#his reward is death??? his reward is the thing he’s had to fight embracing this whole time??

[mellomadness]

okay so I’ve been watching The Magicians for the first time with my boyfriend, and we just got to season 5 and I ???? WHAT THE FUCK

killing off Quentin was so??? WHAT! WHY?! Why would you do that?! And like. Why why WHY would he move on so quickly? He was so dedicated to magic and to his friends and he finally FINALLY got Eliot back and he didn’t even get to SEE OR TALK TO HIM AND THEN HE OVERSAW HIS FUNERAL?!

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT

That betrayed his whole character. His whole arc. HIS WHOLE STORY!! He should have been able to fucking live in peace for a second, with the people he loves, and even if he had to die why couldn’t it have been temporary?? He’s moved on, there’s no coming back from that!!! ARGHHGHGHGHGHG BAD WRITING DECISION BAD

[muddyorbsblr]

the final Lady Sharpe part 5: sent away

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Part of the 500 Follower Celebration Requested by: @ellooo0ooo

Summary: Your plans with Thomas are coming to an end as his machine parts arrive and you both head into the city to set into motion Lucille's arrest.

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Word Count: 5.2k (get a drink ready)

Warning/s: 18+ | smut (minors & pearl clutchers exit the room i only ask nicely once); vaginal fingering; oral sex (f receiving); Lucille Sharpe (yes she's a warning) [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: married blorbos are snowed in (oh no how terrible 😈😏); Thomas is a simp for his wife; mutual pining sad blorbos hours

Dick-tionary: smut starts at "If we cannot lay together, then at least let me pleasure you." and ends at "…except one somber truth"

Logically there was no good reason why Thomas would wake this morning in a significantly better mood, considering that he was still stuck in this manor, a death sentence care of his psychotic murderous sister still looming over your head, and tasked with a nightly distraction that even the mere thought of it made his stomach want to turn. And yet somehow, in these few moments when he got to rouse from sleep before you did, getting to really look upon your features at a seemingly peaceful rest while he held you in his arms, there was a contentment that blanketed him and kept him warm despite the biting cold of winter.

If he could keep even at least this after this treacherous endeavor was done with, if he could keep you, then perhaps he could believe himself still deserving of happiness despite all the devastation he'd wrought throughout the years. There was no version of the near future that he could picture where he would be denied the simplest pleasure of getting to see you, perhaps even hold you. And with those thoughts, his mood had begun to sour, fully knowing that that was what awaited him at the end of the road. Dissolution of marriage.

And he couldn't even fault you for that. Why would you wish to stay with him given the context on why he'd chosen to court you? Why would you have any reason to believe him if he could muster up the courage to tell you that he'd fallen irretrievably in love with you and that he wanted more than anything to try to make this marriage work? To make it real?

He traced the back of his finger across your cheekbone, his heart twisting and melting all at once when you smiled and nuzzled your cheek against his chest. "I love you," he whispered, hoping that somehow his message would reach into your dreams. "I don't want you to leave if we make it through this. I wish to stay with you. Wherever you wish to go, I'll happily follow."

You began to stir in his arms, soft groans coming from you as you slowly roused in your husband's embrace. "Hmm?" The baronet's heart caught in his throat when your eyes fluttered open and met his, a soft smile stretching across your face. "Morning..."

He couldn't resist the urge to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, doing his best to fight back the desire to do nothing more than simply to stay in bed just like this when you rewarded him with such a lighthearted, melodic giggling in response. "Good morning, wife."

"Big day today," you mumbled, failing to fight back a yawn as you worked your way out of his embrace to sit up on the bed. "Your machine parts arrive today if your supplier and the postal service is on schedule. I just have to get all the duplicate documents I've had hidden away in your workshop together so I can send them over to my contacts in Scotland Yard." Excitement colored your features as you reached for his hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "It's almost over. We actually did it. You're almost free."

Thomas' stomach dropped as the reality of the situation dawned on him, mentally counting back on how long it had been since he carried you in his arms across the threshold of Allerdale Hall and you concocted a plan that might grant him his freedom from Lucille's reign of terror. Three and a half weeks. He would be expecting the notice from the post office any day now. Tears prickled in the back of his eyes as your words haunted him.

You'll be free from me, too.

You seemed oblivious to the darkness that begun to plague him as you bounded your way over to the wardrobe, starting to dress yourself so that you two could grab something to eat. And check on your mail for the day.

Thomas made his way to you, gently placing his hands over yours while you did up the buttons up the back of your dress. "May I?"

"Go ahead," you said breathily, releasing your hold on the stiff buttons. Your husband took his time carefully slipping each stiff button through its loop, softly kissing your temple as he worked his way up your back.

He rushed to grab for your collar piece before you reached for it, making you both break out into light chuckles as he tightened his other arm around you, pressing a kiss to your cheek once he'd successfully grabbed the piece of fabric. "Never pictured you to be the type that had a playful mood, husband," you giggled, righting yourself and gathering your hair in your hands so he could secure the piece around your neck.

Before he could stop himself, he pressed his lips to the back of your neck, the sound of your staggered breathing and faint whimper spurring him on to press another. And another. All so that the words that danced on the tip of his tongue couldn't escape. Come back to bed. I wish to hold you a while longer. I have no desire to leave this room.

And the most dangerous words of all. Words that he never thought he would say to another and fully mean them. I love you. And I wish to spend the rest of my life with you.

"Thomas," you gasped his name like you were fighting for breath, reaching behind you and holding on to him to keep yourself upright. He groaned against your neck when your hand met the bare skin of his stomach. "What's gotten into you?"

His adamant words from many nights ago nearly slipped from his lips. You're my wife. I should be with you. It should be you.

"Can I not simply indulge in greeting my wife--"

The sharp rapping of knuckles on your bedroom door pulled you both harshly out of the moment, worsened by the shrill tone of Lucille on the other end. "If you both dawdle about, breakfast will get cold."

"We'll be down shortly, Lucille, just start without us," you called back, muttering something about mood ruiners. "We should go," you told him with a downhearted exhale, your breath hitching again when it seemed that the last few moments seemed to have no effect on Thomas, who resumed with kissing along the column of your neck. "Thomas, didn't you hear your sister? Breakfast will get cold."

"Then we'll eat it cold, darling," he mumbled, setting your collar piece back down on your dresser so he could wrap his arms around you. He turned you around in his arms, mesmerized as he watched your hair slip from your hand and fall to frame your face. "Have I told you how exquisite you look in the morning light?"

You broke out into a smile, averting your gaze from his as you made a motion to step out of his hold. "Thomas come on, we should go you need to--"

"Or how I think you're absolutely brilliant?" he cut you off, framing your face in his hands before pressing a tender kiss to your lips. Will I ever get to tell you that I've fallen in love with you? he thought to himself, savoring the fleeting moment where you returned his kiss before breaking it, taking a step backward and looking visibly flustered.

There was a long moment of deafening quiet before you spoke again, your tone soft, almost wistful. "If you keep this up, Sir Sharpe, I'll have no choice but to miss you when this is all over." Your expression became guarded, veiling to your husband the poignant fact that you, too, dreaded what would come after today.

The truth was that you already missed him, longed for him, even when he was already within your arm's reach. Just as he longed for you.

"There is still no mail that has come for your wife, Thomas," Lucille seethed the moment she made his way to his side as he fixed some tea for both of you. "I am growing quite impatient, it's nearly been a month and still no correspondence regarding her inheritance has come for her. In fact, no correspondence has come for her at all. As if there isn't a single soul that even cares to check up on her. Keep in touch. Could it be possible, sweet boy, that this Y/N is playing us for fools?"

A lump formed in Thomas' throat at his sister's suggestion, panic rising inside of him knowing how close her speculation actually was to the truth. "She did mention her father was quite the busy man, perhaps he has been overwhelmed with his work and will reach out soon."

"Well the old fool better hurry," she hissed. "The sooner we get what we need from this one, the sooner we can build toward an even better life together. Perhaps even make our way out of this decaying house. Finally let it sink to the ground."

The only better life I can envision is with the woman waiting for me at the dining table, he wanted so desperately to bite back. "Has any correspondence arrived for me, sister?" He struggled to keep his composure, forcing a smile on his face as he faced her cold, calculating features. How could you ever have convinced me that what we had, what you had me do, was love?

She was visibly taken aback by how he diverted the conversation, no longer speaking in a hushed tone and ensuring that you could hear from where you sat. "There--There is. A notice that those parts you ordered for your machine have come in. You'll need to sign for them at the post office."

"Excellent, I can bring Y/N along with me. Make a day of it."

Your face lit up at the mention of the notice. His supplier was perfectly within schedule. The end of your time together truly was drawing near; nearer than he ever wanted. "I would love to come with you to the city, husband," you beamed at him. "There are some letters I wish to send to my family as well. Keep them apprised of what I've been up to since getting married. All about Allerdale Hall and its rich history."

"That sounds like a perfect idea," Lucille told you both through gritted teeth. "I hope you two have a lovely time, then. Do try to get home before the blizzard strikes." Before Thomas made his way back to you, Lucille grabbed his arm in a talon-like grip. "The moment any form of correspondence comes for her, you are to tell me right away, dear brother. My patience can only last for so long."

"Ah, Miss Y/L/N, aren't you quite the sight to behold. How long has it been since you've aided us in a case with your expansive knowledge?" Detective Jeffries, a colleague of yours from Scotland Yard, was there to pick up his own mail from the post office and bumped into you and Thomas right as you arrived.

"Too long, Jeffries. Hopefully not so long that you'd all forgotten that the reason for my prolonged absence has been my acclimation to married life. I actually go by Lady Sharpe now," you politely corrected him, giving his hand a firm shake before gesturing toward your husband. There was a noticeable pinch at your heart calling yourself that. Lady Sharpe. You wouldn't be for long if things worked out according to plan. "I'd like to introduce you to my husband, Sir Thomas Sharpe. Lord of Allerdale Hall."

There was a fleeting moment of pure glee on Thomas' face at your introduction before he settled into a more cordial expression, stepping forward to shake the detective's hand. "Good to meet you, Detective," he greeted, placing his other hand on the small of your back before stepping back to your side. "I shall go see to my deliveries now, darling." Before he walked away and let you catch up with your colleague, he pressed a kiss to your cheek, giving you a soft smile before walking further into the post office for his parcel.

"And here I once recalled a feisty consultant insisting that she'd never fall in love or become the marrying type," Jeffries teased, wagging a finger at you as if to tell you 'I told you so'. "Matrimony becomes you, though, my friend. Both you and your husband are positively radiant with your adoration for one another. It doesn't take a detective to notice that."

His remark sat heavily in your heart, every part of you struggling not to give it away that the words struck a nerve. This marriage was a sham, and it would all be over soon. Thomas was just doing a remarkable job at pretending, and you…you didn't have to. Out here in public, feeding into the image of a newlywed couple happily in love, this was the only time you could let your love for him show. To communicate the sentiment that you would never dare to with words.

"Right well uhm…" You cleared your throat, shaking your head as if to shoo the conversation away. "What you said about aiding you all with a case…that's actually what I came here for. You remember those cases on the board that we could never make any headway on? Enola Sciotti? Edith Cushing? Pamela Upton? All missing persons cases?"

"Don't tell me you were spending your honeymoon investigating these cases, Y/N, that's simply depressing--"

"I didn't actively seek out the information, I stumbled into it," you cut him off, clutching the envelope of documents in your hand with a death grip. "Married into it, really."

Sheer horror colored your friend's features, throwing a look at the baronet currently making small talk with the workers inside as he signed for his parcels. "He--"

"No, Jeffries, not him. His sister. Lucille Sharpe. Right piece of work, that one. Sad to say they're no longer 'missing persons' cases." You placed the envelope into his hands, holding his gaze and hoping that he could see the desperation in your eyes. "These are copies of death certificates, marriage certificates, and money transfers. It paints a morbid timeline that will tell you what happened, what's been happening, behind the doors of Allerdale Hall. I've also made a transcript from recordings I found from a phonograph. One of his former wives caught a confession from Lucille Sharpe. There's a map of the manor in there as well, showing you where you'll find all the original documents and the recording cylinders."

"Y/N, if this is all true, you're not safe in that manor." His tone was laced with more than understandable concern. "Neither of you are."

