#first attempt at something like this it went adequately

[009isdrawing]

My superhero OCs Aquila and Corvus, in the style of a scan of an old comic. Finely aged.

[speed-world]

I think a pretty cute request would be one between Pattaya dragon and the reader.

In this case, they're taking care of Snapdragon cookie. Pattaya dragon cookie seems to have no parental skills, But it turns out his skills are more than adequate for a dragon baby. Y/N is constantly scared/worried pattaya is accidentally going to hurt Snapdragon, But they are consistently proven wrong and apologize near the end for not believing in Pattaya dragon.

Dragon Parenting!!

You had quite the busy day ahead of you, which proved to be an issue as you thought about watching over Snapdragon Cookie. You’d be too busy today to care for them properly, so you looked into getting them a sitter…until your red dragon mate came along-

“Hrrrr, hey, what are you up to?”

“I’m trying to find a babysitter to watch over Snapdragon today, ya nosy. I’ll be way too busy to look after them.”

“…..Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why?’ I want Snapdragon to be fine while I’m gone, plus I know a few cookies that are good with-“

“Ssssweetheart, I’m right here! Hello? I can easssily look after Snapdragon for however long you’re gone! I’m sssurpised you didn’t think about me first!”

“Umm…you see ah-how do I explain this. I’m not sure if it’s wise for you and Snapy to be alone. Together. With no other cookie to keep an eye on either of you.”

“Ah-What?! Are you sssaying that I’m too recklesssss as a parent?”

You clasped your hands together and took a deep breath

“I-well, yes, sorta. I’m sorry ‘Taya it’s just-I’m worried that maybe you and Snapdragon alone together might break something or worse…”

Pitaya Dragon crossed their arms and huffed steam, visibly offended and upset.

“Krrrrr, I’ll prove you wrong! A dragon watching over another dragon is perfect! I can ssssatisfy any of Snapdragon Cookie’s needsss without issssue!! Go on and complete your errandsss, and you’ll come back to a well-kept home as alwayssss!”

You hesitated for a moment to think: two dragons left to themselves sounds nightmarish, especially if you ask Tarte Tatin Cookie, but this is your spouse and child. And Pitaya is right: as a dragon, they are more suited to tend to another dragon than you, even with your best efforts respectfully. You should be fully able to trust them together, right?

“Alright Taya, I’m sorry. I completely and wholly trust you. I’ll see you later today, alright? Be good now, Snapdragon!”

Pitaya smiled as you both shared a quick kiss. Snapdragon Cookie flew up to give you a hug goodbye before you went out the door. Now everything will be fine, it will all be fine…

….

The day had gone by pretty well!! Completing your tasks one by one continually motivated you throughout your time. But maybe there was something else motivating you….

Yeah, there was. It was the thought of Pitaya and or Snapdragon breaking something or getting hurt.

The thoughts would just eat away at the back of your mind, never seeming to leave despite your best efforts to wash them away. You kept reminding yourself to trust Pitaya, yet the images of returning home to ruined furniture and scratched walls were getting more frequent and more graphic…

As you were finishing up your last errand, you took a moment to breathe and remain stationary; attempting to calm your mind. …..it didn’t really work, and you began to take the shortest route back home.

Once you arrived, you made a mad dash to the front door and frantically tried to unlock it. After finally opening the door, your eyes widened…and then softened as you saw a sleepy Snapdragon being put to bed by Pitaya. The red dragon turned and noticed you, and they walked to you after laying down Snapdragon.

“Ssssoo, how was your day~?”

“G-good, actually. I’m really sorry for doubting you Pitaya, it looks like you got everything under control.”

“Kehehehe, told you!!”

“Hey now not so loud, you just put Snapdragon to bed.”

“Ah-r-right. *ahem* Told you~~!”

“Heh, yeah yeah, I’m glad you proved me wrong my love.”

Pitaya lifted you into a bridal-like carry and nuzzled your cheek, sitting down on the couch with you on their lap.

“I love you, sssweetheart~.”

“I love you too, ‘Taya~.”

[spitdrunken]

So Pokemon Scarlet is the first Pokemon game I've actually gotten and played at release, which is very exciting for me. I love the sandwich stealer lizard puppy bike very much. Was sad but unsurprised to learn that I couldn't breed it during picnic time like I could other things, even with a ditto there, but it got me thinking about potential in-game reasons why. What if some ancient Pokemon, and Koraidons especially, were more choosey and likely monogamous, picking a singular mate? What if, since ours didn't get on with the other Koraidon, it imprinted on the trainer? What if the trainer(especially a female or ftm trainer)got older, sexually matured, and Koraidon suddenly got overprotective, got deliberately flashier in fights, and started refusing to stay in it's ball at night? What if the trainer woke up one night to Koraidon rutting it's large cock against them, clearly wanting to mate but not knowing properly how to with something so different? Have I thought about this multiple times over the last several months, and possibly too much? (Probably lol)

To clarify, assuming it went through, Mate!Koraidon wasn't a request per se, but rather just a sharing of thoughts. Wonder what other reasons people have for not being able to properly breed legendaries too. :3

notes: Pokephilia

Anon your mind is so huge for this and I really love it :')!! And Koraidon really is such a cutie <3

I loooove the idea that it has imprinted on its trainer! You've been looking after and guiding it through many, many battles, always making sure that there's food for it to eat and it can rest when needed… For a while, carrying you on your back to wherever you need to go had seemed adequate payback to it, but as you grow, it realises there's more it can do for you! It's not an idea you can get out of, at all. Once a Legendary has its mind set on a particular partner, there's absolutely nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it.

Koraidon wants nothing more than to protect you, but you're letting it battle less and less. All at once, it's gotten far more aggressive! There's always a certain amount of damage done during a Pokémon battle, sure, but there's been a change in the air. If any attack veers even a little too close to you, Koraidon turns absolutely ruthless. You've had to put it back in it's ball a couple of times, by force. Even then, it breaks out again within less than a minute— You trust it with your life and aren't afraid of it, but you are afraid that it'll hurt someone. It was never a problem before. To you, nothing else seems to have changed! It's just a sudden and drastic personality shift.

Maybe it's been coming on to you for months! Trying to court you in a way that is completely foreign and means nothing to you… Most likely, it had never even crossed your mind that Koraidon would be trying to do anything of the sort! When it crouches over and ruts against you in the night, it takes no enjoyment out of it. It's more a sign of frustration, with all of its attempts to interest you in it so far thwarted… But, maybe, with its intentions laid out so clear now, you'll reciprocate?

I won't expand on this thought much further because I don't know if you're into that anon, but oh to be impregnated by Kiraidon… drool….

[ivystoryweaver]

3 Times Jake Lockley Tried to Kill You and 1 Time He Saved Your Life

Part 1 of 5 - Knife

Miniseries Masterlist || Main Masterlist || next

Pairing: Jake Lockley x f!reader

Summary: Jake has been hired to assassinate you - the daughter of Chicago's most powerful and corrupt man

Or: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

Word Count: 2.5k

Content: nsfw, mdni, more below the cut, READ the warnings. Dead dove - you will get what is warned!

There is no non-con in this fic, but it's dark in the sense that the reader IS in real danger from Jake. Violence, language, stalking, blood, knife play, also actual knife use - like for its intent - stabbing, danger, sexy dreams, glove kink, masturbation, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

The second time Jake saw you up close, he darkly chuckled to himself at how easy of a mark you were.

Everyone in his line of work knew who you were - the beautiful daughter of the most powerful man in the city. And your father had endless enemies.

Including the one who hired Jake to take you out. Jake's boss was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid. To assassinate the most powerful mob boss' only daughter required someone removed from the situation. Someone professional. Invisible.

Jake wasn't stupid either. There wasn't enough money in this city to lure him into crossing your father.

No, this was plain, old fashioned revenge. So maybe Jake's boss was stupid - this was personal, for Jake anyway.

So tonight, as he saw you walking out of a club with your girlfriends, your inept bodyguards flanking you, he sneered.

You had style - that, Jake had to admit. Your dress fit you like a glove, but landed an inch or so longer than your obvious minions’ skirts. The girls around you were trying too hard. You didn’t have to.

They flocked to your power and your money (or your father's), but the attempt was desperate, at best.

But you held yourself with a self-assurance and something Jake had no idea he was interested in until he'd started tailing you: class.

Your eyes shone as your laughter rang out into the night. You must’ve been a little tipsy, if the glow of your cheeks was any indication.

The bodyguards - who Jake mentally referred to as Dumb and Dumber - ushered the small group of you into a waiting car.

Jake thought about it: driving you. Using his day (or night) job to get close to you. Too complicated. You had a faithful driver, well paid, who had shuttled you around the city practically all your life. Then, of course there were Dumb and Dumber and the other girls to...dispose of.

So no driving. Not this time.

You rarely ventured out alone, but Jake had discovered your quietest moments. You lived in a hotel, actually - one of your father's - in a penthouse, with, at least, adequate security.

So, no home invasion. That made Jake feel like a creep anyway, and he wasn't a creep. He was a professional.

He found the easiest access to you would likely come during one of your early morning jogs in the park, or while you liked to shop or run errands during the day.

In fact, he walked right by you just yesterday.

That was the first time he saw you up close.

You were even more beautiful up close.

Yesterday, he simply wanted to see if Dumb and Dumber would notice how close he got. He was also checking out the lack of security cameras in the park.

He had to do this right. And even then, he would flee afterward. He hated this city anyway.

Fucking Chicago. Every horrible thing in his life went wrong in this city. New York never treated him so poorly. And besides, the alter in his head preferred life across the pond. So, finishing this job would be the perfect excuse to never return.

So the next morning, he arrived in the park before sunrise. Sure enough, you came jogging round the corner, an unsafe number of strides ahead of Dumb and Dumber. Or...it was only Dumber this time. One bodyguard? Seriously, this was too easy.

All it took was a gloved hand around your mouth and a knife to your ribs to get you where he wanted you, into the dense thicket, away from prying eyes.

You struggled, but Jake’s experience won out. He used the tip of his knife to inflict the slightest twinge of pain.

"I can make this almost painless," he breathed on your ear.

You whimpered, angry with yourself for going limp in his arms as you felt the pinch of pain in your ribs.

However, you're weren't stupid either. If he wanted to kill you, he would have dragged that blade across your jugular with your mouth still covered. You would bleed out silently and he would have plenty of time to escape before your bodyguard found you.

His annoying poke to your ribs and striking up a conversation meant he wanted something else and that's why you shuddered. This was a kidnapping or an assault. Or he was a sick freak who wanted to play with his food first.

He whirled you around and pushed you up against a tree, crowding in front of you, with your mouth still covered.

The tree's bark scraped against your bare legs, but cold, dark eyes which - under different circumstances, might have captivated you - momentarily distracted you.

Distinguished nose - mouth set in a thin line, strong, square jaw with a beard - well kempt. Dark brown curls peeked out of a flat cap. He almost looked like something out of the 1930's when you really thought about it.

Which...given the circumstances, why in the hell were you thinking about his looks?

Finding your courage, you tried to speak against his gloved hand. He positioned the knife at your throat - finally a more useful spot - and breathed against your cheek. "Scream and it'll be your last word, doll."

