#but some people are just utterly beyond the pale

[queer-geordie-nerd]

God, I get the absolute worst people in the notes of my posts.

Imagine being the kind of atrocious human being who says that Jews have a "victim complex" after suffering a pogrom which took 1,200 lives and a concurrent 400% worldwide rise in antisemitic abuse and violence, less than a century after the worst genocide in history decimated two thirds of their population, which they still haven't recovered from, and which is being denied more and more with each passing day.

Imagine being the kind of unimaginable cunt who finds that acceptable behaviour.

Would you say that Black people concerned about racism and police brutality have a "victim complex"?

Would you say women concerned about sexual assault or domestic violence when 1 in 3 are victims at some point in their lives have a "victim complex"?

Would you say trans people concerned about anti trans legislation in health and social care have a "victim complex"?

So why is it, again and again and again, Jewish people facing very real oppression and persecution are seen as fair play to behave hideously towards?

[hynzsn]

💭 LOSER BF ★

☆ choi soobin x male reader 18+ MDNI

-> loser!soobin x supermodel!reader

꩜ .ᐟ smut, headcanons

contents: top!soobin x bottom!reader, big dick!soobin, slutty!reader, cockbrained!reader, cock size, rimming, oral fixation, edging, barebacking, oral, cum swallowing, dirty talk, praise and degradation, rough sex, kissing, moaning, overstimulation, belly bulge, voyeurism, mirror sex, anal fingering, anal sex, forehead kisses, handjob, aftercare, foreplay

a/n - i didn’t mean for this to be so long lmfaoo 😭 i literally had to take a minute and realize how much i was yapping away… and the way i would’ve written more too… big dick loser boyfriends for the win!!!

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

from the outside, it seems like you’re completely out of soobin’s league. you, a stunning supermodel, adored by millions, with your stunning looks and perfect body, the epitome of grace. then there’s soobin, with his shy demeanor and awkward charm. to the world, you’re the unattainable star, while soobin is just some lucky guy who somehow managed to capture your heart.

fans and followers constantly comment on how lucky soobin is, how they can’t believe someone as gorgeous as you is with him. there are endless discussions about what the hell you see in soobin, some assuming that it’s to make yourself look better while others assume there’s some hidden charm to soobin.

in interviews, you’re always asked about your relationship with soobin, with the interviewers always hinting at the disparity in your “league.” however, you always smile and talk about how much you love soobin despite the insinuations there.

you always drag him along to high-profile events, where you’re the center of attention, cameras flashing and people fawning over you. soobin always stays in the background, looking proud but out of place in the world of glitz and glamour.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

but behind closed doors, only soobin knows the truth about your relationship, how the dynamics change drastically. he knows how good he can make you feel with his pathetically large cock, turning you into his little cockbrained slut. in private, soobin holds all the power. he can make you feel things no one else can, reducing you to a moaning, desperate mess who lives and breathes for his cock.

soobin’s cock is easily over 8 inches long, closer to 9 on on his good days, with a thickness that stretches you out in the most deliciously obscene ways. its not just the length but the girth too - so thick that your fingers can barely wrap around it fully. the prominent vein running along the underside pulsing with soobin’s heartbeat, a tactile reminder to the power contained in his large cock. the head is broad and perfectly shaped, a deep, enticing pink that contrasts with the pale skin of his cock. when soobin is fully hard - and he always is whenever you’re around - his cock stands proudly, curving slightly upward.

when soobin’s inside of you, you can always feel every inch, every vein, every throb, stretching you to your limits and beyond. it’s a size that leaves you breathless every time, your body trembling with the effort to accommodate to such a magnificent intrusion. the way it fills you up, bottoming out with every thrust, makes you feel claimed, owned, and utterly satisfied.

during forpelay, soobin’s hands are always a bit shaky, his touch tentative as he explores your body. there’s an endearing uncertainty in the way soobin’s fingers trace over your skin, as if he’s in awe at the privilege of touching someone so perfect. soobin’s hands are gentle, almost reverent as they glide over your curves. he takes his time, savoring every inch of your body, his touch soft and affectionate. he loves to explore your body with his lips and fingertips, leaving a trail of kisses and gentle bites.

soobin’s eyes are always locked on yours, filled with adoration and desire. he loves watching your reactions, the way your eyes flutter shut or roll back when soobin hits the right spot.

even after countless nights together, soobin still blushes fiercely whenever you tease him or compliment his cock. his stuttering attempts at dirty talk often turn into breathless, mumbled confessions of how much he loves making you feel good.

in the privacy of your bedroom, you’re always on your knees, worshipping soobin’s cock with a fervor that belies your public persona. your eyes are always glazed with lust, your lips stretched around soobin’s length, and your hands trembling as you try to take soobin as deep as possible. soobin loves to see you like this, usually taking control of the situation. he guides your head, setting a rhythm that has you choking and drooling all over his cock.

you, who commands rooms and hearts with ease, becomes a pleasing mess for soobin. you beg to be filled up, to be stretched out by soobin’s large cock, your voice high and desperate. “please, soobin, i need you inside me,” you whimper, your body trembling with anticipation.

once soobin is inside you, you transform into a cock-drunk slut, your mind blissfully blank except for the overwhelming sensation of being filled to the brim. your eyes roll back, your mouth falls open, and incoherent moans spill from your lips as soobin thrusts into you with a ruthless rhythm.

when soobin finally let’s go of his inhibitions, his thrusts become rough and demanding. he loves to watch the way your body responds, the way your back arches and your mouth falls open in a silent scream. the bed shakes with a force of his movements, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

★ soobin’s kinks ★

barebacking: there’s something intensely intimate about the feel of your bare skin against his own. soobin loves the raw connection, the way he can feel every clench and flutter of your needy hole around his cock.

overstimulation: soobin takes a perverse pleasure in pushing you to your limits. he loves to watch your body shake and tremble, his cock still buried deep inside of you as he grinds out every last drop of pleasure. your cries of “too much,” only spur him on, knowing that you love every second of it. he knows exactly how to drive you wild, teasing you until you’re a trembling mess, begging for release. “is this what you wanted, y/n? to be my pretty little cockslut?” soobin murmurs, his voice low and commanding.

belly bulge: soobin is obsessed with the way his cock creates a visible bulge in your belly. he loves to press down on it, feeling himself through your skin as he watches your eyes roll back in bliss. it’s a visual reminder of how deeply he’s embedded in his lover, a sight that never fails to drive him wild.

praise and degradation: soobin gets off on the power of his words. he loves to shower you with praise, telling you how beautiful and perfect you are, especially when you’re writhing in pleasure. conversely, he also enjoys calling you his “pretty little slut,” or “cock-hungry whore,” the contrast driving both of you wild. the mix of tenderness and roughness is a potent aphrodisiac for him.

voyeurism: thought not always explicitly expressed, soobin had a hidden voyeuristic streak. he loves to watch you touch yourself, seeing the way your body responds to your own hands. the sight of you pleasuring yourself to the thought or sight of soobin, is intensely erotic.

rimming: soobin always ensures the environment is perfect - soft lighting, clean sheets, and a sense of privacy that allows you to fully immerse in the moment. he gently guides you to lie down, spreading your legs to give him full access. soobin starts with light, teasing touches, running his fingers along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh’s and ass. the soft caresses, making you shiver with anticipation, your body already responding to soobin’s expert touch. soobin’s tongue makes the first contact with your rim, a light tentative lick that sends a jolt of pleasure through your body. soobin loves the way you gasp and you arch your back, silently begging for more.

soobin’s licks become more deliberate and thorough, his tongue exploring every inch of your sensitive hole. he circles the rim, flicks his tongue against it, and presses in just enough to make you moan with need. your reactions fuel soobin’s desire. the soft moans, whimpers, and gasps that escape your lips are music to soobin’s ears. he knows exactly how to use his tongue to drive you wild, alternating between slow, sensual licks and rapid, teasing flicks. soobin’s hands aren’t idle during this act. one hand spreads your cheeks apart, giving him better access, while the other hand stroke your cock.

as your moans grow louder and more desperate, soobin increased the pressure and intensity of his tongue. he pushes his tongue deeper, lavishing attention on your needy hole, making sure every movement is filled with purpose and passion. your body only responds beautifully to soobin’s rimming. your hips start to move, pushing back against soobin’s mouth, seeking more of that incredible sensation.

sometimes, soobin adds to the sensation by slipping a finger into your hole alongside his tongue. the combination of his tongue and finger stretching and teasing your brings you to the brink of ecstasy. once soobin feels that you’re on the edge of ecstasy, he transitions from rimming to planting gentle kisses all over your ass and lower back.

mirror play: soobin loves taking you in front of a mirror, making both of you watch as you’re being filled and fucked. the visual of your expressions, the way soobin’s body moves, and how his huge cock disappears inside of you is such a huge turn on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

★ soobin’s favorite part of your body ★

soobin finds every part of your body captivating, you’re an absolute masterpiece in his eyes. but if he had to choose a favorite, it would undoubtedly be your lips. there’s something about them that mesmerizes him.

your lips are incredibly soft, a perfect blend of tenderness and sensuality. soobin loves the feeling of them against his own, the way they move with gentle, teasing caresses that make his heart race. your lips are incredibly expressive. whether they’re curved in a sly smile, parted in a gasp of pleasure, or pouting in a playful protest, they communicate a myriad of emotions that soobin finds irresistible. soobin can’t get enough of kissing you. he loves the way your lips, respond to his, the way they model together in a perfect dance of passion.

waking up to you, soobin’s first instinct is always to kiss you. whether you’re on the couch, in bed, or even sneaking a moment in public, soobin’s favorite way to show his affection is through deep, passionate makeout sessions.

oral fixation: there’s a special kind of pleasure that soobin finds in watching you use your lips and moth during sex. kissing down his body, pleading and begging for him, or taking his cock into your mouth, your lips drive him absolutely insane. soobin often finds his hands drifting to your lips. the way they part under his touch, how they feel soft and pilant underneath his fingers. sometimes when your moans grow too loud, soobin gently pressed his fingers to your lips, silencing you with a soft but commanding touch. the sight of your lips wrapped around his fingers, the way your tongue flicks against his skin, is incredibly sexy for soobin.

sometimes, words aren’t necessary. a simple kiss from you can convey more than a thousand words - a promise of love, a reassurance, or an unspoken desire. soobin cherishes these silent conversations, finding comfort and connection in the language of their lips. on days when soobin feels stressed or overwhelmed, your kisses have a healing power. the gentle press of your lips against his forehead is likes soothing balm, washing away the tension and worries that weigh him down.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

★ soobin’s favorite place to cum ★

is inside of your mouth. the warmth, the softness and the way you look up at him with adoring eyes as you take soobin inside of your mouth, swallowing every drop of his cum, the way your lips glisten with his cum after he pulls out, when you lick your lips with a satisfied look on your face, it’s all like a drug to him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

after your intense sessions, soobin always holds you close, whispering sweet nothings and stroking your hair. you cling to soobin, feeling safe and cherished, completely satisfied and throughly used.

you wear soobin’s marks with pride, hidden beneath your designer clothes. bruises, love bites, and the occasional handprint are all reminders of who you truly belong to, symbols of the nights spent being fucked by your loser boyfriend.

when you’re out in public, you and soobin share secret smiles and knowing glances. no one else knows the truth of your relationship, the depth of your connection, and the intense pleasure you share. It’s your private world, a hidden paradise where your true desires are fulfilled by the only person who truly understands you.