"That's why I need you to get those documents to Scotland Yard as soon as you can and come to Allerdale Hall to arrest Lucille," you told him, your own fears starting to creep into your words as they stumbled out of your mouth. "She's already getting stir-crazy waiting for an inheritance to come to me that doesn't even exist. We've only barely managed to convince her that there's a windfall coming my way, but it won't be long until she grows impatient enough to kill me anyway and start fresh. Jeffries, we can't let her harm another woman for the sake of satiating her bottomless pit of hunger for money and status."

Now the detective clutched the documents tightly in his grasp, giving you a nod before flagging down a carriage. "We should have a squad there tomorrow. Until then you two stay safe. Perhaps try and spend the night elsewhere, just to make sure." He reached out to you, both of you grasping the other's forearm in a show of trust and respect. "Thank you, Y/L/N--I mean, Sharpe. You're about to bring closure to a whole lot of distraught families with this."

You only nodded, fear for your own safety creating a lump in your throat you found near impossible to swallow. "Let's focus on putting Lucille behind bars before we focus on what comes after. Thank you, Jeffries." You closed the door to the carriage and tapped on the wooden panel twice. "To Scotland Yard!" you called out to the coachman, who tipped his hat to you before the carriage began to move.

As you made your way back into the post office, you tried to force a wide smile onto your face, stomping down any fears you had for what awaited you once you made your way back to Allerdale Hall. And any anticipation you had for the heartache that would accompany your inevitable divorce.

Once you were within arm's reach, Thomas reached for your hand, pulling you towards him and wrapping his free arm around your waist before softly kissing your lips. "There you are, sweetheart." He quickly noticed the absence of the envelope from your hands. "It's done?"

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. "It's done," you confirmed. "We really did it."

The entire time that Thomas inspected the coil springs and other machine parts that were delivered for him, he kept his arm around your waist, his hand over yours and lacing your fingers together. His face was a mix of emotions, the plainest to see being relief, no doubt from the realization steadily creeping in that in a few short days he truly would be free from all of this.

There was a disquiet in his eyes, too. One that he tried so hard to mask, but you'd gotten to know him well enough ever since your courtship that no smile, no matter how bright or breathtaking, could ever mask it from you. And you knew exactly where his concern lied. It wouldn't take long for Scotland Yard to conclude that even though he had not been the one administering the potion, or the one holding the cleaver, he still bore a great amount of responsibility for the deaths of all his former wives.

Thomas would be seen as an accomplice to his sister's crimes; perhaps a case could even be argued for third-degree murder because of his administering of the cyanide. Sure the documents would reveal Lucille to be the mastermind, but they would also reveal that in some of those cases that had gone cold, Thomas was partly the executioner.

You flinched in his hold when the sound of the post office's main doors slamming shut hit your ears, all of you inside turning your heads toward the man holding the handles, a frantic look in his eyes. "The storm's gotten too strong," he huffed out, slumping to the ground. "No carriages in or out of the area, if the lot of us value our safety."

Your husband let out a sigh of relief, holding you closer against him before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Perhaps when we arrive at the manor tomorrow we need not even face her," he whispered into your hair.

"Yes, and while that is a marvelous turn of events, husband, we are faced with one…tiny problem." He tilted his head at you slightly, prompting you to continue. "We're still stuck here, and the nearest inn to rent a room is a good walk away. In this storm we'd likely freeze before we even reached the front door."

"Ah, yes…that," he murmured, brows knitted together as he tried to look around the post office for a possible place to pass the time.

"Erm…we might have something that could house yous," one of the workers spoke up, jerking his head towards the back of the office, signaling for you to follow him. "We 'ave a little suite here set up for whenever the owner comes by and wants to spend a few days in the city. Sure he won't mind if you use it for tonight."

He opened the doors to reveal a quaint bedroom that felt a far cry from the echoes of faded opulence that your room in Allerdale Hall held, and yet still emanated the feel of a warm embrace that home was supposed to feel like. When you looked upon Thomas, you could see from his expression that he likely held a similar sentiment.

"This will do more than fine," he stated, holding out his hand to the worker to shake. "Thank you."

"So now that your grievous time with Lucille is finally coming to a close, what are your plans for…well, the rest of your life? Your freedom?" you asked Thomas through the divider in the room, trying to keep your tone casual as you changed into your underdress, preparing for sleep.

He answered you with a sharp huff. "In truth, darling, I haven't even begun to think about it yet. I feel as if I am not completely in the clear yet. Best to focus my attention on that first before thinking about what I wish for my freedom to look like."

You took out the final pin in your hair, setting it down on the little table by the window, next to your blades, before stepping out from behind the divider, your husband immediately catching sight of the furrowed brows and the grimace on your face. "I'm sure Scotland Yard will have a degree of leniency, considering that Lucille's arrest will lead to the closing of multiple cold cases on their board."

"That was entirely your work, Y/N. Your work in making the arrest possible is all that they will see--"

"And I wouldn't have been able to accomplish any of it if I didn't have help," you cut  him off, making your way over to him and placing your hands on his shoulders, giving him a slight shake. "Not just from the spirits in that house, but from you. If I didn't have you in my corner, I would've been caught that first night. I know that I owe you a great debt for what you--"

The rest of your words died in a muffled squeak as he pulled you to him, the jerking motion causing you to straddle him on the bed as he captured your lips in a sudden kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed at the feel of his lips moving against yours, his hands roaming your body freely until they buried  themselves in your hair.

He groaned against you, the sound melting into the sweetest sounding whimper when you crossed your hands behind his neck, pulling him closer. This would be the last night that you could call him your husband; perhaps you could allow yourself a sliver of indulgence. When he broke the kiss, he wrapped his arm securely around your waist before flipping you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress with a soft thud.

"My beautiful, brilliant wife," he rasped, the gravelly tone of his voice sending thrills up your spine. He proceeded to kiss along your neck, softly sucking at the base of your throat while he undid the tie at the top of your underdress. A mix between a gasp and a moan escaped you when he hooked your leg around his waist, pressing your hips together.

"Thomas what are you doing?" you asked him dumbly, breathlessly. "We don't need to do this tonight. Or ever again--"

"I want to," he mumbled, pressing a kiss above your heart. "I wish to lay with you, Y/N Sharpe." He kissed his way back up to your lips, looking at you with those pleading pup-like eyes that made him near impossible to resist. That whittled your resolve down to nearly nothing. "Please…"

You were finding it increasingly difficult to deny him, especially with how he was pressed against you, and you could feel his erection even through the layers of his trousers and what sheer clothing you had on yourself. And considering how you'd come to feel about him in the weeks past, how alarmingly quickly you recovered from the shock of his true predicament and the actual circumstances of your marriage, and you still found yourself falling so recklessly in love with him, most parts of you wanted nothing more than to say yes to him.

But then there was the borderline unwelcome party in your internal argument. The logical voice in your head that rationalized his actions as an overwhelming gratitude mistaken for desire. That you had done so much to get him out of the diabolical inescapable captivity that Lucille manipulated him into, and he couldn't articulate his gratitude to the point that in his mind, he saw it as an urge to lay with you.

"Thomas…" you said his name slowly, trying so hard to keep your head level and work against your more primal urge to just shout your assent. Taking deep breaths wasn't any help; it just pressed your bodies closer together, the slightest shift in his hips threatening to drive you mad. "Think about this for a moment…Wouldn't you rather wait until you could lay with someone that you love?"

There was a split second where a pained look crossed his face, before he leaned back down to softly capture your lips, moaning into the kiss when you threaded your fingers through his curls. "I wish to at least do something for you." He kissed you again before presenting you with another all too tempting offer. "If we cannot lay together, then at least let me pleasure you."

He kissed a trail along your jaw, his breath warming your skin before he traced the shell of your ear with his tongue. His next words had you letting out a whimper of his name, your desire for him that had been simmering for weeks now starting to boil over.

"I've been reading through the books in the manor's library, and all I wish to do is show you what I've learned. To explore these avenues of pleasuring with you. My wife. Please. Let me at least do that."

Another whimper escaped you, the only sound you could manage to make as you finally relented and nodded your head. There was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he scanned your face, eyes never leaving yours as his hand made its way under your dress and up between your legs. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan once his fingers made contact with your slick arousal, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a half-smile.

He breathed your name, carefully studying every detail of your face as he traced up along the length of your slit, his mouth breaking out into a devilish grin when you arched your back off the bed, screaming for him when he touched the hardened bundle of nerves above your entrance. "Exquisite," he rasped, repeating the motion and causing you to let out a sharp moan. You could only manage a whimper when he started to kiss along your collarbone while those sinful fingers kept on stroking you, dipping into your warmth before making their way back to your clit.

Before long you felt a tension at your lower stomach, begging to be released. Whenever you'd reached this point in your solitude, back in the city, from your own touch, you would close your legs. The sensation was too great and you would stop yourself. Catch your breath. Having your husband situated between your legs made it impossible to close them now, his fingers still diligently stroking you. "Thomas p-please," you squeaked, struggling to breathe. "'S too m-much for me."

"Not enough," he muttered against your skin, stroking at you faster as he kissed at your collarbone. "Let go, darling. I've got you." He pressed an open mouthed kiss to your neck, flicking his tongue against the spot and letting out a whimper that sent you over the edge, your walls fluttering and clenching around nothing as he continued to stroke at your clit.

Thomas proceeded to kiss down your chest while you tried to catch your breath, pulling back his fingers from you to firmly hold on to your hips, pinning you to the bed as his lips descended further down. You uttered his name in a breathless question, your heart beating even faster when his hands moved to hike your underdress up your legs and place your thighs on his shoulders.

"I'm not done yet," he said with a whimper, kissing his way up your inner thigh and looking up to meet your eyes, his pupils blown out so wide his eyes were near black. Shining with a sincerity that stole what air remained from your lungs. "I wish to taste you."

"Thomas what are you--Oh!" You arched your back off the bed once more, letting out an obscene moan as he licked up your entrance and closed his mouth around the oversensitized nub above it. The sight of his onyx curls subtly moving with every bob of his head, his hands grasping your thighs to keep you in place, immediately burned itself into your memory.

You would remember every devastatingly pleasurable moment of tonight for as long as you'd live. Remember him.

It wasn't long before he brought you to the brink of orgasm again, mercilessly flicking his tongue against you until you came undone, your husband making you ride his tongue while you came down from your high. Soft groans slipped from his mouth while he licked away at your release, kissing along your inner thighs again when he brought the fabric of your underdress over your legs again.

There were no words left in your mind except one somber truth. "You're going to make a fortunate woman very happy in the future, Mister Sharpe."

Thomas couldn't sleep that night, holding your sleeping form in his arms as he absently stroked at your hair. His life felt like a stick of dynamite that could set off and crumble around him at any moment now; while he allowed himself to feel a touch of relief that soon he would finally be free from Lucille and her wretched ways, that freedom came at a heart-wrenching price.

You.

Your words before you went slack in his hold haunted him, ringing constantly in his mind now like an eerie church choir. You're going to make a fortunate woman very happy in the future, Mister Sharpe.

His day ended the same way it began, watching your peaceful features as your head rested on his chest. With him speaking words he hoped would somehow reach you in your dreams. "I want to make you happy, Y/N." He didn't bother fighting back the tears that welled in his eyes as the thought slammed into him that this may very well be the last night he had with you.

And then you would disappear from his life. You'll be free from me, too.

"I don't want to be free of you," he whispered through the suppressed sobs. "I wish to be free with you. I love you, Y/N Sharpe." He pressed his lips to your forehead, a tear rolling down his cheek as he did so. "Please don't leave me."

A/N: In today's episode of "YN is stronger than all of us" 🥴 I know that this is super slow going but I promise there are plans to guide me through writing the rest of the series and I'll get to finishing it 🫡

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist

[bunji-enthusiast]

Hiii I dunno if you're open but.. would you consider doing some Mael hc's with a female s/o 👉👈

Finally having a little character header… sob sob. Anyway, hope you like your headcanons! :D

Mael's devotion toward you is unwavering, his soft-hearted nature is albeit rarely shown towards others in contrast to his ruthless side, but he has gotten better. His love towards you is genuinely one of his greatest sources of strength, and hopes to forever keep it that way, you garnered a side of him he didn't know he had and Mael wishes he can live the quiet life with you. For however long, he hopes it can be for forever.

Despite maintaining a powerful and intimidating presence due to his previous exploits when he had carried the epithet, 'Angel of Death' -- He cherishes the quiet and tender moments with you, where he can actually truly let his guard down and express his affection through small, meaningful gestures.

