#but those are for the audience who finished this understood

[treehuggerthegreat]

‘a wise man learns from his own mistakes, but a wiser one learns from others’ is such an interesting saying to me. Because what really defines learning? Because ‘you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink’. I can tell you how I failed somewhere all I want but telling you MY mistakes aren’t going to keep you from making mine. So would ‘give a man a fish, he eats for a day, but teach a man to fish he eats for the rest of his life.’ be another way of doing it? Instead of pointing out what I did so you shouldn’t do it, would telling you how I do it now, a way that ACTUALLY works the right way? But then you wouldn’t learn, so you’re still not learning from any mistakes because you know HOW to avoid them but you don’t know WHY you’re doing it in that particular way. So then should i explain exactly step by step of how i over came the problem? But i’ve already lost half of my audience by now and half of those that are still here probably don’t understand what the fuck i’m saying.

so, can you learn from someone else’s mistake without EXPERIENCING it? ‘They say experience is the best teacher’ Would maybe be what i’m getting at. Because by making the mistake and overcoming it, you’ve gained not only a solution to what you’ve overcome but you’ve gained general skills on how to approach things similar to it and your problem solving skills have grown ten fold. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[yesihaveaobsession]

YOUR Book Boyfriend

Alastor x female reader

Summary: The reader (you) ask Alastor to be a personal book boyfriend.

A/N- honestly, he's been a book boyfriend this whole time. think about it. THOSE THAT GET IT GE IT. I hope this reaches the right audience :D

ALSO THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS I LOVE AND APPRECIATE EVERYONE OF Y'ALL MWAH 💋✨️🥹🫶

You were curled up in the corner of the couch in the hotel lobby, your nose buried in your latest romance novel, completely absorbed by the words on the page and letting them transport you to a whole new world. As your eyes flickered over a particular moment between the heroine and her love interest, a playful idea sparked in your mind. Alastor, who was lounging nearby in his plush chair with a newspaper held loosely in one hand, just so happened to be the perfect candidate for what you had in mind.

You glanced over the top of your book and watched him for a moment before speaking up. "Alastor?" you asked. He didn’t even look up from his newspaper, but you spotted a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, dear?"

You hesitated, feeling a bit silly saying it out loud, and your cheeks began to heat up just thinking about it. "You know… those things that book boyfriends do? The hand necklace, the… chin tilt, all that stuff." You didn’t even have to finish because that’s when Alastor finally lowered his newspaper. You could’ve sworn you had awakened a sleeping beast from the way his crimson eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Oh? You’re requesting a bit of theatrics from me, my dear? You should know by now, I always aim to please."

The way he grinned at you made your pulse quicken, and for a moment, you wondered if this was a bad idea. Before you could even catch your breath, Alastor stood from his chair and crossed the room, stopping right in front of you, looking down with that signature smirk that always sent shivers down your spine.

"Come here," he said, pointing a finger down. Feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness, you set your book aside and stood up, finding yourself face-to-face with the Radio Demon himself—or rather, face-to-chest. Lord, he was tall. He gently guided you to the middle of the room to give you both more space, positioning you directly in front of him.

"Maybe this was a bad idea…" you laughed nervously, the sudden weight of his presence making your heart race. But Alastor, ever the playful one, simply leaned in closer, his hand moving to rest lightly on the small of your back, pulling you a little nearer. He had done enough research (thanks to Rosie) to know what a 'book boyfriend' would do. He often saw you reading, biting the tip of your thumb with a smile, and it intrigued him. Rosie wasn’t sure how to explain it at first, but eventually, he understood.

"Oh, no, no. It’s a wonderful idea," he said. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he brought his clawed hand up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek. Your breath hitched as he tilted your chin upward, his eyes locking with yours so intensely that it made your knees weak. He definitely knew what he was doing. Rosie had told him to be flirtier but to remain himself—and that’s exactly what he did.

"Like this, dear?" he asked with an innocent head tilt, his eyes never leaving yours. You nodded, now completely flustered. You had read about this a hundred times in your books, but experiencing it firsthand, especially with Alastor, was a whole other story.

The Radio Demon let out a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. His hand slid from your lower back as he began to circle you, almost like a predator stalking its prey, his intense eyes never breaking contact with yours. You followed his movements, feeling that intoxicating mix of anticipation and nervous excitement building inside you.

He finally stopped behind you, and you could feel the warmth of his presence. A clawed hand gently rested on your shoulder as he bent down to whisper in your ear. "What was that you were saying about this being a bad idea?"

You found it hard to breathe, let alone respond. You let out a small wheeze. "I, um… I take it back," you said, letting out a nervous laugh. You stepped closer, so close you had to tilt your head back to look up at him. You prayed Charlie and the others wouldn’t walk in on this scene—it would definitely be taken out of context. With a teasing smile, Alastor used two long fingers to lift your chin.

"Does this fulfill your little 'book boyfriend' fantasy, my dear?" he asked, tilting his head. You couldn’t take it anymore. Grabbing his hand, you spun around to face him fully, letting out a breath.

"Perhaps I should do this more often," he mused.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "Maybe… but not too often. I don’t think my heart could take it."

In the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving you in a flustered state. Those who understand, understand.

[trikaranos]

TRIKARANOS: THE PROLOGUE

TRIKARANOS is a comic about Crassus until it isn't. Intended for an adult audience.

⭐ Trikaranos will always be free to read (in the near future, you’ll have the option to support this comic & my ability to make it through Patreon!)

⭐ There is no set update schedule (chapters vary in length and will be posted as I finish working on them)

⭐ alternative places to read it (coming soon!)

CREDITS all additional art used are in the Public Domain [as per the Met's Open Access policy]

🍊 The Abduction of the Sabine Women, Nicolas Poussin 🍊 Obverse, a Terracotta neck-amphora depicting Aeneas rescuing his father, Anchises, during the fall of Troy. [description taken from the Met] 🍊 compositional study for The Lictors Bringing Brutus the Bodies of his Sons, Jacques Louis David 🍊The Battle of Vercellae, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo 🍊 The Capture of Carthage, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo

UNDER THE CUT creator's commentary, ancient citations, whatever else seems relevant. ideally, this is optional! you shouldn't need the citations for it to make sense as it unfolds since it's a comic and a story first and foremost, but it's here if you're curious and want to see where the inspiration is coming from!

so! there are a couple of accounts about the return of Marius and Cinna, I've chosen Appian's account for the primary source of inspiration, although I've cut the cast down to it's barest essentials because I want the claustrophobia of violence to really eat itself.

Cinna now began to despise his enemies and drew near to the wall, halting out of range, and encamped. Octavius and his party were undecided and fearful, and hesitated to attack him on account of the desertions and the negotiations. The Senate was greatly perplexed and considered it a dreadful thing to depose Lucius Merula, the priest of Jupiter, who had been chosen consul in place of Cinna, and who had done nothing wrong in his office. Yet on account of the impending danger it reluctantly sent envoys to Cinna again, and this time as consul. They no longer expected favourable terms, so they only asked that Cinna should swear to them that he would abstain from bloodshed. He refused to take the oath, but he promised nevertheless that he would not willingly be the cause of anybody's death. He directed, however, that Octavius, who had gone round and entered the city by another gate, should keep away from the forum lest anything should befall him against his own will. This answer he delivered to the envoys from a high platform in his character as consul. Marius stood in silence beside the curule chair, but showed by the asperity of his countenance the slaughter he contemplated. When the Senate had accepted these terms and had invited Cinna and Marius to enter (for it was understood that, while it was Cinna's name which appeared, the moving spirit was Marius), the latter said with a scornful smile that it was not lawful for men banished to enter. Forthwith the tribunes voted to repeal the decree of banishment against him and all the others who were expelled under the consul­ship of Sulla.

Accordingly Cinna and Marius entered the city and everybody received them with fear. Straightway they began to plunder without hindrance all the goods of those who were supposed to be of the opposite party. Cinna and Marius had sworn to Octavius, and the augurs and soothsayers had predicted, that he would suffer no harm, yet his friends advised him to fly. He replied that he would never desert the city while he was consul. So he withdrew from the forum to the Janiculum with the nobility and what was left of his army, where he occupied the curule chair and wore the robes of office, attended as consul by lictors. Here he was attacked by Censorinus with a body of horse, and again his friends and the soldiers who stood by him urged him to fly and brought him his horse, but he disdained even to arise, and awaited death. Censorinus cut off his head and carried it to Cinna, and it was suspended in the forum in front of the rostra, the first head of a consul that was so exposed. After him the heads of others who were slain were suspended there; and this shocking custom, which began with Octavius, was not discontinued, but was handed down to subsequent massacres.

Appian, Civil Wars I, 70-71 (trans. Horace White)

Plutarch's biography of Marius also recounts the same event, but I was leaning more on Appian for this.

ALSO! the choice to use Giovanni Battista Tiepolo's painting The Capture of Carthage as a backdrop to Octavius: it's because Cinna and Octavius were co consuls for a minute and Rome and Carthage are twin cities (instar Carthaginis urbem babyyy), and I do love the doubling/twin-ification of a thing. which is what co consuls are to me. we're overlapping the themes, in addition to the overlapping of violence, which is what all iterations of Rome are founded on.

Textual Monuments: Reconstructing Carthage in Augustan Literary Culture, Nora Goldschmidt

the chapter cover is my own illustration of an Etruscan kantharos because Crassus may or may not have had some kind of Etruscan heritage. YMMV but for me it's fun to think about

Marcus Crassus and the Late Roman Republic, Allen Mason Ward (& the citation!)

[throwaway-yandere]

𝗖𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 [Yandere!Dottore/Reader]

a/n: this fic is 100% dedicated to @leftdestiny-posts and they would know just how much they had inspired me in this fic once they finished reading it HAHAHAHAH. P.S.: the classical songs mentioned are actual songs. Yes, the title is half a joke. Here's the spotify playlist if you're curious.

Unreliable Synopsis: You cannot remember your past, but your doctor has been with you every step of the way— and he's more than willing to spend some time with you outside the hospital. Still... did you always have pure white hair?

CW: yandere themes, light body horror, manipulation, its dottore, c'mon LOL.

Concert II "Tristezza Di Fine Anno", performed by the Morespoke Philharmonic with their conductor, Lady Columbina, began nearly an hour ago. And you had the fortune of hearing their songs for yourself.

The well-dressed crowd filled the seats, behaving in what was appropriate for their high station. It was fully booked. The music overwhelmingly masked anyone's breaths, if they had one to start with. Her program can be felt deep in the audience's bones. Rattling them in each sforzando before it lulls down through the sound of her handpicked musicians— with Lady Columbina as the lonesome soloist when the moment calls for it.

"This piece, Symphony No. 5 in C-Sharp Minor, is not Columbina's own making, she had failed to mention that," your company hummed. "This was by another composer who hid behind the name Safed. They were a self-fulling prophecy. Do you wish to know what they said about this piece?"

You said nothing as Zandik— Lord Dottore— stroked your unnaturally "white" hair.

"They said that nobody understood the piece and that they wish they could conduct the first performance five centuries after their death."

Zandik smiled.

"What say you? Do you think those words are true?"

Your company was a tall and thin man with artificially pale-ish skin and wavy blue hair. His eyes were reportedly bloodshot crimson, although you had not received proof of that in this lifetime. But, you were drawn to his deep ocean-like colors, and that was enough to keep you mildly complacent to his strange remarks.

Zandik is surprisingly a considerate man, but he must've brought you with him for a reason. He told you himself that the reason he brought you out of your prison-like hospital room was a mere experiment on his behalf. Paradigm-shifting consequences of his strange social experiments with you are likely to occur, and he cares not for its ethical debates. He won't ask for rhetorics; these to him are tangible outcomes and no questions will be entertained.

All except his.

"I think… "

The composition had a serene, slightly asymmetrical feel to it. You were certain this was Lady Columbina's creative liberties at play. Something about it did not capture its true authenticities. The show purported to narrate three stories: the first concerned a judge who had to find a loved one guilty; the second concerned a prince who drove their beloved into despair; and the final was a tale of a knight who disregarded his obligation to defend a loved one.

But it felt incomplete. As if there was a missing piece— a secret fourth act hiding between the notes and stage.

"A person can't completely mourn for something they would never experience," you told him. "But even so, if I were Safed, I'd feel like my effort would've been a waste."

His eyes remained trained on your hair as you spoke. Zandik seems to dislike it. Unlike his cells mixed with engineered nanomaterials, yours are uniquely… "natural". His hair has a color intensity, whereas yours was the presence of every color— as physics explained it.

"Something they would never experience…" Zandik repeated, tasting the words on his tongue— a smirk etched on his face as though it tasted like bitter irony.

You continued.

"I have a hunch that Safed put everything they worked hard on all their pieces because Lady Columbina wouldn't have performed it otherwise. Since all the songs on the concert's program are marketed as underappreciated compositions, I would… um… infer that they also questioned their works and ultimately themselves if it all had worth in the end. Hopeless for the lack of attention, they probably thought there's more hope if they lived in another generation."

You wanted to say, though you're not sure where this negativity came from, that they probably despised how their well-crafted works were ignored and their sloppy yet significantly more popular compositions angered them.

But you're not Safed. You don't want to put words in their mouth.

".... Hmm, an acceptable hypothesis— a decent one, even," whatever monotonous response Zandik wished to convey, his voice betrayed his grand satisfaction. "Yet I won't give you any confirmation."

"I know."

Zandik laughed.

"The next piece is Norn's Adagio for Strings Op. 11, before the closing Symphony No. 6, better known as Pathétique Symphony, in B Minor Op. 74."

You tilted your head innocently. "Pathetic?"