You nodded quickly, trying to blink back the moisture in your eyes. Your father was going to end this asshole, but you might suffer mightily first.

Slowly, Jake removed his hand, keeping it close to your mouth in case you got any ideas.

"Why didn't you just cut my throat?" You gasped, your chest heaving, drawing his eyes momentarily down to the fit of your sports bra and your chest, glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

"Are you offering suggestions?" One dark eyebrow shot up, almost comedically.

"It would be the quickest and quietest way," you confessed, shrugging one shoulder. "I'm just trying to see what I'm in for. You want me to beg or something? Cry? Just tell me and get it over with."

Jake chucked.

Oh. So he was a condescending asshole. Awesome.

Still, he didn't taunt you or threaten you, which probably meant ... damn it.

"Aw hell, you're a pervert then?" You scoffed. "I'm not a virgin, if that's what you're hoping."

That puzzled your captor, but only for a moment. " - no," he scoffed. "That's not something I have to...coerce."

You rolled your eyes, but made sure to keep still because that knife tip was starting to dig into your throat. "I'm sure you're a real catch. Just get this over with. My bodyguard will be here soon."

The corner of Jake's mouth curled. "Trust me, I'm not worried about him."

You shivered slightly, realizing he'd done his homework. "What do you want?" You managed, a little more desperately than you were hoping to sound.

"Revenge," he evenly responded

You locked eyes and saw honesty there.

You slightly nodded, swallowing hard as his breath ghosted your cheek.

"W-what did I do to you?"

Jake's eyes darkened as he pulled the blade from your throat and positioned it right over your heart.

"Your father killed my brother."

Wetting your lips, you whispered, "I'm sorry. I-I don't know anything about that."

"'Course you don't," Jake sneered. "But your father does."

"So I have to pay for your brother's life with my own?" You hurriedly reasoned. "You think that will make my father suffer the way you have? There's no way. I don't even think he loves me." Your voice was now dripping with panic, but Jake started to admire the way you fired off protests.

"Nice try," Jake scoffed. "Everyone knows you're daddy's pride and joy. You're the only way to his heart."

"Then do it," you spat. "I hate all this Criminal Minds villain discourse bullshit. Just put us both out of our misery."

"Villain?" Jake huffed. "I'm the villain? Your father has corrupted this entire city! And you benefit from every cent and every life he takes. You're the villain - both of you."

"Then what are you fucking waiting for?" You hissed, jerking against him, causing the knife to slip and slice your chest.

"Shit!" You cried out, your hands flying to cover your wound, which was only superficial, but still hurt like hell.

The gloved hand clamped back over your mouth as the knife tip dragged down your sternum to just under your ribs once more. Without hesitation, he pushed the blade into your abdomen.

You screamed into his hand, tears streaming down your face. Your body flamed with searing pain as you went limp in his arms.

"Shhh, shh, sweetheart. It's only enough to slow you down. You'll live. Promise."

And he fucking left you there.

With his knife inside you.

Oh your father was going to crucify this asshole.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You spent hardly any time at all in the hospital - the wound was so insignificant. Still, you were stabbed so it warranted medical attention and your father was furious. He attempted to double security around you and forbade you from leaving your penthouse.

You indulged him for a day or so but you weren't one to be caged. He'd made your life enough of a living hell. You felt scared all the time, always a pressure point for him - a bargaining chip for his enemies.

You didn't tell him about the bouquet of tulips you received from your attacker, with a note that read, 'Did you keep what I left inside you?'

The next day, gardenias arrived with another note. 'I'll show you how to use it sometime.'

Okay, so maybe you were stupid. Because instead of turning the notes over to your father, or even the police (not likely), you kept them to yourself.

The most intriguing thing about this mystery man was how he was managing to get these flowers and notes past your (obviously shit) security.

You dreamed.

He's pinned you up against the tree. His gloved hand applies pressure to your throat. The tip of his knife blade traces lightly over your bottom lip, before he drags it down the smooth column of your throat. He trails down your chest, raking it between your breasts before slicing right through your sports bra. Your breasts spring free and his eyes darken. He grazes your nipple with the blade - the cool metal electrifying your peak, making it go stiff.

His grip on your throat loosens as he pushes gloved fingers up over your jaw and slips his leather clad digits into your mouth. His eyes find yours again as you obediently suck without being asked.

He pushes his fingers to the back of your throat, gagging you, which makes him smirk.

Then he surprises you by taking his hand out of your mouth and pushing the hilt of the knife into your palm.

"Hold this for me, baby," he instructs, roughly shoving his sopping wet glove - wet with your spit - into your tight leggings, slipping them between your already soaked folds.

Your hand shakes as you realize you have the power - you have the knife and you can get away. You can hurt him back, like he hurt you.

Without another thought, you jab the knife into his side, even as his gloved thumb circles your clit.

"That's my girl," he pants as blood pools and spills through his crisp, white dress shirt. You yank the knife back out, puzzled, but your brain is starting to short-circuit from the wildest fingerfucking you've ever experienced.

You try to whisper his name, wondering if he'll be okay, but you realize - you don't even know his name. You have no inkling whose fingers are stuffed inside your cunt, even as you grind down on his palm, riding his glove like a toy.

You woke up covered in sweat, slick heat pooled between your legs even as your belly filled with shame.

Without another thought, you reached into your nightstand drawer for the knife he left inside you.

You yanked your nightgown aside, gently running the cool metal over your nipples, just the way he'd done in your dream.

You shoved your fingers into your mouth, just like he had, and once they were sopping you slid them into your silky panties and rubbed your clit furiously.

"Oh god," you moaned, writhing, carefully scraping the knife across your other nipple before a nasty idea formed. You used the knife handle and pushed it down over your clit with two fingers of the opposite hand stuffed inside you.

You felt wrong - disgusted with yourself. The man wasn't being sexy - this wasn't some fantasy of a dangerous man in the woods. He had no interest in you. He threatened you - stabbed you, for fuck's sake. Who knew what else he was capable of? He could've taken advantage of your body or sliced your throat.

And now he'd sent the flowers and messages. So he was probably a stalker. This would escalate and be dragged out, just like you'd wanted to avoid.

He was probably watching you right now.

...which, to your utter shame made you feral.

You moaned so loudly, you were sure your bodyguards would rush in.

"Can you see me?" You panted, repulsed with yourself, but so close, rubbing the blunt end of the knife faster and faster over your clit as you shoved your fingers as deep as they would go.

One more thought of that horrible man plunging his knife in you and your back arched euphorically as a powerful orgasm wracked your body - as good as any with your array of top-of-the-line toys.

As you lay there panting, wondering how you would rid yourself of this shameful new obsession - masturbating to a man who wanted revenge against your father - who attacked you and honestly, showed no real interest in you - you decided you needed a way to reach him.

He was able to get to you somehow, by sending you flowers and notes.

So the next day, you instructed your staff to return a wrapped, sealed box to whomever delivered flowers, and you paid handsomely to make sure the box got back to the sender.

It may never make it to the mystery man, but you had to try.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

"I told you - you can't come back here," Jake scolded the young delivery boy.

"Sorry, mister. That lady gave me a ton of money to bring this to you."

Fortunately, Jake had met up with this little idiot on a street corner and not near where he lived, nor near his car. He also used a false name.

It was risky enough sending things to you, but you got under his skin.

He knew this was all a bad idea. His boss wanted you dead and Jake wanted his revenge for Randall.

But here he was, behaving like a pathetic stalker, sending you flowers and creepy notes, bypassing your security.

And now you sent something back?

Jake pulled the lid from the box and almost choked. It was his knife. Something had...dried on the handle, along with what he could only assume was still your blood on the blade. And there was a handwritten note.

'I came on it.'

next

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Jake Lockley-Centric stories

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[that-hazbin]

Media Demon AU

Fleshing out the handover of 'power' of the porn industry and reminding people that Vizziepop created a fandom representative for the more mentally cracked of us. As well as making a vampire/werewolf movie franchise infinitely worse because why not?

Alastor wondered for the millionth time what he was reading, the script in his hands was awful, well and truly awful.

It was spelled correctly, formatted perfectly the paper had no suspicious marks or smells and it had made it's way past the editing troupe to end up on his desk. And while he was sure someone would appreciate this level of filth that someone was not him. Alastor removed his monocle and sighed feeling every one of his additional time displaced 100+ years.

Alastor allowed himself to complain aloud, "I very much don't want to be in charge of porn, I actually hate this, can literally anyone else take it off my hands?"

Alastor startled as Angel Dust spoke from the couch "I've got six, I can take that and more. Gimme."

Alastor had forgetton Angel Dust was in the room with his own stack of paperwork, the spider had recently managed to kick the narcotics habit Valentino had tried to force on him and had only recently stopped trying desperately trying to be of use to Alastor in a repayment attempt.

The therapy programme Alastor has kickstarted really was proving it's worth.

More importantly Alastor saw a out, Angel Dust could handle the porn industry and Alastor could focus on the less disgustingly vile overlord aspects. Like good theatre, radio shows and the occasional bloody murder.

"Very well your first task is..." Alastor cast about for a adequate test of Angel Dust's management skills, his gaze landed on the very script that had sent him into despair. "This.. Your task is turning this piece of fiction written for the Valentines Day Writing contest into something film worthy"

Angel Dust oh'ed happily as he started to flip through the script squinting at it sideways with confusion and slight admiration, "This the winner of that film script contest? Winner gets their script made into a movie?"

Alastor winced, faking a laugh, "The Young Miss sure has some... talent.. in spinning a yarn!"

Angel Dust reached the page Alastor had been on and whistled, "Spicy too, you leave it to me Smiles! I'll have Miss Emberlynn's work in cinema faster than you can say" Angel Dust carefully read the title of the script, letting lose a slight giggle that followed Alastor as he exited the room "The Erotic Sunset Adventures of the Imp, the Werewolves and the Vampire coven!"

Yes, it's explicit Twilight Fanfiction spin with a Blitzo cameo written by Emberlynn Pinkle from Helluva Boss, I went there, it's funny okay!

I LOVE EMBERLYNN SO MUCH VGRFCDRV I'm not sure when she dies and if she'd even fit with the timeline but I don't CARE, it would be SO funny for her, specifically, to be the reason why Alastor just. Quits. Hands it over to Angel and wipes his hands of the mess. He's too old to be dealing with this shit okay.

Alastor would fully lose his goddamned mind if he had to face her in person, it's a good call to hand that over to Angel. And boy, Angel is going to have FUN with her absolutely depraved writing. He's going to prove himself pretty great as the head of the porn industry in Alastor's stead.

[inmyheaddd]

can i call you tonight? - xander hawthorne x reader

a/n: i adore autumn with my whole heart but i’m missing those carefree summer romance vibes soo bad 😖 wc: 1.8k warnings: kissing, mild language, verryyy fluffy ur teeth might fall out masterlist

the sun was just beginning to set, the sky looking like something out of a painting, and you and xander had spent the whole day at the beach together — swimming, laughing, and, of course, getting covered in sand. 

now, still giggling from the ‘sand ball’ fight you had with him earlier, you both stumbled toward the beach shower, desperate to wash the sand off of you.

the water came out freezing at first, eliciting a yelp from you as you stumbled back — in turn making xander laugh, before you adjusted the temperature perfectly to your liking.

which, according to xander, was: very, very, hot.