He is particularly fond of watching the sun rise with you each morning. Even if he had lost the Grace of Sunshine, it always reminded him of the shared hope and new beginnings, and to leave the idea of death and famine behind. Mael will do anything possible to protect that, even if he is gentler and kinder now, doesn't mean he lost his ability to fight.

The archangel has an unfortunate habit of reflecting on his past actions, manipulated into mutilating innocents who had done no wrong. But it was in due part, lucky even, that you were there to help him through that, finding forgiveness and peace can be difficult. Especially with the life he used to lead.

His fierce protection over you would extend to somewhat of an overbearing responsibility. He'd go to great lengths to ensure your safety, even if meant making personal sacrifices. Even if he was well aware of such behaviors, Mael was too fearful of you being suddenly stolen away from him, talk to him and he'll double down to a bearable extent.

Gifts of light, he is still very much capable of imbuing his own personal hand-made gifts with light - his own light. Quite the magical gift, as it can serve as a reminder of his love and protection even when the two of you are apart, Mael wants you to know that, he hopes you do anyway.

Given Mael's long life, he ended up developing a deep appreciation for the various cultures that stretched across the continent. He is always happy and able to share his knowledges and experiences with you, to acknowledge the beauty and diversity. He's come to appreciate things more often because of it otherwise, though he talks like a librarian, you can't help but laugh sometimes when he has such a fond look on his face when he speaks of the stories he's come to learn.

It's not without its struggles when it comes to having such a stable relationship, but the result reaps it's rewards. Mael has his difficulties of balancing his rather intense love for you and the dark influences of his past history, having your identity and memories twisted (additionally with being strongly manipulated) for so long can be hard on the mind and body. He still appreciates you for still sticking with him regardless of his rather awkward moments of depression.

Of course, his concern always surfaces immediately when you have your bouts of hardness and difficulties. Mael wishes he could just fix it right away, and erase the look from your face, but he knows he can't do such a thing that easily. Still, the archangel still continues to persist to do what you would do for him.

After regaining his memories, Mael’s relationship with you will allow and help him rediscover and embrace his true self, rekindling a sense of romance and hope that had been overshadowed by his past traumas. One step after the other, but frankly he still feels embarrassed you saw such behaviors and a side to him he never wanted you to see.

Mael would be deeply committed to creating a legacy of love and hope, not just through his actions but ensuring you know just how much you mean to him and how much you had helped him heal. Surely, he knows and had faced challenges and adversity where he has to work himself through it, but Mael still wants you to know the mark of his appreciation for you.

In private, Mael would show his vulnerability and share his deepest fears and regrets with you, finding solace and understanding in your presence. In a way, he has such an understanding of what Elizabeth and Meliodas felt toward each other, he is so glad to have crossed paths with you in the first place.

There could be common goals that you two work toward together, perhaps to protect those you care about or fighting for a cause the two of you believe in, at least similarly. Surprisingly though, your mutual affection and partnership around each other grew as a source of inspiration and support to others.

Mael might experience jealousy or insecurity, particularly if you showed interest in others. However, this would lead to personal growth and a deeper understanding of his own worth and the strength of your relationship. He understand's that he needs to have better control of his feelings and be more open to communication, Mael is open to growth and change after all.

When engaged in combat, Mael’s primary motivation would be to protect you and ensure your safety, fighting with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. In some ways or more, this truly had allowed him to be stronger and even sturdier.

Mael might envision a future where he and you build a life together, possibly including the idea of a family. He would cherish the thought of creating a peaceful and loving environment for them to thrive. Though, he much rather would want to wait for your consent first, children or not, he still will continue to love you regardless.

Mael would occasionally surprise you with elaborate, heartfelt gestures, such as recreating a special memory or creating a magical display of light in your honor.

[smilingmxsk]

"Bathe in their entrails! Show them they're nothing but meat!" [Jae like 'YAAAS- KILL THEM']

Embracing The Monster| Accepting!

Normally, she didn't accept invitations to fighting matches, for multiple reasons. But given this was some make-shift fighting ring in an abandoned dusty construction zone with fewer folks and one opponent, she could accept that easily. Apparently, this was just how the opposing crime lord settled his disputes. One top fighter from either side would be pitted together in a death match. Whoever came out on top got to make final demands for their reward. Easy and simple.

Technically, Margaret wasn't a 'permanent' employee of Jae's, she was just your standard 'Killer For Hire'... but the other guy didn't need to know that. He just needed to know that she was a new hire. Anything to get the other crime lord to underestimate her as a choice fighter. But of course, he decided to bring his best fighter anyhow to 'teach Jae how it's done'. A maskless Margaret rolled her shoulders, squaring up to the taller, well-built individual as the off-white light tower beamed down on them. She had to give it to the guy; he was well prepared. Hell, this guy was probably carrying for the whole team as the sole winner. It was just a shame he'd have to die because of one man's hubris.

The match was 'anything goes,' but anything like substances, poison, and anything used to either boost the fighter or weaken the opponent was prohibited. If any impairment happened, it had to be physically and by fair means. With the rules out of the way, and both fighters hydrated, the referee made the call, the match begun. The larger man took his swings for the Fixer, and Margaret chose to block each one to the best of her ability. When face shots didn't work, he'd take shots to her ribs or kidneys. Either hurt quite a huge deal, but Margaret wanted to see what this tough guy was all about, whether or not his looks matched up to his fists. But from behind her, she could hear Jae scream something over the small crowd of jeering onlookers, and it sparked something inside her.

This chump was nothing. Just a slab of meat getting in the way. Flesh for the taking.

Kill him.

When the opponent threw his next punch, Margaret swiftly dove out of the way around to his opposite side. For such a talented and trained fighter, he sure forgot to keep himself guarded. Her haymaker collides with his jaw, sending spittle and blood through the air. The small crowd recoils in surprise, but the successful punch eggs them on. The Fixer delivers a critical blow to his knee, caving it inward and forcing him down to her level with an agonized shout. The crowd cheers louder, punches continue to connect with flesh, his jaw is knocked loose, teeth broken and sent sprinkling onto dusty dirt, and a final grab for his bruised, swollen face to be brought down onto her knee.

Even though the opponent fighter is laid out on the ground, it's not enough for Margaret. Not enough. He's not dead yet. Claws rip and tear into the man's chest. He's only barely conscious, reaching up to weakly push the blood-crazed woman away from him, but it only earns him sharp fangs sinking into his hand, and into fingers. It's alright, though. It isn't long before his dazed protests begin to fade, his arms growing sluggish, the crowd drowning him out. She'd carved out his chest, pried open ribs, just to tear out the man's sagging, barely beating heart weeping with crimson.

The match was over. It was long over, if you asked her, but it was officially done and over with. Given the pale face of the opposing crime lord, she just cost him... likely a healthy portion of his empire in the following deals including this one. Maybe that was a sign that he should start considering a new tactic to settle things. If not? Oh well. Not her problem.

Margaret spits out the two halves of fingers she managed to wrench from his hand and wipes the blood from her lips. She was looking forward to her spoils for being a worthwhile investment. Which sadly wouldn't include this fresh body... Not while the crowd was watching.

[most-canon-non-canon-ship-poll]

I, the poll runner, made this poll because they suck that much

Why Mileven is shit - a submission-based essay, part 3/3

Mileven - a currently canon het ship from the Stranger Things fandom between Michael (Mike) Wheeler and Jane (Eleven) Ives/Hopper/Byers/IDK

This doesn't mean she will never have another relationship, it doesn't even mean she is "alone" while other people are in relationships (although personally I think there is nothing wrong with not being in a relationship tbh... some people need to unpack this). It just means that she reclaims the power to decide if and when she will give love to someone again, a choice she's never really had. As for Mike, I believe his low self-esteem and what makes him feel so different is his feelings for Will which have steadily stepped out of platonic more and more as time has gone on, and THAT is the truth that is hard to admit, not his apparent love for El that she has been begging for him to say. Mike and Will are written so perfectly as a romantic duo that it is wild to me that anyone would ship Mike with anyone else. Mike deserves more than to be a shitty friend and El's boyfriend (because if he really does just love El, then his actions are just him being mean and weird with no cause or explanation, which I can't imagine is the case), Will deserves more than to be the sad gay in unrequited love who only suffers, and El deserves more than to be some boy's "superhero" who is loved for what she can do more than for who she truly is. She deserves to shake the shackles of male control, and yes... Mike unfortunately falls into this due to his feeling responsible for El's wellbeing because of the unfortunate circumstances they met under. Plus he's, in my opinion, fallen even harden into this parentified role in Hopper's absence (those parallels are insane too, don't even get me started). Anyway, all that to say... Mileven is an objectively bad ship that doesn't fit with the story Stranger Things is telling. It doesn't serve any of the characters involved in a positive way, and Byler is a significantly more touching and well-built couple. Personally, even the argument that El will be "crushed if they break up" doesn't really carry any weight. It's clear that she has already hurt so much IN THE RELATIONSHIP, so ending it just seems like the logical next step (and I'm among the people who believe she wanted to break up at the pizza place tbh). Why should she stay with someone who can only love her in life-or-death situations? Why should Mike be with someone who makes him feel worthless or not enough or like his personal experiences and struggles aren't valid? Why should Mike and El settle for a relationship that takes so much work but makes them both ultimately unhappy (it's giving Karen a d Ted). Why should Will just accept that in a world of demogorgans and alternate dimensions and telekinetic lab children, the craziest and most unlikely thing is a queer boy like him finding requited love with the person who makes them feel better for being different and encourages them to fight on? I just don't think the writers are telling that kind of story. I love El, Mike, and Will... I hope they will get a beautiful ending. To me, a beautiful ending would include Mike and El mutually caring for each other enough to admit that their relationship is not good for either of them as El deserves to be loved and needs time to heal, and Mike deserves to embrace his truth and his own feelings without feeling insignificant or unlovable (and ultimately be rewarded for embodying one of the show's core themes: that forced conformity is bad, you will never feel gratification or happiness by pretending to be something or someone you're not, it's okay to be a "freak" and it's okay to be different and to rebel against the limited, restrictive forms of "happiness" society pushes. After all, forced conformity is one of the real villains in this show, as clearly stated!)

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

"A master's hunger"

Pairing: Vampire! Tulkas x Fem. Reader (Human/Familar | Third person POV)

Themes: Dark

Warning: Vampirism | Blood drinking | Death

Word count: 500+ words

Summary: Vampire! Tulkas sates his hunger by feeding on the familiar who serves him.

Minors DNI | 🔞 | You are responsible for the media you consume.

It was not how she thought it would be. 

She desired Tulkas, yes, but never did she think he would command her to tend to him, his needs. 

She certainly did not think that his need would be his thirst for blood. 

Y/n had to keep still, so very still. Teeth as sharp as tiny spikes pierced her flesh, the pain searing her like a red-hot brand. She grew dizzy, weak, her very life force seeping out of her with each swallow of her blood. Tulkas drank and drank, drinking deep from the sweet, crimson nectar that poured down his throat. 

Y/n was his first, his only, familiar. She was quiet. Diffident. He never knew what to do with her, except to give her orders. 

"Fetch me more wine."

"Procure this and this and this for me."

"Lay out my garments for the night."

And he did not give her a second thought, paying her no mind while she kept to the shadows. Now she was here, in his embrace, her very blood coursing through his veins. And it was intoxicating, filling him to the brim. More, more, more. He needed more. He took more. He did not stop. He could not stop. His skin was on fire, his senses now sharper than a finely forged blade. He drank and drank and drank, taking more, taking it all. He paused, hesitated. Something pricked at him, a reminder of something he said. What was it? Was it important? Did it matter? Tulkas decided it did not. He went back to satisfying his hunger.

Y/n's body grew cold against the rose and ivory tiles of the dining hall floor. She thought of what Tulkas last said, all of what he said.

"I am hungry," he had said. 

"It is too dangerous to hunt. It is too close to dawn," he had said. 

"You need not fear me," he had said. 

"I will restrain myself," he had said. 

"I will only take just enough—just what I need," he had said. "After, I will reward you."

And how could she refuse him? He was her lord, her master. She had sworn to obey him in all things. Everything she had came from him. Her happiness rested in his hands—the very hands that cradled her to him now while he drained her of all she had. 

Lies. His promises were nothing but lies. Y/n tried to fight him. She did not want to die. She squirmed. Tried to pinch him, move, do something, anything, that would bring him back to his senses. Tulkas growled and bit down harder.