"Another piece by Safed. It's a Fontaine-translated title. It's originally named pateticheskaya, which meant passionate or emotional, not at all pitiable."

He crossed his arms, insulted as though he was the one who came up with the original title.

"Roughly half a millennium past, the masses attributed Safed's demise to the strains of their final composition, the so-called Pathétique, a mere nine days preceding their exit from this mortal coil. The prevailing narrative spouts a tale of a tragic surrender to the clutches of undiagnosed clinical depression. I find such simplicity in analysis rather pedestrian, wouldn't you agree?"

You took a while to process his inquiry before hesitantly nodding.

"I… I think so."

Zandik smiled.

It's hard to tell if it's genuine, especially when such a protruding mask hides his eyes. Should its existence vanish, you aren't certain you'd see a soul within his pupils either.

"Safed hated this piece, believing it should be cast aside and forgotten. They were living in the woodlands when they wrote it— and when they decided to live with their benefactor, it was suddenly difficult to tear them away from their work."

You nodded to cue that you were still listening.

"They have an incredibly deep connection with their works. One might say they see in tunes rather than color."

You nodded again.

"Your inclination towards a perpetual affirmation of propositions, presumably to veil any potential lacunae in your cognitive purview, does not escape me. It is, if I may be so bold, your agreement that conceals your specter of unfamiliarity, right?"

You rarely understand a word he says when he is in this passionate state. You just nod as if you knew.

"Adorable," Zandik chuckled.

His voice was chillingly low yet… comforting. 

"Your sincerity constitutes an enchanting facet of your comportment."

He had to be teasing you.

"Although…" Zandik grabbed a few locks of your hair as though it was slimy and unpleasant— quickly retracting them with a disapproving tilt. "You could stand to utilize more (h/c) hair dyes. How is it conceivable that it has returned to white yet again?"

You opened your mouth but Zandik raised a finger.

"No. I am the scholar here. Do not answer."

You giggled. "Understood, Doctor."

He grinned, inadvertently showing off his pointed canines.

"What a good test subject you are, my dear (Y/n)."

Whether good was a subjective or objective assessment or not was up to interpretation.

The mid-concert intermission began, allowing Lady Columbina's pressured musicians a 20-minute sigh of relief. Zandik ushered you to the back where the Lady Harbinger reposed on a white sofa, her cheek brushing a visibly soft and cloud-like pillow. The bright backstage lighting made her seem ethereal.

She looked like heaven, but Zandik would argue that "(Y/n)" is the true epitome of the word.

"Greetings. As expected, you'd initiate conversation at the earliest convenience." She cooed. "You look younger today, Doctor."

"You know very well that I do not take that as a compliment, Columbina." Zandik scoffed. "How many times will we rehearse this canned script until it is a learned lesson?"

"Perhaps it shall end on the day you refrain yourself from recreating… perspectives."

"Since my encounter with the Dendro Archon, I have not revisited that notion."

Columbina's gentle smile dropped coldly. "You know that your segments are not what I am referring to."

You looked back and forth between the two. Each of them was a distinctively unique person and it's a challenge to take your eyes away from the other.

Hence, when you felt Lady Columbina's eyes on you, you shook and straightened yourself before bowing stiffly.

"G-Greetings, Lady Columbina!!!"

Her gentle smile resurfaced.

"Greetings to you as well, dear Safed."

You blinked.

Dottore clicked his tongue, and Columbina laughed softly.

"Apologies, I meant to say (Y/n)— that is the name you go by in this era of humanity, right?"

You'd rightfully claim that between the three of you, you were the most human. Zandik has his clones, Columbina's origins are of strict secrecy, and you are a mere amnesiac patient. But the way she addressed you was sounding awful like stripping you away with that sense of humane identity.

"Yes? I guess?"

Columbina delightedly buzzed in your reply. "(Y/n)— truly a lovely name. That must mean that you're very healthy! It warms my heart to hear that name again. The other ones had terribly dull names, but if the Doctor had given you this title, then it must mean his research is finally drawing to a close."

Her remarks made little sense. You know little about yourself and trust only the Doctor's judgment. Should you trust her words, then it must mean (Y/n) isn't your real name…

But… that doesn't seem right either. 

"Not quite, the name deserves no celebration," Dottore replied happily. "I merely ran out of translations. Bianco, Wit, Bái— what else is there? Ancient Natlan?"

"Scientists truly make for terrible poets— Why not try Inazuman?" Columbina offered.

Those words must have had a heavy weight to them because Zandik pondered for much longer than expected.

"Hmm. I'll keep that in mind," Zandik muttered. "Although it is preferable it does not have to reach that point."

"May I ask why did you bring them here?" Columbina asked.

"It's a bit of an unconventional experiment, but I've been exploring how to elicit positive associations with certain stimuli. Exposing them to music as I accompany them should cause them to associate the emotional response it elicits with being around me." Dottore hummed. "It would be asinine to put them in a chaotic yet controlled environment such as a theme park. While a racing heart may be effective, I shouldn't risk a (Y/n)'s well-being by subjecting them to roller coasters."

"Are you sure you're not the scared one?" You asked cheekily. Zandik rolled his eyes.

She shook her head.

"What a roundabout way of saying you're taking them out on a concert date…"

Columbina looked at you once more.

"Oh, but (Y/n), you appear unwell, my dear…" she pointed at stage left. "Why don't you fix yourself up in the nearest restroom?"

Dottore raised an eyebrow, which made you want to decline Columbina.

"I'm r-really okay, Lady Colum—"

"I insist."

Columbina smiled wider. Her laced mask cast a gloomy shade on her visage.

You had no other choice.

"O… Okay."

The halls that led to the restroom were mostly empty. Perhaps it was due to Lady Columbina's performance that made them patiently await the next song.

But there was one young man you encountered along the way. He had blonde half-way braided hair and purple-ish eyes. You paid him no mind as he circled a small rectangular paper, likely the concert's ticket, between his fingers. However, within a second, that paper vanished.

You stopped in your tracks and looked at him curiously, wondering if your eyes played tricks. He laughed, noting your attention.

"Ah! Sorry," he cheerfully gestured a small wave. "Didn't mean to practice in public."

The blonde man approached you with a smile.

"You're #9805, right?"

Immediately, you both got on the wrong foot.

Your nose scrunched, "I prefer (Y/n)."

The man flinched. "Oh, yikes! I'm not making the best first impression— nice to meet you (Y/n)! I have something for you."

You thought he was handing you his concert ticket for a moment but when you took a good look, it was a grayscale brochure.

And a white tulip…

"Um…"

"Needless to say, I'm something of a—"

"Trickster?"

"Magician, but an astute guess nonetheless!" He laughed sheepishly. "I was waiting for you, I thought you wouldn't go to the restroom."

So, did Lady Columbina plan this?

You caressed the binding and skimmed through the pages. "What's this for?"

"Father said you might be interested in its contents," the young man said. "That's all."

You blinked.

"... Are you saying you missed out most of the concert just to hand me this?"

He laughed awkwardly again. "My dear sister says I have a habit of missing a hint of romanticism when it counts, so I guess today's just one of those moments."

"Did you not like the music?" You scoffed, temper rising.

"Did you hate the composition? Did you not understand the e-emotion behind the chords? Don't you understand just how d-disrespectful that was?!"

"Woah, woah, I didn't say any of that." His eyes widened.

He didn't expect your voice to crack.

"I'm so sorry if you're offended— are you one of the original composers?"

…

You took a deep breath.

… Why were you mad?

… Why did it feel like those songs mean more to you than meets the eye?

"Sorry, I just…" You shook your head. "I guess I'm not feeling well. Oh, no, I'm so SO sorry…"

An unknown part of you thrived to hear him praise the music. That same part pitied the composer who worked day and night to perfect their piece. It's an ugly voice, but it was sincere.

… What was wrong with you? Why did you suddenly lash out? What was going on?

"Oh, well there's no need to be sorry then." The blonde man took his hat off and bowed.

"Farewell, Mx. (Y/n)!" He grinned. "The greatest magician in all Teyvat will take his leave. Thank you for your time!"

With the sway of his dark cape, he disappeared.

You entered the restroom to wash your face. It didn't do much to soothe your nerves. The lingering dread for your strange emotional mood swing remained.

To distract yourself, you read through the article.

The Enigmatic Legacy of Composer Safed

In the annals of musical history, few figures emerge as enigmatic and hauntingly captivating as the orchestral composer, Safed. Born five centuries ago amidst the ancient woodlands of Sumeru, this ethereal musician seemingly materialized from Vanarama with no familial relations.

Huh… So it's about the one who wrote the previous compositions earlier.

No wonder that blonde man asked if you were one of the composers. He was being a smartass.

A Fiery Finale: The Pathétique Symphony

Legend has it that in their final act of emotional expression, Safed penned the "Pathétique Symphony," a composition so emotionally charged that, overwhelmed with disdain for their creation, they purportedly set ablaze their woodland home. Seeking solace and escape, Safed accepted the benevolent offer of a city-dwelling benefactor.

…

…

Safed… burned down their house?

No…

No, that's not how you remembered that.

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

That's not what happened. "Safed" didn't burn their house down.

Suddenly, you stilled. Your thoughts ran wild, but your inner rationale tried to force them to a halt. This peak in anxiety did not make sense.

… Why would an amnesiac like you know what happened?

A Swansong: Il Dottore's Beneficence

Their benefactor, now celebrated as our Lord Harbinger, Il Dottore, welcomed Safed into the city's heart. It was here that the truth unfolded: Safed had been grappling with hearing loss for years, an affliction that fueled their artistic brilliance yet cloaked them in a muffled world. They were unaware of their disability, yet thrived in their field.

…

…

Wait…

Before you began to read the final paragraph in Safed's brochure, you hurriedly went back to Dottore and the composer's vintage photographed portraits.

After seeing their face, you dropped the brochure in the restroom's sink.

You saw their face.

You saw YOUR face and Zandik's.

But not quite. That was you, but at the same time, it wasn't. Zandik looked stiff in those photos with "you", likely a product of the time since Kamera photography was used only in rare formalities that required a bit of dress up. But the "you" you saw was sickly way beyond the formal costumes. They had (e/c) eyes and (h/c) hair, but yours were all white. 

White…

Safed… That's the Sumeru translation for white, isn't it?

Bianco, Wit, Bái— they're all translations for "white", aren't they? And if Dottore and Columbina's earlier conversations were to go by, the one after you would be named Shiro.

…

The one… after you?

"Tut tut."

You trembled at the familiar sound.

You slowly turned your head around and there he was, leaning against the restroom door.

"You were in the restroom for too long. It appears my suspicions were not unfounded."

Without waiting for a response, he approached with large strides. His gloved hands seized your stressed shoulders. The grip tightened harshly as he forced you to meet his intense gaze. Blood trailed from the corner of your mouth, and your anxiety heightened. He angrily bared his sharp teeth as he watched it stain his gloves.

And yet Zandik looks…

Sad.

And distressed.

He pressed his earpiece.

"Test Subject #9805 exhibits troubling symptoms. Hematemesis suggests a severe physiological response. Persistent manifestations of albinism in ocular and follicular pigmentation indicate underlying deformities. Immediate isolation is warranted for the researcher and subject's well-being."

His hand was cold. Skin imbued with silver nanomaterials after several operations, reminiscent of the age-old philosophical question: "Is it still the same ship if you gradually replace all of its parts?" 

Then Zandik did something unexpected.

He dropped his hold and you prepared yourself by shutting your eyes as he swung his arm.

To hug you.

"I'm sorry, I have failed you again, (Y/n)," Zandik muttered. "I should not have raised my expectations."

"W… What? Why are you putting me in isolation?" You asked, rattled. "What have I done?! I just— I didn't do anything wrong! What did I—"

He shifted, dragging your arm to hug him back as though you were a little girl's doll. Zandik rested his head on your shoulder, shaking slightly.

"In your innocence, no fault lies. I thought I had accomplished what I had set out to do, and met unfulfilled expectations" Zandik gritted his teeth, voice somber. "Despite centuries of refinement, it appears that I still have room for improvement in perfecting the process… I was right. This deserves no celebration."

The doctor laughed sadly.

"When will I ever be proven wrong?" He asked himself as he wiped the blood off the corner of your lips.

He pulled away, pecking your forehead.

"I'm sorry."

Those were not the words you expected from his mouth, and yet you heard it more than once. I'm sorry. It does not fit his character, nor does the tender yet cold hug he had given prior.

You're scared. You're terrified. You know what was bound to come. You know what awaits you. White walls. Silence. Separation.

Solitary.

Far from a choice. Far from negotiable.

There's no amnesty.

And yet, the words flowed from you naturally.

"... I forgive you."

You have no idea why you said what you said. There's no certainty that you believed your own words. Zandik's lip twitched downward.

"You should not," Zandik croaked. "Why? Why must you always forgive and accept my selfishness? Do you derive satisfaction in seeing me in this state?!"

You opened your mouth to answer but were stopped abruptly as he grabbed your hair.

Zandik had always favored you compared to other patients. You know this very well. He's an evil man and the list of actions he had done that had harmed you in the name of science is at least two pages long upon your awakening. Yet, you were sure he liked you enough for he told you of his new exciting experiments. He scolded you when you left his research institute for fresh air. And he would hold your hand whenever you dreaded those thick injections.

You just didn't know he had it in him to fold from his intimidating facade just to kiss you like a desperate man. 

Breathless under his control, he softly pressed his lips against yours. His lips were chapped and cold, and he took you in gently as though he'd break you. Zandik, as strange as it was, still seemed to prioritize your comfort over his needs. Normally, this tension would've made him so short-tempered. But this will be your last interaction. The doctor tasted your blood in his mouth, and he was nauseous at the thought of hurting you more. But he stopped. Even though he wishes to force all his pent-up desires onto you. Even though he wanted to love you thoroughly that you'd forget your name again.