“are you trying to boil us alive?” his eyes were comically wide, furrowing his brows after he stood under it for half a second, jumping back with a shout. 

you simply stood under the shower head calmly, attempting to get the sand out of your hair.

you huffed a laugh through your nose, “xander, it’s not even that hot, i—“

“—were the hours under the scorching sun not enough? you also need to stand under water that’s practically a few degrees away from turning you into a boiled lobster?” he rambled on. 

atleast he was so chill and normal about the temperature, so very calmly expressing his dislike!  

you stifled a laugh as he continued, unbotheredly wringing water out of your hair as you watched him complain. “i’m just saying, there’s a fine line between a shower and a chemical peel.” he said, pointing at the shower with a shake of his head. 

“that water is hot enough to sterilize surgical instruments.” he crossed his arms over his bare chest, as you watched him watch you, a slightly confused furrow in your brows and intrigued smile growing on your face.

a slow grin grew on his face as he raked his eyes over you, taking in your slightly sunburned nose, wet hair, and bathing suit you had picked out with him a few weeks back. 

he lolled his head to the side before he spoke, “i’m sorry— why was i mad again?”

you laughed at his quick demeanor change, playfully rolling your eyes and sighing dramatically before making the temperature colder and motioning for him to step in.  “just get in, you big baby.”

“oh, thankyou very much, i appreciate your willingness.” he responded, bowing his head jokingly as he stepped under the water, his hands finding your lower back instantly. 

but of course, xander being xander, couldn’t just stand there like a regular person. 

no, he shook his head, like some sort of dog sending water droplets and little sand particles everywhere. 

“xander!” you squealed, shielding your face and taking a step back, but you couldn’t stop laughing. 

“oh my god— you’re so annoying!” you squeaked out, still laughing.

he chuckled, taking a step closer to you and placing his hands where they just were, eyes sparkling with mischief as water dripped down his hair. “and you’re so easy to annoy.”

he reached out, gently brushing sand off your cheek, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “that wasn’t funny.” you said, biting back a smile. 

it was funny, but he didn’t have to know that.

“i’m sorry,” he faux pouted at you. he didn’t sound sorry, in fact, he sounded a little amused. 

you felt your stomach do a little flip, but before you could say anything, his eyebrows raised like a lightbulb went off in his head, and he grabbed the shampoo bottle from your beach bag on the ledge. 

“here, let me do this right.” he turned to stand behind you, pouring an adequate amount into his hand and then started working his fingers into your scalp. 

you tried to turn your head to ask him what he was doing, but it did feel a little nice to stand there and feel his hands run through your hair. okay, maybe not just a little.

he gently guided your head back forward. "hold still," he said, his voice lower, but with a little hint of that teasing edge remaining. 

when he noticed you weren’t saying anything back, and that if anything you were feeling relaxed, he spoke again. 

“see, would you look at that?" he said softly, "i can be helpful too." 

you could practically hear the grin in his voice, but it was hard to focus on that with the way you felt like you were buzzing under his touch.

you hummed, “yeah, only when you want to be.” you let your eyes close for a moment, and then he spoke again.

“i want to be helpful with you all the time.” you could hear the fake pout in his voice, then it flipped completely, and you heard that grin in what he said next.

“i’d make an excellent stay at home husband for you, yeah?” he joked with his voice all breathy-like. 

“you wouldn’t have to worry about me complaining…” he trailed off, “you know, except about the shower temperature.”

you let out a little chuckle, and opened your mouth to remind him about the time he somehow burnt instant noodles, and that maybe being a stay-at-home husband wasn’t the right path. 

you didn’t get the chance to say anything, though, because he swiftly grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, standing you under the shower head. 

your eyelids immediately squeezed shut, squealing a little with your whole face scrunched up as the shampoo-y water ran down your hair.  you were careful not to get it in your eyes, laughing as xander stepped infront of you and gently moved your hair out of your face. 

you opened your eyes, still squinting a little as you looked up at him. “that also wasn’t funny.” you remarked. “not in the slightest.”

he quirked a brow up, looking like he was biting back a grin, “it wasn’t?” he asked, cocking his head to the side in question.

“no.” 

then a roguish smile started to spread on his face, and you began to deeply regret your words. 

“well then, would you like to see,” he paused for dramatic effect and raised his eyebrows, “something funny?”

you were the one biting back a smile now, taking a step back from xander as you shook your head, already anticipating what he was going to do. 

“…no.”

he rendered the step you took back obsolete as he stepped right on forward, his smile turning into a chuckle as you shook your head. 

there were about three things you were afraid of in this world, 1: a bug getting in your food and you eating it, 2: getting kidnapped and held hostage, and 3: xander blackwood hawthorne’s tickles. 

“xander, i was kidding, i swear.” you rambled with your voice dropping lower, trying to get out of this situation, but xander’s face only scrunched up in laughter as he gave you about 5 seconds to make your case.  

“you’re like, the funniest person i’ve ever met! you’re so charming and hilarious, and —“

your time was over, it seemed, because xander bent down and picked you up over his shoulder, his laughs increasing in volume as you squealed in the secluded beach. “xander! it was a joke, i promise! put me down!” 

as if he was on a quest to become even more annoying he began running to the beach beds, regardless of your protests which were now coming out more as laughs. 

he placed you on a beach bed breathlessly, his hands coming to cup your face as he basically climbed on top of you, then leant down to kiss you.

oh, you weren’t expecting that. 

granted, you were both still breathless, and the two of you were smiling and laughing against each other so much, that you weren’t sure whatever you were doing could be considered a kiss.

then it came. xander pulled back ever so slightly and his hands moved down and jabbed at your neck, then your sides, your arms, anywhere you were ticklish, and you were both equally a laughing wreck. 

you tried to peel his hands off of you as you writhed under him, repeating his name surely over 20 times in between giggles. 

after what seemed like forever, he stopped, putting his hands up in the air as he sat up, and your chest heaved as you caught your breath.

“now,” he said, “was that funny?” he raised an eyebrow, “choose your answer very wisely.” 

“fine,” you huffed, “it was a little funny.” 

his other brow joined the raised one at the top of his forehead, “that was not the wise  answer i thought of,” he muttered, as he slowly started put his hands back down towards you, your eyes darting between his face and his hands.

“okay. okay, yes!” you scrambled before he could literally attack you again, “i lied, it was funny, and not just a little.” 

his hands retreated, “brilliant. very wise answer,” he commented, “well done.” 

he brought his hands up to your jaw and only your jaw this time, cradling your face like he did earlier as he placed a short peck on your lips, but you pulled him in for a longer one. 

he smiled at that— you felt it, and he reciprocated the kiss 10x harder.  

 as he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, he murmured with his voice low. “question,”

“what is it?” you breathed out, still catching your breath. 

“does it genuinely annoy you when i tickle you like that?” he asked, his voice bare of any teasing, “don’t lie, please.” he added on. 

“besides, i can be very perceptive of micro-expressions, and i can feel your heartbeat against me right now.” 

you let out a little laugh, even though your heart was doing somersaults in that moment. xander was possibly  the most caring person you’d ever met —he was a deeply empathetic person underneath his rube goldberg obsessions and masks of humor he used so often.

“no,” you said truthfully, “i don’t actually get annoyed, i could never actually get annoyed at you. why?” 

you felt his breath hitch against your lips, a very un-xander like manner. “your micro-expressions and heart rate indicate you’re telling me the truth.” he muttered. 

how did he sound hot talking about micro expressions and heart rates?

then you realized, he was expertly dodging your question on “why?”.

“because it is the truth.” you muttered back, smiling a little as you watched him pull back too see your eyes better. 

he didn’t say anything after that— in lieu of words, he pressed another sweet kiss to your lips. he wasn’t one to expose his worries or be vulnerable very often, and you understood that. he’s opened before about people saying he’s ‘too much’ and how it sometimes gets to him, but in all honesty, you could never get enough of him.   

as you felt the warmth of his hands on your face and your lips moved across his in rhythm, a thought crossed your mind: 

if that’s what you get for telling him he was funny, you’d start telling him he’s a world class comedian now. 

tag list: @charsoamerican @ariabedumb @x-liv25-jamieswife @wish-i-were-heather @thecircularlibrary

@whatsamongus @littlemissmentallyunstable @anintellectualintellectual @bewitchingkisses @maybxlle

@sheisntyou @emelia07 @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee i love u guys 🙈🙈 if you’d like to be removed or added lmk!!

[warblogs17282]

Looks like it's time for me to discuss this piece of merch.

I instantly notice two things, the first being that Stolas genuinely looks terrified in the first picture, with the pupils that appear when Stolas is extremely stressed as well. They're not looking at Stella, however, they're looking away from her, at something else, or someone else.

The second thing being that Stella now appears to be laughing while looking directly as Stolas, who is now no longer wearing his crown. Stella and Octavia are still wearing their crowns, which I feel potentially implies that the second picture was taken after Stolas has lost his title of Prince. This is probably overthinking but I'd also like for you to pay attention to the fact that the arrows point to Stolas in both pictures, his face in the first picture, and his crownless head in the second picture.

Plus, the grimoire is now in shot for some reason, which considering Andrealphus' comment of 'Because, my dear sister, you've already produced an heir; when he dies, his duties, his possessions, his legions, it'll all pass to.... Via.', sure Andrealphus is talking about specifically if Stolas dies, but I feel like this would also be true if Stolas loses his title of Prince. His duties will be one of the things that will be passed to Octavia if that happens, which could explain specifically why the grimoire is present in the second picture.

All of this would also tie in perfectly with Stella's line of 'I'm going to take everything! Everything you own!', with one of those things being Stolas' title of Prince.

But getting back to the first thing I noticed, I think I can explain the specifics of why Stolas is so terrified in it.

A few lines from Paimon stick out to me, those being these ones:

"It is finally your day of becoming a true part of the Goetia family."

"Also, son, you are destined to sire a precautionary addition to the Goetia family."

"Would that distract you enough from your non-negotiable future marriage?"

The first thing Paimon does is basically hold Stolas at metaphorical gunpoint to sire (give birth to) a precautionary addition to the Goetia family. You may be asking, but Stolas did sire Octavia, why does he look so terrified in the first picture if it's not Stella he's looking at?

The answer is simple, it's because that metaphorical gunpoint I mentioned earlier extended beyond just siring Octavia, it likely went on until Octavia reached maturity/was close to reaching maturity. (aka, the age of 18.) Considering Octavia was just a very young child in the first picture, it tells us that the metaphorical gunpoint was still a factor for Stolas, hence explaining why Stolas looks so scared in it.

My proof for this is a few comments made in s2 e1. Those being:

"What do you think the rest of the Goetia family will think?"

"And the only thing the Goetia family wanted from our marriage is already 17, so, it's over, I'm DONE!"