It was too late, he was too far gone. Her body went limp. First her fingers and toes, then her limbs, then the rest. It was as if a blanket of ice was being draped over her, inch by inch. Y/n finally closed her eyes, ready to meet her maker. It was not fair. She had so many years left to live, and they were now taken from her. A single tear slid down her cheek. Her final breath came, a wet, rattling sound rising from the back of her throat when it did. It finally stopped. The pain, the sorrow, everything. It all stopped. The world went dark. Tulkas stopped. Drew back. He groaned in satisfaction, and licked his lips, greedy for the last drops that remained. He then looked down at the lifeless vessel in his arms. 

Gone. Tulkas did not have to be told. He knew. Y/n was gone. 

It did not matter to him. 

He could always find another.

 Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil

[parasite-core]

I wrote a thing after Astarion broke up with my Tav and Arabella left camp one right after the other. So here’s Eccardian being…dramatic.

The note crumpled in Eccardian’s hand, and he threw it on the ground with all his strength. He was trembling, fighting to keep the raging storm inside of him in check.

Arabella had learned about her parents’ death and had left, blaming him. He’d had every intention of telling her—when she’d put some distance between herself and she shadow cursed land. When it seemed like she could handle the news better.

But Withers up and dropped the news on her first. And now she was gone and hated him and he couldn’t even explain.

Wasn’t that always the way.

It was one blow too many. Right after Astarion—

Astarion.

That bastard.

That smug, sadistic, beautiful, backstabbing bastard.

‘What did you think I was, some kind of Prince Charming?’

‘This is what I do.’

‘You’re not worth the trouble anymore.’

Eccardian had known the sort of person Astarion was right from the start, of course. He’d have to be truly foolish or optimistic to think he was anything but a manipulative, power-hungry drama queen. But the way he’d spoken to the golden tiefling since that night after they celebrated the goblins’ defeat…maybe he’d been a fool, but he’d thought there was something genuine there.

He’d disobeyed that damned butler for Astarion. He’d spent a night tied up squirming in the dirt like a worm while Astarion egged on his vicious ‘other’, and he’d believed the vampire spawn when in the morning he said they were in this together. That he didn’t have to shoulder this burden alone.

Empty words. Empty promises.

Eccardian’s rapier was in his hand before he knew he’d drawn it. Slashing and stabbing the thick night air, as if he were piercing his own bleeding heart. He should have just killed Astarion that night. He should have just given in to the Urge and embraced the bloodshed when it would have still been a beautiful tragedy and not just more bloody vengeance. At least then he’d be ignorant of the deception, he’d hate himself but he wouldn’t hate that stupid beautiful infuriating asshole.

Eccardian stabbed the rapier into the sandy ground, panting, his tail swishing with the rage that was still roiling inside of him.

He couldn’t even bring himself to kill the man now. Not after he’d gone to such lengths to avoid doing it when he would have actually been rewarded for the act. And Astarion was, admittedly, still very adept with a dagger and bow. Eccardian had seen the vampire spawn become shadow and death with just the right spell and a dagger.

He hated how heart achingly beautiful the memory was, of the silver haired vampire appearing from the veil of invisibility just as his dying enemy’s blood rained down, creating a vivid contrast of white and red.

It matched his eyes.

Eccardian slumped, his hand still loosely grasping the rapier, but his body becoming dead weight.

He’d only even started messing around with Astarion in the first place when Gale showed little interest in his flirtations. He just decided to go for it—might as well hook up with someone who was open and willing than pine over someone who seemed too preoccupied by other matters. The far too real feelings came later.

It was ironic. He’d told the butler that he’d only been toying with Astarion—that he meant nothing to him, that any apparent feelings for him were feigned, to try to get out of being coerced into killing him. And all this time, that was actually what Astarion had been doing. Fool that Eccardian was.

The golden tiefling stood, pulled his rapier from the ground and wiped it off before sheathing it. His tail hung limp but he wiped away any stray tears from his fiery silver eyes. He would go back to camp and that bastard would not get the pleasure of seeing him broken up over him. They still had two Chosen to kill and a Sword Coast to save. Then they could part ways and never see each other again for all he cared.

And Hells if he was going to help Astarion take over the cult now. That cult was going to burn. Burn in the most glorious pyre the tiefling could build, out of the bones of everything that had been taken from him.

[memarrymilf]

When I was offered the chance to live forever, I didn't quite understand the consequences. My parents slaughtered in a senseless act of sacrifice to a God that had never answered someone's prayers before. When faced with a tearful child, she had felt pity. Gods had never felt pity before, and back then, I didn't expect her to either.

I had not known just how rare that had been, she granted me the immortality, it wouldn't start then and there, if I made it to the age of 25 in the barren land we had made home, then eternal life would be my reward. Pity didn't mean much to a God who lacked entertainment, so for 12 years she watched me fight tooth and nail to survive, my brushes with death being more certain than the light that would once again rise tomorrow.

At 25, I finally realised the curse she had bestowed upon me. Immortality was not a blessing, not to humans, at least. A God had no reason to fear living forever. They had no one to lose. The life of one who can no longer be touched by death is a life to be spent grieving everyone you meet.

It took another 20 years to fully understand grief, to understand how shattering it is to lose every person you care for, and know you will never be reunited with them in death.

In spite of this, I tried to live still, refusing to give up. Even if I did, it would change nothing. Making peace with my existence would be my only solace. I clung to the feelings of soft embracing sunlight, I danced within the rain, swimming in every body of water that I would stumble across. I took time to understand the beauty of the world before understanding the way to love without pain.

I fell into the arms of all those who would have me, dancing in the hope of tomorrow. I watch as they age, they live, they love, they do not fear death, and neither did I. I spent a lifetime with every lover, experiencing more love than I thought possible.

I remain steadfast that every love was worth the ache, even if the sun's warmth became colder with every love lost, until it stopped feeling warm at all.

My womb would remain barren, I hardly expected it to change.

Perhaps that is why when faced with a child of the streets, I could not turn the other way, I could not leave them, not as I had been left. The boy was small, smaller than I remember any child being, not that I had spent much time in the company of children.

The boy was only seven.

Seven.

In seven years of existence, he had seen more cruelty than most would see in their entire lifetime.

Seven.

Seven years seems so short to me now.

To him, it was forever.

I took him home with me. In the eternity that I spent living, I hadn't spent much time cultivating wealth. There was never any need. A small cottage in a field of flowers had been all I needed, a garden with everything I could need, everything *we* could need.

There was no spare room, a study, a bathroom, and a bedroom being the only walled rooms in the cottage. The boy had spent the evening telling me of his life, I had listened.

He had told me of his family, his home, his life. The boy had been jittery and had blatantly refused to offer his name, claiming it was not for me to know. I had only smiled in return. What freedom would one hold when the one you deem unsafe can lay claim upon your name?

I had given the boy my bed, venturing to the coach myself. Resolute that tomorrow I would strip the study and buy another bed, a smaller one for now.

I didn't sleep that night, my hands trembling with grief for the first time in nearly a decade, for a boy that I had not even known three hours earlier. That had I not been alone, I doubt I would even have caught sight of.

I dug through my linen chest, pulling old curtains and blankets and tablecloths of lives long gone. I had guessed the boy's size, resigning to the fact that it would not be perfect.

When he had awoken the next day, there had been clothes. The boy had smiled, he introduced himself to me then, sharing the last thing that had protected his freedom.

James didn't seem so afraid of me anymore.

I had baked pies and pastries with the fruit from my garden, and James had spent the day playing in the afternoon sun with the ravens that had made their home in my garden. I allowed myself to feel the warmth of the sun again, if only for a moment.

When the moon rose into the sky that evening, I had read to him until he had fallen asleep in my arms, lulled to sleep by a warmth I had not known that I possessed.

And as Hestai appeared before me for the third time in my life, she had looked upon me with pity once more.

"This will hurt." She had whispered to me with soft eyes.

I swallowed thickly. "It will be worth it." I assured. I cannot be sure who I was assuring, but she seemed to understand.

"I know." She agreed.

The abandoned child you’ve taken in sleeps on your lap as the god who gave you immortality softly warns you. “This will hurt.”

[pinkmirth]

PIECE OF WORK!

SYNOPSIS ⨾ hwoarang’s the most conceited man you’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing, and he’s in dire need of a humbling experience.

CONTAINS ⨾ ( 1K+ words of . . . ) ‘maek’ hwoarang x fem!reader (black coded), nsfw/smut, canon-divergent modern tekken-verse, super short porn with very little plot, rivals trope (enemies fucking it out!!!), dark-content warning for (dubcon), dom!reader, sub!hwoarang, cowgirl position, hwoarang calls reader a ‘bitch’ once, explicit language, lowercase intended, not proofread, minors shoo!

MY LOVE LETTER! ⨾ i’ve been playing tekken for years now, and my crush on hwoarang only ever grows! there isn’t much content/fics for the fandom, so i went ahead to add my two cents >.< i just wanna see this man beg for mercy . . . a girl can dream. this is for all my tekken lovers and hwoarang girlies! now, please enjoy my little smut-piece for this sexy bastard of a man! ❤︎

“ooh, shit!”

hwoarang swearing is nothing new. it’s all the writhing and trembling that you haven’t seen before— something you had the very honor of prying out of him.

you're unsure whether you’d call this a punishment or reward; you riding him. it was supposed to quiet him down, make him behave a little, but the warm embrace of your cunt only has him losing his head.

as for a vulnerable hwoarang, he isn’t sure he can take much more of this . . . of you. whenever you bounce in his firm, wide lap, his own hips start to buck upwards in pure desperation. you steadily control; sinking down on him before lifting yourself up, just to slam your ass back down on him all over again. his toned abdomen trembles every time your buttcheeks jiggle and clap down on him.

“fuckin’ hell,” he whines aloud. you shoot him a smile, one so sickly sweet that it makes his cock jump. hwoarang’s gullible beneath you, noises spilling from his raw throat as he twitches like a virgin. whatever happened to that attitude of his, you wonder? that big fat fucking mouth that got him underneath you in the first place? though you surely don’t mind his sensitivity— it only means the reins have officially been handed over to you.

“you seem to be enjoying yourself,” is your soft coo against the shell of his pierced ear. “what, don’t hate me anymore?” the teasing puff of your breath against his neck makes him fight back a moan, trapping it behind a puffy bitten lip. his hands, large and scattered with veins, grip fervently at your waist, the soft warm-brown flesh spills through his thick fingers. you feel his cock throb and jump within your tight pussy. you’re taking him in, clenching around him, swallowing him whole.

“goddamn it, you bitch, you’re gonna be the death of me!” hwoarang cries out, he just can’t seem to help it. he’s never been one to contain himself, anyway. stray pieces of his ginger dyed hair fall aloof from his half-bun and scatter onto his sweat-sheen forehead. the veins in his sculpted arms bulge as he begins to hold you tight, bouncing you up and down on his girthy cock. you fall forward onto him, face planted against his broad chest. “mm, that’s it— fuck me jus’ like that!” you spur him on, tongue flicking out to graze his nipple. the whine he lets out in response is delicious.

hwoarang’s pace grows quicker, more undoing. he pistons his dick into with an urgency; a speed that has you resting against his chest, moaning into his strained neck. you grind your hips down, making it possible for him to slot in deeper than before. with every swirl of your hips, his cocky disposition crumbles into nothing. the man’s needy, melting before you. he’s lava-hot, a fiery magma that pours itself into your open palms.

it’s abrupt when hwoarang cums— mouth agape with deep groans spilling past, brows twisted and raised, fingers pressing against your flesh as if his hold on you is the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. he thrusts upwards, and three— no, four thick loads are emptied into your fluttering cunt with each desperate raise of his pelvis. it’s only after you’re filled to the brim that he thinks to pull out.

he’s panting. you are too. his grip softens, and his calloused palms smooth over the round globes of your asscheeks. you bring your manicured hand to brush down his firm bicep. his embrace might’ve actually been enjoyable if you didn’t find him to be so . . . hateable.

“i didn’t finish,” your voice breaks the post-silence. his brows furrow, and he delivers a smack to your ass.

“that’s ’cause you’re never satisfied.” he’s quick to bite, back to his snappy bullshit as always.