[clairdelunelove]

the way that yuuji becomes desperately eager whenever your kissing session with him manages to slip past the boundary of innocence.

it escalates into a scenario that’s directly ripped out of his wildest dreams. but don't get him wrong. he adores every and any type of kiss you grace him with. the casual kiss to his cheek whenever he brings you lunch. the comforting forehead kiss he receives when he’s had a particularly rough day. the teasing kiss nestled in the junction of his neck when his hands grip at you a bit too intimately in public. he’s over the moon. delighted and beyond grateful whenever he opens his eyes in the morning and catches a glimpse of you. whether you’re by his side or he’s waking up to a text from you in the morning. you’ve bewitched him to the point of no return. anyone can perceive it. how he’s brought to his knees by what he deems as the greatest gift in life— the opportunity to be yours. his love is unconditional, true, and pure. 

so imagine the epiphany that seeps within you when your sweet, doting boyfriend starts pressing searing kisses along your neck. it started with an innocent peck. he’s always naturally gentle whenever you’re involved. delicate touches despite the calluses on his hands from labor and strength. you had gently murmured your appreciation when he agreed to meet up with you so late during the night and spend some time with you. he vaguely remembers the reasoning behind your call, a brief comment about how you 'couldn’t sleep' and how it was 'nothing to be concerned about.' honestly, you just missed him. but he sprinted the entire way anyway. a figure with blushy pink hair weaving in and out of alleyways to cut across the neighborhood streets. too quick to actually notice unless you’re innately observant. he pauses in front of you, though. your wide eyes land on his flushed face as he sweeps a hand over his forehead to mop up the sweat from the intense run. and he’s even more attractive underneath the moon’s pale glow. in fact, his devotion towards your wellbeing meant so much that, by the time he can ask if anything was wrong, the two of you are stumbling through your bedroom door. 

it’s sudden. the bed creaks underneath yuuji’s added weight but it goes unnoticed by the male. or rather, it was the least of his concerns because now he’s focused on you. you’re so pretty. basked in radiance that knocks the wind out of him. causes his fingers to inch closer to you. and it’ll physically pain him if he doesn’t do anything so he encircles his arms along the curve of your waist, your hands are carded in his hair, and yuuji would be utterly stupid if he had any complaints. no, this was heaven. for some, this might’ve been labeled as a measly make out session but for yuuji— he believes that this is the bliss that people spend their whole lives trying to achieve.

he’s spiraling out of control due to your affection and soft noises. and clearly you’re not doing any better. your face burns in unabashed desire as he nips at your glossy lips and his next words have you keening. 

“sweet,” his voice comes out breathy and syrupy with want, “you’re so freakin' sweet.” 

lifting you by the underside of your thighs, he sets you down on his lap as a solution to close the gap. leans in to lick at your lips for another taste and pulls away with a dazed grin. there’s a dopey expression on his face. his pupils are blown wide and the tips of his ears are scarlet. vision clouded with you. feels the blood roar in his ears when he pushes the apex of your thighs down so your weight is entirely on him. a noise that borders a whine leaves his lips. and you can distinctively feel the heat of him underneath the thin fabric of your clothes. it’s hot and heavy. there’s no telling where you end and where he begins. 

“this can’t be real,” he chants, like he’s in disbelief of his fortune, “please let this be real.” 

and he’s reduced to blabbering now. brain short circuiting until he’s muttering about anything and everything that revolves around you. you’re soft, pliable underneath all his brawn. the contrast drives him to the brink— it always does. he lifts your hand to his face and presses chaste kisses up your arms. they’re soft, fleeting. that is, until he lays the flat of his hand against your lower back so you’re caving towards him. the squish of your chest on his is maddening. you feel like your body is on fire. wherever he touches you erupts in a warmth that won’t fizzle out and you know that you’re drowning in pleasure. but, like always, yuuji will be there to rescue you. 

“c’mere, pretty girl,” his fingertips brush alongside your hair, “wanna see you some more, yeah?” 

cradling your face in his hand, he squeezes at your cheeks until your glossy lips are puckered and willing. the epitome of tantalizing. his other hand snakes down to grasp onto the plush of your thigh and uses it as leverage to spread you open some more. unveil his present. you’re almost certain that the imprint of his fingers will be visible tomorrow but you can’t seem to care. his honeyed eyes are half lidded as he gazes at you. gulps to quell the tide of desire that flows within him. takes all of his restraint to be patient, let you adjust. he has all the time in the world.

vividly, he hears you panting; you’re breathless and shaky from his ministrations. falling into the delirium that yuuji casts upon you. yet, your fingers trail lower onto his abdomen, the muscles there involuntarily clench and he jerks forward to chase after your touch. he mumbles a quick apology only for his head to drop when you run an earnest hand over the same spot that has him seeing stars. a heady gasp escapes his lips, gets caught in his throat, and the obscene noise floods the room. the sticky sound rocks you to your core. 

your lashes flutter, eyes opening to glance at the door that’s left ajar, and shyly mention, “yuu. the door.” 

and it’s pathetic how quickly yuuji zips up to abide by your order. never allowing you to repeat your words twice because he’s actively listening to you. 

“right!” he stutters, a bit too enthusiastically considering that the change of pace makes his head dizzy, “I’ll close it.” 

moving awkwardly to compensate for the tightness in his lower attire, he gently knocks your knees when he stands and almost face plants as he scrambles to the door. sucking in a breath, he inwardly scolds himself for his clumsiness.

"way to ruin the mood, loser," he ruminates.

embarrassment evident in the way he catches himself before he trips due to his willingness to get back to you. so desperate, so eager to please you. naturally, you’re stifling a laugh when he shuffles back to you.

he plops down on the bed, clears his throat, and widely grins to point out the obvious, “I’m back.” 

and goodness, your heart explodes just from his presence. your sweet boy. you’re even more obsessed with him. his cheeks are a glowy, reddened hue. lips kiss-bitten by your undoing. he runs a hand through his frazzled hair, attempting to pat down the parts that stick up due to your previous touches and scrunches his nose when his actions are futile. you instinctively reach out to help and his eyes immediately soften. 

the boyish charm he has never fails to put a smile on your face and you’re replying before you can think better of it, “wanna continue?” 

and the next kiss you share is followed by an overly eager yuuji. it's filled with toothy grins and soft giggles— inherently him. your heart swells and soars.

[ixiot-ghostrebel]

Sagau another episode of reader getting pissed of for someone insulting some of thier favourites while begin bored when someone insults the reader to the point of counting how many times someone used some type of insult

Lyney and lynette begin bad mouthed becose they are form house of hearts reader will just launch a lawsuit for badmouthing thier favorites

Furina begin insulted by some pepole whonate not form Fontaine well the reader will want to throw them and drown under water thoses pepoles

That random who interrupts childe when he was talking to traveler and reader in fontain.....well begin punching bag for fatui harnbringer is now a mercy compared to how much the reader who......PURCHESE THE STEAM ROLLER AND DRIVES OVER ON THIS MO-* sorry for tehicaly dificulty*

PART 3 IT IS BABY LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOO

Thank you so much for requesting, @zardas75 ! I would've been more dead otherwise lol :')

Click Me For Part 1! Click Me For Part 2!

When Someone Insults Lyney, Lynette, Furina, and Childe! (No Vice Versa Today, Sorry!)

(Warning: Slight Spoilers to 4.0 Archon Quest & Might be OOC!)

Lyney

He was utterly flabbergasted that you would go out of your way for Lynette and he. I mean sure—he felt absolutely blessed and grateful that you would personally be his attorney (along with the Traveler & Paimon), but he did not expect you to jump on people that were insulting him because...of where his origin lies with.

It wasn't surprising that the entirety of Fontaine came to hear about the court case that held trial to press charges for a murder he didn't commit. so Lyney can't say he wasn't expecting the rumors, but you? Yeah, you were an entirely different wildcard than to those he's usually familiar with.

Lemme tell you, he was not prepared for you to be all up in the harasser's merchandise. If this was a trial duel to defend one's honor—you were not the champion duelist that made the opponent surrender. You were the opponent about to end the champion duelist's entire career.

This harasser was good at trash talking and gossiping—they were quite a hard opponent to overcome and beat, and here's you running your mouth about them and quite literally ending their career in a matter of minutes.

As much as Lyney would find this amusing after 5 minutes of overcoming the shock, some of the things you were saying were....a little too horrifying he'll be honest. So, rather to save himself than the insulter, he smoothly interrupts your "conversation."

"Ah, Your Grace! Welcome Back to Fontaine! May I Have the Pleasure to show you our latest magic tricks? Lynette and I have been practicing for our upcoming show!"

With your *cough* favoritism *cough* good mood shining through the previous rage that befelled your face, you of course accept to see more magic tricks appear out of the Great Magician twins!

And that was how Lyney hopes to never get you in a bad mood ever in your stay in Fontaine. He doesn't want to see you smiting anyone for anyone.

Lynette

She's like Lyney, but more muted. She's honored that you would protect she and Lyney from this insulter, but if she was to give her opinion, it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. After all, with being well-known, there was bound to be both ups and downs eventually.

She'll admit, she was...pretty afraid after hearing many of the things you were spitting at the rapidly paling face of the insulter in front of you. After all, smiting people with the wrath of the power beyond all the gods was...terrifying and a true force to be reckoned with.

She's immediately helping Lyney to distract you from the situation while also giving well-hidden death glares at the insulter for making you mad. The last thing they needed was for you to deem Fontaine not a good nation.

"Tada~ I hope you liked that magic trick, Your Grace...If you would like, I can reserve a ticket for the best seat at our upcoming magic show for you to watch."