The common link between all the lines I have showed you is the Goetia family, Stella uses the family to threaten Stolas, meaning that she is naturally aware of this metaphorical gunpoint as well, hence why she uses it in an attempt to stop Stolas from getting the divorce.

But then Stolas fires back, telling us that the only thing the Goetia family wanted is already 17, which most likely tells us two things.

The first being that the metaphorical gunpoint Stolas was under did extend past just siring Octavia, it also reached to raising Octavia until she was mature enough/close to mature enough, which was likely the age of 18, but at this point Octavia to close enough to age.

The second being that the same metaphorical gunpoint Paimon, and by extension, the Goetia family put Stolas under is no longer a worry because Octavia is now 17, close enough to reaching maturity for the Goetia family, which again, I believe is 18.

Considering all of this, I believe that this adequately explains specifically why Stolas looks so terrified in the first picture, and the fact he appears to be terrified of someone other than Stella in that picture as well.

Which begs the question, just what or who is Stolas looking at in that picture?

It's most likely Paimon, although, considering all the comments about the Goetia family that have been made throughout the show, in theory, it could be anyone in the Goetia family who reports to Paimon, or anyone with equal or higher class compared to Stolas.

[mj-iza-writer]

This is another Russian character story. I am attempting to learn as much of the language as I can. I am also working on something within the SP Special Containment storyline. So this is some much needed practice. -MJ

Whumpee shyly stood outside of Caretaker's office.

They practiced what they were going to ask for internally. They gulped nervously.

"Hello Whumpee", Caretaker had turned already, they reached for their communication tablet to help translate.

Whumpee fidgetted with their fingers awkwardly as they watched the screen turn on.

Caretaker smiled as Whumpee typed what they needed.

"Простите за беспокойство (I'm sorry to bother you)", the computer spoke for Whumpee.

Caretaker smiled, "you're no bother."

"Ты не беспокоишьсг", Whumpee listened to the computer as it spoke what Caretaker had said, Я могу вам помочь?" (can I help you?)

"Можно мне воды?" (May I have water?), Whumpee looked at Caretaker wishfully, "пожалуйста" (please).

Caretaker quickly nodded and stood, "yes, you absolutely can."

Whumpee quickly followed, they fumbled with the communication tablet for a moment before Caretaker realized and took it.

"Izvini" (Извини, sorry), Caretaker sighed. Something they had gotten use to saying to Whumpee.

Whumpee had come from a rescue situation about a month ago. Caretaker was trying to make do with the communication board and other techniques for communication. The language barrier was making it very difficult for both of them.

Caretaker could tell Whumpee appreciated the care they were receiving, but they often felt that they were not giving adequate care to Whumpee. Whumpee was very quiet. Too afraid to ask or bother anyone.

"Would you like a snack? (Хотите перекусить?), Caretaker watched as Whumpee thirstedly sucked down the water.

Whumpee gasped for breath for a moment before nodding, "please", Whumpee whispered.

Caretaker smiled. Once in a while, Whumpee would be able to say a word in English.

Caretaker set a few snack items out for Whumpee to pick what they wanted. They also had pre-written note cards for needs.

They set out a few food related request: "I would like to eat" (Я хотел бы съесть). Breakfast (завтрак), lunch (обед), dinner (ужин), or a meal (еда).

Whumpee smiled widely as they reached for the bars they lovingly called "Syrok".

Caretaker had ordered a shipment of Russian goodies when Whumpee first came into the home. That way Whumpee could have some home comforts to help their recovery.

"It gives them some sense of normalcy", Caretaker told a friend of there's after being questioned about the necessity of ordering international food, "we don't even know what they've gone through yet. They are now in a stranger's house. The last stranger they knew hurt them. This stranger", Caretaker pointed to themself, "doesn't speak their language either. They are living through a strange situation. If I can give them a little comfort, even if it is just food and a few things from their home country... I'm gonna do it."

Whumpee happily chews on their snack.

"Thankyou", they whisper as they watch Caretaker refill their water.

"You're welcome", Caretaker smiles as they sit down at the table, "I'm glad you're here."

Whumpee cocked their head to the side questioningly, then went back to their snack.

Caretaker smiled as they cleaned up the cards from the table.

'I know that you are uncertain of so many things right now. I hope I'm able to settle at least some of your nerves', Caretaker thought to themself, 'you deserve that.'

Ps. I wrote this after 10 pm, while making and eating dinner. I had an itch to write. Of course, halfway though, I got sleepy, which is why this is an extra short story. It is now after 11:30. Mj is sleepy. If you see any mistakes in my English or Russian, please kindly ignore... I'm kidding, I'll fix the mistakes if needed. Just not now... almost sleepy time. Thankyou for reading. You all are awesome. Mj 😴

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@weirdthingweee @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

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@risk606 @electrons2006

@paperprinxe @whumprince

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@thenormalestever @whatwhump

@galatic-worm @starmoon-constellation

[the-way-astray]

what is going on

let me take you back to half a week ago, when this first started.

it all starts with a simple notification. i click on it, thinking it's an innocent ask, or perhaps an anon wanting to pick a fight with me. i am a notorious keefe hater in this fandom, after all. let's see what the anons have to throw at me this time. if only that small, innocent, little me from four days ago had known. the notification was nothing short of a snake, hiding in the grass, waiting to strike.

it was alayda. she'd dared me to write something *horrified gasp* positive about keefe. she thought me, a notorious keefe hater, couldn't possibly have anything nice to say about my least favorite guy? well, i'd show her. i typed out a truly magnificent pro keefe essay, if i do say so myself. tumblr fought me the entire time, trying to delete half of it, but i persevered, and eventually posted it.

i had no idea what was coming for me. over the next few hours, i began to get truly heinous asks, questioning my commitment to my keefe hatred, and generally slandering my reputation. at the time, i'd thought this was as bad as it could get. but, oh. oh, no, no, no. as edaline ruewen said, "hindsight is a dangerous game". now i know that it could get worse than i could possibly even begin to imagine. and it did.

that same day, i got the ask. the one that changed everything. i responded in horrified horror, terrified terror, because i knew everything was about to change. and the next day, it appeared that other anons had followed in the first anon's footsteps. it was decided that me and keefe would be an enemies-to-lovers romance. our ship name was to be strieefe. an anon went to the official poll blog, @/do-you-ship-this-book-couple. i changed my ask box title to "KEEFE WOULD NOT LIKE ME" and got an anon about it. they started going to katie's ask box.

the debate ramped up. more people became aware. people, both anon and not, began to choose sides. i began offering badly drawn sketches to people who sided against this atrocious excuse for a ship. i should probably be making those instead of typing this out. whoopsie. i fought the anons that disagreed with me with a desperation akin to a rat caught in a trap, but my thrashing appeared to only attract more unhinged anons.

i then got my first anon that made a genuine attempt to explain why this horrible ship could theoretically work. they were wrong, of course, but i appreciate the effort. as i've explained countless times, the real relationship me and keefe would have if he were real would be one-sided hatred. i would hate him with a passion that can't be adequately described by the english language, and he'd be entirely unaware of my existence.

then! a miracle! an anon sent an ask to quil about strieefe, and i can only assume they wanted quil to analyze why we'd be good together. but quil, i never should've doubted quil. the response was a fantastically constructed analysis on why i was right about how i'd have one-sided rage toward keefe. but my delight dimmed significantly when i saw that fin, someone whom i'd previously trusted, had thrown his support behind this awful ship and even drawn fanart of me and keefe. i swiftly demoted him from the spot he had previously shared with max: "favorite fintanposter".

the anons got more unhinged. i began to be shipped with non-keefe main cast characters, sometimes monogamously, sometimes not. i bravely faced the assault, tearing the anons' arguments to shreds with my logical explanations as to why i would not be a good fit for any of them. this led to me posting a poll at the insistence of one anon, which is still open.

just as the waters were looking significantly less treacherous, just as it seemed i may make it to shore without drowning, a new development occurred. i got an ask from alayda, who as you may remember, is the one that started all this. this is entirely her fault. i'd expected maybe a heartfelt apology, perhaps a plea for forgiveness. but no. her ask was but an ominous warning, one i could not make sense of. i pondered the meaning as i stared at it. and then. horror upon horrors, it appeared in my inbox. i read through it in horrified horror, and my rickety little boat was once more swept out to sea.

it was a fanfic. a terribly written, horribly wattpad-ified, y/n-ish fanfic. i tore it to shreds thoroughly, taking pleasure as the scraps of the work of the one who had brought all this sorrow upon me fell in loose tatters all around me. i dusted off my hands and left it at that.

but it continued. even as i type this out, there is a part two to that horrific fanfic sitting in my inbox, which alayda is pestering me to post. there's also a part one to another anon fanfic, which is written relatively well, which arguably makes it even worse than alayda's. then there's yet another poem written about me and keefe by emelin, which also sits in my inbox, gathering dust as i attempt to piece the broken shards of my sanity back together.

all this to say, join the correct side of this debate. we have badly drawn sketches and braincells. be on the right side of history.

[throneofsapphics]

what if you wrote a manorian x reader where she says something wrong in public, and giving them some attitude but as the day goes by, she thinks they’ll forget about it but then they are in private again and they definitely did NOT forget 🫦 (🌶️)

paying the price

Manorian x f!Reader

Warnings: d/s dynamics, spanking, fingering, smut, hint of fluff, minors dni ... almost pure smut honestly

A/N: thank you for the request! 

You’d snapped at them, several times. The first few, they brushed off - but you could sense their irritation growing. Irritation and curiosity - it was so at odds with your general demeanor. But, the gala and meetings put you on edge. Dealing with courtiers could do that to anyone. Manon, even. However, considering that’s usually her default she was excused. Not that she actually needed excusing. 

 Manon only raised a brow at you. Dorian’s lips curved at the edges, but it wasn’t one of his friendly smiles, one that promised something else would be heading towards you. You glanced at the clock. Three hours left of the ball, plenty of time for them to forget. Maybe you’d get lucky this time. 

After the last warning glare from Manon, you were on your best behavior. Smiling, all of the pleasantries, charming every courtier you could, not a single word, tone, or body language to hint any kind of displeasure. Gods, you really were pulling out all of the stops. 

And, as the night went on, and you had your final dance with Dorian - he didn’t act like anything was amiss, like he normally would if something was coming your way that night. Maybe you had gotten away with it. 

-

“Do you know what happens to brats?” 

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” you said - pushing as much innocence into your voice as you could, keeping your shoulders relaxed as you busied yourself making tea. Maybe if you acted like nothing was wrong, it could be brushed under the rug. 

Every muscle in your body tensed as Dorian wound his fist through your hair, gripping lightly. Not tugging, not at the point of pain, but showing you a reminder of who exactly was in control. His breath warmed your neck, lips barely grazing over your ear, “they’re taught a lesson,” you whimpered as his body pressed into yours, the marble counter digging into your hips. “Unless, of course, they make an adequate apology.” 

“I didn’t do anything,” you protested, realizing a second too late that you were as good as admitting your guilt. Manon scoffed from across the room. His grip tightened in your hair, the beginning of pain twinging along your scalp. 

“Did you count?” Dorian asked her. 

“Seven.” 