“no,” you lift yourself from the broad surface of his sweat-sheen chest, straddling over him once again. “it’s because you weren’t good enough. god, you always make me do everything myself,” you touch around to find his semi-hard cock, wrapping your fingers around the sticky base of it. he’s still erect enough for you to get your fill. when you slot his cockhead against your entrance and press him back inside, the weakest groan escapes him. his hands fly up in surrender, eyes hazy as he watches you get back to bouncing down on him.

“f—fuck you,” he seethes through grit teeth, adam’s apple bobbing from within his throat. “mm, fuck you too.” your tone wavers, on the borderline of a moan. your full breasts sway as you rock forward, chasing the right spot with the prodding of his spent cock. with him knowing you, there’ll be at least three more rounds until you’re satiated.

good thing he’s got all the fighter’s stamina to spare.

© 𝑃ℐ𝒩𝒦ℳℐℛ𝒯ℋ! — all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. please and thank you! ౨ৎ

[mokonahapuuuuuu]

Box of Beauty - chapter three COMPLETE

He walked through the Plains of Asphodel, careful to put some dirt in his shoe unlike the last time. 

Maybe he should have taken someone else to come along with him, since the Underworld was a tricky place. It was full of booby traps, but this was a journey for Neil, and Neil alone. 

He was in love with Belle. 

Everyone around him thought he could never love anyone else, only himself. She was at death’s doorstep, and he was walking in the Underworld to save her. 

Whatever Hades’ realm brought him, he would fight until his last breath. 

In a mausoleum, there on a display was a silver box. That must be the Box of Beauty. He picked it up. He could imagine every model in the world would go after this box. 

As he walked back to the Gates of Hades, he felt a little weaker. His eyes widen as he saw his hand was aged and wrinkly. He saw his reflection on the Box of Beauty. 

He had become an old man. 

“No…!” 

Was this the price of picking up the Box of Beauty? He and the rest of the gang went to the Underworld lots of times, it’s not like as if they got older after they left. 

Maybe the Box could reverse all this. A little couldn’t hurt, would it? 

The image of Belle lying on the cot went through his mind. 

Hera’s voice ran through his head. 

“If by any circumstances you use the Box first, it will not help Belle at all.”

Neil curled up his fist. Belle need it more to live. If that meant giving up his life and looks, so be it. 

When he came back to the surface, everyone was so glad he survived the journey. They were all shocked to see that he aged that fast since they went to the Underworld all the time. 

Hera indeed confirmed that if a mortal ever got the Box of Beauty, they would age faster. 

Aphrodite placed a hand on Neil and hugged him. 

Probably a good thing that the Box wasn’t that common. Maybe that was also another reason why Hera sent only Neil. The Box would have aged all of them. 

He gave the Box to Apollo. The poison on Belle’s face was finally gone. All that was left was the great scar. 

As Apollo opened the Box, a magenta light came out. He poured the contents onto Belle’s face. A flash of light went around the room, and Belle’s face was back to normal. 

Everyone cheered, their friend was saved. Which is more than they could say for Neil. Though what he did today really surprised them all. They had no idea that he would act this selfless. 

After he got the news about Belle, Poseidon came to the school to see her. 

Poseidon walked up to Neil and Aphrodite. 

“You risked your life saving Belle,” began the Sea God. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done for her.” 

Neil nodded. 

“Love is the strongest force in the Universe,” began Aphrodite. “Only love could cause people to put themselves so completely in harm's way, and then make the ultimate sacrifice. One's life.” 

“Since you’ve saved my descendant, Aphrodite and I thought we should reward you,” continued Poseidon. 

Neil’s brow raised. “How?” 

Both Gods put their hands together over Neil, and soon, the model felt his vitality coming back to him. He got out his mirrors from his pocket. 

He was back to his good looking self again. 

He smiled and leaped into the air, cheering. He embraced Aphrodite. The rest of the teenagers joined him. At least he didn’t have to live his life out as an old man. 

He thanked Poseidon as well for restoring his good looks. 

Neil looked over to Belle. He saved her. Neil saved Belle, and everything was going to be alright. 

He walked over to her cot and placed a hand on her healed face. 

Her eyes opened. “Neil…?” 

“Yes, Belle, I’m here…” he breathed. 

Her smile faded away as she went back to sleep. 

Once she was well enough to walk again, they were on the patio roof of the Brownstone. 

“So, Hera told me it was you who got the Box of Beauty that made my face back to normal,” Belle began. “I’m glad that you made it out in one piece.” 

“I was on my own down there, but I faced it all…!” He flexed his muscles. “I’m just glad you didn’t see me when I was an old man.” 

They both laughed, but remembering when Fortuna turned him into a baby at her casino, perhaps seeing him at any other age magically would have been embarrassing. 

They looked down to the ground once the laughter was gone. 

Neil broke the silence as their hands intertwined. “We’ve been through so much together at this school, have we?” 

“Yes…” Belle nodded. “We have.” 

“And well, I’m just going to go on about myself, and the guys wouldn’t be surprised at all. I mean, you’re probably sick of it, too. I’ve learned so much about myself here. First Nemesis making me Golden Boy, and then becoming an old man. All I’m saying is, if we all didn’t come here to the school, I’d probably still be that self-centred diva.” 

“And I’m glad I came here, too,” said Belle. “If I didn’t come here, I’d probably still be that unassertive girl. It wasn’t Pegasus, nor knowing that I was a descendant of Bellerophon that got me the confidence to go to the Olympics. It was you, Neil.” 

He reached for her face again. All that time, people doubted that he could be a hero. Now he really was a hero, even to Belle. 

Their eyes closed as he felt their lips brush into a kiss. 

Their arms were around each other as they watched the sunset. 

Out of all the places to be in his life, this was probably the best of them all. 

[cosmicjoke]

It seems more and more clear to me, as I read through “Memnoch the Devil” that Anne Rice’s statements about Lestat being “evil” and a “bad guy” must be born entirely from her own opinion of what constitutes evil, that opinion, it seems, being informed by her Christian faith.  Lestat is, at his very core, sort of the antithesis of Christian goodness.  This whole notion of sacrificing earthly pleasures for the promise of salvation, or the promise of Heavenly reward.  This idea that suffering is somehow integral to coming closer to God.  That it’s suffering itself that makes people good, or makes them worthy of salvation.  That’s the very crux of Memnoch’s argument with God in this book.  Memnoch, the Devil, the very symbol of evil in Christianity, someone seen as a tempter and a seducer, someone who leads humanity to evil through temptation of things like the flesh and knowledge and earthly pleasures, believes that suffering is wrong and pointless, and that it’s in SPITE of it that people can be good, while God argues that suffering is what enables people to be good, that there is no greater goodness than the sacrifice of ourselves to... whatever.  Lestat is like Memnoch, in how he, in many ways, flies in the face of that (frankly) ridiculous notion that it’s our suffering which makes us worthy or good.  He’s self-indulgent, he’s materialistic, he loves luxury and  individuality and reason and logic.  He believes in living for ones self, in making meaning for ourselves outside of some vague and unprovable belief in God, outside of a loyalty to a God which doesn’t exist.  He doesn’t agree with or relate to concepts of suffering or self-sacrifice or abstaining in some effort to be godlike or reach for God.  From a Christian point of view then, yeah, Lestat might seem like a “Bad Guy”.

Memnoch says this to Lestat

“I have put my throne above His throne- as the poets and the redactors of Scripture say it- because I know that for souls to attain Heaven, suffering was never necessary, that full understanding and receptivity to God never required as fast, a scourging, a crucifixion, a death.  I know that the human soul transcended Nature, and needed no more than an eye for beauty to do this!  Job was Job before he suffered!  Just as after!  What did suffering teach Job that he didn’t know before?”

And Lestat says to Memnoch

“... we are both sensualists, we are both believers in the wisdom of the flesh.”

From a Christian point of view, this would seem like a sin and evil.  Defiance against the laws of Nature, or a rejection of pointless suffering, the gall of pointing out that to suffer is meaningless and unnecessary.  Christians often try to find ways to justify the worlds suffering because it doesn’t gel very well with their notion of a merciful and benevolent God, or with God’s so called “plan”.  Or that we’re supposed to imitate Christ’s sacrifice for humanity as an expression of our love and acceptance of him.  Memncoh even points this out to Lestat.

“But when He came as God Incarnate, He imitated myths that men had made to try to sancfify all suffering, to try to say that history is not horror, but has meaning.  He plunged down into man-made religion and brought His Divine Grace to those images, He santified suffering by His death, whereas it had not been sanctified in His Creation, you understand?”

Or this part

“Hell is where I straighten out things that He has made wrong... Hell is where I reintroduce a frame of mind that might have existed had suffering never destroyed it!

... The earth is my battlefield.  Lestat, I fight Him not in Hell but on Earth.  I roam the world seeking to tear down every edifice He has erected to sanctify self-sacrifice and suffering, to sanctify aggression and cruelty and destruction.  I lead men and women from churches and temples to dance, to sing, to drink, to embrace one another with license and love.

... He is the only one who can enjoy suffering with impunity!  And that’s because He’s God and He doesn’t know what it means and He never has known.... And the final victory over all human evil will come only when He is dethroned, once and for all, demystified, ignored, repudiated, thrown aside, and men and women seek for the good and the just and the ethical and the loving in each other and for all.”

Memnoch is speaking here of the very philosophy which has always been Lestat’s own.  To give oneself meaning through the seeking of good.  Of finding meaning through and in ourselves in a world which is filled with purposeless suffering.  To overcome that suffering by giving our lives our own meaning.  To enjoy what goodness life has to offer, in SPITE of its suffering.  To not accept that there’s a reason for us to suffer, or that we should. 

I have to say, I gotta’ agree with Lestat and Memnoch here.  Suffering is never the thing that makes us worthy of anything.  Suffering doesn’t make us better, it doesn’t make us stronger, it doesn’t make us more enlightened.  It’s always in spite of suffering that we can be and do good, that we find strength, that we become enlightened, or whatever.  Lestat and Memnoch feel and believe that suffering can only lead to a bitterness and anger and pain being born in us.  That suffering in fact causes evil, it doesn’t absolve it. 

I think Lestat himself is sort of a perfect example of that, as are all the vampires in Anne Rice’s books.  They were all born out of some form of suffering and cruelty.  Lestat’s “evilness” is the result of his own suffering, his own pain, his own misery.  Suffering didn’t make Lestat a better person.  All it did was saddle him with trauma which ended up having an incredibly negative impact on the rest of his life and his relationships with people.  And, in fact, worst of all, Lestat’s suffering made him hate himself.  Memnoch says to Lestat, when Lestat claims he does bad things simply because he likes to

“Is that really why you drink blood?  Just because you love it?  Or isn’t it because you were made into a perfect pretenatural mechanism for craving blood eternally, and thriving only on blood- snatched out of life and made a gleaming Child of Night by an unjust world that cared no more for you and your destiny than it cared for any infant who starved that night in Paris?”

And Lestat answers

“I don’t justify what I do or what I am.  If you think I do, if that’s why you want me to run Hell with you, or accuse God... then you picked the wrong person.  I deserve to pay for what I’ve taken from people.”

Memnoch replies to Lestat

“Do you think I want you to justify it?  What violence have I justified so far?  What makes you think I would like you if you justified or defended your actions?  Have I ever defended anyone who made anyone else suffer?”

He’s pointing out to Lestat that God’s so called justification of suffering is a lie because it doesn’t, in fact, do any good.  It only causes more suffering.  An endless cycle of it, an endless cycle of violence, and misery. 

Truly, what good Lestat actually has in him is in spite of his suffering.  He just doesn’t realize it.  The fact he still loved and cared for his family, despite them abusing him terribly growing up.  The fact he still loves his mother, despite her failings him as a parent.  The fact he still loved Nicki, despite Nicki trying to pull him down into darkness with him.  The fact he still loves Louis and Claudia, despite them trying to kill him.  The fact he still loved Akasha, despite her making him do terrible things and threatening his life and the lives of those he loves repeatedly, etc, etc... 

It’s funny, because if Anne Rice really did feel Lestat was a bad person because he rejected this notion of abstaining and self-flagellation and living a life of self-denial and suffering, because she believed those things are what could bring one closer to God’s glory, or some shit like that, she ends up making a perfect case in this very book for why that isn’t so.  For why that kind of self-denial and self-blame and self-loathing is actually, in many ways, the root of everything bad that happens to people, not any sort of redemption. 