Zandik whimpered quietly as he pulled away— sounding like a dog that would not sleep that night. What was left in between was a thin disappearing line of saliva and blood that quickly broke off.

The doctor should be happy he finally got to have a proper date with you after 9805 failed attempts. 

But he's not content.

He was about to lean in for the second time but stopped himself. Selfish. To think he nearly saw you two finally walking down the aisle. Why was he always so selfish when it came to you? But those rhetorics mattered not in your head.

You were silenced. You were held.

You were loved.

"No." Zandik breathed in, laughing humorlessly. "No— I am the scholar here. Don't answer."

And you will be disposed of.

"Take them away." He spoke to his men calmly. They had entered long enough to witness what he had done. The men did not hesitate to grab you, thinking Dottore thought you no more than a mere toy.

But calm was deceptive. It does not convey the distress that chokes him.

Maybe…

Maybe in the 9806's trial… he'll have you as he always wanted.

The Fatuus that escorted you in was gentle. A silent guide. The expression on her face was clear that she wanted to extend her apologies as well but mustn't.

You already have a white tulip in hand.

Arlecchino already sended her regards in advance.

When she opened the door by tapping a card against the lock, she bowed her head. You let yourself enter without a fight. The room was pure white with the rest of the furniture matching the drapes. But Dottore didn't just provide the necessities. There were books, sketch pads, and other recreational materials.

As you were about to approach the center, something was off on both sides.

You looked to your left.

Two clear mirrors divided your room from the others. There's a sign on the left wall. Code #4135.

You stood, shocked, grieving at the sight of your predecessor. They were a mirror of you but with a different name— and an even worse state.

One had made a slight sound coming off their skin— rotting slightly. There's a tube connected to their mouth and you could see yourself— you could see them dripping. They had your face. Their hair and eyes were white. The nose was gone, leaving a gaping hole. Their neck was cricked back at an unnatural angle. You don't know if they're still breathing. They're still bleeding. They must've bitten off their tongue.

There's a lone white blanket that covers the rest of them.

You think they might be dead.

You think "you" might've died more than once.

THUD!

You jolted at the sound coming from the wall behind you. Upon seeing their body, you froze.

Code #032.

They were but a head. You wish you could only focus on that aspect, but you looked lower and your hair raised. They cannot feel the same, for they were almost only a spine left. The rest of them were their skeletal frame, guided by thin lines one can barely call flesh.

Their head banged against the mirror. The thought that the sound was what made you flinch earlier made you unwell.

They seem to be telling you something. Their breath fogged up the glass and their thinned white hair splayed across your view. Their mouth said something urgently you couldn't comprehend because their tongue was paper-like in size.

#032 was shaking. Their pain grew vivid in every movement that the room was starting to spin. You sensed their turmoil.

They looked like death.

You all looked like death itself, both the pretty and ugly ends of it.

"Don't." You whispered, begging as you knelt to their level. "You don't have to speak."

You laughed deprecatingly.

"We're not the scholar here. He is."

In every syllable, you saw the outline of their esophagus strain. The nerves were blueish purple. The little skin they have left on their cheeks is sunken. Their lips were gnawed, likely as a response to the pain they'd gone through previously. Fists of bone tapped against the glass, and you quivered, imagining their pain.

You were not afraid of them. You only mourned their anguish. In fact, you feel at ease to be in the presence of yourself from the past.

It reminded you of what "Safed" had allegedly spoken years ago.

Nobody understood the pieces you made and you wished you could conduct the first performance five centuries after your first death.

And now, here you are.

Seeing two "people" who do understand you.

And they share your face.

"Pathetically", the only one that can understand you is yourself.

You're all flies trapped in a web that the predator refuses to wrap and consume out of pity. Compared to the others, you looked fine.

But your lungs were blistering.

Despite their deathly ill and mutilated bodies, you were the one bound to die soon enough.

His experiments worked.

You love him.

You love Zandik.

And how tragic it was that the person who learned how to love him was doomed to perish.

In your last minutes, you recalled something vital:

As an outsider, your body was not meant for this world, but after encountering the woodland creatures and Zandik, it became tremendously difficult to part ways with it.

You coughed up yet again with a gentle smile on your face. Maybe you're not dying…

Maybe you're just returning home, for every atom in your multiple bodies was once part of the galaxy.

You are (Y/n) (L/n).

And you were not from Teyvat.

Much like the rest of the descenders, you have a quirk about you that sets you apart from the norm. For the travelers the world reveres today, it was their distinct determination and questionable age that was remarkable. Yours slightly titters to an inhuman level.

You can "clone" yourself.

Zandik and the "original" you wouldn't phrase it in that manner, but it's the easiest way to describe your talents.

"So, it is cloning." Zandik paused. "Mind letting me in on the science behind the process?"

He was an ordinary student when you both met. Far from a doctor, but at least he was a registered scholar in the Akademiya. Zandik didn't have an eloquent tongue as he does in the present, yet his curiosity burned all the same.

Which is why, back then, you thought his questions were cute.

Not dangerous.

"It's not that I can make copies of myself without consequences," you humored with a grin. "I'm just making… fragments of myself. Segments, if you prefer to call it that. It's a common ability for the people back in my world. None of us do it excessively— especially since we're kind of an invasive species." 

Zandik raised an eyebrow, "is that a commendable trait?"

"My kind says so. Whether good is a subjective or objective assessment or not is up to interpretation." You answered noncommittedly. "I don't think that's right. Our soul splits apart until we're just… empty. We lose some memories in the process."

"But functioning?"

"In a sense, yeah, but we lose a part of ourselves like memories and well, hair color, I guess." You nodded. "Why are you so curious?"

"Since you have rejected my confession, I want to try my hand at seducing a copy of yours instead," Zandik said. You couldn't tell whether he was joking with his naturally piercing red eyes. "Until then, you are not allowed to asexually reproduce without my authorization. Understood?"

You laughed. Unaware of his arsonist crimes, you willingly indulged his words.

"I owe you my ears, so it's only right that I'll listen to your commands, Zandik."

"Good." Zandik grinned, shark-like.

"What a good test subject you are, (Y/n)."

Centuries later, that closing sentence will continue to remain true.

Since then, his life has changed. Multiplied, even. Upon studying your genetic makeup, he found ways to duplicate himself as well. Despite his feats in science, Zandik remained unhappy.

Deep down, all the Harbingers pity the Doctor who cannot save his most loved one. That includes both Columbina and Arlecchino.

No one protests even when harmful orders are given; everything appears fine until the symptoms are felt. Because the organism— the astral descender— has no nerves or voice, he continues to assume that the patient is not in pain.

The patient needs peace but because they are not to speak, they remain silent, and the need persists.

The patient wants to eat and breathe fresh air, but because such desires might hurt the feelings of the doctor who thinks he has done everything needed, the patient remains quiet, contemplating desires out of fear of reprimand.

The original (Y/n) (L/n) suffers in silence. In a white room only accessible by a man who continues to nurse his unrequited love: Zandik.

No one else can enter this room.

He won't allow it. Only he can be obsessed with you.

The thought of you haunts him like a smiling reflection upon window panes— like a gift of a Trojan horse with nothing but your echoing laughter and hospital monitor beeps inside. Your thin limbs were marching clock hands with rusted gears that miraculously function till the end of time.

What is immortality for if every day was a death loop?

It is such a lonely concept…

You ought to be thankful that he's willing to be your eternal company.

"I endeavored to elicit a reciprocation of my sentiments from the latest subject. Regrettably, their discovery of my antecedent experiments transpired prematurely. Nevertheless, as asserted several times, it remains but a temporal inevitability until an iteration of yourself succumbs to having an interest towards me." Dottore hummed.

He held your feet.

He held Test Subject #01's feet.

If you spoke up, he would've bragged about how he was right. How people do love your songs. But no one knows if you can't or won't answer him. This one-sided conversation is the punishment for his hubris.

He took out a sharp knife and cut off one of your toes. You no longer feel any pain as you bleed into his hands. What a kind man the doctor is, for he blocked all your pain receptors years ago. It's a good thing you regenerate quickly.

That's what he loved and hated about you.

You only gave and gave.

But you never ran out of soul. You never ran your heart fully dry— and that left you ill. Zandik could never let you go.

You're already a part of him.

Hence, he must not make clones of exaggerated memories. He wanted your perfect yet healthy replica.

Praise be the white corpuscles extracted from your veins which had brought him new life. You were the reason for his research. You were the breath that gave his segments life. You were his muse, much like he was yours.

"Fear not, (Y/n)," he reassured with a measured tone. "Upon my mastery of the arts, I intend to reinstate your autonomy and awareness. Perhaps then, you shall find the organic inclination to reciprocate affection toward me by the 9806's trial. Until then…"

In other words, give him more time and he'll reinvent love.

He leaned his forehead against yours.

"I'm so, so sorry."

And ultimately, he'll reinvent YOU.

"Can I have another piece of your scalp?"

"No."

"Do you not understand the weight of this research or must I expound on it further in another three-hour presentation?"

"Alternatively, you could start by saying that you're sorry," you raised an eyebrow. "I'm still not over the fact you randomly cut a piece of my ear when I was asleep, doctor. You know, I heard from the aranaras that white tulips are given to someone when they ask for forgiveness."

Zandik smirked.

"Regrettably, it seems that such an occurrence is unlikely to transpire. Do not expect such words and gifts from me."

You smiled.

"We'll see, we'll see."

Taglist (pls notify if you wish to be on the taglist for the last two): @average-yandere-enjoyer @pix-stuff @sagekun @vennnnn-diagram @dilucragnidvr @tnsophiaonly @lsleepysimpl

[suzeno]

Toji

18+

just some toji brain rot. jealous toji who loves showing dominance in every way.

general contractor Toji, who is restless while people work on his house. Tearing down walls, painting, drilling, and extending the driveway. all things he could have done or could learn to do. “You know I could just have my guys come in and do this for real cheap, right?”

general contractor Toji, who spends his day watching every move they make. Even going by as far as getting into his work clothes and demanding the work be done the “right way." It was really his way or the highway. “If your going to do it, do it right! You smear up and scrape down, then remove excess. understood.” Watching Toji command the respect of a group of men was hot, to say the least. But watching the way his muscles flex and bend under his loose-fitting work shirt sent you places. Your eyes trailed lower to his black multi-pocketed work pants, which had you drooling. The way they were only tight on him. Straining against those thick thighs, confining his mischievous thick member.

general contraction toji who sees how these men look at you. With nothing more than lust.

general contractor Toji, who knows that you can feel their eyes yet you still choose to parade around the house with your little pink matching set on. The rouging on the bust accentuates your perky breasts. The thin fabric of the set shows off your curves perfectly. Your lack of undergarments on display infuriates Toji.

general contractor Toji, who insists the crew working take a break (after hours of berating them and saying they could have a break once the work was done to his specifications). The crew knew better than to refuse or even question Toji.

general contractor Toji, who says, “Come here, doll, let me show you how to properly prepare a wall for painting. This way, you never have to hire hacks again." His motives are unknown to you.

general contractor Toji, who shows you step by step what to do. Guiding you every step of the way.

general contractor Toji, who says no yells at the crew, “I thought yall were lazy and incompetent. What kind of break was that? showed your asses all day but want to take a 15-minute break. tuh!   Get out of my house and come back in 45. We’re in the middle of something here.” after they walk in on the two of you obviously working on the wall.

general contractor Toji, who is anything but embarrassed when the crew returns 45 minutes later, baring witness to him working on your inner walls. Your lewd voice reverberated through their ears.

General contractor Toji, who has you bent over the ladder you had been working with. The ladder that was not yours. Yet the juices trickling down your legs onto the ladder marked it as yours. Hands gripping your hips hard enough to cause bruises.

general contractor Toji, who looks back at the crew who stairs at the two of you in awe. Toji smirks at them knowing what’s going through their minds.

general contractor toji who keeps fucking into you even with an audience. Toji who keeps fucking into you because of who is in the audience. Making sure to hold your head at such a position you couldn’t look away from him or your new friends. “You wanted this didn’t you. Parading around in this flimsy ass outfit. You might as well be naked. You’re clenching down on me so hard baby.”

General contractor toji who grabs one of your legs so your audience can “Get a better view of me fucking my perfect little pussy. Look baby it looks like they want a taste.”

General contractor Toji who threatens to let them have their way with you if you dare hire “these hacks” again. His words.

General contractor toji who grabs you by the hair and forces you to crawl over to your audience. Only to throat fuck you not even 10 feet away.

General contractor toji who busts his load on your face proudly. Showing off his handy-work. “Now this is a job well done boys.”

General contractor toji who fired the crew and finish’s their job days later. All on his own. Just like he said he could.

General contractor toji who got just what he wanted.

General contractor toji who walks into his kitchen happily knowing all the hard work that was put into it.

[cassatelle]

Day 5 of @bucktommypositivityweek: outsider perspective 1128 words Rating: General Audience Tags: Fluff, Soft, Coming Out, Referenced/Implied Homophobia

The sound of the doorbell jingling broke the quiet of the nearly empty restaurant. Debbie glanced up from her spot behind the counter; it was him again.

It was hard to believe it had been two years since he first stumbled in, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. She remembered that night clearly. The clock was nearing closing time, and Debbie had been lingering by the counter, dreading the inevitable task of throwing away the uneaten food she’d so carefully prepared. The place had been too quiet, too empty, and her heart had been just as hollow. He really missed his husband on the days like this.

