your home when the sun was about to set to where Alastor’s home was. You peeked inside from one of the uncovered windows. It was all quiet. Too quiet

Securing your cloak and the deep hood over head, you went to the back door. Using your own shorted staff, you tapped the lock and unlocked the door as it opened on its own and closed when you entered into the house

You wandered around, coming to a stop when you passed the living room with a body laid on the carpet and another on the couch. You cautiously stepped forward, checking the mother to see if she was breathing, when she was, despite the blood from her head. You turned to the man, father of Alastor’s due to the resemblance, and checked his breathing. He was sleeping

Kneeling down, you hovered your hand over the mother’s injured head and healed her a bit. Then you turned your attention to the staircase and slowly made your way up. When you made it up, you scanned the doors that were all opened, except one. You stood before it, trying the handle first, locked. You did the same thing to the back door and unlocked it with ease

The door creeked with a whine, you eyes pierced into the room, bathed in the light from the setting sun. You noticed the motionless body on the bed and made your way over. You sat on the edge of the head, facing away from Alastor. “You know, your mother’s in a dying state. But I healed her enough to get through the night.”

Alastor merely flinched, enough of a sign to show you he was awake and listening

“I wonder though, still you let this father, this man, to rule over your life any longer. You’re not the only one suffering.” You spoke

You sat there playing with your shortened staff when you left Alastor get up and left the room. You waited for a while before you followed suit and went down. You weren’t surprised to see Alastor standing over the now dead body of his father and the blood staff in his hands

With a snap of your fingers, the living room was in a worst wreck. You walked over to Alastor, pausing to let him lean over you. “Don’t worry, this would be like your family was attacked by armed robbers. You’re going to sleep for a while and your neighbours will find out then alert the police. I honoured your revenge, now let me handle the aftermath.”

As if your words were what he needed, his eyes closed shut and his full weight crashed into yours. You carefully kneeled down to set him on the floor. Making sure he was just sleeping. You eyed his shadow and pushed the staff to it so that it was hidden when the neighbours and officers come

You stood on the branch of a nearby tree, its leaves hiding you while you watched concerned and nosy individuals crowd around Alastor’s house. The police set up the perimeter and medical officers brought Alastor and his mother’s unconscious bodies to the hospital

“Glad it wasn’t the young boy or the mother that’s killed.” “Yeah, would have been unjust.” “Now they can live peacefully.” “That’s good.”

So the father wasn’t well-liked already. You thought to yourself, your staff elongated to its original form. You tapped the end of it to the tree branch. All the better. You stared down as the deceased body was brought out. Makes for an easier target. I have to ask my family to catch his soul.

Note: Long overdue part 2. Since things have slowed down, I'm working on the requests meant for longer writing. The ones where I can rant or is just a short answers will be posted quicker~

Circe Y.

Other Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist:

@aconfusedwonderland

@crowleysthings

@donustellaron@mistpurpl3

[sodaslug]

Don’t you feel guilty about pretending to be level 3 and intellectually disabled? Have you never met anyone with severe or L3 autism before, or even seen any personal accounts from their family or caretakers? It’s disgusting to pretend like this, you’re making a mockery of other people’s real experiences just so that you can get some attention on tumblr. I know you’re probably still a teenager so I really hope that in a few years you’ll have moved on from this and you feel bad about it.

hi anon! 🤍 no absolute idea why you waste time to send this to me into my ask box. havent got better stuff do with life, no? that's ridiculously sad.

wonder if YOU meet someone level 3 autism and intelectually disabled before, oh no no not one common example on tv, actual people like me? did any true research about people like me? because guess what people who are level 3 autistic have intelectual disability can still be people with personality, have identity and do social media stuff. been always sevrely disabled like this, autism always been severe, iq always low, had all recognised as young child, been put into all sort therapies before been put into horrible mess because of adoption system and issues you dont deserve to know that had in my life.

have some people know me closer than what you presumably might saw post about, all know severely disabled and can clearly tell so am. needed intese help to do this whole tumblr thing, need help supervision online still everything, never even understand would have people interact with me here just want post about stuff that like and fun and make aware of people who have struggle like me.

so how about get over self? absolutely ridiculous thing to share out here of you really, couldnt be more ridiculous. what should be guilty and move away from? fact that as young child was put through all professionals and places because i was so extremely behind children couldnt even understand how put shirt on when should? how talk properly? how read when should? how write when should of known? how use the bathroom and get clean, how eat by self? 'should move on and feel guilty' about what? that this day still cant function and are neglected by caretaker causing me to have health issues, long term skin issues, infections?

but YOU say am mockery and hope of me 'move on' oh believe wish fucking could 'move on' next day magically and change clothes, shower, able speak functionally, be able of education, work or even getting out fucking bed without needing severe prompting.

fuck off and how about move on from saying bullshit without no thought behind it before you spit it out.

[hekateinhell]

Anne Rice plotting out Louis's (permanent) death in the early notes for Merrick...

Since I was already referencing a response I gave to a question about Armand's possible reaction to Louis's suicide attempt earlier today, I remembered this that I stumbled on while going through the Anne Rice Collection at Tulane — which in a way answers that very same question:

This scene has to be major in the novel, and as I see it now, Claudia will be extremely horrible to Louis and drive him to suicide.

Louis will expose himself to the sun, and the others will find his burned body in its coffin on the flat portion of the slate roof of the townhouse.

Those who will come together, having felt the passing of Louis will include Armand and Merrique.

David will be for scattering all the ashes of Louis. But Armand and Lestat will refuse to do it. Then Lestat will be won over. Armand will want to pour blood on the ashes. Armand and Lestat will get in a battle, and finally Armand will give up, and Lestat will pick up the lumps of charcoal of the body, pulverize them and scatter them to the winds.

Okay, but Armand and Lestat battling over whether Louis can be brought back to life? Lestat scattering Louis's ashes while Armand presumably watches, defeated? My heart!

Next time you complain about Merrick, remember... it could've ended like this.

I love Louis and I love him with Armand and Lestat both (separately and all together), so of course I'm very grateful Anne didn't go this route! But the idea that she might've??? 🫢

I'm not up to write this level of Angst™️ and do it justice but it's definitely something that could be explored further in fic! And it is one (of many lmao) instances where you can see such a stark difference between where Anne started and where she ended with her novels.

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH 2/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: the prodigal son returns tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but now a little more than kinda), original side character(s), does arthur count as a tag, he needs his own warning, its more exposition please don't leave

word count: 4.9k

a/n: HERE! DAMN! (i'm so sorry this took so long)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here | masterlist

you can find a link to the playlist here! tag list (look how crazy. i have a LIST.): @photo1030

The subsequent mornings are painted with varying shades of gloom. It was smeared over the sky in thick coats, and if it was just a little thicker, it might be able to keep out the spears of light. 

Sometimes, they tickle. Sometimes, they recoil from the rigid mounds of snow and blind you and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the line of fire. Pain in the ass, really. A particularly nasty pain in the ass flickers in the cloudy metal of your spoon one morning while you’re shoveling grits into your mouth.

“You planning on eating the table too, kid?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, as does your spine once you lower your spoon back into the chipped bowl. 

“My apologies,” you gulp. “You’ll uh, have to forgive me, Mrs. Campbell. Seems the winter air’s gotten to my head.”  

Mrs. Campbell was a wiry, dark-haired woman of 63, and had spent more time rearing cattle than children. She was rough, tough, and at present, leveling you with a stare so doubtful that you wonder if the look you often catch on the livestock is embarrassment. 

After holding your gaze for a few moments more, she resumes the rocking of her chair from the corner and returns to her darning. A large red sock, the same one she’d whacked Mr. Campbell over the head with after she’d found it on the floor of the living room only thirty minutes ago.

“No, no, you’re alright.” Mrs. Campbell pauses, though her hands continue to work. Under, over. In, out. Not a single finger pricked. “Think that’s the most I’ve seen you take down in one sitting, is all. You bite like a bird.” She makes a funny chewing motion with her mouth—or, at least you think it’s supposed to be funny. It seems to amuse her well enough; most strange things did. 

She then asks how much horse feed is left, and you tell her enough to last for the next two weeks. You ask how her daughter’s baby boy is doing, she tells you he’s been picking his nose, and the two of you return to your respective distractions: the pulling of thread and a spoon fishing around a now empty dish while you consult silently with the peeling floral wallpaper. 

Arthur Morgan’s appearance had set you on edge, loathe as you were to admit it. The fact that there’d been no sign of him since you’d first spoken only hastened the growing dread, more so than the lack of response after your father’s men had been so kindly disposed of. 

Contingencies had been thoroughly accounted for, leaving you mildly inconvenienced at best and dead at worst. There were other conclusions you’d drawn up, of course, but dealing in extremes had its benefits.

You press your thumb absentmindedly into the corner of the dining room table. Could the Campbells have heard your exchange? No, they couldn’t have, too old. And that was excluding the fact that the main house was rather far from the cabin. Given the time frame, it would have been well beyond what was reasonable for your…situation to have been brought up. 