Gods, you hadn’t realized it was that many. Dorian’s hand curved around your neck, gripping the front of your throat lightly as you swallowed. 

“Once or twice, maybe even three times you could’ve gotten away with,” he nipped where your dress slid to bare your shoulder. “But seven?” 

Your ears were accustomed to their movements, the intentions behind them, and sure enough you heard Manon stalk across the room, predatory intent coming from her in waves. “Seven too many,” she hissed. Neither of them were very forgiving, but Manon was worse. 

“You remember your safeword?” She asked. You gave a weak nod. “Say it.” 

“Chaol.” You were intoxicated when you came up with it, and despite your attempts - they refused to change it. Sure enough, Dorian chuckled behind you. The small smile curling at your lips faded quickly as he took a step back, releasing his grip on your throat, and you heard the sounds of his belt coming undone. 

A small curse under your breath, and Manon slid in front of you, dislodging your grip on the counter. She pushed you back, kicking your legs further apart, and gripping your upper arms, relieving some of the pressure of holding your own body up and left you half-bent over, still clothed. Dorian could’ve easily used his magic, but having Manon there told you he wanted both of them involved. 

“You’ll be a good girl and count, won’t you?” Dorian said, as Manon tightened her grip on your arms - apparently she didn’t believe so, and it only strengthened your resolve to prove her wrong. 

“Yes,” you breathed, and he knelt behind you, calloused hands running up your calves, the dress sliding up with them. Each movement was sensual, your entire body lighting up at just his touch, as he gathered the dress around your waist, pressing in on your lower back. Arching, you realized, arching your back so it wouldn’t fall. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, Manon humming in agreement. The tell tale whistle of a belt through the air, and you squealed as it hit, right beneath the curve of your ass. “Count,” he didn’t need to say or it’ll go up. 

“One,” your voice was steady. For now. You knew how to pace yourself. Another whistle, another strike - your ass this time. “Two,” you began to tremble, wetness pooling between your thighs, soaking the thin scrap of lace covering you. Each one you counted, voice and body shaking more and more as it went on, from pain or budding pleasure, you couldn’t tell. 

The last came, hitting between your thighs, your body jolted, dress starting to fall as you clenched your legs together, trapping the strap of leather between. Dorian laughed, passing it over your head. Manon released you to take it from him, and Dorian barely caught you as you crumbled. Burnt gold eyes met yours, never breaking your gaze as her tongue darted out, cleaning your arousal. 

Gods. You could orgasm just from that site, just from the way she watched you, eyes gleaming. Belt forgotten, tossed behind on the counter, she crossed the distance separating the two of you. Her mouth met yours, aggressive all-consuming, tongue sliding between your lips so you could taste yourself, Dorian barely holding you upright. She pulled back just as you began to struggle for breath. 

“That was your reward.” 

Barely, just fucking barely, you kept the whimper from escaping you. Dorian’s arm curled under your knees, the other resting behind your shoulders, and carted you off to the bathroom. 

A warm bath later, you laid face down on the bed as he rubbed some kind of ointment into the small welts left behind. You thanked the gods he hadn’t been using his full strength - otherwise you might’ve felt it as you sat for weeks. 

“Can you be quiet?” He murmured in your ear. You twisted your head to look at him, at the mischief dancing in his eyes, and nodded. Manon was in the sitting room, going over some correspondence from the Witch Kingdom. 

Two fingers ran up your folds, your teeth dug painfully into your bottom lip. He gathered the wet still between your thighs, swirling over your clit in firm motions - the ones he knew would finish you quickly. Dorian wasn’t wasting any time, and less then two minutes later your fists clenched the sheets, face pressed into the comforter to smother your moans and whimpers. 

Hands gripped your hips, turning you onto your back as he chuckled, tongue swirling around the two fingers he’d used. A soft smile crept onto your face as you melted into the bed, sighing in content. 

“Remember who’s the nice one,” he whispered - so low you almost missed it, but low enough immortal hearing couldn’t catch on. A secret for the two of you.

[goodnightbirdy]

Sticky Lungs

Chapter 1??? (idk if this is anything so we'll see if i keep going)

meeks angst? anybody??

There is a severe lack of steven meeks content within the dps fandom so i have taken it upon myself to torture the man.

Inspired by allelon ruggiero saying meeks dies in the vietnam war.

"Meeks reached forward and picked up the magic burning paper. He ripped open the envelope with the tip of his index finger like his father always had. 

“Order to Report for Induction” 

Meeks sighed. "

TAGS: Steven Meeks, Meeks-Centric, Angst, Post-Canon, Vietnam War, other poets mentioned

A/N: WE’RE FUDGING THE NUMBERS OKAY? 

I simply refuse to believe that meeks willingly went into the military and he would have been too old for the draft SO IM CHANGING THE NUMBERS.

allelon ruggiero has plagued my life with vietnam war angst, take it up with him.

1968

Sighing— it's a wretched function of the body when you really think about it. The lungs are wet, fragile things, they often stick together and make it difficult for oxygen to make its way through and touch the blood. A sigh is a deep breath that cleaves the lungs open, ripping them away from themselves and filling the cavity with an adequate amount of air.

Sticky lungs. It's a thought that needles its way into the brain only when a prevailing silence has made itself known. A thought that makes a shudder run down your spine and forces you to think too hard about the inner workings of oneself.

Steven Meeks sat alone in his apartment as he so often did these days. A sigh forced its way through his chest. That phrase— “sticky lungs,” bullied it way into his head making him shake in a desperate attempt to rid the words from his mind. He stood, and in an attempt to banish the silence responsible for the thought, he picked up a vinyl. 

Any record. Play any sound. Any sound would rid the apartment of the thick silence making it hard to breath and clogging his throat. 

Something Meeks vaguely recognized as The Velvet Underground played. He didn't know when he grabbed it, how he got from the shelf of music to the record player, or how long he was standing there listening, but the first song on the album was coming to a close. 

There was something of a routine becoming clear in his movements, he didn't realize he had one before but would his movements really be so automatic if he didnt? It didn't take much thought to place the english muffin in the toaster, or stir powdered creamer into a mug of black coffee.

Eventually he made his way back to the coffee table as I’ll Be Your Mirror began playing quietly  through the apartment. The bite of muffin tasted like ash and contrasted with the bright lilting voice of Nico filtering through his ears. 

An envelope sat in the middle of the table. When he first picked it up it felt as though it burned his finger tips. The letter was stiff and had large black letters reading  “[DO NOT BEND]” emblazoned on it; Meeks knew exactly what it was. He wasn't stupid, he watched the news, he listened to the radio. Men born between 1942 and 1950 were placed in the draft lottery. Somewhere in the base of his skull he wondered if any of the other poets had received a letter. He wondered if the paper burned the skin of Pitts or Knox. He imagined seeing Charlie or Todd in a military camp across the world, covered in dirt and grime. Was he the only one? Was he the sole victim of the lottery?

Lottery, what an interesting choice of words. In another life he would be writing a poem about it, tearing apart the meaning and ringing prose out of the simple word, but at this moment every eloquent thought was punched from him. His coffee grew cold and the apartment grew silent again, the record having reached its end some minutes ago. 

Meeks reached forward and picked up the magic burning paper. He ripped open the envelope with the tip of his index finger like his father always had. 

“Order to Report for Induction” 

Meeks sighed. 

Sticky Lungs. Lottery. Sticky Lungs. Cold Coffee. Sticky Lungs. Do Not Bend. Sticky Lungs. 

Sticky Lungs. Pitts. Sticky Lungs. Todd. Sticky Lungs. Cameron. Sticky Lungs.

A deep breath. It reinflates your alveoli and forces your lungs to maximum capacity, maintaining proper lung function. 

A sigh of relief. A sigh of exasperation. A sigh of contentment. A sigh of defeat. A sigh of relaxation. 

And a sigh of sticky lungs. 

%%%%%

Two weeks is a very short time. Sure it sounds long, 14 days, 336 hours, 20,160 minutes. Its nearly intangible when you break it down like that. But when you are given two weeks to get your affairs in order before you are shipped off to a place you desperately dont want to go to, its very short.

Thats what they give you. 2 weeks. To tell your landlord (“you were a good tenant Steven”), to quit your job (“I’ll be sad to see you go”), and to call your parents (“No.”)

Or maybe, two weeks is impossibly long. You have one million things to do, to wrap up, but they all seem to end with relative ease. Suddenly its been a week and everything is lined up. Suddenly in seven days, the life you’ve built has been torn down piece by piece. 

The job you stressed for and sweat bullets over the interview, given away to someone else. 

The apartment you searched for, for weeks, spent tireless hours decorating, empty and looking for a new tenant. 

The vinyl collection you’ve cultivated since highschool packed in boxes and placed in your fathers disused office.

Its frightening. How neatly it all is packed away. How simply it all falls into place. You open a letter and the world comes to a screeching halt, for you. For everyone else the clock kept ticking, the day kept going, and the world kept spinning. 

Either impossibly fast or agonizingly slow, two weeks pass. Meeks is off. His life packed into boxes and goals kindly tucked between his ribs for another day, year, decade. He thought to call his friends before he left, even going as far as dialling Pitt’s number before losing the nerve and hanging up the phone. He regretted it as he boarded the plane. He should have called, written a letter, something. 

The ground beneath him dropped and tears threatened to prick in his eyes, fear tumbled from the crown of his head to the tips of his fingers. 

What if he never spoke to them again, would his mother think to call his friends from Welton if his body came home in a box? Or would she be to wracked with grief that she couldn’t remember he ever had them. 

Would he join the ranks as a dead poet or would he live as a simple pledge another day?

He should have called Gerard.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Survivors

The Pretenders have made attempts to spread. Efforts have been made to stop them, however fear amongst the Decepticons is growing. The Pretenders are appearing more and more often, always being cut down before they can return to their abominable creator. The Cons learn more with every Pretender killed, but the survivors still bear the scars.

Damus wishes more than anything else that he could have minded his own business long enough to not get involved.

Previous part here.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Damus never intended to get involved. He already had enough to deal with considering his outlier ability, his faltering memory, and the fact that empurata had done extensive damage to his ability to function normally. He didn't have the time or the motivation to join up with either faction when the war began, at least at first. He knew Orion Pax, well he knew of him at any rate. He was also familiar with Megatron's doctrine. As such, he took his time trying to decide which faction he would inevitably end up siding with. War would force him to choose eventually, but he was slow in his selection. There was no need to rush, not yet.

He saved up shanix, doing odd jobs for both sides as peace talks began to occur. Maybe he wouldn't even need to pick. At least, that was his hope as he got his life together. With the senate in disarray, they didn't care for the fact that he went to a medic and payed an absurd amount to receive a new set of servos and a proper face. Things were looking up for him and he couldn't have been more thrilled when his old mentor called upon him to do odd jobs and run calculations. Damus didn't know why Shockwave wanted him to collect seemingly random fauna and flora from on and off world, but he did as instructed and was paid handsomely for his services.