Then, he’d walked in, all exhausted, asking if it was too late to order, mumbling about not having the energy to cook. His words had been tentative, almost apologetic, as if he was expecting to be turned away. Debbie had told him it was no problem at all. Though the truth was, she hadn’t even closed yet because there hadn’t been enough customers to justify it. She’d packed his order with trembling hands, filling the container with a far larger portion than he’d asked for. 

Since then, he’d become a regular, showing up almost everyday—some days at the weirdest time, late in the evening or early in the morning— with occasional absences for a few days of the week. He’d always arrived with a smile, though the tiredness still clung to him like a shadow. He’d ask her how she was, how business was going. One evening, she unconsciously referred herself as Tía. Then, on a whim, she started to call him Sobrino. To her delight, he kept coming, as if he didn’t mind the name she threw. She took it as a consent.

It wasn’t until he showed up in his firefighter uniform, soot-streaked and weary, that she finally understood why he skipped those few days. He’d explained it with a tired smile, mentioning his overnight shifts. And from then on, she’d made a habit of giving him even bigger portions, claiming it was her way of thanking him for his service. In truth, she simply liked him—liked the way he brought a bit of life into her otherwise boring routine. Sometimes, she’d keep the shop open until midnight or flip the close/open sign a few hours before she was supposed to, just in case he had another late or early finish and needed a warm meal to end his day.

He always came alone, ordering one portion with the same polite smile. She’d tease him sometimes, asking him to bring his girlfriend, promising to throw in an extra shrimp. He’d only smiled in response, never giving much away.

But lately, there has been a change. His tired face had started to light up more, his eyes brighter than she’d ever seen them, his steps lighter. She’d caught him laughing at his phone once, and another time, he walked in wearing a new scent. Then, one evening, he started ordering two portions, or began asking her to add or exclude certain ingredients. And that's how she knew he had a girlfriend.

Tonight, as she prepared his order, she couldn’t help but mention it. “You seem really happy these days, pequeño,” she said, her hands moving with practiced ease as she assembled his meal.

He chuckled. “Yeah, things have been good, Tía. How’s the restaurant today?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Eh, my story can wait. So, who’s this lucky woman, hm?”

His reaction was not what she expected. Instead of the shy smile or fidgeting she’d imagined, he seemed taken aback, face unreadable for a moment. Debbie almost apologized, thinking she’d overstepped, but then he smiled, a little weakly. “Uh, it’s a man, actually. I have a boyfriend. Not that he’s lucky to be dating me or anything, but yeah… a boyfriend.” He looked at her cautiously, guiltily. “Is that… okay… Tía?” he added, it took her a moment to realize why.

For a brief second Debbie could see the hurt on his eyes. She wondered what could have happened to turn the brave, cheerful boy she knew into a frightened, cornered mouse. Whatever it was, she felt bad for bringing that memory back.

She blinked, collecting herself quickly. “Ay, of course! Men, women, no different. Love is love, no?”

His usual big, crinkly-eyed smile returned, and with it, the warmth she’d come to expect.

“So that’s why you so happy? Must be nice having a boyfriend, eh?” she teased lightly.

He let out a laugh, a genuine sound that made her smile in return. “Yeah, it is, honestly. I haven’t been dating for so long and it’s... it’s really great. He's really great.”

Debbie gave him a big smile. “You should keep him, then.”

“I’m planning to,” his whole face softened, glowed.

Debbie handed him the food and gently patted the back of his hand. “Tonight’s on me, as a celebration. And I’m serious—it’s fine, I’ve had enough customers today,” she quickly added, seeing the protest forming on his lips. “I’m happy for you, mijo.”

“Thank you, Tía.” He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You should get a boyfriend too.”

She clicked her tongue, playful. “My husband’s ghost will come to me if I dare to find another man.”

The day finally came. He walked in as usual, but this time hand-in-hand with a tall, handsome blonde man.

Before she could greet them, the blonde man flashed a grin and spoke up, “Hola, Tía, me llamo Buck. Uh... or, Evan. Well, Tommy calls me Evan, you can call me whatever you like.” but before Debbie could respond, he continued, “Did I say it wrong, Tía? My friend told me that. Please, tell me if that’s wrong and I will kick his ass.”

Debbie burst into laughter. “That’s really good. And mo kicking ass, please.” She then turned her gaze to him—the regular, Tommy, apparently. Funny how she learned his name from his boyfriend instead, after two years exchanging conversation. “So this is the one making you so smiley, eh?” She gave him a teasing look.

Tommy simply smiled, cheeks a little pink. 

But Buck, clearly enjoying the moment, wasn’t going to let it slide. “Aww, do I? Do I make you so smiley, Tommy?”

Tommy grinned, titling his head slightly before admitting, “You do.”

Debbie, not wanting to interrupt but knowing they came for the food, clapped her hands together. “Bueno, can I take your order now? You two can continue your lovey-dovey over the seat there.”

They both chuckled. “Sorry, Tía. And yes, the usual please.”

“One spicy, one not spicy?”

“Perfect,” Tommy confirmed with a nod. Then, he raised an eyebrow playfully, “And please don’t forget our extra shrimp.”

[starryevermore]

the shelf life of those fantasies have expired ✧ cardan greenbriar

angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)

pairing: cardan greenbriar x fae!fem!reader

request: Cardan angst fic? 👀 - anon

summary: the goddess of timing once found them beguiling. she said she was trying. was she lying? his ribs get the feeling she did.

word count: 1,977

warnings?: angst city™, no happy ending, dual povs, mutual pining, miscommunication, not proofread

PART TWO | PART THREE

When she stood at his side, looked so…natural at his side, it was easy to find you comparing yourself to Jude Duarte. No one understood why Cardan made her his seneschal, not when they had seemed bitter enemies before the Blood Crown was perched atop his head. You didn’t understand, either. The most Cardan had confined in you was that Jude helped him get the crown. Everything else remained a mystery. You would pass gossiping fae, those who sought insight behind the High King’s actions, and not have a single clue what to say. You wished you could lie, if just to be able to say anything but cryptic excuses for why Cardan stopped confiding in you. 

Once, you thought you might be the one standing at his side. Not as High Queen, of course—no one had ever dreamed that Cardan would sit on the throne. But he had been one of the few you would dare to call a friend. Before the crown was perched atop his head, you would’ve said he called you the same. Perhaps not in front of his other friends, or anyone else for that matter, but you used to be certain you meant something to him.

You weren’t sure why you were still here. The longer you stayed, the more your heart clenched in your chest. If you remained for just a moment longer, it would give out on you. From the corner of your eye, you could see Jude bend down to whisper something to Cardan. You didn’t feel in control of your hand as it snatched a goblet of wine. It was heavy in your hand, but it managed to ground you. To give you a reason to not collapse where you stood. 

How had things changed so quickly? Just months ago, Cardan was sitting on your blanket during lessons, trying to see how many twigs he could stick in your hair before you would tell him to stop. You always tried to see how long it would take before he got bored of it. When did you become the one he grew bored of? 

“Dance with me.”

You lifted the goblet up, your head tilting back, finishing your wine in a single go. You set it down on a table and stalked away. Cardan followed after you. You spared a glance at the throne, where Jude still stood. Exasperation was clear on her face. Whether it was directed at you or Cardan, you couldn’t say for certain. You knew enough of her skill with a sword, though, to stay away from her bad side. 

“I am tired,” you said. 

Cardan’s hand caught your wrist. Jaw clenching and unclenching, you were forced to remain at the ridiculous party. You should’ve stopped coming to them months ago, but these events were the only opportunity to catch a glimpse at your friend-turned-king. 

“One dance,” he insisted. 

“I would prefer to leave.”

His hand slipped to your wrist. Fingers intertwined. When you tried to pull away again, his grip tightened. Your eyes lifted to meet his. If you shut them, you could imagine all of your dreams were coming true. “I would prefer you in my arms.”

“You’re drunk.”

Cardan’s grip slackened enough for you to wrench your hand free again. “Would you deny your king?”

The nonanswer was answer enough. Fae cannot lie. Cardan cannot deny his inebriation. He cannot deny that the one reason he would talk to you now was because his senses were dulled. Cardan Greenbriar does not consider you a friend any longer, so why would he ever seek you out sober? You wished you were drunk, too. It would hurt less. 

“Would my king force my hand?”

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. The same lips a laugh fell from. You took a step back. He stepped toward you. “One dance,” he repeated. 

By now, an audience had formed. You cared little for fae gossip, but if you tried to leave now, it would be impossible to escape those who wanted to know why you would deny the king. You held your hand out and let him take it. You ignored the way your heart stuttered as his thumb ran over your knuckles. 

“One dance.”

The smile Cardan flashed you was enough to make your knees weak. For that, at least, you were grateful to lean against him as you danced. It was easy, then, to lose yourself to the music, to pretend that things were how they used to me. When Cardan was your friend, when you told each other everything. If you lost yourself enough, you could imagine a crown perched atop your head. Jude could still stand at Cardan’s side. She was a damned good seneschal. But you would be the one sitting on his other side. 

Cardan spun you around the floor, a smile on his face. You pretended it was because he was happy to have you in his arms. “I only ever see you at these parties,” he said. 

“To be a king is to have a busy life,” you said. 

“I would make time for you.”

He would, but he hasn’t. Was he waiting for an invitation? Cardan never used to before. There were countless times you would awake to find him waiting for you at the foot of your bed. He never liked having to wait for you to ask for his attention. There was a time he freely gave it. Had the Blood Crown changed who he was? Did it force him to realize he could do better than you? 

The song faded into another, and you slipped out of Cardan’s arms. His hands still chased after you, but you artfully dodged them. A lump formed in your throat that you were quick to swallow. Months ago, you would have dreamed about a moment like this. Now, it felt like Cardan was using as a placeholder. As a symbol for someone he would prefer to dance but would never give him the time of day. 

You looked at the throne again. Jude watched Cardan. Her face was unreadable. It was no secret that fae looked down upon humans. You never fancied yourself that sort of person. Certainly not when it came to Jude Duarte. It took a special sort of person, fae or not, to capture the interest of a prince. If there was anyone who deserved it, it was her. If she was the one that Cardan wanted at his side, you would not stand in the way. 

“It was nice to see you again,” you said, because you knew you would not see him after tonight.

“Have breakfast with me tomorrow. I’ll have the cooks make your favorites.”

You could not tell a lie, so you only offered a smile. “Sleep well, Cardan.”

Before he could say anything more, say anything that might delude you into staying, you turned and left. Not a single person stopped you along the way. Not a single one cared whether you stayed or left—least of all the one person you wished to beg for you. 

By the time the sun rose again, you had left Elfhame.

Cardan Greenbriar drummed his fingers against the wood table. He had invited you to breakfast, hadn’t he? Wracking his still wine-addled brain, he tried to recall the conversation with you. Yes, he certainly said breakfast. Or had it been lunch? Cardan spared a glance out the window. The sun was nearly at its peak. Had he asked you to breakfast or lunch? Had he asked you anything at all? 

At the sound of footsteps entering the room, Cardan jumped to his feet. When it turned out to only be Jude, he flopped back into his seat. He propped his elbow on the table, pressed his cheek into his fist. 

“I didn’t realize my presence was so disappointing,” Jude said. Her eyes swept across the table, at the two place settings and the untouched food. The one thing that had moved was Cardan’s goblet, which had been refilled minutes earlier. “She didn’t come.”

Cardan gestured at the empty seat across from him. 

“Are you certain you asked her?” 

He nodded.

“And she said yes?”

Cardan began to say an exasperated yes, that he wasn’t an idiot, but as he replayed the events from the night before, he wasn’t so sure. “I asked her to breakfast,” he said, because he was certain of that. Jude arched a brow. “…and she told me to sleep well.”

Jude ran a hand over her face. “I knew you were hopeless, but I didn’t imagine you were a lost cause. Really, how did you manage to be with anyone?”

“I was a prince. They just fell into my lap.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t fae, because then I could believe that was a lie,” Jude said. She looked over at the empty seat. The seat that should have been filled by you. “I’m going to send the Ghost to see where she is. Perhaps she was too drunk last night to remember you invited her, or maybe her days are mixed up.”

Cardan frowned at the untouched food. “Maybe she realized she could do better than me.”

Jude reached for his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Cardan lifted his cheek from his fist and pressed it against her hand. If he shut his eyes, he could pretend it was you offering him comfort. “Whatever her reason, we’ll bring her here. We’ll figure things out.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose her,” Cardan admitted. 

“We won’t let it come to that. I won’t let it come to that.”

An hour later, the Ghost returned. The words still echoed in his head. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. He had gone to your home and found it empty. Everything important to you had been packed and taken away. The Ghost lied to him, of course. Well, perhaps it wasn’t a lie, since the Ghost didn’t know its importance. But you left one thing behind. 

Cardan stood in your bedroom, staring at your vanity. It had been cleared of your favorite jewelry and other pretty things you adorned yourself with. It was empty, except for the ring that lay on its marble top.

Jude once told him, when he admitted your feelings for you, about how some humans would gift their beloved a ring as promise of their love. One ring as a promise of monogamy, another as a promise of marriage, and a final ring as a promise of eternal love. Cardan had taken great care in selecting a ring for you, bearing in mind your affinity toward certain metals and specific cuts of stone. He thought it was perfect. When he presented it to you, after he had been crowned High King, he told you he picked it especially for you. You smiled and slipped it on your finger, said it was perfect.

If it was so perfect, why did you leave it behind to collect dust? 

Cardan picked up the ring. A part of him wanted to fling it across the room. If you were rejecting his love, then that was the least the ring deserved. He wanted the stone to shatter and the metal to warp. He wanted to reduce it to dust. He offered you his love, and you left it, and him, behind. But Cardan couldn’t find it in him to throw you away. 