Lynette is both afraid and awe-struck of your abilities as the Creator. That doesn't mean she'll show it, of course.

Furina

In my personal opinion, I think Furina is both loved and hated by the people of Teyvat. While she is mostly loved by her nation, others (like Neuvillette) can't stand her or her enigmaticness.

You, as the Creator, understand both love and hate, but of course choose to love Furina regardless of her...dramatic and soap opera-levelled ideas. While you can respect other people's opinions...cursing and badly insulting them was just crossing the line for you. And you were not going to let it pass without planting your foot down first.

And, of course, Furina soaks up everything you said like a sponge to water. You, the Creator, beyond Celestia itself, were willing to defend her? If this were a live soap opera in the Opera Epiclese, Furina would say she was a 100% fan of you!

Alas, as much as she loves for you to go on, she is an idol within Fontaine. The last thing she needs is for her own people to think Fontaine might get smitten because of one insulter. After all, gossip changes the raw truth to make itself more interesting.

"Ah, Your Grace! I just so happens to realize that there will be a trial held in the Opera Epiclese. For, if you have the time to spare, wish to find new inspiration for your next creations, please—allow I, Lady Furina, to escort you there! Hehe, I can certainly garuantee that you will get the V.I.P. view up there with me!~"

And, since you have a soft spot for Furina, you happily accept. After all, you can get to know the Hydro Archon better than before, even if you don't like court sessions! It's a win-win for you. And at least that insulter will now think before striking again.

Next thing you know, gossip around Fontaine says that those who are granted visions are personally favored forevermore by the Creator, and that you should never cross with one else you face the wrath above the gods.

Childe

Boy oh boy...If you are an old Tartaglia/Childe Fan, this is for you. You were absolutely ecstatic that Childe was in Fontaine! I mean—he even came in the game's archon quest in a badass-ish way!

And OF COURSE you had to teach the guy annoying your boy a lesson. Like, hello??? You blind??? This is your boy here! What is this old man thinking?

So of course, you did. And you gave that man quite the scare. The Traveler and Paimon look at you taking this situation as both a physical and verbal showdown very calmly, since this wasn't exactly the first time you blew up at people.

Childe, however? Boy, he's taking notes. Your threats and insults were very interesting and unique—as expected of the Creator. And the fact you just summon a bamboo stick outta thin air and proceeded to give the man some back problems? The harbinger's wondering if he can borrow that idea as inspiration...

Nevertheless, he doesn't want to deal with court just yet, so he'll (unfortunately) step in and save this person's backside. Besides, he still owes mora to Northland Bank.

"Ahaha, Your Grace! Your prowress seems to only become stronger and even more gracious since we last met—as expected!" He grins at you. "How 'bout you leave him to me, though? He still owes the bank some mora."

And so you watched Childe beat up the man and yk the rest is history. Safe to say you were somewhat satisfied. One thing's for sure though—Childe 100% dedicated this battle to you. You did give him some inspiration to fight, after all!

AND WE ARE DONE! I hope you all enjoyed it :)

Ghost Rebel Side Notes: Gosh, this took longer than i expected...I'm sorry everybody! IRL stuff has been hitting me like Truck-kun and there wasn't that much of a good time to properly sit down and write. I swear I'm not dying just yet!

Also, to whoever who shall be merciful to my very ghostful soul—please send in some Freminet requests—I must write for my boy. 🐧

✦ Check out The Ghost Rebel’s Blog Description & Info Page to See if Their Mailbox is Open! ✦

[griffintail2]

Wolf in Duck's Clothing

Summary: A small child sinner tries to navigate her way through Hell.

Pairings: Lucifer x Child!GN!Reader

Warnings: None that I know of but it's Hazbin, we'll find them eventually.

This is a part one for now to test out the new writing grounds! Hope you enjoy! ♥

Part 2

-------

Sinners couldn’t have children in Hell. It was common knowledge. So, an actual child running around hell was rare.

For a child to be there, they had to be a Hellborn or…the most rare choice, they were a sinner themselves.

There were some that took in the rare little sinners. However, there were a few that continued to wander the streets. Alone and helpless. It was how (Y/N) got into the situation they were in.

Ducking between legs and slipping through the crowd, their breath came out quickly as they looked back to see their pursuer still following, but falling behind. They needed to hide. Alleys were obvious and usually, more trouble than they were worth, inside another building was even more reckless.

Then they spotted hedges surrounding a large home. The big bushes might be dying, but it would be enough to slip into. Quickly, they slipped through the crowd, diving through the hedge to hide beyond it. On the other side, the large home stood in its glory along with a neglected garden in front of it.

Holding their breath, they watched the hedge, waiting to see if their pursuer followed but breathed with relief when a minute passed and the hedge didn’t move from any disturbance. They waited a few more minutes before they’d make their hasty escape from the land they had stumbled upon. Looking around, (Y/N) could imagine how beautiful the garden might have once been.

The pretty colors and life that would have flourished in the dark place. There was one living plant, making them wonder slightly closer in curiosity. A large tree that still stood…

“You’re trespassing.” A voice spoke behind them.

The small child, jumped, giving a small scream as they turned, clutching onto the stolen goods they had in their arms. Behind them, a man with pale white skin, red cheeks, and hair hiding under a large hat looked down at them with crossed arms.

Lucifer stared at the small sinner. Their form was one of a wolf’s, their ears currently pointed back and tail pressed close to them as they stared up at him in fear. In their arms, he spotted a few bits of food. Bread, cans of something, and…apples. He stood straighter.

“Did you take from the tree?” He growled.

“W-What?” They looked at the tree seeing it was indeed an apple tree. “No! I’m-I’m sorry sir! I-I didn’t mean to come h-here.”

He scoffed. “Then what are you doing here if not to steal?”

“I-I was hiding…” Tears welled up in their eyes and Lucifer looked confused. “I-I’m sorry, I did st-steal, but not from you…I st-stole this food from the store.”

Now Lucifer was utterly baffled. They were confessing their wrongdoings? Why weren’t they lying, they’re a sinner. He stared at their terrified form trying to figure them out. When he’d seen them from his office window, he'd confidently assumed that they were just a short adult sinner. But…

“How old are you?” He asked.

“…Eight.” They muttered.

He sighed deeply as he looked away from them. An actual child. He knew there were children, sinners, he’d just never met one during his centuries, not that he went out much to have the chance to meet one.

“Where are your parents or the people taking care of you?” He huffed.

They looked around, sputtering. “I, um-Well I—”

“Any time now.” He waved his hand.

“…I’m-I’m taking care of me.” They muttered.

He once more stood in confusion. They were on their own? But he looked them over again. Ratty, torn clothes, food they stole in their arms, on their own to begin with.

He crossed his arms again, gripping them as he stared at the small child, making them squirm in place.

“Fuck.” He swore under his breath, before walking to the house. “Come on.”

“W-What?” They sputtered.

“Come on, in the house.” He motioned to it as he looked back. “I need to find somewhere to bring you and I don’t know where to start. So come inside so I can figure it out.”

They stared in shock before quickly scampering after him. He sighed as he led them in. He wasn’t fond of sinners by any means. He hated his own subjects. But the father side of him couldn’t just leave a child out on their own to fend for themselves. He’d find somewhere to send them so he could be done with it.

“Thank you, sir.” They muttered.

“Yeah, yeah.” He mumbled.

[kinardsevan]

snapshot.

(finally fulfilling that prompt @30somethingautisticteacher sent me about Tommy dropping facts at an art museum / aka, me abusing my art degree.)

They stroll into the museum and Evan is all but bouncing on his heels as they wait to get through admission. Ever since Tommy mentioned going for a day date, he’s been on a deep dive on the Rembrandt collection currently on display. He has so many fun facts he’s excited to share with Tommy that he couldn’t even keep them all to himself  until they made it into the exhibit. 

“Did you know he painted over 300 paintings in his life,” he’d told Tommy on the drive over. And Tommy had responded the same way he always did, always invested in his deep dives. 

“Really, babe? What else?”

He’d launched into half a dozen facts about the artist while they were still on the 10 before remembering that he wanted to save the best for when they actually got to the museum.

So he’s a little thrown when, after getting past admission, Tommy leads him down into the basement instead of up towards the third floor where he knows the collection is stored. 

“Where are we going,” he asks, being pulled along by Tommy’s fingers interlaced with his. He’s not upset, but he’s definitely curious by this change in plans. 

They make into the basement and around a corner, through an open doorway.

“Photo department is always in the basement,” Tommy murmurs as they start walking into the room. “Why they keep them hidden away from the light is beyond me, but…” 

Evan follows after him, watching with rapt attention as Tommy leads him forward, towards the first set of photographs. They’re black and white prints; portraits. A man at a desk with books stacked in front of him. Another man at a kitchen table from the 60s, metal lunch pale in front of him. A bed with a stuffed animal on it. 

“Chauncey Hare,” Tommy states softly, not wanting to interrupt other people’s study of the photographs in the room. “He started out at Standard Oil Company and ended up shooting all this work on the bullshit that goes on in the work place. Got a degree in psychology and abandoned it all to work with his second wife on working against workplace abuse.” 

Evan looks up at Tommy then, a little baffled. Tommy tugs his hand gently, pulling him further along to see more of the pictures. There’s one of a girl sitting in who Evan assumes in her father’s lap, facing the camera. Two other men also facing the camera but not in focus are also in the image. A blonde girl holding a cigarette in the next. A child without a shirt on, laying in someone’s lap. 

“Sally Mann,” Tommy tells him as he continues to stare at the picture of the little girl holding the cigarette. “She shoots a lot of stuff, but her bread and butter are her family, even now. There’s been a lot of controversy over her work because of the state of nudity, but-...” 

“It’s amazing,” Evan murmurs, almost a whisper. He can’t stop looking at the picture of the daughter with the cigarette. 

Tommy keeps pulling him along, showing him pictures, talking about the artists, moving through decades of images, until they’re standing in front of newer work. Color photos. 

Children standing in a doorway. A boy at a table, looking at the camera as an adult holds a baby in the background. Sisters—a blonde and a ginger—next to each other. Three boys on the floor in front of empty chairs. A woman laying in bed holding a small blonde child of maybe one or two, bathed in sunlight. 

“Jessica Todd Harper,” Tommy says as Evan reads the label next to the image. “She shoots her family too. Some posed, some not. Always trying to tell a story about family interactions and complex relationships.” 

Evan stares at him, utterly enamored as they walk out of the area, head back towards the stairs.

“We can still go see the paintings,” Tommy tells him. “I just… I like the photography.” 