Lestat is someone who believes in the good of self-fulfillment, the value of being oneself, no matter what, the value of refusing to yield to anyone else’ notion of who or what you should be, or telling us that we need to suffer for any reason.  And truly, I think that has more legitimacy as an argument for good than any sort of idea that we need to suffer or pay in order to reach our full potential. 

[nikethestatue]

Depth of Your Eyes

Extreme Fluff.

Domestic fluff. Babies!

Elriel Month - Day 24

“Why do you hate me?” lamented the feared and exalted Shadowsinger of the Night Court.

Feared and admired, worshipped for his immense Illyrian power, for his stealth and strength, he, the great and mysterious spy master, the male who made enemies tremble and flee, and females swoon, failed utterly and completely at this one task—having his chunky newborn son open his eyes for him.

When his son was born, the first thing that shocked everyone—parents and healer and midwife—was his very impressive size. How the delicate, slender, elegant Elain even managed to bear him—without much difficulty too—was a mystery.

But the Cauldron loved Elain and strove to make Elain happy. It gave Elain an almost painless labour, though it was lengthy and uncomfortable nevertheless, and while Azriel was out of his mind with worry and trepidation, not knowing whether the baby’s wings would cause damage or even more serious issues, Elain was serene and happy.

The nightmare that was Nyx’s birth was still fresh in Aziel’s mind—the blood, the gore, Nyx’s tiny lifeless body in Mor’s arms, and Feyre, with a horrific gaping slash across her abdomen, bleeding out, Death hovering just above her. Therefore, Azriel dreaded Elain’s labour. For ten months he was a wreck. He was too happy, too elated, too content, too joyful in his life, and there bound to be repercussions for all that bliss.

The baby was conceived momentarily. “Let’s make a baby,” Azriel proposed a little drunkenly to the giggling and smiling Elain. They were enjoying a glorious sunset on the sea, in a tiny town with whitewashed buildings and blue roofs, in the Summer Court. It was far from Adriata, far from visitors and everyone else and they indulged in endless white sand beaches, fresh seafood and lots of local wine, swimming in the azure waters of the sea and enough lovemaking to leave them both sore and hoarse. “Now?” Elain kissed him. He shrugged, “why not now?”

And it happened—‘now’. When they returned from their holiday, she found out that she was expecting their baby.

Azriel couldn’t lie, but he was feeling rather smug.

“What the fuck kind of seed you got, brother?” muttered Cassian. “You just knocked her up in a day?”

Azriel only shrugged innocently.

As if this was to be expected. Of course he’d impregnate her in a day! But it wasn’t at all what he thought would happen—he thought that as with all Fae, this would be a lengthy process full of false starts, crushed hopes and nerves. But the Cauldron loved Elain and wanted to make her happy.

Now, he was holding his chunky son in his arms. Calm and peaceful, the baby took after his parents in temperament. He was mellow and not fussy, docile and good-natured. His appetite was monstrous though. He ate and ate and ate. At his already great size, Azriel muttered ‘you are going to be Cassian’s size by the time you are three’. And because he ate so much, he was rather plump, to put it kindly, which meant that his hamster-like cheeks obscured his eyes. At three weeks, their baby mostly slept and ate, so periods of play and interaction were minimal—hence, Azriel’s failure to actually see the colour of his son’s eyes.

Elain claimed that the eyes were hazel. Nesta insisted that they were ‘Archeron’ eyes. Cassian’s assessment was ‘I think brown. Like dirt’. Amren went with ‘I don’t know, I didn’t look closely’. Yet they all claimed that they’d seen his eyes.

Azriel was seated on top of the covers in their bed, propped against the cushioned headboard. His wing curled around Elain, who was sleeping next to him, pressed to his side, her arm thrown over his stomach. Their son, sturdy and large, almost the size of Azriel’s forearm now, was sucking noisily, eating like he hasn’t been fed in a week. He was fed less than three hours ago.

The bottle—a new invention from Dawn—wasn’t widely used just yet, but Azriel loved it. At first, Elain was reluctant to utilize it, preferring to breastfeed at all times, but then…well, then she came to accept how convenient this bottle invention was. Especially because Azriel was a nocturnal creature and had no issues with staying up or waking in the middle of the night. And with their gluttonous son demanding food all the time, she was still able to function and rest and sleep, since he didn’t really care which way he was getting his food, as long as he was getting it.

Azriel was looking down at the delicious bundle in his arms, and thought that his baby would end up looking very much like him, if he wasn’t so chubby. Right now, he was all round and soft and filled with folds that others wanted to bite and pinch.

Cassian, in fact, did bite his nephew’s little fat wrist, and Elain caught them, warning that Cassian wouldn’t be allowed to feed him if it happened again. “but it didn’t even hurt!” he defended himself feebly. “Just a little nibble…He is such a fatty!”

“No. Biting.” ordered Elain. “Or you’ll be off bottle duty!”

That was a serious threat that Cassian took to heart, because he absolutely adored feeding the baby with the bottle. He and Nesta were enthralled with him, quietly arguing and fighting about whose turn it was to feed him next. Elain and Azriel frequently overheard ‘you did it last time!” “no, but he likes me more…” “gods above, he does not like you more! He clearly prefers me!” “he was crying with you!” “yes, that’s because you made him cry!”

“We only have two choices,” said Azriel with a sigh, watching Cassian coo and babble to the baby one day, rocking him and singing him all kinds of bawdy Illyrian songs. “We either forbid them entry into the house,” at that, Elain frowned. “Or, we just let them be and simply assume that our son’s first word will be ‘fuck’.”

Adhering to the Illyrian tradition of not naming a child until he was one month old, the baby remained nameless. Well, Elain and Azriel knew what he would be called, but speculation ran rampant.

Elain had officially asked Cassian and Nesta to be the baby’s Guardians, a very important and respected position in the Illyrian society. It would fall on Cassian to start teaching his nephew how to fly—and when Elain formally requested for him to become the Guardian, Cassian shyly teared up.

“Yes, Petal, of course,” he nodded nervously, with aching sincerity, “it would be an honour. Are you sure?” Cassian still worried, “are you sure you don’t want to ask Rhys?”

Elain embraced the General gently and lovingly, and whispered, “I’ve never been more sure of anything, Cass. Only you. I’d only trust him with you and Nesta.”

It was Elain’s right as the mother to select the Guardians for her child, so while Azriel suspected who her choice would be, he waited for the official announcement along with everyone else. Eventually, the Guardian would present their son with his first sword, and begin teaching him to fight.

“Well, I want my baby to have the best,” said Elain, kissing Nesta’s flushed cheek. “Who is better than the Commander General of the Night Court armies and the Valkyrie herself? Will you two do us the honour of accepting him into your Guardianship?”

“Yes!” both of them almost yelled their acceptance.

Now, Nesta and Cassian was preparing something grandiose for the Naming Ceremony.

But first things first.

“Hey lovie, why don’t you look at me?” murmured Azriel, rocking his son gently against his chest. At first, the baby leapt towards his nipple, received nothing from it and gave an angry squeak of disappointment.

“Sorry, my friend, at this point, I think you should already know where the good stuff comes from,” said Azriel, as he offered the bottle. “I know, I know, not the same, but close enough. Believe me, I tried it straight from the delicious source and I agree, it is much better,”

“Stop being gross,” moaned Elain, and slapped his stomach.

He laughed.

“I am not being gross. Just honest. If I can suck on your titties,”

“Oh, gods, yes, I know. You’d rather suck on my titties than a bottle. I’ve heard this before,”

“And I stand by my opinion. So does my son. He has good taste. Now, go back to sleep.”

Elain ran a sleepy hand over the edge of his wing and turned around, pressing her lush ass into his thigh.

He drew his knuckles over her cheek and she reached for his fingers with her lips, kissing them, before tumbling back into her slumber.

Gods, he loved her.

The baby didn’t like all this jostling around him, and grabbed Azriel’s hand with his stubby fat fingers, steadying him and the bottle.

“Sorry,” Azriel murmured and looked down, stroking his baby’s soft brown curl that jutted out proudly on top of his head. “Mama is such a beauty…we can’t forget her either, even with you. I love you both very much.”

The baby nodded sagely, as if agreeing with his father. Yes, indeed, his mother was gorgeous and beautiful and very nice, and required his father’s attention. It was very understandable.

But this male, this father of his—he liked him very much as well. He was very kind and he fed him and changed him, and sang songs with him, and played with him, and…well, he loved him.

Azriel was smiling softly to himself, watching the baby, and then, suddenly, his son opened his eyes and grinned at him. Grinned a huge toothless smile—his very first one. He never smiled for anyone before, but this was it.

This was for his father.

This male, who’s waited for him for a long, long time, hoping against hope that one night, he’d have him in his arms and receive this huge, satisfied smile, which was meant only for him. An undeniable, glorious reward for centuries of suffering and sadness. He grabbed his father’s scarred finger in his fist and blinked at him with the depth of his Archeron eyes.

[adhduck]

Oh Well, I Guess We’re Gonna Pretend

AO3

(Major spoilers for rqg 207)

Wilde is at a party with all his loved ones, and everything in his life is finally falling into place.

He’s also unconscious on the floor of the world’s last safehouse, and something is coming for him.

--

“Come on, Oscar, dance with us.”

Wilde blinks, realizes Hamid is standing in front of him with his hand outstretched; probably a symbolic gesture, considering he’d be hard-pressed to pull someone double his height.

Smiling, Wilde sets his half-empty champagne flute on the table. “Of course. Care to join, Zolf?”

Zolf, who’s slouching in the next seat with his long, worn coat tucked around him in a fabulous display of I am not a party person, scoffs fondly. “Absolutely not. ‘Sides, it’s yer party, Wilde, not mine.”

“It’s our party,” Wilde says with mock offense, putting a hand on his chest. “Didn’t you hear my toast?”

“Half of it, maybe.”

Wilde rolls his eyes, but relents and squeezes Zolf’s shoulder; presses down a smile when Zolf catches his hand for a second and pats it. “I’ll get you to have fun one day, Zolf, mark my words.” He’s rewarded with a gruff little mumble, and then Hamid tugs on his coattail to pull him away.

[Cel is still reeling from the shock of electricity when they see it. It’s large, with a body that could be humanoid if not for the oversized head, how its body seems not to take up space but distort it. If not for the six-foot swords it has instead of arms.

Instinct kicking in, Cel pulls two bombs from their pockets and throws them in rapid succession. Even with their hands trembling a little – they always do, the first few moments of combat – Cel know each one is perfectly weighted and near perfectly aimed.

The creature doesn’t even flinch.

It only takes a moment to process what that means – limited bombs, a 5% chance of hitting at best, almost a third of their own health taken in one hit – before Cel abandons the idea of attacking and reaches instead for Hamid. He’s desperately light, clothes singed and hissing; as Cel pulls him to their chest, he curls instinctively into the touch.

“Hang on, little buddy,” they whisper, trying fiercely to sound sure. “You just keep dreaming for now; I’ll keep you safe.”

They just need to get him through the door.]

There are a few people dancing, but the clear stars are Azu and Kiko—partly due to Azu’s shimmering, lightly glowing pink gown, but mostly because of the dance itself. It’s a bright, lively partner dance Wilde hasn’t seen before, where they pull in and out of each other’s embrace with twirls and dips and lots of laughter. It looks equally exhausting and exhilarating.

Azu notices him mid-spin and brightens immediately, waving him over. “Kiko, you mind if I show Wilde the ropes?”

Kiko grins and gracefully steps back, half-bowing in the process. “Yeah, sure. Long as I can watch.”

So Azu works Wilde through the steps, out of sync with the music at first to get them right, then faster as he gains confidence, and soon they, too, are spinning and laughing. “You,” Wilde says when they pause to catch their breath, adjusting the frill around his neck, “are an excellent dance partner, Azu.”

Azu preens a little. “Oh, thank you! Though I doubt I’ve got much competition, knowing Zolf.”

Chuckling, Wilde glances at the man in question to find him looking back, chin in hand and a fond smile tugging at his mouth—for a moment, at least, before he darts his eyes away with flushing cheeks. Wilde’s heart sings.

[Azu looks sharply between her friends – half of them unconscious, all of them wounded – and the advancing creature. It seems completely unconcerned by the weapons being pulled as it wades into the fray, dodging a heavy swing from Zolf without even acknowledging him. The swords protruding from its shoulders are almost as long as she is tall.