He slipped the ring onto his littlest finger. He was going to find you. He was going to find you, and drag you back to Elfhame and put that ring back on your finger where it belonged. You might have left him behind, but he wouldn’t let you stay away. 

By the time the sun set, he had given orders to bring you home. 

PART TWO | PART THREE

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 12 "Ouroboros"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧

A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 3k

A/N: If Shai Hulud wants it, 18 is finally the final number of chapters for this fic 🥹

CW: Cannibalism, Implied Child Abuse, teenage Feyd's questionable sexual endeavors, mentions of self harm and suicidal thoughts

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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19 years ago

The large, cavernous walls of his uncle's office chamber tower over Feyd-Rautha who is barely six years old. A place for strategizing, for dining, for holding audiences, for killing those who prove to be incompetent and forfeit their lives. And currently— the place where the Baron lectures young Feyd-Rautha who possesses the sliest eyes that he has ever seen in the entire family line.

Vladimir Harkonnen has been droning about politics and spice trades for the past two hours and his darling nephew has surprised him with inquiries that are so very witty for a young boy. 

A general knocks unannounced with what he deems important news, unknowing that the Baron is currently teaching his heir apparent. The man shivers from the boy's sharp, icy stare. He shivers from how small the orphan from Lankiveil looks next to the gluttonous Baron of House Harkonnen and he shivers knowing that all of the rumors are true. 

Just when he involuntarily ponders on the physicality of it, a telling reflection in his gaze must have insulted the Baron. Vladimir's blade sinks into his belly through the gap between armor plates before he can even finish saluting. 

Young Feyd-Rautha absorbs the manslaughter with nonchalance, neither smile nor frown tugging on his pouty lips. His mind is still moldable. He came here for knowledge and power, he came here, it was his choice, or that's what he has hammered into his brain with tiny fists. He killed his mother for it, to be strong like Glossu, to be smart like the imposing man who had introduced himself as his dear uncle.

Right now, Feyd is glad for the distraction. The fresh corpse means a fresh meal for everyone in the room and he had already understood his uncle's lesson an hour ago. Now he is bored to death. Two servants are called from the shadows to cut the body open, their skinny, naked frames only slightly obscured by milky plastic dresses. They extract the hot organs soaked in steaming, black blood. Feyd's stomach no longer revolts at the sight.

Impatiently, Vladimir grabs the organs out of the women's slender hands before they can prepare the meal on a platter. These slaves are new, pulled straight from the pits because the Baron knows his dear Feyd is so well entertained by their frightened stares and shaking shoulders. His nephew giggles, a bright, boyish sound and the Baron giggles too, fatty jowls wobbling.

"Have some of the liver, dear nephew. You did well today."

Hand-feet scuttle across the chamber floor, lured out of its basket by the irresistible scent of blood. It pitter-patters over to the open corpse, delicate black fingers curling around the open rib cage and— A massive boot stomps it in the belly. The Baron then was still able to walk, a colossus that could have trampled a young whale from Lankiveil.

"This is not for you!"

Squeaking and gurgling, the creature scrambles back with lurching gait and cowers in its basket, shaky knee-elbows drawn up against its hide. Feyd doesn't flinch when Glugo chirps in pain, but he does slip a piece of bloody liver into his little pocket before he begins to eat what his uncle offers him from the tip of his ichor-dripping blade.

Later that day, Piter de Vries arrives, also unannounced, but his skinny belly remains without a blade wedged in it. For a while, little Feyd is no longer the most important thing in the room (which annoys and relieves him), so he leaves the adult men to their conversation and trails to the back of the room where an austere basket with a thin, single blanket stands in the shadows. Feyd crouches down, his little suit stretching over knobbly knees.

Glug, glug, glug.

Nebulous eyes blink at him wide and the creature's nose-mouth quivers, scenting the liver on him. When he is sure neither of the men are watching, he reaches into his slippery pocket and offers the meat to the hungry creature. Impossibly gentle and uncomfortably human hand-feet curl around the warm liver. 

Glug glug glug, as it pushes the meat into its mouth without chewing.

Feyd doesn't play with the creature. To play means to be weak and childish and if he got caught playing, he would be in serious trouble. Painful trouble. But he observes it often and shows no fear of its disfigured body.  Torso and abdomen are two bulbous shapes out of which eight, slender arm-legs grow, lithe but frail looking. Its entire body is covered in black, glossy skin that feels almost like rubber to the touch.

Glug, glug, glug.

Feyd silently mimics the sound, puckering his lips. Glugo shuffles in its basket which is a little too small for the creature who can't fit all of its arm-legs comfortably inside. Perhaps the most curious part of it are the tiny arm-arms that grow on either side of its misshaped pug face. The tiny arms with tiny hands are not for walking, they're for grabbing and exploring. Glugo reaches its tiny arm-arms out for Feyd-Rautha.

The boy offers his index finger, small and white. Glugo's hand is about the same size as a child's. Its inky fingers delicately wrap around little Feyd's hand, turning it up and down, pulling the individual fingers apart. 

"I don't have any more liver," Feyd whispers.

Suddenly, the Baron's voice drones. "Be a darling and summarize what we've just discussed, Feyd." Immediately, the boy stands like a whipcord, muscles tensed and hard as granite. He summarizes the conversation between his uncle and Piter to near perfection, which makes the mentat assassin smile a toothy rictus.

The Baron frowns. "I never dismissed you, yet you thought it appropriate to remove yourself."

"I heard everything, uncle! As I said, you had found a spy in the barracks who—"

"Piter, take him with you. Prove your creativity to me with the punishment."

"But I heard every word! Are you not impressed that I did while looking absent? Is that not a feat that will come in handy when I'm to attend banquets and gatherings?" Feyd's little hands are clenched into fists, clammy palms contained in a shell of rage.

"Always so eager for praise, aren't you, my dear nephew? I'll praise you more later. You'll be punished for feeding my pet, boy. Get out of my sight."

Hand-feet scuttle in a haste and the creature chortles and mewls in protest, one big foot-hand wrapping around Feyd's calf when he begins to move, then a second one clutches the back of his little suit jacket and a third one clamps over his shoulder. To the untrained eye, it might look as if it was trying to devour the young boy whose scent is laced with fury and fear.

Piter de Vries' blade slashes through Glugo's first hand-arm and the creature slumps to the ground with a hollow glug-glug-glug-glug! Its seven arm-legs and the stump writhe and curl into each other with pain.

"NO!" Feyd calls out, lunging at Piter who barely avoids the cunning dagger which has appeared in Feyd's hand.

The Baron laughs heartily, biting into a piece of haunch which has bloody grease rolling down his necks. "Punish him twice, my dear Piter, for not defending himself against my pet's attack. Meanwhile, I'll teach this abomination its place."

Feyd-Rautha's heart twists into despair and he rages against the mentat's spindly fingers that are screwed into his collar. He doesn't care for Piter's punishment, even though he loathes the man's guts. Little Feyd fears for Glugo and he would rather switch places with it and endure his uncle's rancor. It is so innocent, it only tried to help, to protect.

Tremor's shake the spider's aching limbs when it squirms in its basket, pearly eyes locked on Feyd-Rautha as the door rolls shut.

"Little half-blood demon," Piter cusses out the thrashing child whose blade fruitlessly cuts the air. It secretly hurts the mentat that he is not to punish the boy for trying to stab him. The Baron is ever so kind with his affection towards his shrewd advisor. "What shall I do with you now, hmm? I think I should scalp you, lest you grow any of these blonde, pretty curls back."

A few weeks later, Feyd-Rautha finds the disfigured Tleilaxu creature alone in the Baron's office. He was tasked to retrieve papers, but his plan is a different one. With quiet, childish resolve, he marches up to Glugo in its basket, milky eyes blinking open, its third eyelids following a little more slowly. The creature is shaking, weak. Its legs unfold with a crack of bones.

Glug glug glug?

"Ssshhh," Feyd appeases. "Do you know what this is, Glugo?" He asks, clutching his dagger in his little hand. 

An affirmative glug, glug, glug.

"I brought you liver." Glugo seems excited when it awkwardly raises itself on the five arm-legs that are left and totters over to him, obviously in pain still, or in pain again. It can barely hold its own weight.

Feyd doesn't conceal his intentions, blade ready in his small hand while he offers the liver.

Instead of taking the treat, Glugo's tiny face-hands gingerly curl around Feyd's raised fingers and one foot-hand settles trustfully on the crouching boy's knee. Glug, glug, glug, it sings. Glassy, white eyes blink slowly and the creature gently slurps the piece of meat out of Feyd's palm.

As soon as it has swallowed, Feyd's blade cuts through Glugo's neck and the creature breaks down with a grateful sigh, the lifeless hand-foot sliding off little Feyd's knee.

Feyd-Rautha doesn't cry, but he holds these gentle hands until they grow cold and he stares at the far wall, black within black of the furniture blending together while the stone in his gut grows heavy and bitter.

Glugo is free now, but he is so entirely alone.

Not even a month later, something stirs in a whirl of brilliant green bubbles and the awakened consciousness fills out a misshapen body. It presses its eight limbs against the glass confinement and the tubes that are fed into its flesh.

At first, it floats in a gentle dream of billowing waves, weightless, pain free.

But when the incubator slides open with a squall of amniotic fluid and the newly birthed creature falls on its knees, the physicality of its bodies defies all instincts. Its knees bend like elbows, its hands are feet and its muscles contort themselves with an aching groan, refusing to let it stand on two legs. 

Too many feet, too many nerves, too much phantom pain and it is so cold.

It doesn't even take a minute for the being to remember the little one's gentle hands and his kind blade and it weeps because it is alive and Feyd-Rautha isn't there.

The Tleilaxu know that a Ghola is capable of recovering the memories of its flesh. It is considered a science and an art form to find the matching triggers and play them just right, like God plucking the strings of an cellular instrument.

They don't know that the Baron's spider is their first creation to remember upon rebirth, traumatized to the core by being alive.

"I can help you," Feyd- Rautha sighs, his knees bent into a graceful crouch.

The little one has become taller, his voice raspy and uneven, but Glugo loves him no less.

Feyd brandishes his new blade of polished, white steel, offering it to the shivering heap of oily-black limbs in a blood-soaked basket.

If only someone did the same for him. He can throw himself against his swordmaster all he wants, or the guards, or the drugged slave warriors, but none of it is ever enough to deliver him from his pain.

Today, he had seen a glimpse of salvation for a while, when he snuck into the pleasure wing for the first time and picked out a female slave much older than himself. He had made her lie down on her front and then he had cut himself with his own birthday blade while fisting a hand around his cock. 

The woman had yowled and whimpered when he sank into the soft kind of sheathe he actually desired for the first time and he had enjoyed it, loved the raw power over another human being, how he could tear all kinds of sounds from her and how his snapping, flexing muscles turned into weapons. He could enjoy this rather than just endure it.

It's a pity that his uncle had made him kill the slave when the news reached him. Feyd had barely just pulled out and stuffed his sullied cock back into his pants when the Baron's guards came and collected him and it was then that he remembered he was no grown man, only a meager thirteen.

The Baron had punished him to the point of apathy, muscles turned into vessels of pain, but nothing could ever quench the spark that had ignited his growing, aging body.

Glugo shouldn't have tried to help him. It never learns.

Glug glug glug.

"I will help you," Feyd repeats with quiet, bitter resolve and reaches out his unarmed hand. "Come here." Glugo takes it gently, its palm now much smaller against his, oily black against frosted white. "I'll make him pay for this one day," Feyd swears solemnly and tightens his grip a fraction around the creature's slender finger-toes.

Shame drips hotly into his guts because if he really wanted to help, he would burn Glugo's corpse to ashes so it can never be hauled back to the Bene Tleilax and reanimated, retraumatized. Feyd is so selfish for betraying those innocent eyes like that, the frail body grafted out of parts that incessantly tries to take every hit for him.

The young na-Baron squeezes Glugo's fragile hand tightly and when he brings his blade to its neck to rightfully relieve it from its unnatural burden, half of him already dreams of having it back. Someone who doesn't want the worst for him. Someone who doesn't twist his belly with nausea upon sight.

Friend.

The word that he feels and grieves when its thumb strokes him softly and black blood weeps down his palm like hot tears is friend.

If he can't even protect Glugo from his uncle, how will he ever be able to protect his woman?!

Is what Feyd-Rautha thinks when he delivers the mercy kill with a seasoned grip on the blade, cradling the graftling's slick, cold head against his belly. The small face-hands that had once been able to grasp little Feyd's entire hand can now encompass only one finger.

The peace he delivers is fiercer this time, his full lips screwed into a tight line and his hands white knuckled with angry resolve. He will tell his woman about this when he sees her among the stars tonight. He might not find the right words, but he will tell her how he saved his friend from pain today and she will know that he is a good human despite his uncle's best efforts.

That was the twenty-fifth Glugo.

The twenty-sixth had slept in her bed last night.

His naive nephew still believes he has the Tleilaxu grafling rebuilt and reborn because he, Vladimir Harkonnen, takes pleasure in kicking and maiming it. The boy is so dense when he is sentimental. His repressed affection for the obscene little experiment is hard to watch, but Vladimir endures it.

Death and rebirth are a necessary cycle to keep the mill running.

Death — Punishment. Rebirth — A begrudging concession because Vladimir cannot stand it when the boy looks and acts like a puppet with no fire behind his anger. Like every man, Feyd-Rautha needs something to fight for, so he shall have his Tleilaxu toy back after a while. 

But as he grew broader and taller, his hands harder and his frame more wiry, the boy's needs grew hard and violent too and he became ever so difficult to please. He needed a different plaything than just a pathetic little friend.

So, the Baron had three beautifully obscene concubines designed and birthed for his nephew's desires. Sterile creatures who wouldn't complain if he maimed them, who would rake their talons through his ivory flesh to satiate his pathetic need for pain if he asked them.