Part of him wanted to question, but after the Senate and his prior empurata- No, he refused to risk it. He was getting his life together and he was going to keep things stable. That was his hope. But of course, just as he found himself a spot working as a field scientist for a research facility, everything went to slag. Orion Pax dropped off the face of creation and in turn the war went to the pits and back. Both sides were in an uproar, so Damus tried to steer clear of it. That of course did not last, not when during an expedition underground for a few stellar cycles to escape the horrors of war, he met a mech who was far larger than he remembered.

"You are Damus."

"Orion Pax. It is a surprise to see you here."

"I come in search of the Matrix of Leadership. Do you know its location?"

"Legend says it returned to Primus after Sentinel offlined."

"Do you know the path to Primus's core?"

"Maybe? I can try, but I don't work for free Pax. I am not the lost mech you knew. I have a life, a job. I am not risking it by helping out the Autobots without something in return."

"You desire payment?"

"Obviously. I know the tunnels well enough to get you going in the right direction at any rate."

"That is sufficient. Should you complete this task adequately, you will be rewarded in due time."

There was something very off about the mech who Damus was pretty sure was Orion. But he decided whatever it was, he didn't want to get involved. Orion had been gone for stellar cycles, probably on this foolish mission. It was in his best interest to get Pax where he needed to be so he could get his aft but up to the surface and stop the panic. And so that's just what he did. He walked Orion down the right paths until he didn't trust his memory to lead him further. Orion, or at least the mech who looked a great deal like Orion, watched him with calculating optics and nodded before vanishing into the dark. He decided then and there that he didn't even want to be paid, not when this mech was staring lasers into his spark during their entire walk.

Not his problem. Not his problem.

That was what he chanted to himself as Optimus Prime emerged onto the battlefield not long later and Damus found himself with no choice but to join up with the Decepticons for his own safety. Something was very wrong with Optimus Prime, although he couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was. He was just WRONG and looking back at the tunnel incident, Damus regretted guiding him. He did everything in his power to steer clear despite being with the Cons technically. His hope was that by staying in the city of Tarn, he could keep away from whatever was going on in the war. Being a researcher behind the lines was his safest bet. He didn't even care about trying to make something of himself. The job could frag itself now that he had his face and servos. He just wanted to stay as far away from all of it as he could. Whenever he left the safety of Tarn for whatever reason, he seemed to run into trouble.

Optimus met his gaze twice from a distance. Damus purged after each incident. The Prime was focused on him, and something deep in his spark told him that was a death sentence. A few times he caught sight of another one who gave him unsettling feelings. A yellow scout, one who the records stated was designated as Bumblebee once he finally worked up the willpower to look him up. Then there was the third, the last one that confirmed Damus's fears. Ratchet was the CMO of Cybertron before the war, but now he was on the battlefront every now and then... and he was different. There were rumors that he got ill and then miraculously recovered. But looking at him from a distance? Damus got that same feeling, the one he got when he saw Optimus. Those three were wrong, and so he tried not to leave Tarn for his own safety.

He was concerned to say the least. But he was safe in Tarn. Of course that was fine until Megatron began laying down rules that Damus and many others didn't understand. There were constant warnings about an infection originating from Autobot lines. Medics were suddenly being trained en masse and were promptly put absolutely everywhere. Medical procedures grew more invasive and frequent, constant sanitation became the norm, and any soldier that presented even the slightest behavioral difference after battle was taken away, often never to be seen again. There was also the sudden appearance of strange armor suits that mecha amongst the Decepticons began to wear. There were whole propaganda campaigns urging every soldier to get the suits for their own protection. The bulky things covered every possible part of the frame, and somehow Damus got the distinct impression that something darker was going on behind the scenes. Things weren't adding up.

His fears were confirmed when Optimus Prime decided it was time to give Damus his payment.

Damus had no time to react when the Autobots launched an attack on Tarn shortly after the destruction of the Senate. Damus hid with the rest of the non combatants, but the Prime was quick to appear on the battlefield and tracked Damus down like a bloodhound when he tried to run. Optimus Prime found him huddled amidst the ruins of the bombed out fortress he called home for so long. And it was there that the Prime, no, the monster, ruined his entire life.

"I promised you payment. I have come to offer it."

"GET AWAY!"

"You are one of his students. You will be useful."

"Primus no-!"

He could only scream as the thing's jaw came apart, splitting into a maw of mandibles. Then just as quickly, a squirming bug of some sorts was lowered toward his right optic. It was agony as the thing wormed its way into him, and all the while the monster above him seemed to smile in its convoluted way. All he knew was pain as the thing left in a hurry and he was promptly collected and dragged away to a place he didn't know.

He remembered medics, dozens of them all practically buried under the protective suits the posters were always advertising. He remembered screaming in agony as they worked on him, doing something to his helm and much of his torso. But then it ended, and Damus was left in an isolated room, strapped down to his berth with heavy chains, and standing before him was the one and only Megatron who also wore the suit.

"What in Primus's name happened to me?"

"You were infected with the Pretender larva. We managed to remove the larva itself, but its roots have already spread."

"What does that means? What is this?"

"Listen closely Damus. We don't know where it came from, but the Pretenders are creatures that infest a host and devour them in order to wear their frames as disguises. Optimus Prime is one of these creatures."

"Then he-"

"He spread the infection to others, including yourself. We have found hundreds of others like you in various stages of infection. We have done everything we can to reverse the effects, but all we have accomplished is slowing it down."

"So... I am going to die?"

"Yes. We slowed the infection to a crawl and your life will be extended through frequent surgeries to remove the largest of the roots. However, it will kill you one cycle."

"I will become one of those monsters."

"Only if you give in. We have installed an explosive in your processors that will eliminate you at a moment's notice. This is not out of cruelty, but merely to ensure you cannot become another tool for the Pretender plague."

"I see..."

"You will die, but you need not do so without honor. You carry part of the Pretender genome. With it, you will likely find you have new abilities, most notably, an inbuilt radar which will point toward other Pretenders."

"You want to make me a tool."

"I offer you a choice. You can die here with a quick and painless offlinement, or you can serve us and use your curse to ensure others do not suffer the same fate."

"How many have died due to this?"

"Thousands. We find more every cycle. The thing that calls itself Prime is prolific and must be eradicated."

"Then... I will serve. I will make sure this CURSE cannot spread."

"Good. We will have need of you Damus."

"Please, call me Tarn. I want that monster to know that the city it destroyed yet lives on. That I still remain defiant."

Damus, or rather Tarn took one look at his face and knew what he needed to do. The larva had buried itself into him, and so to remove it, his face that he spent so long achieving was now devastated. However in his rage, he found he didn't care. He wasn't afraid anymore. That monster took his entire life from him. Condemned him to eventual death alongside countless others. He refused to let the newly named Pretenders be. Not after everything.

He wanted to not be involved. But now he had no choice. Passivity got him infected. And so until he perished, he would fight. He could feel the new strength that hummed in his fuel lines. Evidently, the Pretenders were more than simple infiltrators. The world was brighter, more noisy, and far less frightening. The thing within him would kill him, but until it did, he had its strength as its own.

The Pretenders were going to DIE.

With Megatron's aid, Tarn was given access to all he needed. Every moment was spent on the hunt, and the few he found in time to save quickly joined his ranks. Other mecha, each survivors of the larva. Together they grew in number and slaughtered the Pretenders in their cradles. The things were so very weak when young. Tarn could feel the rage of the one called Prime. But he merely smiled as time went on. Every Pretender killed was one less threat. Megatron's warnings now made perfect sense.

An infection was spreading across Cybertron, and Tarn was going to stop it.

[eye-may]

Any Demeter headcanons??

of course!! demeter is intimately woven into the fabric of my cats continuation

her backstory is pretty grim and sad, and I'm gonna reference issues like abandonment, animal neglect, and relationship toxicity and abuse (i.e., manipulation, false imprisonment) so beware if you're sensitive to such things.

I think Demeter was born to a feral alley cat in one of the more troubled areas of London. mom, like many unsocialized and neglected feral cats, is in poor health. a trash man happened to find the inchoate family and kindly took them in, off the cold and wet cobblestone --- he took care of the kittens for a while and then tried his best to find homes for them. ultimately, Demeter was given to a friend of his, a man with a wife and a couple young kids. being separated from her mother and siblings was difficult for Demeter in particular, who deeply valued closeness and touch, and had constantly been in search of tactile interactions with her littermates.

unfortunately, the home she ended up in just wasn't right for her. the humans cared for her adequately and gave her a collar, but there were already pets that had been living with them --- and, unfortunately, they did not take kindly to Demeter's attempts at soliciting tactile comfort. the human children were loud and unpredictable, not very suited to cuddling themselves. the adults were kind enough, but had their hands full between work, family, and pets, and so they didn't have much wherewithal to devote to baby Demeter's specific emotional needs.

not long after being homed, the adult human male seemingly "disappeared," and the animals (especially Demeter, the newest addition, and seemingly more "independent" than the dogs...because she's a cat, right??) could enjoy even less nurturing now that the adult human female no longer had her partner. she and the children would leave the house for hours every day, and Demeter often found herself alone with the dogs.

desperate for comfort, she began exiting the house through the doggy doors. At first, she gravitated naturally towards the alley where she had been born, wanting to find the kind garbage man again. alone and naive and young, she struggled with adjusting to her indoor/(mostly)outdoor lifestyle. she didn't know how to approach stranger cats. she'd stumble into cliques and colonies, only to get rejected or ostracized. of course it wasn't ALL bad; Demeter managed to stumble across some friendly cats --- but none that could or would provide the constancy she didn't fully realize she craved.

this all took place and went on for the course of about a year or so, and culminated in when she eventually ran into a very tall, very alluring, and very persuasive older cat. his effect on her was immediate; it was like he knew exactly what she had been craving for so long --- physical touch, gentleness, patience, a warm smile, a quiet, soothing voice. she returned to him with increasing frequency. one thing led to another and it wasn't along before her voluntary attachment to him turned into something grimmer; he began not allowing her to leave when she wanted. she started seeing different sides of him; angry, domineering, threatening behaviors surfaced. Demeter, of course, became so desperately confused. but just when she started to pull away --- Macavity escalated his association with her to fullblown captivity and brought her to his 'lair' or whatever you'd call it. a textbook manipulator, his behavior was erratic while he pulled out every crushed-velvet platitude; we were meant to be together, I can't live without you, nobody understands you like I do, I'm the only one who can take care of you, you'll never find someone who loves you like I do, etc. etc. etc. Macavity was the first one who ever seemingly supplied her with the physical affection she had craved since kittenhood, and she knew little else...maybe he was right, and maybe leaving one horrible circumstance would send her careening back into another: into pitch dark isolation and loneliness. was it better to be held and hurt, than to never be held at all?

when she's brought to Macavity's layer is when her story zippers into those of Tugger's, Grizabella's, and Bombalurina's. suffice to say --- Tugger and Bomb, separately, displayed a sort of respect and restraint that she had never known, in a way that was totally different from the way Macavity treated her when their relationship began. Tugger was rough around the edges, as only the younger brother of Macavity could be...but, his eyes and his mannerisms and his scent and even his aura...it was all just so different. he wouldn't capitalize on Demeter's vulnerabilities and insecurities the way Macavity would, even when the latter would encourage him to. he never showed any sign of wanting or expecting anything from her. and yet, he showed every other sign of egoism, of self-motivation, of unsettling grandiosity...Demeter just didn't know what to make of him. but she began to glean that despite all that...he would never hurt her.