We can’t win this, Azu realizes. Not while it’s this strong. Pressing a hand to her chest, where her pendant rests safely beneath the armor, she calls to her goddess with words of love and protection and rage. The divine energy builds in her chest, bringing the dull glow of her armor to a bright shine; she throws her hand outwards, flinging the energy with it in all directions, and there—at last, the creature hesitates. It stops as suddenly as if caught in a rockslide, making a noise halfway between a groan of pain and the grinding of stuck gears, and Azu starts to feel hopeful.

Then, it raises its blade.]

Azu catches the movement and smiles conspiratorially. “You know, there are gardens out back that are much quieter than in here.”

”Ah, but you forget,” Wilde replies, putting on his best performer voice. “That just guarantees Sasha will be there, hidden amongst the foliage, waiting to strike.”

Giggling a little, Azu says, “The worst you’ll get from her is some rumors about you and Zolf that are actually true.”

Wilde gasps in (mostly) faux horror. “Don’t even say that.”

Azu laughs for real now, a full and surprised thing, and pushes his shoulder lightly. “Go spend time with him, the party will survive without you a while.” Wilde pouts a little at that, and she tips her head toward Hamid; he’s dancing with complete abandon a few feet away, wings half-unfurled and arms raised high in the air as he spins. Already, a few people have been pulled into his orbit, letting their awkward shuffling loosen into something more inelegant, more natural. “We’ve got it covered. Now go, before you start having deadlines again.”

“To be fair, we have an entire holiday between now and then,” Wilde argues—a bit superfluously, considering he’s already moving away.

Zolf greets Wilde’s approach by sitting up in his chair, eyebrows furrowed and hands raised defensively. “If you try to get me to dance, Wilde, I swear to gods—”

“Already learned my lesson with that one, darling.” Zolf’s ears go a little pink, and Wilde is powerless against the urge to lean into it. “Of course, there are plenty of dances we haven’t tried together—”

“Oh, sod off,” Zolf says, kicking Wilde lightly in the shin; his ears are red, though, so he’s already lost the fight.

[Augusta makes no noise as she’s stabbed through the heart; dead before the pain had a chance to wake her. It’s a mercy, perhaps, but one Cel refuses to let happen to anyone else.

The creature shifts, pulling back its bloodied weapon with Hamid as the clear target, and Cel lunges towards the door, clutching Hamid fiercely against them—and is stopped cold as the creature pierces right through Hamid’s chest.

Like Augusta, Hamid doesn’t cry out when he’s stabbed. He doesn’t move, either; not even when the blade is yanked back out with just force it nearly tugs him from Cel’s arms. Panting, they gather him back against their chest, whatever miniscule safety that might entail, and feel for a pulse. It’s there, thank gods, but only just. He might only have seconds left, and there’s nothing they can do.

At the corner of Hamid’s mouth, Cel can see a smile – the kind he might give during the opening toast of a party, now just the shadow of some wonderful dream – and they do not cry, because what fucking good would that do?]

Just to seal the deal, Wilde drops to his knees in front of Zolf’s chair, bringing them almost eye to eye, and flashes his shiniest grin as he teases, “Don’t worry, I know you love it.” He allows a few seconds for Zolf to huff and pointedly not answer, feeling his chest radiate with warmth, then adds, “Anyway, want to get out of here?”

Zolf’s eyebrows raise, then quickly furrow. “What’re you- that was an awful transition line, ya know. Unless you’re tryna seduce me or somethin’, in which case, why.”

“I’m always trying to seduce you, Zolf, it just never works,” Wilde replies easily. “That’s why I enjoy it so much. And anyway, that’s not what I was asking about. There’s apparently a garden out back, and I thought you might want to take a walk with me.”

“Ain’t you got allergies?”

“It’ll be quiet out there. Poetic.”

Zolf considers for a second, looking Wilde over with a slowly forming smile he’s definitely not conscious of, and for a moment there’s nothing else Wilde wants more than this: kneeling in front of the man he loves, basking in his quiet attention, knowing there’s exciting work ahead and time enough to rest before it comes.

[Zolf spins around, ready to level another attack – he hasn’t hit the thing yet, but maybe if he aims a little lower, forces it to turn for him instead – when he sees the blade sliding out of Hamid’s chest. No. Absolutely not. Without checking it’s clear, he rushes forward, dropping the glaive to his side and redirecting that power into the tips of his fingers. He licks his thumb, presses it firmly to Hamid’s forehead, and, with a low note of please humming in the back of his chest, mutters words of hope and determination into the staticky air.

The wound heals almost immediately, closing like a budding flower in reverse to leave a raised, slightly jagged line of scar tissue; the only proof of how close Hamid was to death. His wings flutter, trying to unfurl in the confines of Cel’s arms, and for a moment, he stirs. Zolf and Cel both breathe out in relief, but by the time he opens his eyes, the poison overcomes him again, and he curls back into Cel’s chest with a contented sound, asleep and completely unaware of the danger around him.

Not exactly what I had in mind, Zolf thinks, but there’s no sharpness to it. The poison in the air was strong enough to knock out people twice Hamid’s size, so he can’t imagine how strong it must be on him. And besides: this might not be a fight where all of them – any of them – get out alive. Can he really blame Hamid for wanting to dream instead?]

“All right, Wilde,” Zolf says at last. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The gardens aren’t particularly large, but they use the space well—bright flowers lining the walkway, bushes and trees bunched together to create the illusion of depth and privacy. Beneath the largest tree, there’s a clear spot where the light filters through like sparkles and the roots breach the soil in just the right way to make a sort of alcove.

It’s exactly the sort of place Wilde would’ve yearned to write poetry in as a teenager, so of course he tugs Zolf over to sit down.

“Thought this was a walk,” Zolf says, eyebrows raised, but makes no argument when Wilde lays down with his head in Zolf’s  lap. His fingers quickly find their way into Wilde’s hair, untangling it little by little, and Wilde can’t stop himself from pushing into the touch with a little hum. Thankfully, Zolf just chuckles, scratching lightly at Wilde’s scalp for a moment before continuing.

There’s silence for a few moments, and Wilde idly searches for a pun he can use to fill it; it’s difficult to focus, though, when Zolf is gathering his hair into sections for a braid, those careful fingers brushing occasionally against his temple, his neck, his jaw.

Finally, what Wilde settles for is: “I hope we’re actually allowed out here. I’d hate to go home early because Grizzop took a swing at me again.”

Zolf snorts. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve always wished I had seen that in person.”

“Some partner you are,” Wilde grumbles, trying not to melt when Zolf tucks a few shorter strands of hair behind his ear. “S’posed to defend me, not join the enemy.”

[Zolf does a rapid once-over of Cel to make sure they’re not injured as well. They’re panting and wide-eyed and definitely only not in shock because there’s not time for it, but seem physically all right, which is about as much as he can hope for right now.

He glances to the door of the lab, where Ada and Skraak also seem to be managing okay—and, importantly, where there’s clean air and a door between them and the monster. Grabbing Cel’s arm, Zolf injects as much authority in his voice as he can and orders, “Get in there, close the door, be safe.”

Without waiting for a reply, he sets his glaive on fire and turns back to the fight. They might not all make it out of here – always a risk, in this line of work – but he’ll still do his damndest to make sure at least some of them do.]

There’s no response, save for a suppressed smile and the continuous back-and-forth motion of Zolf’s steady hands. Wilde basks in it for a moment, getting to lay quietly in the grass without even his allergies interrupting them. It brings to mind when he was a child, rolling down muddy hills with his sister and seeing how long the world tiled after they reached the bottom, dazed and laughing.

“She would have loved this party,” he says, brushing a hand through the barely damp grass at his hip. “Isola, I mean.”

“You could’ve brought her, you know,” Zolf replies. “I could’ve- I dunno, watched her, or somethin’. Not like I was doing much anyway.”

Wilde laughs. “She would be terrified of you.”

[Moving has already proven dangerous, so Cel shifts Hamid in their arms and throws him through the door; once he’s safely inside, they swallow their alchemical allocation and pull a previously untouched potion from their jacket. Dragon’s breath—the one they’d been so excited to get after seeing a glimpse of Hamid’s power; the one they’d chattered back and forth about days or maybe months ago, excited to see when Cel might try it out.

“Not leaving you,” Cel says firmly to Zolf’s back, and chugs the potion. Lightning crackles in their body once again, except this time, it feels powerful instead of painful. This time, Cel is going to be helpful instead of helpless. Whatever it takes.]

Zolf snorts. “Oh, so that’s why I haven’t met her yet.”

“Yes, I’m just absolutely terrified you’ll smite her with all your holy rage,” Wilde deadpans, twisting obediently when Zolf taps the side of his head. “Or gods forbid, convert her to hope.”

“Oi,” Zolf says, tugging lightly on Wilde’s hair. “That hope has saved your arse twenty times by now.”

[Azu catches sight of Hamid breathing and nearly crumples with relief. He’s not dead, she didn’t kill him, she might not have to lose someone else—but there’s not time for that, not yet. They have to destroy this thing first, before it hurts anyone else.

She swings her axe as hard as she can, a scream building in her throat as it moans through the air, and – miraculously – it connects. There’s a satisfying thunk, a sharp note of pain; but as she goes to hit it again, it seems not just to dodge, but actively unform and reform around her axe. Learning. Adapting.

In the second it takes for Azu to regain her footing, the monster sinks one of its blades into Sumutnyerl’s chest. The air seems to freeze for a moment, but the strike is lower than it intended, in the stomach rather than the heart, so maybe it isn’t fatal, but Azu doesn’t know. She just doesn’t know.]

Humming noncommittally, Wilde turns his head to look at Zolf, and when he sees the concentration in Zolf’s summer sky eyes, he’s pierced all over again with the force of how much he loves this man—and how much he, in return, is loved. Gods, Zolf is smiling the way he only ever does for a Campbell, and he’s braiding Wilde’s hair as if it’s the most important work his hands have been tasked with, and he looks so utterly, brilliantly happy that Wilde can hardly stand it.

“You alive in there?” Zolf says, tapping him lightly on the cheek.

[There is only one person left unharmed, the horror of the situation made almost a farce by Wilde’s oversized neck ruff and glittering cape. Almost, but not quite, because when the creature turns – body shifting in and out of focus, sword-like arms dripping with the blood of every other being in this corridor – it turns for him.]

Wilde smiles, catching Zolf’s hand before he can pull away. “Yeah,” he murmurs, stupidly fond with it, and rests his lips against Zolf’s knuckles. Zolf’s breath hitches, staring with undisguised awe and quickly reddening cheeks, and Wilde can’t even look at him, he’s so happy. He ducks his head, pushing it against their joined hands; feels Zolf’s warm callouses all the way into his bones. “Thanks to you.”

[There is only one person left.]

“Wilde,” Zolf breathes; a prayer, a promise. Lips press clumsily to his hair, brush his temple as they soak in each other’s presence. “You saved me, too, ya know. So- so many times. I need you, yeah? And I- it- gods, I’m horrible at this, but I just, you’re

[Zolf sees it, this time, when Wilde dies. Sees the sword pierce his chest – right in the heart, a perfect shot – and yank back out with almost careless indifference before the creature turns and does the same thing to Sumutnyerl.

Even dead, Wilde manages to look artistic. His ridiculous cape is flung out beneath him, one arm draped above his head, the barest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He’d been this way after the crash, too, impaled almost a foot off the ground with his limbs dangling and chin flung up to the sky; the perfect semblance of a martyr being raised into heaven. Had he been unconscious then, too? Zolf thinks. Or did he feel the spike go all the way through his chest before he succumbed from the pain?

Doesn’t matter. Zolf had time to mourn when he saved Wilde then; he doesn’t have time now.

Skraak and Ada both attack, but Zolf doesn’t know if the hits land, refuses to process anything that isn’t Wilde and the mere seconds left before he’s gone for good. He throws himself forward, landing hard on his knees beside Wilde’s head, and starts to pray. The magic builds like strong drink in his throat, and he clumsily wipes the blood from Wilde’s mouth as the spell reaches its peak—and is nearly knocked over as the monster deals a crushing blow to his temple.

His vision goes briefly white, blood already dripping down his cheek and jaw, and the magic begins to fizzle away, but he refuses, he refuses. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Zolf presses a hand firmly to the desecration of Wilde’s chest, cradles his cheek with the other. He’s still warm with hope, and Zolf channels that into his prayer, pressing their foreheads together in a way that might’ve been painful, had Wilde been awake to feel it.