But the boy grew older still and his desires matured, like someone or something had spun their starry web around him and spirited away the coats of armor he had mantled himself with.

And after that, no number of concubines could rouse him during those past two years.

The Baron has been missing the witty, little boy who had raged against the late Piter de Vries in his office chamber, who had snuck into the pleasure wing in an act of reckless adolescent rebellion.

So, what other choice did Vladimir have than to give his nephew the most dangerous gift yet? The "Relic", a Bene Gesserit witch now nests in his palace for his dear Feyd-Rautha's sake.

The mill must keep running. The Ouroboros must keep feeding its own tail into its maws.

Will she be another kind of Ouroboros, or the blade that cleaves the serpent in half?

Between the conception     And the creation     Between the emotion     And the response     Falls the Shadow                                     Life is very long      Between the desire     And the spasm     Between the potency     And the existence     Between the essence     And the descent     Falls the Shadow                                     For Thine is the Kingdom       For Thine is     Life is     For Thine is the       This is the way the world ends

- The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

A/N: I literally cried while proofreading this chapter 😔 If anything happens to Glugo, I'll kms 26 times 😩

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted,@sunny747

@ughdontbeboring

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Springtrap x Reader | Summary: Your uncle has asked you to keep watch over his new investment, Fazbear Frights, and the vintage artifacts his attraction contains. When you begrudgingly accept his offer, things take a turn for the weirder. An encounter in your dreams with a yellow rabbit changes you…for better, or worse?

Heads up: This fic is not for everybody, and that’s okay! It’s a fucked-up fever dream and if the summary intrigues you, come along for the ride. If not, that’s okay too. Things get heavy here. There’s monsterfucking, dream sex, vaginal penetration, some choking, fear, lust, disgust, basically a whole grab bag of fuckery, so if that’s your thing, read on, dear deviant 🫵♥️ PS the end is kind of fire, I love a good twist!!!

To be honest, you thought the idea of opening a theme park ‘attraction,’ based on the mysterious disappearances of children was fucked up. But your uncle was convinced there was a market for such a sick endeavor, that an audience existed whose search for thrills and chills would have them willing to shed money for a chance at experiencing horrific local nostalgia.

Because really, who wouldn’t want to relive the tragedy of multiple kids going missing? You were being sarcastic, of course. But part of that sarcasm stemmed from genuine bewilderment. What was your uncle thinking when he formed the concept of Fazbear Frights? He’d always been into horror as a genre, but as far as you’d understood, his interest was confined to books and film, not true crime. And if the subject matter of the Freddy’s story had involved the tragic disappearance of local adults, maybe Fazbear Frights wouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. But kids had gone missing, lives had been upended, and your uncle was about to make a profit off of their heartache.

The worst part of all? You’d accepted his offer to work there. The cost of life after college was kicking your ass; you could barely afford your rent as it was, working two part-time jobs. Money was more than tight; you needed extra cash wherever you could find it. And besides, the Fazbear Frights gig would only last a couple of weeks, just until the attraction opened. Your uncle’s job offer had been to monitor the security of the place overnight, with generous pay promised. You couldn’t understand why he’d be willing to pay someone to guard a bunch of creepy old relics from an abandoned pizza parlor, or why additional security was necessary when the theme park itself already had an overnight guard? Your uncle maintained that additional security was needed, and that he only trusted family with the responsibility of protecting such an important investment as his precious, twisted attraction…

Entering Fazbear Frights, your first impression is that it’s really fucking ugly. Granted, it’s supposed to look old fashioned, and maybe the building’s creepiness is simply proof of good set design. However, a sense of unease lingers in your stomach, and you’re almost positive it’s caused by something beyond the decor. The attraction is fully furnished, but won’t open for a couple more weeks while the finishing touches on lighting and sound are tweaked. Those changes are made during the day, when at least a little sunlight can be seen filtering in through the windows, reminding you there’s life outside. For your part, working the night shift, the dark building makes you feel secluded and more than a little creeped out.

You have a flashlight, and mostly functional electricity running through the building. But there’s still much to be desired in the way of making the attraction feel…not haunted. And it occurs to you that that’s the word which describes how you’re feeling: haunted. The hairs on your skin are standing at attention, a cold sweat clinging to the back of your neck, but why? Obviously the setting is creepy, but it’s meant to be. You’re usually comfortable around spooky decor. It’s not as if you’re a scared kid wandering the halls of a haunted house alone…but that’s how you this place makes you feel…

It’s getting late. An outdated digital clock (probably a relic from the late eighties itself) on the desk in front of you reads 3 AM. You shiver as yet another cold breeze whispers past your shoulders. You look around, studying the vintage posters on the wall, wondering how much money your uncle threw away in order to call these scraps his own. The figures staring back at you look menacing, despite their wide smiles. They’re called animatronics, you remember. That’s how your uncle had referred to them. You also recall his mentioning one animatronic in particular, a Freddy’s original he’d managed to get his hands on and would be bringing to Fazbear Frights. You haven’t seen it yet, and to be totally honest, you’re not sure you want to. If the animatronic your uncle purchased looks anything like the ones in the posters you’re staring at, you’d prefer to never encounter such a creature…

Re-entering the theme park feels like walking through the gates of Hell. You’d rather be anywhere else than here. Another night of spending six hours alone in the gloomy replica of a literal crime scene has your stomach twisting. And you didn’t sleep well, either. Your dreams had been too vivid to allow you rest. You’d dreamed of a monster, or something that could certainly be called one…a massive, towering figure with patchy, mustard-yellow fur clinging to its skeletal frame. It resembled a rabbit, or had, at some point long ago. While still maintaining the general shape of a rabbit, its appearance had decayed, warping its cuddly features into something ugly. Its eyes were cold gray orbs that rested deep in its oversized, vacant skull, tendons and ligaments intertwined with wires that wrapped its skeleton, which you later realized, was comprised of metal rather than bone.

Your senses had been particularly keen in the dream. The rabbit’s scent was stale, yet comfortingly nostalgic. It reminded you of an old quilt your grandmother had once given you from the bottom of her dresser drawer, which smelled of love and other ancient, homemade things. She’d wrapped you up inside it, with kisses and promises that the chilly winter night wouldn’t be as cold now, that the quilt had been waiting there in the dresser for years, waiting for someone who needed it…

The rabbit’s fur was coarse, your skin a soft contrast when you wrapped your arms around its waist. It felt like the outdoor carpet that had lined your parents’ back porch, which your feet and rain had pelted countless Summer nights. The rabbit’s fur was cool to the touch, moist with something bittersweet, a musky blend of old books with yellowed pages, their corners turned down and words lined in pencil…

And against your lips, that was also his taste, his tongue the flavor of nostalgia, his large, unbearably strong hands crushing your body against his like he intended to make love to and ruin you all at once. Whether or not he consisted of machine or animal, he was more human than anything else, fully formed with the parts needed to bring you to a state of rapture. He held you suspended, your legs around his waist, fucking up into you with more vigor than his decayed appearance would suggest him capable of. You clutched his back, and then his ears, locking your fingers around them and bracing for impact as each of his mechanical, brutal thrusts punched inside you with a machine’s precision…

You’d woke up in a state of climax, your body drenched with sweat. The sheet beneath you had been ripped from the mattress, balled into tight fists. Your chest heaved, your bare breasts glistening with perspiration. Your cunt was pulsing, fluttering with the aftershocks of a powerful orgasm. Arousal dripped down your quivering thighs, onto the mattress which was soaking wet beneath you.

A shower and breakfast had done little to calm the questions racing through your mind. What the hell was that? Your dreams were rarely as vivid, as visceral, as the one about the rabbit. And as for the sex…it had been the best sex you’d had in a dream, ever. And it had been with what must surely have been a monster…

You hope your six hours at Fazbear Frights will go quickly tonight, partially because you’re still a little unsteady and aroused from your dream this morning. Additionally, you’re looking forward to sleep, because maybe the rabbit will be waiting for you when you close your eyes, again?

Unexpectedly, your uncle meets you at the staff entrance of Fazbear Frights. He seems excited about something, and you’re grateful for a distraction from your thoughts of the rabbit. “Hey kid,” your uncle greets you with a friendly wave. “How’d it go last night?”

“Alright,” you reply. “It’s a little creepy in there, but that’s the point, isn’t it?”

You don’t miss the subtle gleam in your uncle’s eyes, revealing how pleased he is that his attraction is having its desired effect. “That’s right,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta give the people what they want. And what they want-.” He turns his key in the lock and pulls the door open for the two of you. “-Is the authentic Freddy Fazbear experience. Which is why I’m here tonight.” He lets you step past him into the building, and locks the door behind you both. “-To show you the part of my collection that’ll really have people talking. We just brought him in today-you’ve got to see him…”

You grimace visibly. “It’s the fucking animatronic, isn’t it?” you groan, and your uncle rolls his eyes.

“Yes it is, sourpuss,” he teases. “And trust me when I tell you, it’s gonna make this place really feel like Freddy’s, like you’re stepping inside a time capsule or something.”

Your uncle led you down a hallway to one of the doors marked STAFF ONLY . “He’s showing his years of course,” your uncle continued, searching his ring for a different key. “I mean, this animatronic sat abandoned for thirty years; of course he’s gonna look a little rough around the edges.”

Your uncle finds the appropriate key and jiggles it inside the lock. “But just knowing that we, Fazbear Frights, have our hands on the one and only Spring Bonnie-.” He sighs proudly. “-It reminds me how much all of this was worth it, y’know? Now that he’s here, back in his element. Where he belongs.”

Your eyebrow lifts in curiosity; you resist the urge to laugh in your uncle’s face. “You do realize you sound just a little bit crazy, right?” you question him. “Talking about this thing like it’s a real person or something. Don’t tell me-.” You lean in, whispering. “-You talk to it sometimes, don’t you?”

Your uncle pauses before whispering back, “yeah, but, the only time I really feel crazy is when he responds…”

You giggle at that, watching while your uncle pulls the door open wide. “Here he is, (Y/N),” your uncle declares, beaming in the doorway. “The yellow rabbit himself. Spring Bonnie in the flesh-err, I mean, fur…”

For a moment, you assume you must be dreaming. Because you find yourself looking at the exact same rabbit from your dream this morning. He looks different, sat on the floor, leaning against the far wall; but it’s unmistakably him. Your uncle watches your expression, slightly confused. “Is he really that scary?” he asks, his voice hopeful.

You take a step forward, curiosity overriding your apprehension. The rabbit is large, just as large as he was in your dream. Even seated on the floor, you can tell his height is substantial. Tentatively, you reach for the rabbit’s face, stroking his musty-scented fur tenderly.

“D-be careful!” your uncle frets behind you, adding, “that thing was very expensive-be gentle with him-,” but his concerns aren’t necessary. You know this rabbit…intimately well. And once you’re alone with him again, you’ll make sure to take excellent care not to damage him in your…exertion…

“What did you say his name was?” you ask, gazing into the rabbit’s steely eyes. Your uncle clears his throat, obviously perplexed by the care you seem to feel for a decaying animatronic you had no interest in seeing only moments ago. “Uh, Bonnie,” he replies. “Spring Bonnie.”

“Bonnie,” you repeat, allowing the word to sink over your tongue. “That means beautiful, doesn’t it?”

Your uncle nods, still confused, and glances at his watch. “Well, it’s just about midnight,” he says. “Time for me to head out. Come walk me to the door, will ya?” He pretends to shiver. “This place gives even me the creeps at night, to be totally honest.”

You choose to leave the rabbit (for now). “I’ll be back,” you whisper against his ear, quietly enough that your uncle doesn’t hear. He’s waiting for you in the doorway, a warm smile on his face, your fascination with the yellow rabbit a fleeting curiosity to him, and nothing more. Once you’re sure your uncle is gone, you exhale a sigh of relief. Locking the door behind you feels like sealing the world away completely; and in contrast to yesterday, that kind of isolation is now exactly what you want. Your heart thuds against your chest like a horse’s hooves, skipping beats as you turn for the hall.

You’ve bunched your skirt around your waist, your shoes clicking loudly in the empty hall. Heavy rain pelts the tin roof as you round the corner that leads to him. In the doorway, a tall, familiar figure stands. His gray eyes flash cold as steel, locking you in place at the opposite end of the hallway.

Thunder growls outside. The building’s electricity spits in and out, crackling around you like fireflies caught in a jar. Your heart’s in your throat, lips spreading into a wide smile. The hall goes dark, lit only by the steely gaze of the yellow rabbit...

…until suddenly, even his eyes disappear, and you’re left engulfed by an all-consuming darkness.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the hand reaching for you. Robotic, aluminum fingers draped with rotting yellow fur close around your throat, silencing the scream beneath them. The rabbit lifts you by the throat till you’re completely suspended, feet dangling limp and useless beneath you. His sour breath reeks of rotten meat and dried blood, the kind of smell that instinctively alerts you to danger. Your eyes roll back, surrender sinking over you as you accept your fate.

But as quickly as he seized you, the rabbit yields. You feel the cold, filthy tile meet your cheek as you land against it. Through gauzy vision, you make out the metallic feet of the rabbit standing before you, his endoskeleton clearly visible. He takes hold of your hair, and tugs you upright, holding you in place as your trembling legs cannot sustain you. His eyes bore deeply into yours, chortled breath leaving his mechanical chest in a slow, grotesque pant. When he speaks, your whole body shivers.

“You…” the rabbit murmurs, his wide jaw cracking, fleshy tendons stretching. The curdled timbre of his voice betrays the smile on his lips; the rabbit is glad to see you.

“How…long…” he snarls. “…has it been…?” He drags a thick, soiled finger across your cheek, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “…Since anyone desired me…?”