Evan stops walking, pulls Tommy back when he keeps moving. His boyfriend looks back at him, gives a small smirk. 

“Did I steal your thunder,” he asks, a little bit sheepishly so. 

Evan shakes his head, stepping into Tommy’s space, resting his hand on his chest. 

“I like it when you let me in like this,” he murmurs. “When you share.” 

Tommy’s smile widens a bit more, even as his cheeks flush. 

“I just think…most people don’t think a lot about what’s happening in an image. Is it real? Or is it just a concept of what you think is real? Is it telling an actual story, or just the version of a story you’ve decided on?And what makes one more important than the other? Is digital better than film? Some people think nothing will ever top painting, others think digital photography is a hack and doesn’t have the same connotations as film photography because there’s less effort in the process,” he states. He pauses for a moment, somehow getting pinker in the cheeks. “That’s what I nerd out about.” 

Evan grins at him and then leans forward pecking him on the lips. 

“Well we’re just gonna have to go see more photo exhibitions then,” he says when he pulls away. “Can’t have you holding out on me now.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes, shaking his head. He tilts his head towards the stairwell again. “Come on. Tell me all you researched about Rembrandt.” 

(I posted all of these pictures on my feed if you want to see them!!!!)

[vlly-of-despair]

TMGP 23; A New You:

“Someone overheard me and thought I was talking about finding peace, like inner peace, and asked if I was meditating.”

Previously…

“I’d been trying meditation in the last few sessions and it had always been a struggle but this time, when I closed my eyes and went into myself… It was different. I don’t really know what happened then. I felt like maybe I was dreaming, but I don’t really remember. I wasn’t asleep, though. You can’t feel pain like that in a dream. I remember two things before I lost consciousness: I was in some kind of shopping centre. And a sign reading “Magnus Institute Outreach Centre” (Then proceeds to enter another universe)

TMGP 23: “The water was crystal blue and at the bottom there it was... vibrant, electric almost and... so very alive.”

Previously…

“I hesitated a moment but before I could consider her strangeness a particularly high tide of color swept down the corridor toward me…They were gaping square holes and beyond them was nothing at all… Any one of (them) could reach out if they had a mind to and plunge their hand outwards into the dark, foreboding and utterly featureless void.”

“You should visit the site again when you get the chance. The salt air will do wonders for your mood. It’s weird, I’ve lived here all my life, but spending all this time out on the cliffs, it can still reach you y’know? The waves crash so loud you can hear them in your dreams.”

“It belongs to the deep. I’m going to go get itand I’m going to find it and if they try and stop me I swear the ocean will claim us all. I can taste the salt and spray. It’s waiting in the water.”

“I dreamed of an ocean, deep and unforgiving, with an unplumbed heart full of dark secrets waiting to be uncovered, whilst overhead flew radio signals, invisible and unknowable, not even rippling the surface. Such a shame these two things would never meet. Such a shame...”

“Deeper…Deeper… Down among the dead and swollen flesh so pale within this lightless place where eyes are open cloudy white and all the water pushes down upon a lifeless form. That sinks and sinks down to the bottom that is not there, no sandy grave below the swell, no rest among the coral, and the depths I feared so much but reached up and over land to claim me still…”

The Magnus Archive 127; Basira asks John what it was like to see into the minds of others with the power of the Eye:

John: “It’s like there’s a, a door, in my mind. A-a-and behind it is, is the entire ocean. Before, I didn’t notice it, but now, I – I know it’s there, and I can’t forget it, and I can feel the pressure of the water on it… when I’m around p-people, or.. places, or.. ideas? A drop or two will push through the cracks at the edges of the door. And I’ll… know something.”

I uh, have a sneaking suspicion meditation is not in fact meditation, dreams are not just dreams, and the water. is. NOT. JUST. WATER.

[gallierhouse]

louis reading american psycho while armand sweats in the background..

I think Louis would find the book excessively violent (although he’d see the artistic merit and find the critique of capitalism intertwined with the nihilism and meaningless of an uber-wealthy, everything-proof existence interesting, and dare I say, familiar, although he might miss the theme about how powerful men treat women as entirely disposable objects) and Armand “rats in a blender” no given last name would be like, yes, dear, it’s really quite a disagreeable book. Only a sick man would be that imaginative about rats. Frankly speaking, I think the hacking of people to bits and the violent sex is beyond the pale. Unbelievable. I would never do things like that. No, I’m not being defensive, I just find it totally unpalatable…

I think Louis would really find Ellis’ oeuvre interesting, though, because he literally decimated the San Francisco gay community while on a drug-fueled bender, and that’s almost exclusively what Ellis writes about. All his books are like, what if you were young and rich and hot and evil and you had a lot of sex and did a lot of drugs and maybe even killed people? And what if you were utterly numb to the world because of something you can’t name and you engage in sex and sensation and cruelty to feel something but it’s all still nothing and you’re afraid there’ll never be something ever again? And no one can see it and you’re utterly alone because no one can even tell that there’s something wrong? And on some level you’re trying to be a good person even through all this, but you have a nature you can’t tame, try as you might, and it all spills out and you don’t know how to help anyone escape it, and you don’t know how to help yourself either? And you really, really like doing drugs and having gay sex? Or maybe that’d just be upsetting for him.

[queenlucythevaliant]

Northern Lights

.

I heard a voice that cried, “Balder the Beautiful is dead, is dead!” 

.

Who knows what to call the lonely exhilaration of gazing out into a bright Northern sky? Who can name it? 

Jill could.

It was the same feeling that came to her at the teetering edge of a cliff at the end of the world. The same feeling as when she said her goodbyes to Puddleglum and Scrubb before they freed the prince. It was the same feeling that engulfed her now, sitting in the professor’s library with a volume of poetry before her. 

.

The wild northern wastes were well named: utterly wild, perfectly desolate, and terribly Northern. 

It was lonely there and often cold, but the sky was an endless whorl of gales and gray clouds. The stones were indigo under the pale winter sunlight, and at sunset they glowed a soft gold, as though lit from within. The gorges and moors lay before her, and Jill loved them for their vastness and their distance. Little grew in that country, but that which did was full of vigor. The grass was short and coarse. Every tree was victorious. 

On a still, deep breathing winter night, Jill lay on her back beneath a covering sky. It seemed beautiful to her, rich and strong and glorious. Her eyes drank in the breadth of it until her tears began to blind her. Yet even then, she still couldn’t look away.

She felt bigger here in the wastes, like the landscape. Stronger, wider. The further she walked, the more she felt herself stretch out. One of these days, maybe, she would catch hold of herself at the edge and tug, and Jill Pole would open up clear as the Northern sky. 

.

And through the misty air passed the mournful cry of sunward sailing cranes.

.

The thing that surprised Jill most about the battle with the serpent was this: there wasn’t any yelling. Always, it seemed, whenever she read stories about people fighting with swords, the combatants would let loose some guttural yell before their blows fell. They would scream and writhe in pain as they died. They would shout instructions to their fellows, “Look out!” or “Hit him there!” But the whole affair with the serpent passed with very little noise. 

The poison-green coil constricted around the prince; he raised his arms and got clear, struck the serpent hard, and then Scrubb and Puddleglum dispatched the creature with heavy, hacking blows. The monster died writhing, but not screaming. And then it was over. 

The thing that surprised Jill most about the moments before battle was, of course, the noise. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She couldn’t stop listening to her own breathing. Every footstep rang out like a gong, and any words exchanged rang with a kind of finality that made them sound louder than anything. 

“You are of high courage,” Rilian told her when it was over. 

Yet the thing in Jill’s chest just then didn’t feel like courage. It was a deep breath, a plunge, and a release. It was loud and quiet all at once, till she was standing, blinking in the night air as snowballs whizzed round her, and maybe that was something like courage after all. 

.

And now, there was a stirring in her chest as she reread the words on the page. Sing no more / O ye bards of the North / Of Vikings and of Jarls! / Of the days of the Eld / preserve the freedom only / nor the deeds of blood! 

She thought of grief. Of freedom. 

The lonely ache in her belly grew stronger. She felt herself uplifted into the huge regions of sky that were just beyond those cliffs, weightless as the breath beneath her buoyed her up, further, further…

.

When she saw Caspian up close, Jill thought that he looked like the sort of person who was meant to live in a castle. A silly thought, perhaps, since she knew he was a king– only she wasn’t thinking of Cair Paravel. No, Jill was picturing the ruins of an old British castle she’d visited once on holiday. She still remembered how the stonework had loomed over her, all towering arches and crumbling walls. That was where Caspian seemed to belong. He had an air of ancient tragedy about him. 

When Rilian disappeared, all things had wept but one. The serpent coiled beneath the earth and flicked its forked tongue, spewing poison. 

Now, the king half rose to bless his son. He whispered a few words as he caressed Rilian’s cheek, words meant only for those beloved ears. Jill saw Caspian’s lips move and wondered what a man like that could possibly say, when time ran so short. 

.

They laid him in his ship, with horse and harness, as on a funeral pyre. Odin placed a ring upon his finger, and whispered in his ear.

.

Jill furtively took Myths of the Northmen and held it up to the professor with a question in her eyes. She was still shy around him and Miss Plummer, though she wished she wasn’t. 

“Would you like to take that with you?”

“...Please.”

.

It takes a certain kind of person to be exhilarated by the heights. You’ve got to love vastness more than you fear falling. 

.

They walked to the train station with an autumn wind blowing hard, and though Jill couldn’t fathom why, she turned and saw Lucy grinning, fierce and joyful– grinning and reaching a hand out towards her friend.

Jill reached back and grabbed it. “What will you do, once we’re back in Narnia?” she asked. 

The wind blew harder. The feeling of anticipation grew and grew, until it felt so big that she couldn’t dream of containing it. And there was Lucy, holding Jill’s hand and laughing like it was easy.

.

Preserve the freedom only, not the deeds of blood!

.

The second time Jill went to Narnia, she found herself not at its edge, but at its end. 

The thing about the Norse apocalypse is: it feels believable. It doesn’t reach beyond earth’s horizon to pull down hope beyond hope. It’s only the kind of courage that hopeless humans have: you are going to die, so you might as well die bravely. 

They found the last king of Narnia bound to a tree. His eyes were faintly red from crying, and his wrists and ankles red from the coarseness of his fetters. 

In the Norse myths, Loki broke free of his fetters at the end of the world. He escaped to the helm of a ship made from the fingernails of the dead.

The last king of Narnia fell forward onto the ground when Eustace cut his bonds. Jill crouched down beside him and watched as he rubbed feeling back into his legs. He wasn’t so much older than her, she thought. Jill was sixteen years old; the last king of Narnia could not be older than twenty-two. 