Bombalurina was something else entirely. She was Macavity's most constant and most salacious partner. Demeter expected the typical ilk of her previous interactions with stranger cats; harshness, caginess, competitiveness, judgment. but, Bombalurina was none of those things, not to her. instead...she was gentle, soothing, welcoming, and seemingly so...genuine. Demeter saw something in Bombalurina's eyes that she literally had never seen before in any other cat; undistilled, unangled, unadulterated affection. when Bombalurina touched Demeter --- at first, a paw on her arm, featherlight and tentative --- it felt so warm, so real. almost like it was too good to be true.

by now, Demeter's disposition towards physical touch had been cruelly ratcheted backwards. she'd always crave it, but had grown to rue it, to doubt it, to associate the initial relief with inevitable betrayal and pain. slowly and steadily, her friendship with Bombalurina began to reverse that paradigm. Demeter would get away from Macavity only to look forward to the next time she'd get to be in the same room with Bombalurina, who knew and respected her boundaries. if Demeter wanted to fall asleep cuddling her, Bombalurina would indulge that desire. if she didn't want to be touched at all, Bombalurina wouldn't touch her. it felt so strange being...listened to and respected like that.

another of Macavity's perrennial partners was someone who was just as alluring and compelling as him, but she was a little older, and she was ethereally beautiful. Demeter only caught glimpsed of her though; she seemed to enjoy more independence than a lot of the other cats wound up in Macavity's syndicate.

She wasn't a prisoner of Macavity's for terribly long before that eccentric little brother of his approached her one night, beseeching her to make a run for it with him. she was confounded by the sudden development and was almost sure it was a trick; but she had been wanting some semblance of freedom so ardently...what did she really have to lose?

ultimately, it was Bombalurina who helped Tugger and Demeter get away from Macavity's patrolling henchcats...and Demeter was pleasantly shocked, and relieved, when her one true friend ultimately decided to join them. Demeter had seen how Bombalurina and Macavity were with each other; she was certain that Bomb loved him. but she had chosen Demeter over him? was their connection really so poignant?

back on the streets, neither Bombalurina nor Demeter had a clear idea of where to go or what to do. but before Demeter had time to suppose that she'd be wandering the alleyways of London again, aimless if not on the run from Macavity, Tugger told them that he "knew a place" where the three of them could go for refuge and be truly safe. Demeter, as always, was doubtful and afraid. maybe this was just another trick. maybe whereever Tugger would take them would be somehow worse. Bombalurina apparently had her reservations too; but she seemed willing to go along with Tugger, evidently calculating no superior alternatives. and because Bombalurina seemed to trust him just enough, so too did Demeter.

they took a trip a few miles north, away from the water, to a junkyard off a commercial block ablaze with lights and song and dance...and Demeter finally learned about the felinological allegiances and the Jellicle oaths. she might always be skittish, distrustful...but if it didn't feel so right to be called a Jellicle Cat!

At the junkyard too, Demeter would realize that she recognized one of its frequenters --- the same glamorous, beautiful cat that occasioned Macavity's lair. the two developed something of a friendship, or more like an unspoken air of solidarity, a mutual understanding that was seldom elucidated on but understood. Demeter wasn't too sure about this Glamour Cat...this Grizabella...but something about her felt comforting. when she eventually left on bad terms...Demeter felt more heartbroken than she'd ever let on without fully knowing why; it wasn't the least because, however, she made the decision to pledge her allegiance to Macavity. when she returned all that time later, and Demeter could see the way she deteriorated...Demeter looked at her and saw something like a version of herself that would have materialized if she hadn't gotten away.

Demeter, up to the events of the musical (and onward) never fully shed the corrosive aftereffects of her past. she's one of the flightier Jellicles; venturing out when she becomes overwhelmed, when the junkyard communes with other colonies, when someone says or does something that sets her on edge. she sometimes takes the trip back to her humans' house, still wanting to check on them and get the occasional passive head scratch, and indulge in the kibble they offer her. she always, eventually, finds her way back home to the junkyard.

she still misses the garbage man. maybe she'll happen to see him again one day?

[afterdarkwithsam]

what is ichi and aki's first time like

Ehhh, it went about well as you'd expect it to go. With two adult virgins whose only points of reference are the media that they consume to get off, things were a bit awkward at first. With Ichimatsu being a virgin because he was 'trash' and Aki being a virgin because men are generally intimidated by her, it was a miracle that the two even found each other. It was discovered that Aki was a natural switch and Ichimatsu was such a bottom that he could turn into a top if asked to. The "Ichimatsu-sama" some may know Ichi for is just his sex-sona that he can let slip sometimes, on accident or otherwise.

Something they had gotten quite good at by the time they were ready to have sex for the first time was foreplay. Making out and humping each other like wild animals, yeah, good stuff.

Ichimatsu is absolutely pussy whipped when it comes to giving oral to Aki. He slobbers and drools all over her whenever he eats her out, yeah he's a messy eater, not that Aki minded. She is no different. She was balls enough to ask Ichimatsu to try and fuck her mouth the first time around... She gaged.

They settled on using a condom for their first go.

When the time came for Ichmatsu to push in, they wanted to just be vanilla and... Fuck with nothing else to spice it up. That didn't last, however. As Aki begged and moaned to have her brains fucked out while Ichimatsu bruised the skin around her neck and collarbone, covering it in hickeys and bites. Aki did return the favour as well, chomping down on Ichimatsu's shoulder and earlobe as she whispered absolute filth into his ear, and sucking on his neck. So much about staying civil...

This accumulated into a climax that left them seeing stars, which was some intense shit, Aki could barely speak as the two laughed it off. Was their first-time experience supposed to be this explosive? Ichimatsu did do his best to provide poor Aki with adequate aftercare through his post-nut haze before his moment of clarity which he used to attempt to jump through Aki's window screaming "PUNISHMENT!!!"

"ICHI NO WE'RE ON THE FOURTH FLOOR!!!!"

All is well that ends well though, right? After being pulled away from her window, Aki laid on top of Ichimatsu and cuddled him until they both passed out, which didn't take long, all things considered.

The next morning they were awakened by Reginald scratching at the door and meowing quite loudly as a way to demand breakfast.

[magnuspanoptes]

Finale anon popping back in to say that your answer was awesome, thank you so much for the time you dedicated to it because it's very clear and complete. You covered every point!

I kinda said it in the first ask but yeah, I agree completely that the first ending is thematically perfect for Jon specifically, while you definitely convinced me that the second is thematically fitting for the serie as a whole (although, Jon as a new fear or as the first avatar of the extinction. So interesting and terrible). I thought that might be the case, but the moment the serie stopped being just a collection of short horror stories (although even then. Low empathy Jon and he's just so amusing and nice to listen to) and began focusing more on its characters, the focus for me became Jon, so his arc is going to take precedence over everything else. (Plus, while you make a good case for the web being The Narrative that tragically traps its characters, it doesn't sit quite right to me. It feels different from tragedies with gods, maybe because the motivation of this particular god isn't petty revenge but a complex plan of cosmical dimensions, or because the fears are more interesting as short sighted hungry beings, rather than as puppeteers. Or even because this plan required more the manipulation of events than of people's emotions (greek tragedy basically works on the idea of winding them up and watching them tear themselves apart). But this is my opinion, because of my tastes that others might not and don't share. Tragedy isn't just greek tragedy after all)

continuation of this

i was about to reblog your prev ask with an addition because i did forget one thing re jon's original choice, which is that the conceit of the finale is about freedom only being possible at someone else's expense. they all chose to doom countless worlds to free their own, which is a theme jon has always struggled with because it goes all the way back to a guest for mr spider, an encounter he only survives because someone else was taken in his place. and this would've also figured in his original choice—in his attempt to escape them, going from a victim of the fears to the one running the show. forever resigned to facing the horrible truth that the only way 'out' of the abattoir is to become the line manager in charge.

and i agree with you on the web. i think the amount of work that went into the reveal is very impressive but i don't like it much either.

for this to work the web was also made out to be sentient with human comprehensible intelligence and intent which they contrasted with the eye being all knowing but incapable of deeper reasoning, also something they had planned since the beginning, see -

pre-launch trailer and mag 32 - "hive" on knowing =/= understanding

mag 4 - "pageturner", mag 126 - "sculptor's tool", and mag 89 - "twice as bright"

the problem i have with this ^ is that i dislike the idea of any of the fears having human-like qualities, so i think they messed up here by anthropomorphising the fears (the web is intelligent. the eye is stupid). if the lesson is that codification will not save you—and that's true, smirke didn't get anywhere by codifying the fears, then they should've made a distinction between the work they do at the institute and beholding. it makes sense to me that as avatars of the eye, jon and elias (who are both deeply reliant on their patron's gifts) would have these particular blind spots. you don't have to give these qualities to the cosmic entity, which is supposed to be an incomprehensible force that functions outside the confines of human reasoning. and the point they were trying to make here, especially in prentiss's statement is that the traumatic experience isolates the survivor, language is not enough to adequately describe what one has gone through. and while this is true about the content of the statements, that without the archivist the institute is just a repository of horror stories, i think this idea runs counter to what happens to jon. jon does not unthinkingly turn into the archive, jon has an intimate understanding of every single fear in a way nobody else does because jon has been personally traumatised by all of them ("It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others. To simply be told, well…")

i also somewhat agree with you on tragedy and the gods. they were going for the victim of the cruel caprice of gods angle and that only works when the gods are intentionally fucking with you, yeah. but the horror in the magnus archives has always been existentially pointless, there's no joy being derived from all that misery because as leitner puts it, "The ‘gods’ were conceived of by humankind as a reflection of themselves, their motives and actions divinely powerful, but in essence purely human", but these things are not that, they're inconceivable forces. which goes back to my point about anthropomorphism and why the web being sentient was not a great choice to me. my mutual @somuchbetterthanthat had a good alternative to this, that the web's plan to break into other realities should've been annabelle's interpretation of the mother of puppet's intent. this allows her to be more than just the web's mouthpiece and is closer to how the rest of the fears and their avatars operate: (i suppose. this goes against how the web as a fear works, like, it makes sense that its avatars can't exercise a will of their own even in the conception of its ritual but i will also just take anything over the web being sentient)

before the web reveal, Jon used to be the narrative (here). he was our exclusive frame device of the podcast for two seasons and from there on the tape recorders were implied to be a manifestation of the archivist's powers, and like, i can see that misdirection as having been deliberate. it's symbolic of the way control is wrested from jon, that he thought he was the one chronicling his own story but he has always been a fly in someone else's web. but like i said, jon taking back that narrative control, but at an insurmountable personal cost in 200 would've been a more satisfying ending to me.

also, this is a personal, petty reason. but the web reveal makes jonah look like. kind of a fucking idiot. there's nothing humiliating about having been as much of a victim of cosmic forces as the rest of them but the podcast has never had sympathy for his character, so i feel there's a clear undertone of mockery in the way he's written, you're meant to be laughing at him. the 160 statement's chant of "You who watch and know and understand none" is literally about him. he spends half the statement talking about how jon kept getting miraculously marked while he was in prison IT'S SO EMBARRASSING. and that's not right, that's my beautiful intelligent bastard, he's not stupid!!

and not to sound even more self centred and insane but the way the podcast is structured does, for real, make jon and jonah the only two guys who matter. and i would've preferred an ending which honoured that. so what jonah says in 160, "How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?" and you know who brings him his death. that's right, jon. and i just think it's so so SO fascinating that he's spent two hundred years running away from that final unknown only to face it in the man he thought was going to give him his salvation. it's so rich! that all this time he was working towards unwittingly creating the final fear that would not only cause his own death but the deaths of everyone else in their world. and the choice of words here, again, position jon as that last, and greatest terror! do not have the proper words to describe how much that compels me. the dynamic ever.