Besides, this was important. Better to sort this out now than when—if—he showed up at your doorstep again.

“I have a question.”

Mrs. Campbell snorts. “I presume you’re lookin’ for an answer.”

You set your spoon down, and stand to clear the table. “Do the two of you get…stray cats often?”

This time her hands waver. “During the warmer months, sure. But in this weather? I mean, if it had the guts to get through all that ‘winter air,’ I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flick up. “Would have to be real hungry, though. Or stupid, which I doubt, ‘cause cats ain’t stupid—sonuvabitch!” 

You jerk as her needle clatters to the floor. She lets a curse slip as she hunches over to retrieve it; another follows as she tugs the string loose, just a little, and her fingers trip over themselves before falling back into a steady rhythm. 

Her brows pinch in concentration. “Never met a stupid cat,” she repeats.

“I…I see.” Moving around to the other side of the table to collect what's left, you frown when you catch your warped reflection in a bent spoon. You pick it up, and your fingers brush over the bump unconsciously. “I saw one,” you say slowly. Mind fumbling over any disastrous outcomes. “A cat, I mean. He’s been hanging around my cabin for a while now. I was only asking ‘cause he’s been spooking the chickens.”

When Mrs. Campbell doesn’t answer, your mouth gets the better of you. “Only, he turned up again a couple nights ago. Acting real docile, you see.” Not docile. The farthest thing from it. “Nearly shot him then and there, but—oh, he just looked so pitiful! He’s real mean looking, all scratched up and such, but I was tired, so when shooing him off didn’t work I let him in. Didn’t hiss, didn’t bite, nothing. But, I think I may have scared him. Skittered right out the door, quick as lightning. He’s been pissin’ me off—pardon my language—but, I just don’t see why he’d go through all that trouble to show up if he was just looking to leave the moment I raised so much as a finger.”

You only cease your rambling once you realize that you’ve bent the spoon too far in the wrong direction. “I…should turn him away, shouldn’t I? If he shows up again?”

Mrs. Campbell lets out an exasperated exhale, smooths out her apron, and sets her mangled sock down in her lap. “He kill any chickens?”

“No, but—”

“You feed him?”

“No?”

“Well, I think you should. It’d be real funny.”

Funny. Funny, she’d said. 

You look to the silverware for consolation, but they can only produce a weak gleam.

“Quit making faces at my utensils, I hate when you do that. If you got something to say, say it now so I can finish this damned sock.”

Instead of making faces at the spoons, you reserve them for the tablecloth. “I just—don’t think it’d be wise.” A wanted man, with a lofty bounty at that, and you were comparing him to a mangy feline. Attempting to see him as anything other than what he so obviously was would be disingenuous. 

And maybe Mrs. Campbell wasn’t the right person to be speaking to about this, because her nose crinkles with such distaste that you have to remind yourself that you’d remembered to bathe. “You’re grown,” she says, “and you work here. I’m inclined to believe that you have enough know-how to keep yourself from doing anything too dumb. If not, oh well.”

“…Right.”

Sometimes you wonder if her daughter had moved out not for marriage, but to escape Mrs. Campbell’s dreadfully indifferent way of speaking. Still, you take her words with relative care and pray that the “feeding” portion of her advice can be altered into something much more metaphorical.

When you attempt to bring the dishes to the water bucket, Mrs. Campbell’s head snaps to you and she clicks her teeth. “Drop it.”

“I was just—”

The sock finds its way into a basket of other half-finished projects at her feet, and she pushes herself up to stand just as tall (if not taller) than any tree before snatching the dishes from your hands. “I don’t pay you to do my dishes, girl.”

You smile. “I don’t believe you pay me at all, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Precisely. Your Pa pays me. And enough with that ‘Mrs. Campbell’ mess; makes me sound like an old crone. Told you to call me Fran, didn’t I?”

Shrugging past the bitterness in her tone at the mention of your father, you turn to the doorway and pull your coat off of the hook you’d tossed it on the night before. It’s only slightly warm from where the sun has touched it. 

The beams have softened their assault on the curtains; it’s still fairly cloudy, but there’s no sign of incoming snow. Chores would be alright, if only for today. 

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Campbell. But, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.” You wait for a nod while you pull on your boots with a wince. “How come you don’t take on any other help?”

Like most of her responses, Mrs. Campbell doesn’t give much away. Nothing remarkable that you can discern, at least. She merely winks and carries on with her washing. But just as you set a foot out the front door, she calls out to you. 

“Hey, kid?”

You turn.

“If the worst you can call him is a spooked cat, he can’t be all that bad, can he?” 

You freeze. “Pardon?”

She looks up at the ceiling, as though her next words will appear if she gets her eyes to narrow enough. Glasses had been the first of many neglected suggestions you’d offered upon your arrival. You’d even offered to buy them yourself, with what little you’d been able to bring with you. But Mrs. Campbell, being Mrs. Campbell, had simply laughed.

Squinting, she returns her focus to the bucket and reaches for a cake of lye soap. “Ah, and tell that idiot if he slams my doors, I’ll send my foot so far up his ass that them science folks won’t have any animals left to call him.”

__

Illusory warmth finds you a few weeks later.

It isn’t quite spring yet; winter is a stubborn mule, and though the snow has receded into the dirt it still stamps its hooves into the wind. In the water, too—freezing rain taps its fingers onto the windows. Soft and melodic, it nearly puts you to sleep from your place on the floor before you remember the annoyances it’s dragged along with it. 

There’d been no sign of trouble tonight, and the chicken wire had been reinforced a few hours prior. That’d mostly been the work of Mr. Campbell, though. He’d chirped about some promise he’d made to his “lovely wife,” and went on his merry way after leaving you with some choice words from the wife in question about the importance of rest. 

The rain had started not long after. Which was great, for someone out there. But, bad for you. Pretty bad. Ugly, messy bad—because it was cold, dark, and the dirt hadn’t the moral backbone to keep itself together for any longer than two blinks before your boots were practically swimming in it. 

The trudge back to the cabin was only slightly humiliating, considering the fact that the sole witnesses were the owls you knew were hiding out in the safety of the trees. 

Scampering from the uneven path to the front porch, however, was another story. Although the pliant (no good, backstabbing) earth was quick and eager to drag you to its depths, you were aggravated enough to be slightly quicker, and your palms shot out to catch you just before your chin could meet the full wrath of the wood.

But the word “just” was a pebble cast into a pond, and the first ripple was the metallic tang that flooded your mouth. Diatribes were spat onto the ground alongside the blood, tongue throbbing with a vengeance before you drove the heels of your palms down to push yourself up. The second ripple was a little less red, but just as irritating. The rain had pulled the wet fabric of your work shirt and trousers tight over your limbs, and it had begun to border on painful when water droplets struck like one might strike the skin of a drum. 

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m oh so fucking grateful…” It was a mantra you often found yourself repeating whenever nature’s pranks sought to drive you mad. Rain was good. Rain was fine, actually, so you’d ignored the creaking of your knees and hobbled your way inside.

And here you sit: back propped up against the wall, shivering like a fool with your knees tucked into your chest. The mud crusting between your fingers barely registers while you work on releasing yourself from your wet clothing.

Which, of course, is when the light tapping on the window takes its cue to crescendo. It’s a rather flimsy cloak for the uneven thunks outside that make no attempt to conceal themselves. But your bones know better. 

Awful timing, that man. 

You feel the weight of his fist against the door before he makes contact. 

(One.)

You shoot up.

(Two.)

You lunge for the table.

You decide against greeting him with the rifle, which is a significant improvement. It’s a revolver. But you did have the good sense not to kick the door again; the rusty hinges were fragile enough without your meddling. Instead, you let it creak open with one hand on the doorknob.

You’re met with a bruise, planted right atop a cheekbone. A swollen bottom lip, blood threatening to split it wide. He’s got a button missing from his rumpled jacket, and the caving of the porch underneath his feet clues you in on the fact that he’s favoring his right leg. He’s been fighting. Fighting, and he looks about ready to keel over and die. Or pick another fight. Probably both.

Part of you unwinds at the sight of him, battered as he was. Present as he was. But the more logical part of you senses that he’s here for something, and the even more logical part of you remembers exactly what it was that stood at your doorstep.

It’s then that the stench of alcohol hits you, and the familiar smell of mud sweeps in not long after. Arthur is completely covered in it, save for his face. And—

There. There it is again.

That look. 

Your pulse trips in your throat, and you pray that he’s inebriated enough to ignore it. “You’re on my porch. Why?”

Bright blue comes back into focus, and his hands fall to his hips. “I can go where I damn well please.”

“That’s all well and good, but why are you on my porch?”

He sniffs. Peers just over your shoulder. “...House call.”

You step to block him. “Now that’s two chances. I have it on good authority that one is just fine these days, but I’m feeling generous.” And confused. Extremely confused.