Your chest is heaving, conflicting emotions of every kind overwhelming you. A sick cocktail of fear and arousal throbs in your belly, keeping time with your pounding heart.

“P-please,” you stutter, tears bleeding down your cheeks. “Don’t h-hurt me…”

The rabbit tilts his head to the side, thinking. His hooded eyes wash over you, this tiny little creature in his hands, pleading mercy from him.

“Mmm,” the rabbit hums, his skeletal chest vibrating like a lion’s purr. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”

You gasp as his touch glides from your face to your chest, his big paw closing over your breasts. He groans at the feeling of your heartbeat thundering against his palm. “I’d forgotten,” he says. “How a woman’s pulse feels…the proof of her life, beating in the palm of my hand…”

With his other paw, the rabbit clutches the back of your head and draws you closer. The stench of rot, of horror and decay, cannot repulse you anymore…not when his tongue has breached the barrier of your lips, the thick, sinewy muscle undulating against your tongue in a wet bed of perversion. His bulky fingers lodge between your thighs. Immediately, you begin to grind against the textured fur, wetting his mechanical digits with your arousal.

Seized by a sudden courage, you lift your hips in a way that has you poised atop one of the rabbit’s fingertips, his damp appendage resting against your entrance. He obliges your silent request, allowing you to sink over his thick finger, taking him as far as you can.

The thunder inside you eclipses the storm outside. You moan filthy, disgusting praises as he pleasures you, all sense of fear long-abandoned in exchange for the fulfillment of your most hedonistic desires. His fat, coarse digit strokes you like it was made for you to ride, reaching places inside you no part of any man ever has. You’re going dumb on top of him, so dumb you don’t even notice when the rabbit gently eases you onto the ground.

He’s under you now, his back pressed against the wall, his paw of a hand still clutching your cunt, letting you use his fingers to get yourself off. A dark, satisfied chuckle rumbles up from his bony chest. “Just look at you,” he murmurs, his steely eyes heavy with lust. “Bouncing on my lap like a slutty little rabbit, aren’t you?”

His lewd words and husky tone send you over the edge. Your body convulses on top of him, the muscles at your core clenching around the rabbit’s touch, sucking his fat appendage rhythmically as you ride out your high…

“Fucking Christ!” A man’s voice bleats through the hallway like a frightened animal. You whip your head to see him, blinded instantly by the beam of his flashlight. He’s wearing a shirt that identifies him as the theme park’s security, and as your eyes follow up to his face, you’re met with the wide-eyed gaze of unfiltered horror staring back at you. His flashlight shakes wildly in his hand, catching the rabbit’s skeletal leg in its beam. Confusion sets over you…followed by shame. Because the rabbit is now as he was when you arrived there tonight…sat against a wall, unmoving and limp, no more than a broken machine overcome by decay. But unlike earlier, you’re now sat straddling the broken machine, your cum dripping down its tattered fur…your hands locked around one of the animatronic’s arms, lodging his hand between your thighs…one of his fingers buried deep inside your cunt…

The guard clears his throat; you force yourself to meet his eyes. “Th-there was a c-.” He clears his throat again, blinking to focus. “-County-wide power outage, miss…I knew you were um, keepin’ watch over the place for your uncle, and uh-.” He swallows, forcing his eyes from dropping to the place where your body and the animatronic are joined. “-I th-thought you might be spooked in here, alone-.” He glances at the rabbit, then back to you. “-in the dark…”

Frustrated tears burn at the corners of your eyes, your cheeks hot with humiliation. Carefully, you ease the rabbit’s finger out of your cunt, wincing as the metal scratches your skin. Somehow, it didn’t hurt before. You smooth your skirt down, concealing your nakedness but none of your shame.

Standing in the beam of the guard’s flashlight, you summon every bit of the (minimal) pride you have left to tell him, “thank you. That was very kind of you, to come check on me.”

He licks his lips nervously, eyes darting between you and the animatronic propped against the wall. His flashlight illuminates the perverse scene, revealing your cum still glistening on the rabbit’s fur. The fear in the guard’s expression has softened to a pitying disgust.

“I think it’s time for you to go home, miss,” he says. You wipe a tear from your cheek, glancing back at the animatronic one last time, before leaving Fazbear Frights (and your rabbit) behind, forever…

[bonniebird]

Hermione Granger x Male!Reader

Requested by Anon

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Request: Anonymous asked: “Hey! My best friend is in Slytherin.” Hermione Granger, Male Reader.

Hermione sighed as she heard Fred and George approaching before she saw them through the crowd of people gathered around them. She continued reading her book as they shouted and wound everyone up. None of the other houses had joined the Gryffindors in the great hall. 

“We all know it was the Slytherin’s that did it!” George finished as he approached Hermione.

“Hey! My best friend is in Slytherin.” Hermione snapped out and glared up at him. Fred scurried to her other side and she knew that they were about to unleash their infuriating synchronicity. She would be able to keep up with them of course. It was just irritating to deal with when she’d finally reached the interesting part of her book.

“A friend!”

“A best friend.” They said one after the other in their rhythmic way.

“Yes. I have a best friend who is in Slytherin. He happens to be excellent at charms and his family has a library of rare wizarding books. He lends them to me sometimes. All right.” Hermione realised that the more information she gave was more fuel for the proverbial fire so she refused to elaborate further but the damage was done.

“My, my. Perhaps you were in on the mishap! Clever Hermione.”

“And her mysterious best friend from Slytherin.”

“All those rare books to study.” 

“Perhaps you’re the culprit!” 

“Firstly, that is simply ridiculous. Secondly, I am done talking to you.” Hermione snapped and lifted her book high in front of her face. It did little to shield her from the twins' stares or the feeling of being observed by their flock of enamoured congregation.

“You know I have read several of Harry’s detective books. Those ones he likes with that… detective... ”

“Hmmm. I know the one. Where the guilty party clams up and waits for a representative. You think this could be something similar?”

“I do.”

“So do I.”

“I agree.”

“As do I!” 

“Excellent.”

“Indeed.”

A throat cleared and Hermione lowered her book that she had raised in front of her face, hoping against all odds, that Professor McGonagall was back early from checking the grounds with the other teachers and gathering the other houses. 

“(Y/N).” She said rather awkwardly. Fred and Geroge’s rambling attempt to pester her was silenced immediately followed by their heads whipping to you as you said hello and then whipped back to Hermione when she said hello back as if they were observing a rather intense if not awkward game of tennis.

“I suspect they know each other.” Fred whispered loudly to George.

“Seems to be the case. Make a note of it Fred.” George said and Fred nodded once firmly and pretended to write in the air on an invisible notepad before turning his attention back to you and Hermione.

“I wanted to apologise for making you late this afternoon. You are remarkably skilled…” This comment from you was followed by a jovial Ohhing sound from the twins as if you had just confessed to the spell that had knocked down a considerable portion of the southwest part of the school which was the cause of the whole school coming to a stand still. The sound was followed by a few mutterings of incorrect muggle legalities that neither twin really understood but thought sounded impressive. “Do you two mind?”

“No.”

“Not at all. Please carry on.”

“If I had not been struggling with my spell you might have been able to help with whatever happened. I appreciate you taking the time to help me. I know that it must have taken some convincing to have the professor agree to let us practise in her room.” You muttered out and felt rather embarrassed for the audience.

“I am more than happy to help a fellow philomath… A person who enjoys learning.” Hermione leaned to the side and whispered the last part to the twins who hummed as if she’d revealed great mystery and George gestured for her to go on. “Besides it gives us both a perfect alibi which is why I imagine you were sent here before the other Slytherins. Along with those six Hufflepuffs and eleven Ravenclaw. Who also have alibis.” Hermione slowed her words and lowered her tone as her face relaxed to reveal her irritation. Fred and George both winced and jumped up when she slowly turned to them.

“Well. Seems you have an alibi.” George said.

“As far as we can see. It couldn’t have been you. Which is odd because it’s usually you and your lot when it’s not us.” Fred muttered and glanced at George who nodded.

“Well, I admit. Turning all the drinks into jelly was us. But this wasn’t. At least it wasn’t me.” You answered and they both quickly forgot their imaginary detective agency and congratulated you on being part of the group that had turned every drink in the great hall into jelly during the Halloween feast the year before.

“I’m sorry.” Hermione said when the twins had hurried off to spread the word of your great prank.

“It’s fine. I imagine everyone is just scared.” You muttered and smiled when Hermione nodded.

“At least we know how to defend ourselves.” She muttered and moved over in her spot on one of the benches to allow you to sit next to her.

“Do you think we’ll need to? I thought Dumbledore thought it was just a spell gone wrong. Or a potion… one of the Hufflepuffs was talking about it.” You asked, accepting the seat and looking over the cover of the book she was reading before she flipped the book open again to the page she had marked with her thumb.

“I hope not.” She muttered. She had turned her attention back to the book which made you smile when you realised that no one else would be able to pull her attention away for the next few chapters at least.

Tags:

@decadentrebelkitten @samhainrain @moonmaidwn1996 @gillybear17 @ravennoore14 @the-caravello-post @killing-gremlin @aegonandaemondtargaryenslut18 @lchufflepuffcorn @geekyandgay98 @savagemickey03 @evattude @kaitieskidmore1 @sabrinasstar @fatherfigured @emsmultiverse @blxckdesire

[cator99]

Massive fuck you to the sole blue hair retard in the crowd who managed to get picked for Fran Lebowitz Q&A time (a time which, for those who are observant, the audience is given the opportunity to suggest a topic for her to riff on) and asked how she would solve the Israel Palestine conflict. This of course garnered a collective groan of utter disdain and succeeded in clearing her off the stage in less than a minute after she refused to touch that question. I know its topical but it's not like other serious subjects where she can weave her way through it using funny anecdotes with the goal of landing on some punchlines. Do they not grasp that she only uses politics as a conduit for humor? Theres a reason she states upfront that she is not an activist. The thing that really set an uneasy tone amongst the room is the awareness of the unlikelihood that this person would have asked this of any random celebrity. We all know why they asked her. Same reason that my unemployed ftm housemate, as I told him where I was going while putting my shoes on, proceeded to google her and immediately say "I cant find anything about her stance on palestine :///....." Yup. She's A Humorist. I didn't know what else to say. But these types truly seem to believe that anything and everything should be presented alongside an eyesore collage of flags and a series of infographics and anything falling short of that should be understood as an inherent affront to morality– displayed in how they sort of complain-brag about spending all day arguing with Whatever-Phobes on Instagram and getting worked up over rage bait twitter posts in the name of Activism. Before I could finish collecting my thoughts, he continues: "...but I did find this drawing someone did of her in an IDF uniform. With a kid in a chokehold!" Yes. Thank you. I'm aware of the prevalence of antisemitism. Case in point. He continued on to say that while he Likes Comedy, that here aren't enough Leftist Comedians for him to feel Safe trying to Engage with it. Why are these types incapable of so much as looking in the direction of anything that isn't an exact mirror of their experiences or beliefs without shitting themselves? It's scrupulosity OCD to a fucking T. And jesus christ if you're going to a comedian for their political beliefs you're not only exposing yourself as someone without much in terms of a serious investment in actual politics to begin with but also a tragically humorless person– ie the type to show up to see Fran Lebowitz and clear the room with your inability to read it. One of the many pitfalls of illiteracy is that its impacts aren't restricted to the confines of a piece of paper.

[ablatheringblatherskite]

My Deaf!Raoul fic is finally DONE!!

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Summary:

Christine looked at Raoul’s small form again and concluded his loneliness, a sensitive nature, and a desire to be understood. While her father and the count continued to converse... Christine determined to learn this ‘language of the hands'.

THIS TOOK ME WAY TOO LONG TO FINISH BUT HEY, AT LEAST IT'S FINALLY DONE!! I hope y'all like it! I'm pretty happy with this one 🥹

I hope all those mysterious anons who kept asking about this fic actually like it 😭

Screenshot of Tumblr post from @major-knighton that inspired this fic under the cut! (EDIT: Found the original post!)

[always-is-always]

Insights come, through original content

It's definitely worth the time, to watch as much original content as possible. BIG note to self.

I've watched all four seasons of Bon Voyage, and just finished the four years of Summer Package. Lots of stuff that I have seen bits and pieces of before, in a lot of compilation videos and "analysis" videos. VERY interesting to see all of it within it's original context, in each show.

Yeah, there's a bit of Jikookery as people call it, in some of it. Most of it I had seen out of context, during my first couple of years in the fandom (when I didn't have any idea about anything). There are a few moments here and there that I haven't seen before which are primarily touches, and super subtle stuff.

The interesting thing is how people have taken so many of those moments out of context to support a story that they are presenting, in their compilations or "analysis". Yes, it can be said that other parts of the fandom have done the same thing, for the same purpose.

One of the moments from BV in Malta that everyone has seen comes to mind, here as I type. It is when they are all at a restaurant, and Jimin and Jungkook are seated across from each other. They reach out at the same time, to offer a bite of food to each other. That is a favorite clip that j-kookers love to use, to prove their theory. I mean, I do think it is cute and sweet, and I do believe that Jimin and Jungkook are together (in a closeted relationship), I just think that it's really a disservice when people leave out the other part of that scene. You know, when Jimin is then offering bites of his food to the other members, too. It wasn't just a Jimin and Jungkook thing, like is portrayed in many of the YT videos I have seen...

The other things I noted are how the editing was just so chopped up and discombobulated at times. Like When you see Jimin literally sitting down right next to Jungkook and then suddenly it is edited and next thing you see is Jimin on the opposite side of the group, not sitting where he had just sat down a second before. lol... Yeah, there's a TON of that crappy editing in all of the series and shows. I'm guessing that as they got into 2017, 2018, 2019 that they had to do a lot more editing as Jimin and Jungkook kinda started being more open with their antics. lol...