[leaderpinhead]

Trein - Adoption

Mozus released a deep sigh and closed his book. Lucius gave him a small meow before curling into a tighter ball in his lap. Mozus gave the feline a generous scratch behind the ear while he glanced around the small space that was his “home-away-from-home.” 

It was a cozy space—with a functioning fireplace, ample shelving for his history books, and an adequate kitchenette to brew his afternoon tea. His only complaint would be being able to hear Ashton and Percival when their drinking games went a bit too far, but that was the caveat for living on the campus with the other staff. Even now, he could hear the two men giggling through the walls, their Friday night drinking already started. 

Speaking of time…Lucius gave a huff when Mozus moved him just enough to retrieve the pocket watch from his pocket. The girls should be calling him soon, as they usually did when their stepmother finished her call to Asher. He had a bit to tell her tonight, especially concerning Palacios and his escalating antics with transformation potions. She had laughed off his concerns last week—stating Asher had assured her his little friend was harmless—but Mozus knew he could rally her support when he told her... 

A short knock on his door brought his strategizing to a halt. With an upset mewl, Lucius jumped from his lap when Mozus beckoned him. Pocketing his watch, Mozus shuffled across the room to open the door. 

He quirked a brow when he found Divus standing outside his door, looking like he had just sniffed the foulest potion he could possibly brew. “Yes?” 

Divus’s eyes rudely flicked up and down. “I didn’t realize you owned something other than a suit.” 

Mozus scowled at the young professor. Lucius emitted an unhappy rumble as he wrapped himself around Mozus’s ankles. “Did you knock on my door simply to insult my wardrobe?” 

One corner of Divus’s mouth quirked upwards. “Perhaps that would have been a reason when I was still a student, but at this age I’m...” Divus paused. His brow caved inward, and the bridge of his nose wrinkled. “I’m in need of advice.” 

Sensing the sober undertones in the younger professor’s voice, Mozus stepped aside and gestured Divus into his small apartment. Divus stepped in and quickly maneuvered around the room to stand in front of the two chairs framing the bookshelf. Divus didn’t sit until Mozus gestured him to, which earned him a bit of respect. Divus had been an outspoken rebel many years ago when he first stepped into Mozus’s classroom as a student, but that rebellion had tempered a bit during his tenure as a professor. He was still a bit of a hellion at times, but there was a maturity to it now that helped Mozus have a bit more patience. In front of the students at least. 

Mozus carefully sat across from Divus. He made a small gesture for Lucius to jump into his lap, which the feline did without hesitation. Lucius’s loud purr became background noise while he spoke. “I assume the advice you're searching for is on a serious topic. Over the last decade you have taught here, you have never once sought me outside of school hours.” 

Divus hummed his agreement. He shifted in the chair until one leg stretched comfortably across the other. The casual posture brought more attention to his foot jiggling in the air. “I know you haven’t made it public knowledge, but Asher Kindle is your stepson.” 

Mozus didn’t attempt to hide his surprise at the statement. “Indeed, he is. Though his mother and I both agreed it was for the best he maintain his father’s surname. I had believed that would keep anyone from drawing a connection between us after he enrolled.” 

Divus twitched one hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m not here to accuse you of favoritism. I’m sure anyone would immediately catch on to such a thing considering your reputation among the students.” That singular curl of Divus’s lips returned when Mozus scowled at him. It quickly drooped again, and his foot jiggled a bit more. “If you don’t mind me asking, did you fully adopt the boy?” 

Mozus blinked, and his annoyance simmered once more into surprise. Lucius’s tail flicked under his chin when he stopped petting. “Indeed, I did. Just as my wife adopted my daughters. We are a family in every sense of the word.” 

Divus hummed and leaned back into his chair. His fingers steepled above his knee. “And the process—how difficult was it?” 

Mozus copied Divus’s motions, leaning into his chair and resuming his petting motions for Lucius’s enjoyment. “It was fairly easy. All that was required was our signing a few official documents.” Mozus quirked one brow. “It helped that there wasn’t another biological parent to contest the adoption and all of the children were born in Twisted Wonderland.” 

Divus gave him a nasty scowl, but Mozus challenged him with a haughty stare. The younger man wanted his advice, and Mozus wasn’t keen to dance around the topic he wished to address. When Divus’s lips remained tightly shut, Mozus continued. “In the case of Maddox, there isn’t much point in venturing down that path. At eighteen, he is considered a legal adult. I would advise more of a power of attorney status in that situation. That way if anything were to happen to the boy, you would be the one to make important decisions concerning his welfare, not his dubious father. 

“As for Yuu...” Mozus hummed. “That is a trickier matter. On paper, the child doesn’t exist. If the headmage fails to find a way to send the child home, then that may become an issue when the school year ends. At the very least, the child could become a ward of the state.” 

“Only because the child doesn’t exist on paper,” Divus repeated. His jiggling foot had calmed a bit. “Say there were papers that existed...papers that only needed another person to witness the signing…” 

Before Mozus could question the odd insinuation, another knock sounded at his door. Divus jumped up before Mozus could and opened the door without hesitation. Percival hiccupped as he took a swaying step into the room, his lanky form bending like a piece of grass in the wind. He saluted Divus, plastering his pink bangs against his forehead. “Dr. Percival Ellington—Head Nurse of Night Raven College—at your service, ringmaster.” 

“I thought I told you to hold off on drinking so early,” Divus snapped. “You’re already plastered.” 

“No, I'm—.” A hiccup interrupted Percival. He rapidly blinked and paused long enough to appear baffled by his surroundings. He giggled. “I use plaster for booboos.” 

Divus clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “You can still recite your name, which is good enough. Come here.” 

Percival allowed himself to be guided over to the chairs. He gave Mozus a friendly wave. “Heya, professor! Wanna come share a drink with me an’ Gassy? We’re gonna celebrate Dee being a new daddy!” 

Mozus didn’t bother answering Percival. Instead, he watched Divus pull a small packet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and flatten the pages against the nearby side table. He shot a narrowed stare at Percival before manhandling the nurse into a position on the opposite side of the table. “Percy, just stand there and watch us sign the papers.” 

“Uh huh.” Aside from his loose movements and the slight slur in his speech, Mozus could almost believe the man was sober. Until he nearly faceplanted into the table. “I’ll watch real close!” 

Divus sighed and pushed Percival back into an upright position. “Just stand there, Percy. That’s all I ask.” 

“Okie dokie!” 

“Divus.” Mozus stood, placing Lucious into his chair. He stepped up to the table beside the younger men to get a better view of the papers Divus rapidly flipped through. His frown lengthened when he caught the heading of one page. “You can’t possibly think I would agree to this.” 

“You do tend to be a stickler for the rules,” Divus mumbled. His hand never paused scribbling his initials and exaggerated signature. “But tell me—what rules are we breaking exactly? You yourself admit the prefect doesn’t exist on paper. I’m simply creating the paper trail to give her existence legitimacy. It’s really no different than a doctor signing a birth certificate.” 

“Except you are no doctor,” Mozus snapped. “A child is no mere commodity to be flung around on a whim.” 

Divus sighed, and his pen finally paused. He straightened from his hunched posture. He tipped his chin higher and looked Mozus straight in the eye with an unwavering gaze. “I’m aware of that. Which is why I am creating an existence for the girl. On the off-chance Crowley doesn’t find a way to return her to her world—on the off-chance she has no world to return to. As a minor, she would become a ward of the state just as you said. Taken away from what she has become familiar with and thrust into a world she still grasps to understand. Do you think anyone would be interested in taking in a child her age? Do you think she would be allowed the freedom she has found here? Her mind would rot in the public education system, where she will be told her lack of magic is a defect that holds her back, though she’s proven a better grasp at potions and the understanding of magic basics than most mages twice her age. You would subject a girl to that life simply because of a technicality of her legal existence?” 

Mozus pressed his lips together. It wasn’t difficult for Divus to become...passionate on a topic. Mozus genuinely believed the younger man could have become the housewarden of Pomefiore dorm as a student had he shown more interest in potion making at the time. Tenacity was simply a nicer word than the bullheaded stubbornness Divus could embody when he wanted to. 

That wasn’t entirely what Mozus saw in Divus’s gaze though. The tension in his shoulders slackened a bit. He closed his eyes and rubbed at the sudden ache between his brows. “You could lose your position here if this forgery is discovered.” 

“Forgery implies these aren’t legitimate documents.” Mozus didn’t need to see Divus to hear the smirk on his face. “I assure these are completely legitimate along with the notarization stamped on them.” 

Mozus couldn’t help directing a sharp gesture at Percival, who could barely stand upright without Divus consistently pushing him back into place. “And I’m to believe Percival is the notary you chose to witness this signing?” 

Divus’s smirk widened. “As a matter of fact, yes.” 

Percival pulled a stamper from his pocket with a happy hiccup. “I gotta stamp too!” 

Mozus should have known. He had watched the two men—then students of Heartslabyul and Pomefiore—run amuck on the campus. Why wouldn’t they continue to support each other as staff? “And you truly believe you can fool the world into believing this child is a distant cousin you wish to gain guardianship over? What if someone from your family comes forward to expose you?” 

Divus’s expression barely shifted, but Mozus caught the hard glint that briefly passed over his eyes. “After fifteen years of openly shunning me and pretending I never existed? I would love to see them try. Now sign the damn papers, Trein. I only need your signature to prove it was really me who signed the papers and Percival who notarized them. I’ll even let you witness the papers when Maddox and I establish a power of attorney if that’ll help relieve that rule abiding Heartslabyul spirit of yours.” 

Sensing Divus wouldn’t budge, Mozus finally took the pen Divus held out to him and signed the lines Percival’s wobbly finger pointed at. Afterwards, while Divus reluctantly escorted a wobbly Percival back to Ashton’s apartment, Mozus flipped through the documentation. He paused on the front page. 

Yuki Crewel—a bit common, but an easy way to explain her “nickname” being Yuu. Mozus shook his head and placed the papers in a safe place for Divus to retrieve. He settled back in his chair with Lucious and searched his bookshelf for a new book to read while listening to Ashton’s and Percival’s loud voices insisting Divus join them. 

While he didn’t fully approve of Divus’s methods, he couldn’t deny the young man’s obvious attempts to give the two children under his wing one less thing in life to worry about.