His face contorts into a heatless grimace, and the doorknob squeals. You’re suddenly reminded of the odd tales of shapeshifters you’d stumbled upon as a child: one moment a man, the next a bloodthirsty predator. Not a particularly helpful development—especially since your talk with Mrs. Campbell—but it was a development nonetheless.

Arthur rattles off the courtesies typically extended toward esteemed guests while you look him over again, and your eyes lock onto his hair. Another familiar connection—doe brown strands, streaked with mud and nearly plastered to his head from the light downpour. Much less ferocious than the rest of him. But, tonight, if you have to pick, he’s a wet dog. A wet, potentially drunk dog, who was missing his hat. 

And suddenly, the natural chatter of the trees comes to a halt. 

“What’d you just call me?”

…You idiot.

“I didn’t call you jack shit,” you lie. Arthur gives a loose smirk, and your next protests become nothing but bluster. “What, the little girl that hit you knock your ears shut?”

“Figured I’d let her get a hit in, out of the kindness of my big ol’ heart.” Arthur sways on his feet a bit, peering down at you through the water that he hasn’t bothered to wipe from his lashes. Gravity finds eventual triumph, and he leans into the post before eying the revolver still in your hands. “Don’t suppose you’re plannin’ on pullin’ that trigger any time soon.”

“What’s it to you?”

Arthur’s face begins to harden, and he crosses his arms tight over his chest. “You know, last time I was here I said you were lucky. Well, I’d like to make an addendum: lucky and stupid, lady.” 

You cast a disbelieving look at the leg he’s been keeping his weight off of. “And you’re drunk. The fact that you got here without your horse cracking your head open is a miracle.”

His brows draw low, and he rubs the heel of his boot against the muddy spot where you’d fallen earlier. Blinks at the ground. Then, with the vigor of a child caught sleeping in church, wipes angrily at a speck of mud on his thigh. “M’not drunk,” he finally mutters, flicking the offending dirt out into the yard and crossing his arms again. “And I’ve got enough trust in my horse to fill at least half of that barn y’all got.”

“Just half? Not the whole thing?”

“Whole thing would be two horses.”

You almost laugh. Almost. When you don’t reply, his eyes drop back down to the gun, gaze contemplative. “You got any idea how easily I could’ve knocked that flimsy thing outta your hands?”

“Why of course I do, Mr. Morgan.” The dampness you’d been struck with pulls at you, bones heavy and patience now worn thin. You give the revolver an exaggerated twirl, the metal snatching what can be seen of the moon through the rain and reflecting it at him. “I’m real lucky you’re here to tell me so, ain’t I? Matter of fact, why don’t you go and fetch me my chair before I topple right on over? ” 

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” You think he sounds somewhat regretful. But somewhat isn’t enough. 

“Do I now,” you say dryly. “You seem to ‘not mean’ an awful lot.” 

Arthur pushes himself off of the post with his shoulder and shoves his muddy hands into his muddy pockets. “I just don’t see why you people are so eager to act like you got your life for dog-cheap.”

“You people?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You people.” He’s looking at everything but you now, eyes wild but body frighteningly still. “You’ll look trouble right in the eye, and lie right through your damn teeth till it gets you laid out cold in a ditch somewhere.” Arthur gestures to the embarrassing height your shooting arm has dropped to in the time that he’s spoken. “I can tell each time you open that door that you won’t shoot. Can’t, I’d argue, ‘cause if you didn’t have my big head within one inch of that barrel, you’d be some deep shit.” His words are a forlorn echo amidst the rain, now nothing more than a light haze. 

You could shut the door and go back inside, you think. Tell him he’s wrong, because he most certainly was. Peel out of your damp clothes, because standing outside in the chill spelled nothing but trouble. Arthur wouldn’t push. He was just as prone to bluffing as you were. 

And yet.

And yet.

“I could say the same about you. Don’t think your kin would take too kindly to the fact that you’re hangin’ around someone that knows your face. Who you are.” You steady your aim. “That’s a loose end, Arthur. You don’t seem like the type of man to keep many of those around.” It’s the first time you’ve said his name all night; you’re only sure because the moment it leaves you, his entire body tenses before he sags back against the wooden post. 

The way he looks at you then might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. You think of butterflies, embroidered into blankets from childhood. Tacked to the wall of your father’s study. The only difference between them and you is that you’re free to leave.

If only you possessed something to sweeten the deal—whatever deal you could come up with in the next five seconds. To mask the returning waver of your voice, now laden with inconceivable realities. “Am I a loose end, Arthur Morgan?” 

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Untucks a hand from the arms he’s wrapped around himself to scrub at his beard and finally wipe at the water you’ve been eyeballing from his lids. He opens his mouth again, now on the precipice of what might be an explanation.

“S’dangerous,” is all he says.

You see red.

The arm holding the revolver is dropped so you can poke a finger into his chest. “You’re not making any sense!” Each word is enunciated with a jab, and you cringe at the feeling of rain rewetting the mud underneath your fingernails. “You cut and run, turn up drunk and beaten half to death, practically beg me to let you inside, and then you get upset when I say I won’t pop a bullet into your head?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, voice beginning to escalate. “Now if you would just listen for more than two seconds—”

You cut him down with a harsh whisper. “Listen? Listen?” Your eyes momentarily check for any sign of a light being turned on in the main house. Nothing. Your finger falls away then, and a violent chill wracks your body from head to toe. “No, you listen. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You said your piece the last time we spoke, and you left, so why are you on my porch!”

“I don’t know!”

Something cracks, and your vision blurs when you whip your head to recheck the lights. Still nothing. The crack fizzles out into nothingness, and you return to find Arthur close. Awfully close. And your hand is warm and—oh.

It seems his pluck is rather contagious. The noise you’d heard wasn’t thunder, but the sound of your treacherous hand clapping right over Arthur’s mouth.  

Time stills. Or speeds up, more like. The only thing you can be certain of is that ring of greenish gold around his pupils. The brush of his lips against your palm. Humid air being released in slow, steady clouds. You briefly wonder what else this warmth has dominion over, save for your cupped hand. Who else. 

The speed of the exhales increases, and envy wriggles in the dirt of your heart like unearthed worms. Did his mind wander, as yours often did? Surely not as emphatically. It no doubt ambled from one thought to the next, attention snagged only when he had the energy to do so. Had you been interesting enough to snag his?

The spell is broken by a lamp flickering on in the distance. 

“Shit!”

Sheer panic sinks its claws into you before rationality can, and you’re curling a hand around Arthur’s wrist and yanking him inside before he can protest.

You’re both panting ragged breaths once the door shuts behind you, in spite of the mere two steps it’d taken to cross the entryway. Tangible confusion permeates the air, and Arthur looks at you expectantly. It’s only fair that the (secondary) perpetrator speak first.  

But words are tricky, tricky things. And as much as you partook in your fair share of falsehoods, finding the right ones when you didn’t feel that your life was on the line was an unfamiliar practice. 

Voice quiet, you blink at the muddy footprints on the floor. “You left my door open.”

“I remember,” he replies. Simple.

The silence returns, eerily reminiscent of your first encounter. You consider telling him about the warning Mrs. Campbell had wanted you to relay to him. But then you think about all of the other things he’s missed since he’s disappeared, and your mind becomes saturated with just about everything, and somehow nothing at all. But Arthur’s voice, once again, cracks the fragile quiet. 

“God damn it!” He begins to pace, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes. You’re thankful that he’s finally lowered his voice to a whisper, though the close quarters don’t seem to help with the intensity. “I ain’t supposed to be here. Not like this.”

“Not like what? Arthur what do you—” 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he says, voice edging on the side of desperation.

“How what was supposed to go?” You look at his hands, fumbling with his belt loops. He sucks in a brittle gulp of air when he catches you looking, like he’s surprised you’re looking at him at all. 

And then, miraculously, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

“I’m to kill you. Ideally this evening.” 

Until it all promptly falls apart.

You turn away. Begin to work open the half done buttons of your shirt. Arthur turns to face the door. You decide to humor him. “Who.” 

“Some man, your Pa, I presume,” he says. For the first time in what feels like eternity, his voice is devoid of any feeling. It sounds small. Not defeated, not yet, but oh so small. “Willing to pay big bucks to get rid of a ‘financial thorn’ in his side. Knew ‘bout my business in Blackwater, which I assume you’re also aware of. Said he’d had some bonds on that boat.” Blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the curtains. “He said I could sniff things out, see if I wanted to to his dirty work.”

Shirt falling to the floor, you allow yourself some time to stew numbly in your naivety while you get the fire going; you could be disappointed all you wanted once you were warm. You can hear Arthur scrubbing at his beard again when you begin to drag a chair in front of the fireplace. You sit, or collapse rather, and shuck off your boots with little care for where they land. Where the mud splatters.

“How’s Marlene?” You ask.

Rustling. He’s turned around. More frantic rustling. He’s turned back to the wall. “I’m sorry?”

“Marlene. Chicken. ”

“Ah. She’s uh, good. Eating good. Still pecks like hell, though.”

And, once again, more silence.