Please, he begs the power inside him; begs anyone who’ll listen. Please. Let this be enough to bring him back to me.

The magic bubbles inside Zolf once more, sparkling and bright and warm, and there’s no way to know, really, if it’s enough. It doesn’t matter, of course, because he doesn’t need to know. Because when he presses his mouth to Wilde’s, stroking his cheek and breathing every last ounce of that vital energy into his body, Zolf has hope.

And there, where Zolf’s fingers curl tenderly against Wilde’s neck, new and weak but steady all the same—a pulse.]

 The first thing Wilde registers is breath on his face, warmth in his throat—then pain, all over his body but especially in his chest, gods, what happened? He opens his eyes, hoping to regain his bearings; Zolf is there, face mere inches away from his own, which is a nice start.

Realizing he’s awake, Zolf pulls away, fingertips brushing against Wilde’s cheek as he goes. His other hand is pressed firmly to Wilde’s chest, and there’s blood running freely from a wound at his temple. He looks about to cry.

If Wilde didn’t feel unmoored before, he certainly does now. “Zolf- wh- what-”

In lieu of an answer, Zolf pulls Wilde to his feet. There are flashes of movement to the side, none of which Wilde is capable of processing yet; Zolf grabs his arm, which is easier. He looks resolved, in that urgent way he used to get just before leaving on solo missions; Wilde has just enough time to be scared about that before Zolf pulls him close and says, “Get the others out and be safe.”

Wilde opens his mouth in question, but Zolf’s already shoving him away. He stumbles backwards a few steps, more out of shock than actual force, before losing his balance and landing hard on his elbows just inside the lab. His neck snaps back a little, making his vision swim, but he blinks hard to clear it and now, now, he sees it all. The creature. The dead. The ones left standing.

For just a moment, Wilde catches sight of Zolf’s face before he turns away. His eyes nearly glow, lips parted around gritted teeth, and there is rage in his features like Wilde has never seen before. Then he raises his burning glaive, this idiotic man that Wilde loves so unbearably much, and growls, “Right. It’s yer turn now.”

[gethoce]

Putting the whole thing under the cut again because since I accidentally deleted the original post, the read more doesn't seem to work anymore on mobile.

Hmm, I've only briefly touched upon the plot leading up to Sir Arthur's transformation into a negative Matterborn here.

I kinda wanna draw the final scene that concludes in the transformation, but it'd be a ton of work for probably very little reward… but I've been surprised before, maybe it'd be a total banger lol

Why not talk a little about Fecto Inferno and Sir Arthur for the time being...

So far I only vaguely hinted at how Arthur used to be like before he became the leader of the GSA.  "Arthur used to be a lot less kind" And in Elfilis' backstory it is briefly mentioned that Arthur took part in its quest to conquer the universe.

I also once mentioned that he is a planet buster, which is very much based on observations, not theory. Arthur was specifically trained from a young age to use the Crash Ability in war to take out as many foes as he can as quickly as possible and he did this without second thoughts. No mercy, no regrets.

When the Fectos failed to conquer Halcandra and he had to ally himself with Morpho Knight in his quest to defeat Nightmare, Arthur first attempted to change his public image into that of a noble knight like Morpho, yet they refused to allow it. To them a knight is a warrior whose philosophy is to vanquish evil. That very much wasn't what Arthur was up until then. What he was was a soldier. A galaxy soldier. None of the warriors of the Fecto faction carry a knight title due to this disagreement, instead just going by "Sir", reasons remaining a secret between the two founders of the GSA.

Once Falspar was born Arthur began to take on Morpho's knight philosophy for himself, wishing to fight for good for the rest of his life brushing his dark past under the rug. Mind you we are speaking of millions of innocent souls wiped out by this orb, redemption seems nearly impossible given the sheer volume of lives he ended mercilessly.

For most of his life he had been walking the path of a knight by the time Falspar died. To think that he could revert to old habits seemed impossible to him. These memories seemed like nightmares in the back of his mind he'd prefer not to remember. He convinced himself that this just wasn't him and he was moving on with his life a different person.

After Falspar's death Arthur became resentful, cruel, so full of malice he was hardly recognizable. His desire for revenge overwhelmed all logic, pushing away everyone who once looked up to him, and upon realising what has happened he slipped straight into an identity crisis and embraced his original persona, the planet buster Fecto Inferno and became negatively charged.

Have you ever talked about Fecto Inferno before? Because I am looking 👀

Hmm, I've only briefly touched upon the plot leading up to Sir Arthur's transformation into a negative Matterborn here.

I kinda wanna draw the final scene that concludes in the transformation, but it'd be a ton of work for probably very little reward… but I've been surprised before, maybe it'd be a total banger lol

Why not talk a little about Fecto Inferno and Sir Arthur for the time being...

So far I only vaguely hinted at how Arthur used to be like before he became the leader of the GSA.  "Arthur used to be a lot less kind" And in Elfilis' backstory it is briefly mentioned that Arthur took part in its quest to conquer the universe.

I also once mentioned that he is a planet buster, which is very much based on observations, not theory. Arthur was specifically trained from a young age to use the Crash Ability in war to take out as many foes as he can as quickly as possible and he did this without second thoughts. No mercy, no regrets.

When the Fectos failed to conquer Halcandra and he had to ally himself with Morpho Knight in his quest to defeat Nightmare, Arthur first attempted to change his public image into that of a noble knight like Morpho, yet they refused to allow it. To them a knight is a warrior whose philosophy is to vanquish evil. That very much wasn't what Arthur was up until then. What he was was a soldier. A galaxy soldier. None of the warriors of the Fecto faction carry a knight title due to this disagreement, instead just going by "Sir", reasons remaining a secret between the two founders of the GSA.

Once Falspar was born Arthur began to take on Morpho's knight philosophy for himself, wishing to fight for good for the rest of his life brushing his dark past under the rug. Mind you we are speaking of millions of innocent souls wiped out by this orb, redemption seems nearly impossible given the sheer volume of lives he ended mercilessly.

For most of his life he had been walking the path of a knight by the time Falspar died. To think that he could revert to old habits seemed impossible to him. These memories seemed like nightmares in the back of his mind he'd prefer not to remember. He convinced himself that this just wasn't him and he was moving on with his life a different person.

After Falspar's death Arthur became resentful, cruel, so full of malice he was hardly recognizable. His desire for revenge overwhelmed all logic, pushing away everyone who once looked up to him, and upon realising what has happened he slipped straight into an identity crisis and embraced his original persona, the planet buster Fecto Inferno and became negatively charged.

[pinepickled]

why tf you ship sukuna and megumi??

Aw, thank you for letting me write a little something for these two! They really are my OTP (for this fandom, anyway).

I ship them for a lot of reasons~

I think that Sukuna is a very powerful being who hates being bored, and who finally saw something he liked in a world of curses. Megumi intrigued him greatly, and it shows. He is always so gentle with Megumi, even when fighting. To me, it's always looked like Sukuna was trying to coax Megumi into letting go, into being free with his emotions- even the "undesirable" ones.

I like how Sukuna goads Megumi into turning his back on civility and elegance, how Megumi feels free to split his face into a grin and laugh loud and proud when he fights Sukuna. I like how Megumi always feels more natural when Sukuna is present, as though he knows that any pretense is moot next to him. How Megumi feels free to act like his father, to enjoy the fight and the pain and the opponent in such an intimate way, even though these have done nothing but hurt him in the past.

I like how Megumi is, ultimately, at Sukuna's mercy- and I like how Sukuna can be so merciful when Megumi is involved. I like how Sukuna is enchanted by Megumi- and how Megumi is haunted by Sukuna. I like that when they meet, the world around them can't help but quake.

I like how Sukuna can grab Megumi by the neck and make the boy fear for his life, while simultaneously holding his own cursed hand over Megumi's heart and heal his wounds. I like that Sukuna isn't going to run away from Megumi when the boy let's loose, and how Megumi always tries to meet Sukuna's strength with his own.

And that's just what has happened in canon.

I think Sukuna likes to hold Megumi. Likes to wrap all the arms he can summon around Megumi, and hold him close so that perhaps Megumi will feel just how not-human Sukuna is, and choose to stay in his arms anyway. I like that Sukuna surprises Megumi, how even though the curse is who he is, Megumi can still be surprised by the peace he finds within the specter.

I think that when Megumi finally surrenders, finally willingly drops to his knees without being beaten bloody, that Sukuna will catch him. That Sukuna will be gentle, will cradle Megumi's face in one hand, hold on to his waist with another two, and finally have a firm hand on Megumi's thigh as Sukuna carries him to their bed- Sukuna has many hands, after all, and what would be the purpose of having so many if not to hold Megumi?

I think that when Megumi chooses to splay out and curl up in Sukuna's bed, he won't fear for his life- not that time. Because then Sukuna would walk in, as he always does, curse markings and blood red eyes boring into the shaman, and Megumi would only see the relaxed posture, the soft smile, and the welcoming embrace. That's all Sukuna has to give him, after all.

Perhaps Megumi would get on his knees first- face away from the curse so he wouldn't need to face the reality of his situation. That somewhere along this road, he chose to put his ass in the air for the King of Curses. Chose to let that dangerous being- the most dangerous being- run warm hands up and down his thighs, over his back, along his neck and his jaw and everywhere those hands could reach. That he chose to let his first time be with something not even human- and that he would never tolerate any time after that being any other way.

Maybe, once Megumi had fully sat himself on the terrible decision that was loving Sukuna, he'd lay on his back. Beautiful heart and soft tummy exposed, legs spread patiently, softly gripping the sheats beneath him, waiting for his curse as he always did. And Sukuna would come, because leaving such a beautiful sight unseen would be a crime. He would come and seat himself right where Megumi wanted him, and would wrap his many arms around Megumi- he always gave the best hugs. Maybe, as he slowly worked himself into the shaman under him, always so careful, he would take a clawed hand and hold Megumi's own calloused fingers. Gently, softly, and with great care would he finally lay on top of him, cradling that hand, and move as though they were two beings who'd known eachother for a lifetime. And Megumi would realize that through all of the curses and blood and battle, the King chose not to pound him within an inch of his life, but to make love instead. There is a certain warmth Megumi will never forget, the warmth that that realization brought.

Of course, for good times there must always be bad- especially when you love the King of Curses. People are hunting him, and Sukuna isn't one to back down. How foolish these poor, poor shamans are. To believe that their own measly cursed power could compare in any way to the King. Gojo could have, if he'd wanted to, but he didn't. Gojo had learned a long time ago, standing over the bodies of his best friend and his students father, that there was no way in hell he'd follow anyone's damned agenda again. Being friends with the King of Curses was much more rewarding- and he got to see his cute little student more often too! But foolish shamans are foolish, and many have challenged Sukuna- and all have died. When the foolish shamans realized that their foolishness would only send them to an early grave when it pertained to attacking Sukuna, they went for Megumi instead. It was plainly obvious that Sukuna favored Megumi, after all, and Megumi was still a weak shaman who could only reliably use a few Shikigami and whose prowess with the sword was nothing compared to his sire.

But that's okay. Megumi has Sukuna after all, and no one is more safe in this world than the one who chose to love the King.

Megumi remembers a time in his life, so long ago, when he despised death, and hated pain. It was a brief memory, barely crossing his mind. It was hard to think at all, really, when he was seated atop his King, slowly moving up and down, blood the only thing aiding his movements. Whether the blood was his own or from one of the dozens of bodies strewn across their front lawn, Megumi truly didn't know. He was very pleased, on the other hand, that Sukuna had kept the fight outside this time. Whenever the fights went into their home, it was Megumi who had to clean it up- and being on his knees always gave Sukuna ideas so it took forever. Thus, Megumi decided to reward his King, though through his haste he hadn't properly prepared- and now it seemed he didn't need to.

Sukuna loved Megumi like this- loved how that scared little boy who bit off more than he could chew was now feeling nothing but ecstasy surrounded by the carnage he'd narrowly avoided. Sukuna didn't know how Megumi had gotten so bloody- perhaps when Sukuna had thrown a body toward the door where the shaman was standing- but it didn't matter. The King was so blessed. He had a cute little thing willingly riding his cock, in the middle of a pool of blood, and using it as lubricant. There was no prettier sight to see than this, nowhere Sukuna would rather be, than with Megumi not having a care in the world about anything but him.

Well, that's all that was floating around in my head! Hope you enjoyed this little rambling of mine~