In the myths, the gods were ancient, hewn from the bodies of giants old as the earth. 

Jill put out a hand and helped the last king of Narnia to his feet. Not for the last time, she shivered. Something deep inside her (deeper than her chest, than her heart, than the marrow of her bones, deep as her soul, deeper) was singing an elegy and she didn’t know why, or how, or where it had come from. The king clutching her hand, who could have been her older brother, would have no heir.

Yet when he asked, “Will you come with me?” Jill could only smile. 

“Of course,” she said. “It’s you we’ve come to help.”

.

And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful is dead, is dead!"

.

“This really is Narnia at last,” murmured Jill. The springtime wood had little in common with the wintry lands she had traveled the last time she was here– but it awakened the same feelings of Northernness in her chest. 

Their party may as well have been the only people in the world, for how isolated their little wooden path seemed. Yet it wasn’t lonely, really, cocooned in all that green with the wind in the leaves and the primroses nodding and blue of the sky peeking through above. 

Jewel told stories about what ordinary life was like when there was peace here. As he spoke, Jill could almost hear the trees' voices speaking out of the living past, whispering, stay, stay. She was caught up to a great height, looking down across a rich, lovely plain full of woods and waters and cornfields, which spread away and away till it got thin and misty from distance. 

“Oh Jewel–” Jill said with a dreamy sigh, “wouldn’t it be lovely if Narnia just went on and on– like what you say it has been?”

She needn’t be a queen, as Susan and Lucy had been, but Jill would’ve liked to stay. She would've liked it all to stay, if it could. She might have been a woodmaid in a place like this: with the turn of the seasons, the swaying trees, swords into plowshares. Oh, if only she could stay!

Ahead, the last king of Narnia was softly singing a marching song. Jill tilted her head back and let warm shafts of sun caress her face. 

.

I saw the pallid corpse of the dead sun borne through the Northern sky.

.

“So,” said the last king of Narnia, “Narnia is no more.”

He tried to send them back. Jill shook her head. It was very loud and very quiet. “No, no, no, we won’t. I don’t care what you say. We’re going to stick by you whatever happens, aren’t we Eustace?”

They couldn’t go back anyway. Neither would they flee, not south across the mountains nor North into the great wide wastes. No, they would stay. They slept in a holly grove on the edge of ruin, waiting for the bonfires to light.

Jill slept fitfully, but in between she dreamed. She was high up in the air, buffeted by clouds and pierced by shafts of silver sunlight. 

.

They all died, in the myths. Jill knew that. It seemed beautiful and brave when she read it in her book, tucked away safe in the Professor’s library. It was terrifying now– and yet it was beautiful and brave still.

The dogs came bounding up, every one of them, running up to the king and his men with their tails wagging. One of them leapt at Jill and licked her face, tongue roughly lapping up the sweat and tears that had dried on her cheeks. 

“Show us how to help, show us how, how, how!” the dogs were barking, almost ebullient in their enthusiasm. Jill bit back a sob. How lovely, she thought. How terribly beautiful. How dreadfully brave. 

.

So perish the old Gods!

.

The white rock gleamed like a moon in the darkness when Jill finally reached it. She ran back to it alone, her hands shaking, while her friends stayed forward with their gleaming swords and Jewel’s indigo horn.

The while rock gleamed like the moon. Jill’s first shot flew wide and landed in the soft grass. But she had another arrow on her string the next instant. It was speed that mattered, not aim. Speed, and turning aside when she cried, so as not to drip tears on her bowstring.

The white rock gleamed. In the myths, a wolf devoured the moon. Peter’s wolf, slain many thousand years ago in this world, opened his jaw wide and darkness fell over everything.

Her next arrow found its mark. After that, she lost track. She pulled, and she prayed that her hands kept still another minute. 

The unique thing–maybe the appealing thing–about the Norse myths, was that they told men to serve gods who were admittedly fighting with their backs to the wall and would certainly be defeated in the end. Jill let loose another arrow, felt the white rock at her back, and she knew that the clawing fear–beauty–bravery deep in her gut was the same feeling that she felt on the heights. The same feeling, but a different face. You’ve got to love vastness more than you fear falling. 

.

“I feel in my bones,” said Poggin, “that we shall all, one by one, pass through that dark door before morning. I can think of a hundred deaths that I would rather have died.”

“It is indeed a grim door,” said Tirian. “It is more like a mouth.” 

“Oh, can’t we do anything to stop it,” said Jill. Better to be dashed to the ground than it was to be devoured. 

“Nay, fair friend,” said Jewel. “It may be for us the door to Aslan’s country and we sup at his table tonight.”

A hand tangled itself in her hair and started to pull. Jill braced herself hard, for a moment, until her strength gave out. She was standing on the edge of a high, Northern cliff. She took another step, and fell.

.

Perhaps when the moment comes, our bite will prove better than our howls. If not, we shall have to confess that two millennia of Christianity have not yet brought us to the level of the Stoics and Vikings. For the worst (according to the flesh) that a Christian need face is to die in Christ and rise in Christ; some were content to die, and not to rise, with Father Odin.

.

The world inside the stable was beautiful. It made Jill’s chest ache in all the loveliest ways. 

.

Build it again, O ye bards, fairer than before!

[ghosty-schnibibit]

alright, so, now that i am not an incandescent ball of fury:

i was extremely disappointed with go2 and downright angry about the way it concluded. i've already read some excellent posts by other lovely people that articulate some of my grievances really well (which sadly i can't link here or the site will eat this post entirely) but i want to add my own to the pile. if you enjoyed the season then more power to you, but i very much did not.

after this post i won't be complaining about s2 again or really posting anything about it at all, positive or negative, and will probably just block the tag entirely. like i said in my much shorter vent post last night, i just want to get all of my negativity out in one go and then pretend it doesn't exist. with that out of the way:

the pacing was terrible. the plot went in circles around itself and the mystery was handled so poorly that it somehow managed to be too convoluted and too simple at the same time. we spent five entire episodes wondering what was going on only to have it resolved by an exposition dump of about five minutes. the mini-sodes ground multiple episodes to a halt and squandered the majority of the season's runtime on pointless fanservice that cheapened some of the previous season's most emotional moments, runtime that could have been better spent setting up the gabriel mystery or developing literally any of the new characters introduced. speaking of which,

the new characters were pointless. nina and maggie were given no characterization beyond being pale expies of az and crowley, and the fact that a substantial part of the b-plot revolved around them makes this even more apparent. i do not remember the name of the angel pretending to be a constable and i don't care enough about them to look it up, they had literally no plot significance whatsoever. same goes for the processing demon from the third episode. the flip with jax from being a somewhat neutral character to a big bad in a party city wig felt like a failed attempt to recapture some of what made hastur and ligur work in the previous series.

gabriel and beelzabub. their relationship was unbelievable and clashed so heavily with their previous characterizations. i called it from the first episode and dreaded its conclusion right up to the finale. they feel like an ill-thought parody of ineffable husbands pulled out of an enemies-to-lovers crackfic. every romantic moment in the last episode was insipid and cloying, and them getting a consequence free happy ending retroactively cheapened the stakes of the previous season. it honestly felt like the writers just wanted to mash their dolls together.

aziraphale's character was assassinated and crowley was basically just there to play the hits. both of them were flanderized to the moon and back, but poor aziraphale got the worst of it. all of his character development from the previous season was thrown out the window in order to give us the big angsty conclusion set-up for a third season. they were both utterly flattened and i feel so bad for michael and david, they were clearly doing the best with what they were given but what they were given was just plain bad.

most of the humor and warmth from the book and the previous season were just… gone. no narrator, only one or two comedic asides from the title cards, a total of maybe three minutes of queen music across the whole thing (and most of that a piano cover), and a whole lot of little stylistic touches that went by the wayside and left the world feeling a bit hollow. also the comedy in this season was much more reliant on a "hey, aren't the characters acting so silly right now? aren't they failing at looking/acting normal? isn't that funny?" style of humor than on the wit and subtle satire of the first.

it was nothing but set up for a third season. learning this after finishing the season did not make me feel better about any of it, but it does explain a bit why it felt like all set up and no pay off. i have zero confidence about the ship being righted in a potential s3 that we likely will not see for many years (if at all, i'm already hearing murmurs about the show getting axed).

so that's basically it. i'll reiterate that if you enjoyed this season then i have no beef with you; your opinions are your own and, while i have no desire to have a dialogue about them, i respect them. but the original good omens book was very personally meaningful to me, as was its adaptation in s1, and this poorly thought out continuation has disappointed and saddened me to the point that i feel like i don't want to engage with the fandom in its wake.

[silverstagspirit]

Survivor of Ramshackle - part 2

Part two is here!

Warnings: Swearing, dark themes, death, lots of death, gore, blood, body horror, vomiting, dead bodies, I am not responsible for what you read.

PART 1 PART 3

-

Everything was flying by so fast. The second they stepped through the portal, it felt like all their insides were being rearranged. Yuu flew past universe by universe. Saw shapes beyond human comprehension, colors that don't exist, and sounds that could never be fathomed. Closing their eyes helped a little, but they were still being thrown around like a rag doll through the space-time continuum. After about 15 minutes of absolute hell, they blacked out. When they regain consciousness, they are lying in the dirt of some unknown place. They picked themselves up. Their body felt like lead. They were sure they were going to have a migraine after this. Looking around, they realized this was a plot of unused land that was located near their hometown. Then it clicked.

They made it

Yuu knew the way to their house from here, so they wasted no time in running home. Heavy pants exhaled from their chest as they sprinted home. Nothing could hold them back anymore. They were finally home. They were giggling like a madman between breaths, and before they knew it, they were already talking out loud to the family members they were yet to meet again.

"MOM!! DAD!! I'M HOME!! I MADE IT!! I KNOW YOU ARE PROBABLY WORRIED, I CAN EXPLAIN!! SOMETHING TOOK ME AWAY BUT I'M SAFE NOW! I HAD SO MUCH FUN THERE WAS MAGIC I SAVED PEOPLE I LEARNED SO MUCH I MADE NEW FRIENDS YOUR GOING TO LOVE THEM SO MUCH I-"

Yuu stopped dead in their tracks. Their town was there. But it was reduced to rubble, ash, and crumbling ruins. There was still smoke coming from the leftover embers.

"..."