You bark out a dry laugh. It hurts—hurts like hell, but it tumbles out of you with a sharp snap. It snowballs into pure, unadulterated laughter. Bouncing off the walls, the drinking glasses, the mud, right into the fire and back out again. It continues until you’re left with nothing but a pathetic wheeze rattling your lungs.

Settling into the back of the chair, your head lolls back till you can see an upside down version of the bewildered Arthur you’d turned away from. The angle is awkward, and the blood rushing to your head makes him look all warm and fuzzy, but it’s precisely why you’ve chosen it.

“Didn’t think finding all this out would be so funny.” He speaks as if poking a tiger.

Another half-hearted chuckle slips out of you. “Good god, I thought you were trying to proposition me.”

“Proposition you?” He scowls. “What on earth would I—” 

Arthur stops. Blinks one of his blinks. Gives his eyes another rub. Blinks again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. This “blinking” thing.

“Oh.” He frowns.

Frowning right back, you push yourself to stand and toss some old papers from your table into the fire. “No need to seem so put off by it, gosh. Should’ve told me you were out for my head from the start. Would’ve made this a hell of a lot less embarrassing.” Disappointment had beat out the warmth.

You wait for an apology, or a joke. Or something. Anything. But you’re met with nothing. The paper eventually crumbles into nothing, too, smoke tickling your nostrils alongside the smell of rain.

His voice sounds from the back of the room.

“I didn’t say that.”

You whip around.

“Say what.”

He speaks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Interested, I mean.” When you point to yourself, he rolls his eyes. “No, the couch.”

There was no couch.

The two of you watch each other for a bit. Then Arthur finds another annoying spot on his thigh to rub at, and you’re watching him.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, voice flat. You pull on a blanket, suddenly conscious of the bareness of your shoulders. “You’re drunk, or tired, or both. You weren’t here. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Am I clear?”

You stand on wobbly feet and motion for him to leave.

“You don’t think I’m joking, do you? I meant what I said.” He brushes past your outstretched hand to clunk into the chair, mirroring that same awkward position you’d found yourself in earlier. Strong neck arched, fire light catching the water that’s begun to bead on his cheeks. “I don’t do charity. Don’t think I have the money for it, actually.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean it. Truly.”

“Then come back tomorrow,” you blurt.

Fuck.

What the hell were you doing? “You come back tomorrow night, sober, and we’ll see.” No, we would not.

But it’s too late—Arthur is rebounding off of the chair, straightening out his jacket (he’s noticed the missing button, finally), and striding to the door before you can retract your mistake. Even so, you follow after him like a besotted moron, only stopping when he turns to face you once the door is back open.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. Eyes dark. Searching.

And then he’s stooping down. Reaching for your hand. Pulling it to his dry lips, and pressing a chaste kiss right to the top of it. He chuckles when you shiver, still clutching the blanket tight around your shoulders.

You’re released soon after. And Arthur gives you one long look, tells you to lock your door, and leaves.

—

next chapter >>

[barbielore]

The Haunted Beauty collection is a Barbie series which is technically not Halloween themed, but might as well be. Released from 2012 - 2015, they were a series of collectors edition dolls designed by Bill Greening.

Starting off the series was Haunted Beauty Ghost Barbie. In addition to her long gown, she is also wrapped in chains, evoking the spirit of Jacob Marley from A Christmas Carol. And presumably other ghosts, but when I think of ghosts in chains, that's where my mind goes.

Next up was Haunted Beauty Vampire Barbie. I like her a little less; her gown is beautiful and possible more intricate, but I find her face design and hair a little lackluster. She's not bad, but she doesn't rise to the level of the other dolls in the collection.

Haunted Beauty Mistress of the Manor Barbie is definitely one of my favourites from the collection. I love the inclusion of the book and candlesticks; I love the sinister vibes... and I love that she has a matching, non-spooky manor doll.

In a one of a kind doll also created by Bill Greening, Tea at the Manor Barbie is what Mistress of the Manor looked like before she became a Haunted Beauty.

Finally the series capped off with Haunted Beauty Zombie Bride Barbie, a Barbie bride with a sickly skin tone and red-dipped white roses in her bouquet. She is easily my second favourite in the collection, extremely closely behind Mistress of the Manor.

[jenlrossman]

Darts as a metaphor for gay sex between Miles O'Brien and Julian Bashir

Yes, I'm serious. Bear with me.

Miles and Julian first play darts in season three, episode 16, "Prophet Margin."

They are playing darts because Julian was getting tired of racquetball—since Miles's wife has been away, they have played 106 games of racquetball. ("Rivals," the episode where we first see them play racquetball, make a strong case for that being a sexual metaphor as well. So basically Keiko is gone and Miles has been… "Playing with Julian" a lot 👀)

There's some good natured mockery/flirting, and Julian ends up throwing off Miles's concentration by mentioning his wife.

In the next episode, season three episode 17, "Visionary," Miles convinces Quark to put a dartboard in his bar. Quark argues that no one has ever come in asking for a dartboard, but Miles assures him people will.

To me, this reads like trying to convince someone that marketing specifically to queer people is important even if no queer people have ever complained about not being marketed to.

Miles and Julian play darts twice during this episode as well, but nothing particularly gay happens (outside of them being gay for each other in general).

Season three, episode 24, "Shakaar," has Miles playing darts with various guys on the station until he ruins his shoulder and needs to have Julian perform surgery to repair it.

Well that's what you get for playing with people who aren't your boyfriend. It's called karma.

In the fourth season premiere, "The Way Of The Warrior," Miles and Julian invite our old buddy Worf to play with them.

He throws a dart, and it goes extremely deep into the board.

The boys look intimidated. And rightfully so. As Jadzia will later (happily) learn, sex with a Klingon is anything but gentle.

(I wish he had thrown two darts, wink wink.)

Keiko returns in "Ascension," season four, episode 17, thereby ending Miles's "year as a bachelor," as Julian calls it.

Miles spends more time with his family, even trying to teach his daughter to play darts (in this context, darts with Molly does not represent sex, it just represents him trying to be a good father and husband and not having sex with his boyfriend). But he is clearly missing Julian; look at the way he longingly gazes at the outfit they wore together:

Julian has also been unsuccessfully playing darts with other people, and he and Miles lament that it just isn’t the same without each other. Eventually, Keiko arranges for them to spend extra time with each other because Miles is so depressed.

Season five, episode 16, "Dr. Bashir, I Presume?" reveals that Julian is augmented and has exceptional strength and hand eye coordination, among other things. This makes Miles realize Julian has been letting him win at darts all this time.

He is understandably upset that his boyfriend has been… uhhh… "faking it" 👀 and makes him play from 3 feet back to level the playing field (Miles metaphorically using marital aids).

He also suggests Julian play blindfolded. 👀

The next, and last, significant time they play darts is in season seven, episode 23, "Extreme Measures."

This is the episode in which Miles and Julian go through a harrowing ordeal which forces them to finally acknowledge that they love their significant others, but they like each other more.

At the end of the episode, the boys are playing darts in the bar. They are drinking. Miles is struggling with his sexuality at the realization of how close he and Julian are.

He says he needs to go home to Keiko. This is the conversation they have, word for word:

"She's a hell of a woman."

"That's why you love her."

"Mmm. That's right. That's why I love her."

There is no eye contact. It is awkward as hell. Is very obviously Not About Keiko, but rather Miles's last ditch attempt to avoid admitting that he would rather be with Julian right now.

So he leaves. Julian is alone, sad.

Then Miles pops back into frame. He has reconsidered. "Do you want to come?"

They leave the bar together, but not before Julian throws one last dart.

It's a bull's-eye. He scores, and, if you believe my metaphor, it won't be the first time he scores that night.

[thepringlesofblood]

Ayda Aguefort character sheet!

I went through FHSY transcripts and wrote down every spell she used and figured out what level she was and made a full character sheet for my beautiful wife, Ayda Aguefort.

Actual character sheet and plaintext description below the cut: here's how I figured it out.

Ayda has one (1) 7th level spell slot, and presumably no 8th level spell slots, since she can only cast Teleport once per day. This puts her at either 13th or 14th level, the only difference being that at 14th level, Divination wizards get "Greater Portent", aka an extra Portent roll per long rest. Looking through the transcripts, she never uses more than 2 portent rolls per long rest, so we will assume she is 13th level.

In terms of background, "Sage" makes the most sense. Like, you roll to determine your “specialty” and one of the options is librarian. She’s gotta be a sage. This gives her proficiencies in arcana and history, two languages of choice, and the "Researcher" feat - “When you attempt to learn or recall a piece of lore, if you do not know that information, you often know where and from whom you can obtain it." Extremely in character

Wizards pick 2 proficiencies from Arcana, History, Insight, Investigation, Medicine, and Religion. I picked Investigation & Medicine, since she already gets Arcana and History from "Sage".