I kind of understand why people like to create those videos over on YT. There's thousands of them probably, and literally millions of viewers who like that type of thing. I was one who watched a bunch of it, as I mentioned before. It was before I understood what a lot of it was, and before I understood how much manipulation there was.

What's next on tap for me? I'm not sure. There's a ton of content still for me to make my way through. It has been enlightening to say the least. I do see the shift in the way that Jimin and Jungkook were from the early years into 2019, from what I have watched so far. There's so much there that clearly shows that they had particular types of experiences with each other, behind closed doors. I mean, anyone who has ever had a lover would see it in their energy(if you sense or see energy) and in the way that they would touch each other. It is as clear as the sun in the sky.

I can only imagine the complexities that the members had to navigate in their relationships with each other, their communication of how they felt to each other, and in working out HOW to have two members in a close intimate relationship within the group. Talk about a complicated situation. That puts it mildly. No wonder Namjoon had so many moments when they were in front of cameras, audiences, interviewing and such. No freakin' wonder.

Sorry for this long ramble..... I've just been thinking a lot about them and about what I have seen in these shows. Like I have mentioned, I hadn't seen much of the original stuff that was on Weverse, sold on DVD, or behind pay walls. I didn't actually understand what the heck "Summer Package" meant! lol... There's a TON of content that I have still to watch. This will be an ongoing thing for me, during these months while we wait for June 2025. There's probably going to be more rambles like this one, to come.... 😁💜

[wigglebox]

'he said now it [15x18] doesn't need to be addressed'

that's not what jackles said. that's like, a smallllll snippet of the entire thing. he essentially, in my opinion, said the Testament aka cas' Declaration and proof of love [i find it interesting he corrects himself from confession to testament by the way when we all call it the confession, he calls it a testament, which is astoundingly amazing] stands as it is, and that their love for each other is going to basically be understood when they're reunited. They don't need to have a sit-down chat or long-winded therapy discussion about their feelings.

We, the audience, also know where they both stand with each other. This concept that they'll get Cas back and he won't know that Dean loves him back is astounding to me. Jackles is saying essentially that they're each other's people, that they found each other, that they keep finding each other, and that when they reunite, both of their feelings will be understood.

And that dean understands. When they reunite, it will be understood that dean understands. He didn't say there wasn't going to be reciprocation, just that Cas' words don't need resolving.

Aka, what's changed from previous answers he's given? From "let's talk about that goodbye" to now? I'm being mostly serious when i say, i think they've outlined that scene or have a rough outline on how that scene is going to go and he's trying to give an answer without giving away the store lol.

I say this because this was a pretty detailed answer, in my opinion, and him calling Cas' words a testament instead of 'the confession' also makes me think there have been some conversations.

i know that assumption is wildly speculative because who knows where they are in the continuation process behind these scenes but given the fact that it's actually quite useless to even have a continuation unless they follow up the destiel arc and finish up that storyline, i do think it's been top of mind for everyone involved. Yes, including jackles. Don't even get me started on him correcting that fan who shouted subtext with text.

he was being thoughtful in his answer and trying to find the right words, in my opinion.

The half-jokey way I'm going to end this is: Dean is gonna run up to him and give him a big ol' hug n' smooch.

Joking... but also not joking at all haha.

But Dean's also a man of action and his love can be seen through those actions and if a man is going to hope universes and try to potentially jailbreak into The Empty to get me (if that's what they wind up doing which I thnk they are) that's love in my opinion as well. He's done that also twice in Purgaytory, ignoring an easy way out until he found Cas, putting his own well-being at risk, and also ignored a time limit and risked getting trapped in there because he couldn't find Cas so...

Suffice it to say, I also think in general, you just gotta give the man some faith and just see what happens.*

(*but also, it'll never be 100% how we wrote fics or speculated in our head, nor should it be; storytelling is an art and science, and you can predict some things, but you have to also go with the flow with others).

There's absolutely no hard concrete evidence anywhere that 15x18 won't have a follow-up in continuation, and no, Jackle's purcon answer doesn't fall under that either. in my opinion.

[cellarspider]

8/30 Seek and Destroy

(Previous) | (Index) | (Next)

⛬

We return to the movie that I wish to spin in a centrifuge until it separates into layers of its constituent parts, Prometheus.

Content warning for desecration of a dead body, continuing bumblefuck destruction of alien artifacts, and David being the adversarial two year old that he literally is.

Before we begin: Have you turned off Tumblr’s latest “feature”, which opens your account up to AI data harvesting? If not: do it! Log in from a web browser (the app doesn’t have this checkbox yet), go to “Blog Settings”, scroll down to “Visibility”, and turn on “Prevent third-party sharing for [BLOG NAME]”. Do this for each blog you have. Do it. Do it now. Tell your friends, it’s the hot new thing. Run free into the wilderness. This message will repeat whenever I feel like it.

Anyway, on with the show.

David is the most prepared crew member. While nobody else seems to have a single clue between their ears and most of the crew wasn’t even briefed prior to setting out, David has been studying for the past two years, treating language as a puzzle. He’s going to take what he learned and apply it to anything he finds in the alien complex.

And he will apply it whenever the mood takes him, because he is, again, two years old. That was the sense I got in the theater–he finds things he can mess with, and does so without hesitation or consultation with the humans. And while my instincts were still screaming that they shouldn’t even have landed yet, his behavior was the only one that made sense. He has been taught that he is only wanted when he’s useful. He has not been taught to keep his hands to himself. He figures the place out faster than the humans, and he seems pleased with himself for doing so. Therefore, he’s going to do so as much as possible.

As a result, we watch the cast act like screeching gibbons over a hologram. David had begun prodding at marks on the wall that look suspiciously like cuneiform (I’ll rant about it later), and he turned on a hologram projector. Simian crew noises ensue.

Those in the audience who are in the know are also expected to begin screeching excitedly at this point. The hallways they’re in are already taking on H. R. Giger’s signature biomechanical style. These holograms are showing us eight foot tall beings similar to his Space Jockey design.

The Space Jockey, named as such by the Alien production team, was one of those mysterious things about the original movie. Fused to what might have been the helm of the ship, seemingly alone with a hold full of carefully-arranged xenomorph eggs, and long-dead from a chestburster that had infected it. It set a warning signal before its death, misinterpreted by the crew of the Nostromo.

The movie never explained what the Space Jockey had been doing. Was this a cargo ship? A weapon? Was xenomorph reproduction somehow linked to the Space Jockey lifestyle? Their religion? Absolutely no information was given, and thus depictions of the Space Jockeys in subsequent media were split on whether they were benevolent, malevolent, entirely indifferent toward others, or simply too alien to be understood.

Physically, it was a complicated design for Alien’s crew to pull off, even as a corpse. The studio didn’t want to budget for it, and Giger ended up putting in a lot of extra work to help finish the statue. To make it seem even bigger than it was, the children of Ridley Scott and cinematographer Derek Vanlint were put into miniature space suits to give a sense of titanic scale to the creature, three times their height.

Scott made the logistical decision in Prometheus to scale these beings down significantly, purely for the difficulty in setting up shots and creating more sets scaled to this thing. It’s understandable, but I know some people are disappointed by it. As are others by the obvious implication you first get in this scene: the Space Jockey’s truly bizarre appearance is simply some sort of suit, worn by the far more humanoid aliens already seen in Prometheus’ opening.

Normally, I might be among those disappointed by that. I love monsters dearly, if my blog doesn’t give that away already. But there is a minimum threshold for inhuman features that the Engineers still meet for me. Something about the eyes and the uncanny look of their skin, both of which were deliberate choices by Ridley Scott and Neal Scanlan, the film’s creature designer who started with the Henson Company on movies like The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth, and has worked on the new Star Warses, including the absolutely fantastic Andor. Even in behind-the-scenes shots, they manage to look just odd enough to be pleasing to me.

(https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407324586)

I respect the design work that went into it and I like the final result, though I am very sympathetic to those who felt that this was an unnecessary explanation for a creature that was a more powerful symbol when it had no explanation.

Talking about such things is my happy place, and unfortunately we have to go back to The Bad Place now. The characters.

They find an alien corpse decapitated by a door (the great goddess O’Sha is most displeased), and within two minutes they’re sticking a meat thermometer in it.

Fifield the geologist has a panic attack, which is pretty relatable.

“Look, I'm just a geologist. I like rocks. I love! rocks!

Now it's clear you two don't give a shit about rocks.”

He’s right and he should say it. They should still be orbiting the planet looking for artificial structures, and Fifield should be having fun doing an aeromagnetic survey or something.

But no. Meat thermometer. Sorry, “carbon reader”. Says the body’s been dead about two thousand years. They have just punched a hole in the first alien body they’ve ever found, to get precisely one data point. This is what is called a “destructive analysis.”

Destructive analysis is a technical term, so let me define it: You know how a team just read the text inside of a charcoalized lump that used to be a Roman scroll? How they didn’t destroy anything in the scroll to do that? How we might be on a path to getting so many ancient texts it could radically reshape our understanding of the period, and all it will take is some fancy x-ray scans and computers? The opposite of that. Think the opposite of that.

I’m going to go on a tangent out of pure spite and desire to educate. Carbon dating is complicated. There’s two isotopes (types) of carbon: Carbon 14 and carbon 12. C-14 is very, veeeery slightly radioactive, which means it will eventually burp out a little subatomic particle and turn into the non-radioactive Nitrogen 14. C-14 is mostly created in our atmosphere, so once something’s dead and in the ground, it’s not gaining any more C-14, it’s slowly turning into N-14.

We know how long C-14 takes to turn into N-14, it’s about 50,000 years to lose all but 0.2% of the original C-14. If you know how much C-14 something should start with, then you can take a look at how much C-14 your sample actually has, and you can calculate how long it’s been dead. Here’s a quick explainer from Scientific American to visually summarize this.

Now, the more complicated part. You have to know the starting conditions if you want to be accurate. You have to calibrate everything, because the amount of C-14 available in an environment can change over time. We have ways of doing this, but it usually means carefully studying the environment and other clues.

So if you were to actually find carbon-based alien corpses on an alien planet, you’d need to identify the atmospheric carbon isotope ratio, and then you’d be able to make a sketchy, poorly-calibrated estimation, that could be wildly off by a large margin. A critter that did a lot of traveling in its life would be especially hard to date, as you couldn’t be sure if it’d lived where you found it for long enough to take up the local C-14 levels.

In this case, their fancy meat thermometer might be plugged directly into the script, because the number they give is only about 60 years off the actual death date. How do I know this? Because of a thing I’m not saying yet.

That’s enough for this post right now. But I’m not done with this moment. I don’t like this moment, and I need to properly explain why. Next time.

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Citations for alt-text rambles:

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chemiluminescence 2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piezoluminescence 3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triboluminescence 4. https://dedalvs.com/ 5. https://www.reddit.com/r/conlangs/

[erme-aeterna-arts]

jack rackham and the breaking of the fourth wall

(not really, but it sounds cool and you’ll see what i mean)

jack, silver and flint are the three characters most aware of the presence of the narrative. everyone else is opposing/upholding the system, the empire, their personal enemies, but these three target the narrative itself, hence all the soliloquizing about stories, narratives, names, history, art. they approach the subject very differently, but they are all very conscious about the narrative being the center of the show.

the only ones to be so, just like they were the only ones to see the wrecks of the urca with their own eyes and to know where the gold was buried later.

but i digress. jack is different from flint and silver because he also seems to be the one most aware of them all being in a prequel to treasure island, of himself being forever remembered due to a general history of the pyrates (the books itself is even shown while he finishes his speech).

jack rackham, as the real life dude, is said to have invented the jolly roger flag, which which may or may not be historically accurate (see wiki), but our jack definitely did do it and no wonder that it was him (jack: a story is true, a story is untrue, they said i made this flag, so yeah it was i).

the process of the creation of this flag is carried out from s2 till s4, which is a lot of time and signifies it as incredibly important.

in s2:

JACK: We all have the same swords out there. We all have the same guns. But, great art, has felled empires, and therein lies all the difference.

FEATHERSTONE: I don't, understand what that means.

JACK: No, but I do. So not to worry.

in s4:

JACK: A story is true. A story is untrue. As time extends it matters less and less. The stories we want to believe... Those are the ones that survive, despite upheaval and transition, and progress. Those are the stories that shape history. And then what does it matter if it was true when it was born? It's found truth in its maturity... Because what's it all for if it goes unremembered? It's the art that leaves the mark. But to leave it, it must transcend. It must speak for itself. It must be true.

i think, actually, this is the most and probably the only hopeful point in the finale, that reminds us that all that was not actually for nothing. we keep talking about the characters being doomed by the narrative, about the promised revolution that did not happen, because it was not supposed to happen, because we know the history and we know that the events of treasure island are meant to come to pass after we say our goodbyes to the black sails. but every story about stories is very aware that it is, in fact, a story. jack is the one who carries the knowledge that he is talking to us, the audience (hence the title of this post…), and i mean who else could he be talking to since most of the time on-screen characters tend to not listen to his rants and not understand what he refers to (because he says not for them, but for us!). and the fact that we are watching a show about queer people, about people resisting colonialism and deconstructing the very idea of the empire, is the proof that silver may have cancelled the revolution, but the pirates still have won.

we and everyone before us loved these stories. and if one spends enough time with these stories, enough time with the pirates, they might just start asking the right questions. like abigail ashe did, by the way. and that’s the only way for the world to know the truth.

and for that you indeed need to be remembered, to leave a reminder, a notion to all that you’ve been there. that we’ve been here. and always will be.

and jack was the one who understood that.