They didn't know what to say. The world tilted on its axis. Before they could pass out, however. Yuu found themselves running to their already intended destination. Charred corpses littered the streets of what was once their home. There was complete silence save for their swift, heavy footfalls against the broken tar of the roads, and the increased pounding in their chest. Rounding the block, they could see the sign for their street. It was bent and burnt bit still recognizable. With the last of their stamina, Yuu made the final push to their house. Seeing their home as nothing but a pile of rubble and ash is a sight they never wanted to see. But this is really happening right now. This realization hits even harder when they see their parents charred corpses next to the rubble.

"No," they whispered. Utterly shattered. They were shaking at this point . Both from physical exhaustion and the emotional trauma being inflicted on them. With a shaky hand, Yuu slowly reaches down and holds the skeletal hand of one of their parents. Nothing could stop Yuu from breaking down. Yuu's screams of pure agony filled the sky as tears and snot cascaded down their face. They barely registered themselves falling to the ground and weeping on all fours. It didn't matter. For there was only one thing that existed right now: PAIN.

Yuu whole body hurt like it never did before. There was something coursing through their veins that felt like lava. It was another factor in their screaming. Yuu's throat got tired after the outburst and just gave up after a while. They could only wheeze now as they fell into misery. Not like they even had the energy to make any sound anymore.

Yuu did not wish to look at the ruins of their home anymore. So they lurched their way into the street. Looking down the road, they saw a pile of bodies heaped high. What caught their eye about this, however, is the flag pole that was stuck in the middle on top. The flag had an insignia of some kind. It was threatening. The triangular red flag flowed in the wind like a trail of blood in water. The insignia mocked them of being unable to save their family.

Yuu trudged their way to a lake. Their skin paling and sweat cascaded down thier face with every step they took. Setting eyes on the water, they went to the edge and stuck their whole head in. They felt so thirsty. Yet no matter how much they drank, it still was not enough. Their entire stomach was now filled with water, yet they still needed more. What was happening to them? Their breaths had been labored for some time now, but now they were becoming even more intense. Yuu began to feel nauseous. Something weird was happening inside them. That weirdness turned into pain as they suddenly vomited a whole ton of blood. There was just a thick stream of blood coming from Yuu's mouth, straight into the lake. It was a horrifying sight. Yuu is just emptying out an entire bodies worth of blood. The blood coming out changed from red to black as now they had no blood left in them. Yuu identified the substance even in this state:

Blot

Then it started happening. Yuu was overblotting.

They were so tired they could only slouch there as thier body morphed and changed. Fingers growing sharp claws. Hair turning pitch black. They could feel their clothes changing and materializing more features. Their right eyeball burned like it was on fire. The ink seeping into shapes down their face. The process was surprisingly calm. As if this whole thing would bring them peace. At last.

The ink around them started to morph into a shape. The shape grew features as more ink accumulated around it. The shape began to form into a creature. This creature looked like a biblically accurate angel. Because it was constantly changing between different forms of different creatures. It finally settled on one form, however. It was the form of a three-headed dragon with two tails and a pair of giant wings. Each of the three heads had a crown atop their cracked glass skulls. This thing beared uncanny resemblance to an antagonist Yuu saw in a monster movie once. But judging how it looked like an eldritch creature beforehand, this thing probably has multiple forms like this. That and they remembered seeing somewhere that a multi-headed dragon is one of the forms of the devil.

Yuu's transformation reached its end as they opened their eyes. The fatigue they were feeling earlier was now completely gone as they felt like they could take on the world. They felt so good. They felt powerful, too. They wanted to see for themselves if that was true. They attempted to fire a spell they saw the boys use towards some rubble. To their surprise, a burst of magic sprung forth from their hand and completely demolished it in the blink of an eye. This was amazing. They could do magic now. It made them feel a little bit better. But they were still alone in this world now. Alone, except for their monster. The three-headed dragon peered down at them with its soulless eyes. There was electricity crackling where its mouth should be. It didn't have that many features on its face. But if it did, it would have the face of: "What are you? You are the only living thing here. Do not cross us."

Yuu looked at the creature. The creature looked at them. This was their phantom. This thing would eventually kill them. They knew this, yet they couldn't bring themselves to turn it away. This was the only company they had left. Their family was gone. Their home was gone. And their friends in Twisted Wonderland would never think to look for them. They would die completely alone. Without anyone here to save them. Or even know what happened to them. This was it. The end.

No

They could still do something. The blot was meddling with their mind. But a part of Yuu's morals were still trying to function in a way. But it came out twisted. Their goal now was to destroy whatever killed their people. To stop this from happening to any other world out there. They will end this madness even at the cost of their own life if they must.

Floating their way to the pile of dead bodies they passed earlier, Yuu pulled the flag pole out the heap, snapped it in half over their knee, and threw it away.

-

Sorry this took so long. I hit a brick wall of writers block. Also, I am now doing this series with they/them pronouns as you may have seen. Once again, I apologize for any mistakes. I did not proofread this. Hope you enjoyed it.

Taglist: @kami-kun1003

[ixiot-ghostrebel]

Another sagau reader hearing someone insulting characters and going apeshit but when someone insults reader are like "......hmm shodul I drink hot chocolate or tea today?" This time ganyu( becose I still pissed at one guy who insulted her i her own story quest) bennet and nilou (another chance to make azar feel terror)

COMING RIGHT UP, ANON. THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING OMG 💀 I have been too dead without these requests, fr.

Click Me For Part 1!

When Someone Insults Ganyu, Bennett, and Nilou vs When Someone Insults Reader...

(Disclaimers: Might Be OOC, Mentions of Violence, & Quest/Genshin Impact Lore Spoilers!)

Ganyu

Okay, first of all: Yes, I am adding that stupid idiot cough Xin Cheng cough into this.

You were just following the Traveler and Paimon, joining Ganyu's Story Quest which, for some reason, was not completed yet. So, you decided to tag along to see Ganyu!

You weren't hyped when that beggar came out of nowhere and started to do all that fairytale stuff even you don't approve of—and you were someone that sticks themselves into your own head, thank you very much.

So when this man started to gain the audacity to insult Ganyu, you knew you had to step up and do something. No one, and you quite mean it, was going to insult her and get away with it.

"Hey!" You came out from your hiding spot (you're the Almighty Creator, you know it'll make the situation worse). "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, huh?"

Xin Cheng pales at the sight of your enraged figure. He stutters to make an excuse, but you cut him off. You're having none of it.

"Get your useless self out of here, before I decide to kick it down the mountains myself!"

To say that Ganyu was shocked that you were getting angry over a mortal was an understatement. She was beyond surprised that you even stood up for her.

But she did have to intervene with your threatening—after all, she is still an Adeptus. Protecting the people of Liyue was still her duty.

"Your Grace...Please let him go. I'm sure he already understands his mistake." Ganyu's soft voice only made your anger increase—she sounded so upset!

"Y-yes, please, Your Grace! I understand what I've done wrong, I—"

"Silence." You glare down at the mortal. Your turn back to Ganyu, and considered your choices. While you wanted to wreck absolute vengeance on this man, you also didn't want to hurt Ganyu's feelings more.

Guess you were going down Trauma Lane, then. You sigh, and stomp your feet as you turn around to glare at Xin Cheng, catching his petite form by surprise.

"If I ever see you do this again..." Your eyes narrow. "Believe me when I say it—you will be granted no mercy by any adeptus nor Rex Lapis himself. Now SCRAM!" With that, he was running for the hills. You weren't entirely satisfied, but you'll take it. For now.

What would Happen if Ganyu heard you get insulted? Well, first of all, she would gasp quietly to herself. What was this blasphemy? She's utterly horrified.

Ganyu thinks she might faint once she realizes you were nearby, checking out vendor goods next to where the gossipers were spilling terrible insults of your image.

"Y-Your Grace! Please accept my apology on behalf of the people of Liyue." Will literally run up to you and apologize for them. While she may not be the one who did it, she's still cares about the People of Liyue—and thus her reasoning as to why she's askign for the mercy of the Almighty Creator.

Your puzzled look turns to Ganyu. "Who are you apologizing for?" Ganyu blinks.

"The, uhm—the gossipers..?" You're still confused, until your eyes shine once recognition hits you like Truck-Kun.

"Ohhh, those dudes! Yeah, don't worry about them—they're pretty boring, saying the same thing like a broken record. Say—wanna shop with me? I'm paying, of course."

And that's how you got Ganyu to be more comfortable around you! :D

Bennett

Ah, our unlucky yet optimistic adventurer! This boy—he is good. He's cool, and he's rather awed by most of the kids in Mondstadt.

He was hanging out with Razor and Fischl when someone decides to insult him. this genuinely upsets him—after all, they were insulting his ability and his position in the Adventurer's Guild...

Already, Razor and Fischl were already up to defend him, but what they didn't expect is for the Almighty Creator (aka you) got to it first.

"I beg your pardon," you say through gritted teeth. "How exactly is having a bad luck aura got to do with ANYTHING related to being an adventurer?" You're glaring so many daggers you could practically say you were breaking all the walls. "Perhaps we'll see just how lucky you are when I send you to Dragon Spine and watch your dead corpses FREEZE TO DEATH?"

The insulters were paling the more you went on. Razor and Fischl aren't sure what to do—you're already there, dealing with the situation.

But Bennett? Well uh, like usual, his bad luck got the best of him, and he accidentally stumbles towards you (miraculously). He bumps into you, and you shift your gaze onto him.

"Uh—Sorry, Your Grace! I really didn't mean to bump into you, I swear!" Poor guy is scared because his bad luck affected him at the worst time of all. He thinks he might get killed.

You though? Oh, hell nah. Your gaze already soften, and you decided to show favoritism! You pull the boy into a hug, glaring at the insulters one more time as a warning to scram, before you go back to enjoying giving the boy affection!

But when Bennett hears you get insulted? Well, first of all, screw his bad luck because the insulters were quite literally telling him how bad of a Creator you were!

He immediately tries to avoid getting too deep into the discussion, trying to sway the topic elsewhere to no avail, and he pales when he realizes you were literally a few steps away from them!

And it seems his bad luck gets in the way again, because you just turned right as he was staring at you with shocked eyes!

However, instead of being mad, you were actually beaming when you see him. You wave at Bennett, smiling.

"Bennett! Help me choose some flowers, yeah?"

"Uhm—uh, Sure, Your Grace!"

And that's how the insulters were hiding in their homes for the rest of their lives as you merrily dragged Bennett out of that horrendous conversation.

Nilou

Honestly, do I need to say who decided to insult this amazing dancer?

Yes, it was fricking Azar again. What is up with this crazy old man, nobody knows. Perhaps you should put him in prison for a while until he's gained a sense of appreciation for the Arts. ALL of the Arts.