Spells are tricky - I included every spell she uses in the series, but wizard spellbooks are weird in that there's kind of no limit to the amount of spells you can know, the limit is just on how many you can prepare. You automatically learn two new spells per level, so I went through and added other spells (in italics) up to the minimum amount of spells she would know, and then made a list of other spells that seem likely for her to know, or that you could switch in if you like. she does fully live in a library so like. who knows what she could know?

Also, there's a spell she uses during the fight aboard the Goldenrod that sounds a lot like Steel Wind Strike, though it isn't 100% confirmed, so I put a question mark next to it. We also don't know what exact spell she was going to use to "flood hell" - I chose Tidal Wave because it seemed most likely, but it could also be a spell of her own invention.

Final product below the cut!

the reason these don't have image IDs is bc I'm putting the IDs after the images bc there's so much text. also sorry the resolution's shit i don't know why that happened it looks fine on my computer. also i don't know how passive wisdom works im sorry its probably just her normal wisdom (11)??

image/page 1:

Character Name: Ayda Aguefort

Class & level: Wizard (Divination) 13

Background: Sage

Player name: bleem

Race: half-phoenix

Alignment: Lawful neutral

Experience points: [blank]

Ability scores Str 18 (+4) Dex 15 (+2) Char 16 (+3) Int 20 (+5) Wis 11 (+0) Con 14 (+2)

AC 14

Proficiency bonus: +5

Inspiration: [blank]

Initiative: +2

Hit point total: 72

Hit dice: 13 d6 Speed 80

Saving throws:

Strength: +4

Dex: +2

Con: +2

Int: +10 (proficient)

Wis: +5 (proficient)

Cha: +3

Skills

Acrobatics: +2

Animal Handling: +0

Arcana: +10 (proficient)

Athletics: +4

Deception: +3

History: +10 (proficient)

Insight: +0

Intimidation: +3

Investigation: +10 (proficient)

Medicine: +5 (proficient)

Nature: +5

Perception: +0

Performance: +3

Persuasion: +3

Religion: +5

Sleight of Hand: +2

Stealth: +2

Survival: +0

Passive Wisdom: [blank]

Languages: Common, Phoenix, + two others of your choice from Sage background (I chose Infernal & Elvish)

Personality Traits: amazing

Ideals: [blank]

Bonds: Fig (paramour), Adaine (best friend), Kristen, Fabian, Riz, Gorgug (transitive best friends), Garthy (parental figure/guardian/adopted child of a previous incarnation of herself), Arthur Aguefort ("father")

Flaws: [blank]

Features & Traits:

Flight (see: Half-Phoenix)

Fly speed = 80

Fire Immunity (see: Half-Phoenix)

Ayda is immune to all fire damage

Portent (Div. lvl 2) - roll 2 d20 at the end of each long rest. You can replace any attack roll, saving throw, or ability check made by you or a creature that you can see with one of these rolls (once per turn)

Expert Divination (Div. lvl 6) - When you cast a divination spell of 2nd level or higher using a spell slot, you regain one expended spell slot. The slot you regain must be of a level lower than the spell you cast and can't be higher than 5th level

Third Eye (Div. lvl 10) - choose one of the following benefits, which lasts until you are incapacitated or you take a short or long rest. You can't use this feature again until you finish a short or long rest.

- Darkvision: You gain darkvision out to a range of 60 feet

- Ethereal Sight: You can see into the Ethereal Plane within 60 feet of you.

- Greater Comprehension: You can read any language

See Invisibility: You can see invisible creatures and objects within 10 feet of you that are within line of sight.

Attacks & Spellcasting

[formatted like] Name, ATK Bonus, Damage/Type

Fireball, +10, 8d6 fire (+1d6 per lvl)

Steel Wind Strike, +10, 6d10 force

Tidal Wave, dex save DC 18, 4d8 bludgeoning & prone if fail

Equipment: so many books

image/page 2:

Spellcasting Class: Wizard (Div.) 13

Spellcasting Ability: INT

Spell Save DC: 18

Spell Attack Bonus: +10

Prepared Spells Limit: 18

(spells in italics are speculative, based on the min # of wizard spells she would have at this level. the rest are canon. feel free to add or subtract as desired!)

Cantrips (lvl 0)

Prestidigitation

Message

Mage Hand

Mending

Control Flames

other potential cantrips: Lightning Lure, Dancing lights, Minor Illusion

Spell Level 1

slots total: 4

Find Familiar

Synod

Protection from Evil and Good

Detect Magic

Shield

Ayda's Comprehend Subtext

Comprehend languages

Identify

Illusory script

Snare

Spell Level 2

slots total: 3

Invisibility

Enlarge/Reduce

Misty Step

Hold Person

Spell Level 3

slots total: 3

Sending (pirate)

Counterspell

Dispel Magic

Clairvoyance

Remove Curse

Fireball

Tongues

Tidal Wave

Spell Level 4

slots total: 3

Greater Invisibility

Banishment

Scry

Arcane Eye

Spell Level 5

slots total: 2

Steel Wind Strike (?)

Legend Lore

Spell Level 6

slots total: 1

True Seeing

Spell Level 7

slots total: 1

Plane Shift

Teleport

Spell Level 8 [blank]

other good potential spells: Unseen servant, Thunder wave, Tasha's hideous laughter, Knock, Locate object, Scorching ray, Shatter, Web, Animate objects, Symbol, Bigby's hand, Storm sphere, Control Wind, Mordekainen's Private Sanctum, Conjure Elemental, Dimension Door

Spell Level 9 [blank]

Flood Hell [level & specifics unknown]

image/page 3:

Character name: Ayda Aguefort

Age: 17 (present), over 300 (total)

Height: 6-7 ft

Weight: [blank]

Eyes: fire

Skin: dark brown

Hair: fire

Character Appearance

“A Resplendent, Beautiful Woman”

Digitigrade ankles

bird feet

golden talons

orange runic tattoos

books in bandoliers like guns

undercut: fire

wings: fire

ear cuff (from Fig)

resembles Arthur Aguefort, her father

Character Backstory

perfect :)

Allies & Organizations

Compass Points Library

The Bad Kids

The Gold Gardens (Garthy)

Fig & The Sig Figs

[a screenshot of Ayda's official junior year character art (standing), taken from her wiki page]

Additional features & traits

“a resplendent beautiful woman who from the knees down has large talons, she also has digitigrade ankles, she has those ankles that kind of kick back like a lot of animal feet do. So from the knees on down become these almost like metallic golden talons. She bears a striking resemblance to Arthur Aguefort the moment you look at her”

“She looks kind of harpy-esque until you realize that she does have arms in addition to wings. So she has these incredibly, and as they spread, deep red wings that as they approach the tips of the feathers sort of change into orange, and by the time they get to yellow, flicker in a little edge of flame on the outside of the wings. She's dressed in sort of like white linen pants with a pirate's sash on them. No guns or anything you can see. Sort of vest, a lot of sort of orange runes tattooed on her arms, you see that she has a short shock of red hair, it seems to be not on the sides or back as much, almost like a plume of red fiery hair that comes off the top of her head. And her eyes have pupils in them but are otherwise clearly roiling balls of flame.”

“You see that she does have two scrolls at the side on her bandolier, and similarly to the guy downstairs, but sort of like she has it on those leather harnesses you would have for guns, but it's two small books strapped under each arm.”

Treasure: [blank]

[itsbenedict]

Zero has an edgy pokémon coma theory, and I kind of love it.

Obviously this is contradicted by a bunch of things, and presumably isn't secret lore the devs decided to include. But in the spirit of demonstrating how easy it is to develop a plausible conspiracy theory with sufficiently hyperactive pattern-matching, here's some "evidence" we found:

Apart from Wishiwashi, which might be a separate phenomenon (where do the extras even come from when it does Schooling?), no pokémon which is actually multiple pokémon exceeds a squad of six members. Falinks tops out at six, and Exeggcute has six but one of their heads exploded.

Random trainers around the map tend to only have two or three pokémon in their team. Game balance reasons? No! Only career trainers like the Elite Four or breeders bond with the maximum safe number of pokémon at once!

Gary/Blue has seven distinct pokémon, but only swaps one out when it- judging by its disappearance in the fight in Lavender Tower- literally dies.

The protagonist of gen 1, Red, shows up in the next game... totally nonverbal, hanging out at the top of a mountain, unable to interact except to battle. He's lost his mind to bonding with too many pokémon! The price of power!

Things this theory explains:

Multi-pokemon like Magneton- what makes Magneton a single pokémon, and not two or four Magnemite? Magneton is the configuration of Magnemite that's capable of bonding with a trainer as a single pokémon.

This is the function of pokéballs- they're a prosthesis for the organ pokémon have but humans don't that allows them to form psychic mind-meld links with other pokémon. It's not mind-control or convenient loyalty- you're in each other's heads now. Escape from a pokéball is rejection of the psychic link.

The original four trade evolutions- Gengar, Alakazam, Machamp, Golem- all become more humanlike on evolving. This is a side effect of trading a psychic bond with one human for another one, giving them more humanity to sample.

Things this theory makes way more sinister:

The pokédex quest is way spookier under this paradigm. The box system- if you can't catch more than six, why do boxes exist? Actually, it's weird that they exist at all, isn't it? Boxing the majority of your pokémon is a weird neglectful thing that the games just kind of pretend doesn't happen- trainers rarely if ever acknowledge its existence.

What if most trainers don't HAVE boxes? What if that's something you have, because the evil professor gave you a special pokédex that can access a private computer system belonging to a confederate? For example "Bill's PC" or "Lanette's PC", as opposed to "[playername]'s PC"? You don't normally keep pokémon in indefinite stasis in a computer system- this weird app just exists to allow you to complete the pokédex without your brain exploding!

In Red/Blue/Yellow, Oak gives Blue a pokédex, sure, but he clearly makes no attempt to fill it out. And... really, why would he? He didn't give his grandson the special pokédex that cares about whether you've caught pokémon. He just gave him the normal one! The one that's already filled out! Because of course a filled pokédex already exists! It's yours that records new information only when you catch stuff.

The implied endgame here is... the professor wants to create a pokémon-catcher capable of melding with a legendary pokémon, to interrogate it about the secrets of life.

There are so many levels on which this doesn't even kinda work, but it's extremely fun to occasionally cut loose and take a swim in some cool refreshing Edge.

[wolveria]

The Anomaly Archives - Reality #007-2

AU of The Raven's Hymn

Pairing: SCP-1233 x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Smut, non-human anatomy, moon shenanigans

AO3

It was strange to be back in your room. The bed was in the right place, the lights were all the same brightness, but it was all somehow unfamiliar. The pieces of furniture didn’t fit the space, or maybe you no longer recognized the shape of it.

Everything had felt like this since you woke up in the forest, your clothes wrinkled as if you hadn’t worn them in a long time. The MTF soldiers found you within minutes, and you were rushed back to Site-20 to undergo quarantine, psychological evaluation, and observation.

You didn’t have anything to tell them, and quite a lot you didn’t want to. You remembered leaving Earth, of glimpsing the glittering lunar kingdom.

And of course, you remembered SCP-1233. You tried not to think about what you did with him; not because you were ashamed, but because whenever you thought of him, a sharp ache pierced the middle of your chest. You didn’t know what it was, but it felt like loss. And that scared you.

But beyond that, you remembered nothing. You didn’t know what happened after you arrived at the Moon Kingdom, nor how you returned back to Earth, or anything in-between. You were eventually cleared from quarantine, apparently at the peak of health. In fact, you had a healthy glow to your skin and new gloss to your hair. It didn’t at all match your insides, hollow and empty.

You continued on with work, not having any choice, and it was a nice distraction. You had to go in for weekly post-anomaly exposure examinations, but they found nothing wrong. Nothing to explain the unexplainable malaise.

And then, the marks appeared. Faint and obscure at first, on the inside of your arms, and then your calves and thighs, and sometimes on your stomach or chest. Always under your clothes, and as soon as you touched them, they faded away.

So, you stopped touching them. After a full day of not paying them any attention, you ended your shift, went into your private ensuite bathroom, and stripped. Etched across your arms, legs, and torso, read the same string of glowing, white numbers.

Three sets of numbers slightly spaced apart. Latitude, longitude, and altitude, if you had to guess. You touched the writing so it faded away, and told no one. The ache in your chest grew worse.

It took time to make arrangements with one of the site cartographers. Kenneth seemed to know everyone at the facility and had some surprising connections that weren’t entirely aboveboard. He was eager to help when you asked, perhaps worried about your dull-eyed stare during your shared observation duties.

“Are you sure?” the cartographer asked, her name Hana according to her lanyard ID badge. You stood outside the cartography lab where all location-based anomalies were analyzed.

“I am.” And you were. It had been a long time since you were this sure about something. “Are you? SCP-348 doesn’t always leave a message, or a happy one.”

“I know, I’m okay with that. Is it… Can I use it?”

“You’re approved and on the list,” you said. “The next time you have a headache or aren’t feeling well, it’ll be ready for you.”

Genuine relief and gratitude marked her features. You tried not to shift in discomfort. It wasn’t as if exchanging favors was strictly against the rules, and you were allowed to conduct tests of SCP-348 on willing Foundation staff, it was just… extremely dubious to anyone on the outside. Especially since you asked the cartographer to step outside the room while you used her database, and after you were done, she would completely delete your search logs.

Oh, well. At least your new level 3 clearance was being used to make someone happy.

With a nod, Hana opened the door for you, and you went inside.

The coordinates were roughly ten miles from where SCP-1233 had taken you, and where he, presumably, had returned you. Once you had the location locked into your mind, the numbers stopped appearing on your skin. A sense of urgency fueled you, anxious now that the numbers were gone, as if the location itself would suddenly be unreachable.

But there was another problem. You might know the location of the coordinates, but you had no way to get there intact. Leaving Site-20 was technically possible. You could take a mental leave, but the cost was so high, most people waited until retirement before they left.

You had no choice. All you could hope was that when the amnestics took effect, the writing would reappear and lead you in the right direction. Considering the altitude was at ground level, you would be able to find the longitude and latitude on any conventional map, and you knew your curiosity would lead you there even if you had no memory. That’s how it had worked this time, anyway.

Your leave approved, you were led into one of the medical labs, ordered to lay down, and take the pills that would remove the knowledge of all your projects, the SCPs, and even your coworkers. There wasn’t anyone you were really leaving behind, but you would miss Kenneth, and you felt a pang when you thought of SCP-049. You hadn’t gotten the chance to be a part of his observation detail yet, and it was one of the few regrets you had.

Supposedly, when you returned, you would start at the bottom and have to work your way up again. You weren’t concerned. You had no intention of returning.

Your thoughts had wandered again, and the technician startled you when he asked you to say your name. You did, and when he asked if you remembered what you did for the Foundation, you realized something was very wrong. The amnestics should have taken effect, but you remembered everything.

“No,” you said, letting your confusion sell the lie. “I… don’t.”

“Class B amnestics absorbed successfully. Memory deconsolidation of Foundation affiliation complete.”

You simply stared at him, which seemed to be the appropriate response of a newly made amnesiac. After that, you were led to another section of the Site where you were given your old clothes and all the objects you’d first handed over when you started at the Foundation. You stared at your phone, obsolete by several years, the battery completely drained. You threw it in the trash.

You were driven to the nearby town and dropped off with nothing more than a day bag and a debit card. You assumed the card led to a bank account with all of your job earnings, mostly unspent. At least you wouldn’t be hard up for money.

After finding the closest ATM and extracting all the cash you could, you bought a used clunker, loaded up on snacks and fast food, and bought a detailed map of the area. You also bought new clothes and a new bag, throwing out everything they’d handed to you. Without leaving an electronic or paper trail behind, you were hoping to keep the Foundation off your heels for as long as possible. Even when you left the Foundation, you didn’t truly leave it.

The used Jeep you’d bought got you up the gravel and dirt backroads without a problem. Technically in a state park, you didn’t think there was any camping allowed, but you were so deep in rugged terrain it was unlikely a ranger would stumble on you.

You arrived at the coordinates around midday, an open meadow that crested over a valley, giving a perfect view for miles around. There was nothing but craggy mountains and pine trees in any given direction.

After parking in the shade, you folded down the backseats, got out the blankets and pillows you bought, and rolled down the windows. It was early enough in the spring that you wouldn’t overheat, and you were tired. If something had waited this long for you to show up, it could wait for you to wake up from your nap.

When next you opened your eyes, the inside of the Jeep was pitch black. Startled, you sat up, and realized it was only that dark inside the vehicle. Once you got out, the world around you was bathed in the light of the stars enough to see by. This far out from any major cities, there was no light pollution to obscure the sky, and the elevation made the view even clearer.

Clear enough to see there was something in the middle of the meadow. It was large, almost formless where it stood on the crest of the hill with a backdrop of stars. When you squinted, you thought you could make out its pale color, glowing with the reflection of the moon that had begun to rise over the horizon.

Then the shape bounded forward. You leapt backward, your back hitting the side of your Jeep.

“Starlight!”

You were swept off your feet as large arms picked you up and squeezed hard enough to make you wheeze. You were set back on your feet, though the arms didn’t leave you completely, and you could feel SCP-1233’s booming laugh vibrate through his torso.

“You are here! You’re actually here!”

“What?” you asked, still in a daze. “It’s… you.”

The night was bright enough that you could see him quite well at close range, and his helmet went at a slight angle.

“Yes, it is I, your husband. You… you do remember, don’t you? Or have you forgotten that too?”

Oh, God, you did remember that. Apparently, for whatever kind of species 1233 was, third base counted as getting married.

“Wait,” you said, rubbing your forehead. “What do you mean, forgotten that too?”

“Ah.” He released you and actually wrung his hands. “Please, do not be angry with me.”

“Angry about what? What happened after we left Earth? Why can’t I remember anything?”