Apparently, when you had drilled fear into this man, he thought it only applied to flipping Nahida. As much as you love Nahida, you are not going to have Azar twists your words and make it seem like you grant him permission to snark down other people—especially the people of Zubayr Theater.

So when Azar finally decides to have scholars gain the nerve to insult Nilou on behalf of his stupid brain, you (of course) just had to get yourself involved with this.

"Excuse me, but since when did you have the audacity to judge someone else's profession of art, simply because it isn't 'academic' in any way?" You spat. "Where I come from, Art courses are necessary in order to move on in your academic life." When Nilou hears you, she, first of all, is grateful of you stepping up for her, and, second of all, very scared of what might be happening next.

The scholars pale, but they seem to have taken your comment as a debate.

"With all due respect, Your Grace, the Arts are anything but educational—"

"Was I looking for a second opinion, dimwit?" You narrow your eyes. "Besides, have you yourself ever tried the Art of Dancing or the Art of Music before?"

"Well—uhm, no, but—"

"Then shut up, then." The scholars begin to panic as your voice becomes low and dangerous. "You don't have an excuse to be judgmental if you haven't even tried this stuff yourself."

"Ex-Sage Azar told us to say this!" They blurt out, and that only increases your rage. Seeing that things might escalate, Nilou steps in.

"Your Grace, let's not be too harsh!" She exclaims, waving her hands frantically. "I'm sure they understand what they did wrong. There's no need to have them punished." You narrowed your eyes in disagreement, for a half second, Nilou thought she made the situation worse.

But when you sigh heavily, she knew you relented. You glare at the scholars again.

"Tell Azar if he does this again, to ANYONE, I'll cut his head off, and there's no more excuses there. In fact—bring me to him. I'll have a talk with him myself."

Yeah, Azar got traumatized again :)

But when Nilou hears you be insulted? Quite literally behind your back? She thought she was going to faint from the gossiper's comments alone! You being there to listen it to it all only made her feel worse.

She was about to confront them, until she saw other people nearby dealing with the situation. So, Nilou decides to check up and see if you were okay...After all, those comments weren't nice.

She was pretty shocked when she realized you were contemplating over wares instead, completely unbothered by the drama going on behind your back. Nevertheless, she was still going to apologize in case you were just hiding your emotions.

"Uhm, Your Grace—I would like to apologize on behalf of all of Zubayr Theater. We should've done something earlier." You look at her, confused.

"What are you apologizing for, Nilou?" You ask. She blinks.

"Uhm, the gossipers, Your Grace..?" Your eyes widen, before you bark a laugh.

"Oh, those dudes! Yeah—don't worry about them, honestly. Say—help me pick: should I get hot chocolate or tea from this lovely store?"

Let's just say you had a fun time hanging out with Nilou for the rest of the afternoon :)

AND THAT'S IT! WE ARE DONE! I AM SO SORRY FOR BEING INACTIVE AND TAKING 30+ YEARS TO FINISH THIS, BUT IT'S HERE! :D I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED IT!

Ghost Rebel Side Notes: To anyone who's waiting for The Lost Shining God of Celestia, yes I have been writing on it. However, due to personal life problems and other IRL circumstances, it's taking a little longer than expected. I am sorry, everyone!

✦ Check out The Ghost Rebel’s Blog Description & Info Page to See if Their Mailbox is Open! ✦

[blackjackkent]

OK, done with D&D so back to the other D&D!

@aloptext reminded me that Astarion has stuff to say now that we've made it inside Cazador's mansion, so we'll start with that before finishing clearing out the lower level.

How you doing, bud?

"So this is it. I'm home. There's the same fading carpet, the same tasteless art... Nothing's changed, but gods, everything feels different."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hector wonders if he will feel something similar if he ever goes back to the monastery again. Nothing changed, and everything different, because he is different, because they have all been irrevocably changed by what they've been through, these last few months.

It's not really a valid comparison; Astarion was trapped, tortured, dehumanized in this place, turned into a slave and a kicked beast. If he is different now, it is because he is free, for the first time fully in control of his own destiny. The past Hector left behind is a utopia by comparison, hardly even worth mentioning.

But he does understand, just a little, what Astarion is talking about. Nothing's changed... but gods... everything feels different.

"What's it like being back?" he asks quietly.

"It does feel strange," Astarion says dryly. "Breaking into your own home. Especially if murder's on your mind." He raises an eyebrow at Hector, and then grins crookedly. "Then again, this is hardly the strangest thing we've done together. Although it could be the most satisfying."

Little question of that, Hector thinks ruefully. Cazador has long been on the short list of people he has been looking forward to using violence against. The things he is guilty of doing to Astarion are beyond the pale.

"Are the servants charmed?" he asks. "Like the guards in the tower?"

"Oh, no," Astarion says, and his lip curls with sudden disdain. "It's much worse than that. They're fanatics, here of their own free will and utterly devoted to Cazador. Each one came to our door and begged to be given his 'eternal gift.' They're sure he'll turn them if they serve him well enough. You'd almost feel sorry for the poor deluded souls..."

He must see some appalled expression on Hector's face, because he adds sharply, "But they're idiots who brought this on themselves, so... don't."

Hector lets that pass - although privately he makes a mental note to kill as few of the fanatics as possible. The crime of a bad decision borne of fear is one he has granted forgiveness for before. If they try to hurt him - or Astarion, or the others - they'll defend themselves. But Cazador is the only person here whom he intends to strike first.

"So what's the plan?" he asks calmly.

Astarion grins fiercely. "Well, I was thinking first we find Cazador. And then we kill Cazador. That's about it, really. We can workshop the details as we go."

Hector is tempted to smile at the muted joke-- but he doesn't, because he knows there must be more going on in Astarion's mind besides the usual sharp-edged cockiness on the surface. "Are you sure about this?" he asks. "You don't have to face him."

And just for a moment... the mask slips.

"Oh," Astarion says softly. "I've never been less sure of anything. But if I don't face him now, I never will." His eyes drop away from Hector's, studying the floor by their boots. "I'll spend the rest of my life running, watching the shadows, never feeling safe." His mouth draws into a line and his jaw sets. "No. This has to happen. Here and now."

Hector reaches out as if to rest a hand on his shoulder-- but he draws back sharply, lifts his head, and the mask is back in place now, a harsh smile hardening his features.

"Also, there's the small matter of all that power I can steal from the bastard. So that'll be nice." He turns and stalks away down the hallway, not giving Hector a chance to ask just what in all the hells he intended by that.

[occasionallythreeowls]

Day Five: Wolf Swap

The Girl in Red cannot for the life of her figure out this strange little creature.

She can hardly believe that this absent-minded little fool shares genetic material with her sorrow-marked siblings, each of them utterly and irreparably bound to the earth.

And then there’s this walking balloon.

She drifts across the field the Girl in Red calls home, delicate fingers tracing the thin veins of wildflower petals. A faint smile on her pale face, like she’s in on some secret.

She doesn’t like when this girl looks at her. Like she understands something about her without either of them saying a word to each other. It reminds her all too much of her sister in white, wise beyond wisdom and distant from this world and every other.

“Hello,” the strange girl says. Her voice is soft, weak. “Are you exploring too?”

The Girl in Red turns up her nose.

“You’re not the fun one.”

“Ginger?” the strange girl asks with another little smile. “Sorry. It’s my turn to go to Grandmother’s house. But I had some time, so I thought I’d check on the flowers.”

Check on the flowers. The Girl in Red fights the urge to feed this little cretin to the Werewolf. She sighs, then cocks her head to one side. Considers. She’s not supposed to see this one. The thing in the lake has already marked this girl. So why is she here? And why can this child, who’s not yet started to truly grow, see her now?

“There’s another girl in the forest,” the strange girl adds after a moment of silence. “She looks a bit like you. Are you sisters?”

She’s all the good parts of me, running away and away and away and I can never catch her hand.

“Yeah. She’s my sister.”

The strange girl smiles even wider. A breeze catches in her hair, causing it to gently sway like weeds in water.

“That’s great! She’s really nice. Does your family have a cottage out here? Our grandmother lives just down the path, at the edge of the woods.”

“We’re here and there,” the Girl in Red replies. “Where we need to be.”

The strange girl frowns.

“I suppose that’s where everyone is,” she says. “Where they need to be. Even when they feel lost.” She looks at the Girl in Red curiously. “Do you ever feel lost?”

Yes.

“No.”

“Oh,” the strange girl says, then smiles sheepishly. “Because I feel pretty lost right now. Know how to get back to the path?”

Follow the light ‘till you find the lake. There’s someone very important there, waiting for you. They’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.

“Find my sister. She’s got a good sense of direction.”

“I wish I knew this forest better,” the strange girl admits. “This place, it seems like it doesn’t want to be known. Maybe I should respect that.”

You aspire to know so much. That hunger, it’s almost as great as ours.

“It’s a big forest. People who don’t live out here find trouble more than they find anything else. It’s only when you belong here that you start to know everywhere interesting.”

The strange girl’s expression softens.

“If I go to find your sister,” she says, “will you come with me? Maybe we can all play together, or just spend some time. It would be nice.”

I can’t leave this place. None of us can. We just pace and fester and hunger and wait.

“No. I’m not done playing. Have fun with my sister. She likes gentle games.”

The strange girl looks somber for a moment. Then she nods, taking a moment to look up at the patch of sky above them, one of the only ones visible from the forest. Here the light is golden, the sky a deep, lonesome blue. The last of the light is being swallowed up by the long night to come.

“Oh, goodness, it’s almost dark! I need to hurry!” the strange girl says. “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

The Girl in Red nods.

“Like I said. I know this place. Even in the dark I know every turn.” She picks a flower and pulls off the petals one by one. “Run along. I’m not yours anyway.”

The strange girl looks confused at her words, but finally relents, and walks away. She turns as the fading light catches in her hair, weaving gold into the black.

“I hope I see you again.”

You’ll be swallowed whole before you’ll ever get that chance, little thing.

The Girl in Red just waves.