“Oh, dear, you are angry.” If you hadn’t been so annoyed, you might have felt bad about his guilty, timid demeanor. “Please, let me explain.”

“All right,” you said. Perhaps you did feel bad, a little. “I’m listening.”

You expected 1233 to go into a longwinded tale of woe, strife, and adventure, but instead, he simply stood there, twisting his massive, gloved hands as he shifted on his feet. There was no face behind his helmet shield that you could see, but you didn’t need an expression to know he was anxious.

“How about we start with those coordinates on my skin,” you began more gently. “Was that you?”

He immediately perked up.

“You got my message! Of course you did, you’re here. I knew you would understand, you’re very clever. My clever wife.”

“I—okay,” you sputtered, trying to regain your balance. “So you… you sent me messages. How?”

“The technology of the Moon People is a curious thing. I do not understand its machinations.”

“They did this to me?”

“Indeed.”

“Why?”

“You asked them to.”

“I what?”

1233 retreated a step, his hands held up as if staving off an impending attack.

“As a means of emergency communication! It will not harm you. I would never let anything harm you, my little starlight.”

You rubbed your forehead again. Every time he called you some kind of pet name, your cheeks burned like coals. It was frustrating.

“Emergency communication?” You frowned. “Is something wrong?”

He twisted his fingers together again.

“No, no. Nothing is… wrong.”

“Then why the messages?”

His voice came out small, something you didn’t think was possible.

“I missed you.”

The breath left you, your stomach squirming in a funny way.

“And that’s… an emergency?”

“I missed you a lot.”

You laughed. It came out of you, startled and unexpected, and the act itself released the tension you were holding. 1233 perked up his head, and he no longer hunched like a puppy expecting to be scolded for chewing a favorite pair of shoes.

“I missed you too.”

He stood even straighter, and wow, you’d forgotten how big he was.

“You did?”

“Yes. I’m… surprised how much. I…”

When you failed to articulate exactly what you felt, how deep the emptiness ran, you acted instead. Closing the gap between you, you wrapped your arms around his chest and hugged him tight, marveling at how warm and alive he felt.

A gloved hand found your head, and 1233 gently pet your hair, his other arm secure across your back.

“Why did you leave me here?” you said, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Where did you go?”

Your missing memory should have been your biggest concern, but it was dwarfed by the empty ache that had engulfed you for weeks.

“Why do I feel this way? What’s wrong with me?”

“Not a thing,” he crooned, his hand now stroking down your back. “You are perfect. I would have never left your side, but it is what you asked of me.”

“Why?” You looked up at him, having to crane your neck just to look at his helmet. “What happened after we left?”

“The Great Moon War. We fought fiercely and with courage, and it is a tale of the ages. The Moon People will exalt us for generations to come, as their extermination was thwarted at our hands. But no war lasts forever, and once we vanquished our foes, you asked to return to your planet. I… obeyed. You are an Earth Guardian, and you cannot guard the Earth if you are not on the Earth.”

“And my memory?”

“Partitioned and removed, at your request.”

“I asked for this?”

“You did not trust that your Foundation wouldn’t use the knowledge to one day harm the Moon People.”

You sighed and leaned your head against the soft, fluffy material of his suit. It made sense. It all made sense, and yet…

“Ever since I woke up, something has been… wrong. I feel wrong. Like I’m…”

“Mourning the loss of that which gives your life meaning and joy?”

“…How did you know?”

1233 didn’t respond immediately. Your chest squeezed.

“Moon Champion?”

He gave a faint chuckle, though there was something sad about it.

“You have not called me that in a long time.”

“A long time? They said I was only gone for a couple of days.”

“There is a temporal difference between the Earth realm and the Moon Kingdom.”

Your throat tightened, and you nearly choked on the words.

“How long?”

He gently rubbed your back, as if to soothe away your fear.

“Long enough that I cannot continue without you by my side. Your absence is a wound to my soul, cursed to bleed unless you are there to staunch the flow.”

You made a small, exasperated noise, but despite his overdramatic prose, the same twin ache echoed inside you. A loss so profound you had felt it even when you had no memory of what was taken from you.

A word bubbled up from within, and you spoke it before you knew what it was.

“…Moonie.”

He went rigid, and then held you at arm’s length to stare down at you.

“What?” you asked.

“You remember?”

Gradually, you shook your head, and he deflated a little.

“That was what you called me. When we were… When it was private.”

You could hear what he wasn’t saying, and you could hear it in the way he’d called you wife. It was with a fondness and affection that came with knowing and loving someone for years.

And you’d given all of that up just to return to Earth. 1233 hadn’t deserted you here. You’d abandoned him, left him with nothing but memories of someone who’d forgotten him. Marriage to a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” you said, quick and urgent. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have—”

He pulled you in, enveloping you in his swallowing embrace, and you gripped him tight in return. The urgency became desperation, and you feared he would disappear from your arms, nothing more than a dream.

“Do not be distressed,” he said, sounding distressed himself. “I am to blame. My selfish need to see you again has caused you harm. I cannot ask for forgiveness—”

“I forgive you. I would forgive you for anything. I just… I can’t…”

You held him closer, pressing your face against the suit, unable to stand the enormity that swelled within you.

“Please, don’t leave me here, alone. I can’t do it, not again—”

1233 hefted you into his arms, bearing your weight with ease, and he carried you back up the crest of the meadow. You wondered if he would rocket off to space right there, but instead he knelt, gently depositing you onto the soft grass.

“I would like to… May I…”

He didn’t finish the question, but you got the gist of what he was saying. Even if you hadn’t, there wasn’t much that would have stopped you from stripping off your clothes. Jacket, shoes, pants and top, you tossed them uncaring into the grass. You unclipped your bra and reached for your underwear next, but he stopped you with a touch.

“Allow me,” he said, surprisingly shy. “I… like to do this part.”

You moved your hands away and sat back. Already, your body tingled with anticipation. If you’d been together for years, then he knew what you responded to, what you liked, but for you it would be brand new.

Another thrill traveled down your nerves, and when his gloved hands gently tugged off your underwear, you realized they were soaking wet. He gave a pleased hum, and your face went hot as he spread your legs further, putting you on display. He dragged a gloved finger down your cunt, and then he pressed inside. His finger was just as big as you remember, stretching you full.

You couldn’t imagine taking his cock, if he even had a cock. 1233 had teased that perhaps you could take “more” of him after your first encounter, but you had no idea what that meant.

He took your stillness as discomfort, or something worse, and he withdrew his hand. The loss of him within you, the emptiness inside, was too much. 1233 still knelt on the ground, so you climbed into his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders so you wouldn’t fall. He easily caught you in his arms anyway, a low groan deep in his throat.

“I will need to prepare you first. I am too much for you to take without it.”

You were already shaking your head.

“I’ll be fine. Please. I need… I just need you.”

His hesitation kept him frozen, and you couldn’t help it; you rolled your hips, grinding into his lap, his suit smeared with your juices. He groaned again, and that’s when you felt it. Something flexible, warm, and slippery rubbed against your cunt. You didn’t know if he could aim it, or if it simply sensed your warmth, because it slid across your clit with purposeful intent.

You jerked upright with a cry, and it used your new position to prod against your entrance and push inside.

1233 groaned and pushed his hips upwards, and the tapered head of the tentacle-like cock quickly thickened, and it continued to grow wider, stretching you so full you could barely breathe.

“I… apologize,” he spoke in a strained voice. “I cannot… always control it.”

You moaned into the fabric of his shoulder, your thighs hooked around his waist as you allowed more weight to settle on his lap. You understood now why he wanted to prep you, but the pleasurable burn was so good, you were honestly a little disappointed in your past self for not being more adventurous.

“It’s okay.” You tried to grind against his cock, but you were thoroughly impaled on it, unable to move very far on your own. “You feel incredible.”

The next sound that came out of him was more like a growl, and his large hands went around your hips, and before you could anticipate what he was going to do, he lifted you up and then slammed you down onto his cock.

You gave a close-mouthed, muffled scream, and he immediately froze.

“Did I hurt you?! I knew I shouldn’t have—”

“Again.”

“…What?”

“Do… that again,” you panted. “More of… that.”

“Oh.”

After one long agonizing moment, he did it again, though gentler this time. 1233 pulled you up and down his cock, as if you were nothing more than a sex toy used for his pleasure.

You simply held on, letting him do whatever he wanted, your brain too cockdumb and foggy to care as long as he continued to fuck you just like that. The pleasure continued to build, and without warning it crested, slamming into you like a wave.

Crying out, you throbbed on his cock, and 1233 groaned as he throbbed. He wasn’t there yet, but he was close.

“Moonie.”

He shuddered, pulled you down to take his cock as far as you could, and burst inside you. You held on tight as you rode out your own high, and he continued to come inside you for what was definitely too long for a human. When he finally pulled out, his come leaked out in copious amounts, and it felt thicker than was normal.

Curious, you scooped some of it up and held it close enough to see it, but it was still too dark—

A blinding light flashed in your face, and you shielded your eyes against the bright exterior lights of 1233’s helmet.

“It appears we made quite the mess,” he said with an unapologetic chuckle.

“We did.”

On closer inspection, the come coating your fingers was transparent but shimmered as if coated in some kind of oil. It reflected a rainbow of colors when the light hit it just right.

“Pretty.”

He chuckled again.

“That is what you said the first time. You had an unusual interest in my anatomy before, I assumed you would be curious again.”

“Mmm.”

You eyed his crotch, but whatever prehensile cock he had was hidden well. Aside from the gooey mess in his lap, you would have assumed his pants were simply that, and not an actual part of his body.

You popped your finger into your mouth without warning. He tasted mild and faintly sweet. You liked it. Hopefully, it wouldn’t poison you.

After licking your finger clean, you looked up at him and smiled. He sighed.

“You are incorrigible. In that way, you have not changed.”

“Good. Wait here.”

Without bothering to dress, you retrieved your blankets from the Jeep and laid them out on the ground.

“I’m coming with you, wherever you’re going, but I want to stargaze with you first,” you said by way of explanation. “I don’t know when I’ll see these constellations again.”

1233 hummed thoughtfully, and then turned off his external light. Taking that as a sign he would join you, you laid down on your back, and as soon as he joined you, he half pulled you onto his chest. You laughed and let him rearrange you how he wanted before you settled down in a more comfortable position. You could fall asleep like this, but you turned your head to watch the stars. The green and blue of distant galaxies mixed in with the stars of white, yellow, and red. It really was a gorgeous view.

“You are sure of this? Leaving with me?”

“Most definitely.”

He hummed happily, and you shivered as a gloved finger traced up the naked skin of your hip.

“You are not concerned about your Foundation interfering? They may come looking for you.”

You thought about the amnestics no longer working. Maybe it was a side effect of whatever the Moon People had done to your mind.

“I don’t think we need to worry about them.”

Even if they did manage to capture you, anyone who got in 1233’s way tended to end up a pulpy mess, and that’s when it happened by accident. You couldn’t imagine him genuinely angry, and you hoped wherever they imprisoned you, it wasn’t Site-20.

After several moments of quiet had passed, you asked, “Can you make other things appear on my skin?”

“Of course. The Moon People incorporated the technology into my suit, it would be a simple affair.”

“So, you can create images?”

“I imagine so. But you may have to describe it for me.”

“Little stars,” you said, lifting your head so you could look down into his helmet. It reflected the starlight above. “Constellations of the Milky Way. I want them to appear on my skin after a few days, as a reminder.”

“A reminder?”

“That it’s been too long since you touched me.”

1233 made a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a groan, and he pressed your body against his.

“Anything you desire, my starlight.”

You settled partially on top of him, your eyelids fluttering as his gloved hand stroked along your back. Past-you was a fool for walking away, for hurting 1233 unnecessarily, and you wouldn’t make the same mistake she did.

And now, like in the night sky, the promise of stars would be written on your skin.

Next Entry

[prince-liest]

huge fan of your hazbin fics the way you handle their characterization is amazing!!!! your most recent one about lucifer's dissociation problems has got me rotating his dynamic with alastor in my head so so much.

like the combination of their weird dad-rivalry, their power mismatch, lucifer's dubious grip on the present moment, and alastor's Entire Personality together are already a disaster waiting to happen, but throwing 'alastor is injured and lucifer has decided to heal him against his wishes for charlie's sake' into the mix makes everything even worse. imagine trying to do first aid on a feral cat that hates you but also the cat can talk and is trying to sabotage your attempts to fix your relationship with your daughter and also deep down you're worried the cat might actually be a better father to her than you ever were. i love it.

"Imagine what u wrote except Alastor is a different kind of furry" and yet you are SO COMPLETELY RIGHT ahahaha anon I love this. "Feral cat" perfectly encapsulates the exact image I had in my head while writing that.

Thank you! I love the weird dynamic between Alastor and Lucifer because while I'm sure that Alastor's dad-takeover is just a 'Lucifer's insecurities'-flavored spin on whatever the actual ego-related emotional damage Lucifer's presence deals him is, I cannot imagine putting the two of them in the same residential building and it not resulting in extremely weird and increasingly unhinged one-upmanship. Desperately hoping for more of that next season!

I do think an interesting aspect to the dynamic is the way that Lucifer distinctly sets himself apart from the sinners of hell in canon, so he presumably is a fairly decent person, especially by hell's standards. So while Alastor may or may not be willing to full-on eat Lucifer and spit out the bones if he could have his way without consequence, I like to imagine that Lucifer (especially if he learns that Alastor is injured and vulnerable (assuming Alastor even still is)) is just being normal person levels of petty bitch. Except Lucifer is also the one that's like four weight classes outside of Alastor's reach.

What I'm saying is that Lucifer is SO very much wrangling a murderous, feral cat that hates him.

[boasamishipper]

Hello! You are my go to expert for Night Court and Dan/Harry, so I would like to ask, which episodes would you recommend watching for particularly shippy Dan/Harry moments or storylines? Thank you <3

i am beyond honored to have been bestowed such a title, thank you nonny! <333

there are so many excellent danharry moments and storylines across all nine seasons, but here are my (very painstakingly selected) top five danharry episodes in chronological order:

1. S3E9-10 The Wheels of Justice (Part 1 + 2)

every time i think about this episode i go fully insane charlie kelly standing in front of the pepe silvia conspiracy board style. admittedly the first episode doesn't give us a lot of danharry content beyond harry smiling super fondly at dan while dan screams at bull's tiny tv, but the SECOND episode. jesus CHRIST. dan talking harry out of his slump in that pool hall........'you were good, harry! very good. you were impartial. you were fair. passionate. compassionate. understanding. and i admired you.'............dan hugging harry after harry apologized and said he would come back to court........the way harry and dan looked at each other after harry's line about taking the good with the bad no matter how bad the bad gets...........dan's smile while harry tells mac that dan is the only reason he left the pool hall..........and then. of course. this.

what is their DEAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2. S4E1 The Next Voice You Hear...

'emily,' night court nation says. 'this is not a danharry-centric episode.' you are correct! 'then why is this on your list?' because after harry found out his mother was dead, mac's first instinct was to call dan, and dan dropped whatever he was doing to come and console harry. they're best friends!!!!!!!!! and i cry about it Every Day

3. S4E5-6 Dan's Operation (Part 1+2)

this is THE danharry episode. every other danharry episode go home (except please don't, you're all wonderful). seriously though if someone told me when i first started watching night court that harry would fall asleep on a comatose dan's chest after begging him to wake up (AFTER they had a huge argument earlier in the episode) and dan's first instinct upon waking up is to stroke harry's hair and also Not Move Or Say Anything Because Harry Is Sleeping and THEN they would have ANOTHER argument that ended in both of them saying 'i love you' to each other, i would have died on the spot. and then i watched these episodes and i DID die on the spot. larroquette won his third emmy award for his performance in these eps and it is extremely well deserved.

4. S5E14 I'm OK, You're Catatonic/Schizophrenic

a danharry episode that raises more questions than it answers. what do you mean dan just randomly took a nap on harry's conference table. what do you mean dan kidnapped mel torme for harry. what do you mean dan said re: his kidnapping of mel torme '[harry's] gonna kiss me on the lips for this'. what do you MEAN dan handcuffed mel torme to a chair using 'a trick harry taught him' with 'magic shackles' that HE KNOWS CHAFE and WHAT DO YOU MEAN HARRY DOESN'T EVEN HAVE MAGIC SHACKLES AT ALL. SO WHAT WAS DAN TALKING ABOUT. someday i will get a ouija board so i can talk to reinhold weege from beyond the grave and ask him hey man!!! what was up with this episode!!!!!!!!! and also harry destroying dan's car in retaliation for dan accidentally destroying his mel torme record collection (on top of harry strangling dan upon receiving the news and also screaming I'M GOING TO EAT THAT MAN'S EYEBROWS) is proof that these two match each other's freak like no one else and that's why they should be endgame, thank you and good night.

5. S5E22 + S6E1-2 Danny Got His Gun (Parts 1-3)

1980s sitcoms were operating on a whole other level because if even an iota of this plotline happened to one of my otps on any of my currently airing shows the entire fandom would burst into flames. dan is presumed dead!!! his plane goes down north of hudson bay!!! and harry is the first one to receive the news!!! and the first one to receive further telegrams from the army and also dan's belongings!!! in his will dan left harry his 'heartfelt gratitude'!!! harry had to plan dan's memorial service!!! he had to write dan's eulogy!!! he had to sit there and watch everyone in attendance including the funeral director (barring roz) not be able to say a single nice thing about his best friend!!! then said best friend CRASHES HIS OWN MEMORIAL SERVICE!!! dan is alive!!! he has a beard!!! he smells awful!!! which i will maintain to my last breath is the only thing that prevented harry from kissing the breath out of dan right there in the funeral home!!! they!!! looked!!! at!!! each!!! other!!! like!!! this!!!

LIKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!