[tiggymalvern]

I was talking with my spouse about tastes in porn the other night (as you do), and I mentioned that I’m currently writing a threesome fic. “Oh, which three?” he asked. “The original three,” I said. “Michael, Fiona and Sam. Almost all the Burn Notice poly fics are those three.” And my spouse, who has never sat down to watch an episode of Burn Notice, but has been absorbing more than he probably ever wanted to know through months of chronic exposure, said, “Huh. Well, I’m glad they let Sam in, I thought it would have been Jesse.” And then we got into a half hour long discussion about ageism in fandom and racism in fandom, and who the fangirls consider conventionally attractive enough to be fuckable, and all the ways the writing can influence that. (It gets harder to dismiss Sam as too old to have a sex life when he’s canonically shagging his way through half the Miami country club set. And there’s the history with those three, going back years before the show even started, which creates a dynamic that can’t be replicated with Jesse.) But it got me reflecting again, and I’ve always been puzzled by the ageism thing, even back before I got to be middle aged myself. Around the year 2000 when The West Wing was the latest big fandom, I found a fantastic slash fic with Leo McGarry and Lord John Marbury. It was so funny and snarky, and totally in character and yes, it was hot. So I was reccing this fic and getting the reaction, ‘Ewww! Old people sex! I don’t want to read that, I don’t need those images in my head!’ And I was all 0_0 But the fic! It’s so well written! Why will nobody love it? (A couple of people did read it and come around, so kudos to the writer for achieving that XD) It varies so much with the fandom too. Any fandom that skews older tends to have less ageism (no surprise there). There was never a shortage of sex for middle aged, bald Picard in TNG fics, a show that came with a lot of women who’d been fans of the 60s Trek. In the Hannibal fandom, up until a couple of years ago I would have said that there was no ageism there at all, given the preponderance of opinion that circa 50-year-old Mads Mikkelsen is a definitive DILF. But apparently the Hannibal fans over on twitter found some idiots who were willing to overlook the gaslighting, manipulation and stabbing in that relationship, but thought a ten year age gap was beyond the pale. Honestly? The whole show is about this utterly obsessive, screwed up relationship between these two men – if you find the basic concept of it repellant, why are you even here?? And then there’s the racism issue, which I’ll admit I spent many years in fandom living in complete ignorance of. Part of that is because a lot of the early fandoms I wrote for were So Very White (Due South had one Black minor character) or anime fandoms, where characters might have been nominally Japanese, but looked about as Japanese as I do. The place I really ran into the racism hard was in Hannibal. The number of people who would happily ship Hannibal and Will, despite the above-mentioned gaslighting, manipulation and stabbing, but who thought Jack Crawford was practically Satan because he talked Will into doing an unpleasant job and got angry and yelled sometimes – that was quite an eye-opener. The justifications they would come up with for it were fun too – ‘It’s workplace abuse! Jack’s in a position of power!’ Hmmm, but Hannibal's in a position of power and committing medical malpractice, and having a frustrated boss shouting at you is hardly worse than the drugging and the stabbing, really, is it? And honestly, I don’t have anywhere I’m really going with all of this, other than just to vomit out what I’ve been pondering over, and to say that we fans can be strange, and shallow. And blind, sometimes. So very blind.

[magnusmodig]

@mischiefmodig / drabble ! (bc i sure don't trust tumblr to not eat this in submissions)

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 taken to the skies above, lighting the darkness with streams of light, Thor had  known well that it was a sight he wanted to behold with his brother. So certain was he, after all, that Loki was sequestered away in some far off corner. Likely with his nose in mountains of tomes, toiling away at a chance for breaking their enchantment, and for escape; utterly blind to the beauty of this realm, from the mountains to the snow to the very stars above. Especially for all of his many castigations of the seasonal festivities.

            Of course, it was not as if Thor could truly blame him.

            The mountains of this Arcanus Isle and their distant snowy peaks reminded him of the highlands of Asgard. Only it was that Thor's eye, for what sight it still bequeathed him, could no longer marvel at the distant heights of their homeland from the tallest spire of the palace. (It nauseated his soul that the marvels of such things were naught but scattered stardust somewhere beyond time, and beyond space.)             For this, the gaiety that surrounded them perhaps was but a shallow, fleeting tide. It was not as though it rectified the great gravity of the truth of time. Nor the deep urgency that cut like wind through both sovereign, knowing their people were long elsewhere, traveling across stars that neither could yet reach...

            Yes, as Thor found himself surrounded by the festivities of this realm, beckoned into the fold of this planet's people, he found Asgard's absence a thorn that stabbed and ached in his heart. In the faces of the Aercon, he saw the faces of their people that had survived. In the music and boisterous wonder of the surrounding revelry, he found himself reminding himself once and once more again that Asgard remained, even as a pale penumbra of its former might.             Perhaps someone wiser might be at peace with that. For had Father not said, as all wise kings (or perhaps as all wise men) might, that Asgard was not a place, it was a people?             Thor had once supposed, as the stars had beckoned light upon this realm, that Odin was right.

            Yet still did the newest king find himself yearning for more than their lot. His primordial heart beat with the defiance and the pride of an achronic monarchy. One as old as the very farthest reaches of time. And so he found that he was not satisfied with what a wise man might. It was not peace that had drawn what spare fragments of old to his chest with his hands shaking. For although Asgard was a place and a time finite, dead in a shattering of light and cosmic dust.... There were pieces of it that remained.

            Loki had been beside him that day.

            But what the prince did not know (nor did Thor wish to tell him, so unnerved by the revelries as Loki seemingly remained), was that, unbidden and unspoken, Thor had returned to the Traverse Trove. For Thor had found his ire whet by the fires of a new hope that sparked. He had searched, and in his search he had found small scraps and shambles of Asgardian make. Like lost things, they had found their way back to the hands born to hold them. Mangled and broken, dirties and just barely a form of itself... yet Thor still recognized each piece as his own. (Like him, it had survived. It now persisted.)

            It was in this defiance of fate, foolish or impractical as it was, that Thor took up the mangled pieces. In the earliest dawn of the days, he had taken flight to the Trove and searched through the wreckage and rubble. At the end of these long hours, his hands bore the dust and grit and grime of searching high and low through the remnants of distant realms. His knuckles and fingers bore dried blood from the nicking of mortal skin upon twisted scrap metal, but his palms were filled with the sparks of hope that lit his own heart aflame.

            It was in a labor of love that his nights had long been spent toiling over the small pieces of Asgard that had defied the odd late into the midnight hours. His hands straightened twisted things, mended shattered wreckage through the heat of flame and sparks of a hammer. His fingers untangled the twisting knots of this once beautiful thing, restoring it to its glory and pride as best as he could. With each passing hour, each cut and bruise, his humble offering.

            It was on the last of the nights the stars fell from the sky, as the revelries that had taken the Isle came then, to their swan song, that Thor found the object of his long labor restored.

Thor looked upon it, and saw that it was indeed, good. (And what joy it was to create anew what Death had stolen. —Was that not the nature of rain? To cleanse? To heal? To begin life anew?) Satisfied with at least this small work, Thor had wrapped it carefully and hidden it well, tucked securely in a small satin pouch, and nestled in the sanctity of his inner coat pocket.

         ��  ...To wrangle the God of Mischief from his abode on this such cheery night was no small fear unto itself. But some small effort of painstaking argument and countermeasure was far worth the strain as Thor beckoned Loki not to the isolation of their rooftops, but to the highest peak of a hillside that overlooked The Clearview District. Here, the wind blew with a cheery fervor, carrying with it the brisk scent of the cold snow that lay in mounds all around them. From here, as vines tangled up the walls of the nearby stairs and overhanging ruins of an age long passed, the skies were clear and theirs to behold.

            Blazing lights streaked across the sky, bright even to Thor's eye, and carrying with it the colors of the many galaxies. There was no greys or browns in the display above, but swirling circlets of golds and greens, and such wonders of the universe, unchanged and infinite, balmed the heart of wayward sovereign. (And what more was that, despite all odds, despite all reservations, he shared this sky with Loki at his side. A wish lost over a decade of tribulation now granted as though the stars had heard heart's desperate pleading.)

            ❝ Loki, ❞  Thor said, turning to his brother as the comets continued their display, ❝  I have something for you. ❞  

            It was near comical how younger brother's brow did furrow, surprise dawning across his features and nestling deeply within the crease above his nose. "...You have something... for me?" he asked, and Thor found his teeth snagged at the inside of his cheek as he nodded in turn.

            ❝ Yes. ❞ It was with some childish effort that Thor tried not to smile, and yet the corners of his lips tugged upright into the ghost of it, lingering just a moment as the weight of the gift burned against his breast. ❝ You see, this realm has something of a tradition.  One of granting gifts... Or, so I have heard. ❞

            "Ah. Yes. That asinine tradition. Something to do with glad tidings and all of this frivolous nonsense. Of course you would want to partake."

            For just a second, just a small, inconsequential moment, Thor found his next words tied and knotted in his throat. A tangled web of things yet to say, and within the wake of such reproachful sentiment, Thor found that his words all but unraveled upon his tongue entirely. Sensing Thor's disquiet, Loki settled the bristling quills of himself with a short huff and scuffing turn of his heel through the snow.

            "... I said it's asinine not insufferable," he scoffed, and his breath fogged in the space between them. A gesture in the swift, rotating flair of his wrist. "Come then. Do not leave me in suspense, Brother."

           Haltingly.  ❝ Ah. Yes, ❞ and with the word, his hands procured the small velveteen pouch, just barely as large as the size of Thor's palm, and tied closed with a thin silver twine. No words then were spoken as the weight of the object within was passed from Thor's hands to Loki's. Only a watchful, attentive eye that followed the dip of Loki's gaze as it settled upon the pouch, the slight bounce of the bag as it was weighed with some small curiosity, and the careful undoing of the string as the bag was opened to finally reveal its contents.

            A golden sphere surrounded by nine rings, simple in design but ornate in its fixture, for the rings were embossed only with the etchings of runes. One for each of the Nine Realms.             To tap upon this sphere was to cast it to unfurl, with each ring rotating above and beside and within one another, each orbiting the center-most sphere - Midgard - at the pace of each  of the realm's solar rotations.

            The largest ring - Asgard's - was what held this small design securely in place, and upon this outer ring, a fixture where a strong chain should be, but a silver cord (matching the drawstring of the pouch it was kept in) was strung instead.

An Asgardian time keeper.

            Pride bloomed in the chest of the brother to bequeath such a fine (and more importantly: working) object. So small, yet it was in itself now a rare and valued treasure. A sacred thing. One that Thor found was enough to find that his breath caught squarely in his throat at the sight, and his eye flickered from the time keeper to the face of the one who could now call the relic its owner.

❝  It was all I could find in the rubble. ❞ He didn't need to state which rubble, or where. ❝ Nor were all of the pieces there in the first place, but it is here, reforged and whole, Brother. And, now yours. ❞ a pause. Finally, finally, Thor allowed his lips to curl upright in something of a small grin, teasing and perfectly placed that even his brother could not steal.

❝ To keep you from losing yourself completely to your studies here.  ❞