#hither's rambles

[daemones-angeli]

Yes, you can wear my hoodie.

Yes, it smells like me.

Yes, I'll fuck you while you wear only that.

Anymore questions?

[vulcandyke]

ignore previous post. we are soo back (tentatively) (knock on wood)

[bosspigeon]

did you get what you were asking for?

haven't been able to write much lately, but i've been playing D&D pretty regularly, and i like thinking about my boy <3 Raike's first "patron" in the Feywilds, though not the one who gave him his magic. a snippet of memories he lost in Barovia coming back to haunt him now that he's returned to where it all started...

He finds it almost funny that he doesn't remember the name of the man who taught him the importance of names in this realm. He doesn't remember his face either, but after Barovia, there are far more important things he's forgotten.

Some of it he's gotten back, but not all, not enough. He's far more concerned with remembering his mother's face than that of some shitty ex–

Ex? Ex-something. Something… something important, truly, but something he's not sure he wants to have back.

The more he recalls, the more he wishes he could pick and choose what he keeps, and what he forgets.

But that's not how it works. That's not how anything has ever worked, no matter much he pretends to believe it does.

Raike used to think of himself as something of a romantic, but much like the boy he was before the Wilds, that part of him died long ago.

He hoped that after he escaped Barovia (though he's still not sure how it happened, and regrets that, once again, he's left his family behind without so much as a goodbye) his memories would return, but that doesn't seem to be the case.

He gets fragments, sometimes. Snippets and shreds, shards of his life before that bleak, murky hellhole. They come to him in wispy half-memories, flashes of sensation, the dry heat of the sun on red sand, the hazy violet of the sky after sunset, the constant thrum of nighttime insects that echoes in the chest.

The memories that come to him in dreams tend to be the clearest, and the worst.

"Slit his throat, pet."

The voice is soft, silky-smooth. Dangerous.

The man at his feet looks up at him, eyes wide and fearful in his ashen face. He's a young man, human–perhaps Raike's age, or maybe a little older.

(How old is he again? How long has he been here?)

Raike wonders what crime the human has committed. It's impossible to guess. He's learned the hard way how easily the Fair Folk are offended. His master is no different.

(Master? Yes, that sounds right. Raike might have called him lover once, when he was newer. Stupider.)

Whatever the crime, it's unlikely it calls for execution. It's even less likely his master is incapable of doing himself, and doing it much less… messily.

Raike hesitates too long.

"I made a request of you, my pet."

A request. He almost laughs.

Instead, he looks down at the human at his feet. He's never seen him before. Poor thing must have stumbled upon the Courts recently. There are still twigs in his hair.

"Raike," his master coos. Sickly sweet. Oily. Like poison dripping from a blade.

That name doesn't belong to him anymore. It's a noose around his neck now, and he feels it pull taut, not-quite choking him–not yet.

He already has so many things to apologize for, if he ever sees his father again.

His master places the knife in his trembling hand, curls his fingers around it, and squeezes. It's a gentle touch, meant to ground him, but the hands around his are corpse-cold.

Raike looks at the human again, sees the panic in his eyes, feels it in the tightness of his own throat, his heart stuttering in his chest.

He's slaughtered animals before. It was a necessity of the humble life he lived before the forest, before the fight, before the Wilds. This can't be much different, can it?

(Raike's always been a good liar, especially to himself, but not this time. Not about this.)

"Please," the human sobs.

"Please," Raike echoes, but his voice is strangled to nothing by the snare his name has become.

His body is moving on its own. He can't fight it. He's tried.

"Don't be so dramatic, pet," his master scoffs. "Just do it."

Raike obeys, as if he has any other choice. He grabs the poor bastard's hair. He tries to keep his grip gentle, but his body refuses–it's not his body anymore, not now–as it jerks his head back to expose his throat. The man gasps, sniveling pleas and prayers to a god Raike's never heard of.

Forgive me, Raike thinks desperately as he brings the knife to the human's throat and across it with one quick, practiced slash.

As it turns out, cutting a human's throat is not the same as cutting that of a goat or a rabbit. The cut is not as clean as he hoped it would be.

Though the rites are screaming through his head with the clarity of years of rote memorization and practice, Raike is not praying to the God of his bitter adolescence.

The face he pictures is lined and austere, gentle black eyes and greying hair.

Forgive me, he pleads a man he hasn't seen in so long, will probably never see alive again. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

"Good pet," his master purrs, running cold white fingers through Raike's hair. There are tears on his cheeks. The human's pleas are drowned in pathetic gurgles, choked for breath. His blood is burning hot and slick on Raike's hands, soaking into his shirt and plastering the fine fabric to his skin.

He feels sick. He feels empty.

His master leaves him to his theatrics, scoffing something about bards. Raike stands there, still as stone, as a man dies miserably at his feet, by his hand.

He murmurs the rites like his father taught him. He closes the man's eyes, tries to wipe the blood from his chin with an unsullied piece of his shirt.

There will be no funeral at the water's edge for this man. There will be no honor, no remembrance, no closure for his kin. This stranger dies another nameless mortal in the wilds, a plaything to be toyed with until it breaks, to be tossed away and forgotten in favor of the next curiosity.

Raike stands there, staring numbly at the body until it is carried off by his master's courtiers.

He watches the procession, and he sees his own funeral.

[taruruchi]

Looking at my writing blog and wondering when the writer is gonna post their next thing

[prestrywrter]

how do people find friends on here?

like

pspsps come hither I have ocs and love rambling :’)

[caramelcleopatraa]

"I want to sit on your face" ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

another porn with a atom's amount of plot

word count: 1,500~

x: !this is not proofread! 😭 please disregard any mistakes <3 I came up with this idea before my current series "suit & tie", but I never got to finish it.... until now 😏 hopefully you guys enjoy this (not quick) quick thing I whipped up.

content: oral ( f receiving )

“Baby…”

“Yes?” Roman responds with curiosity in his eyes. You had been daydreaming about a specific situation. It was almost disturbing the flow of your daily life. Your husband was always up for trying new things. You've brought up ideas to him that have led to countless nights of exhilarating love making. You didn't know why you were so nervous to tell him something so simple. Perhaps it comes with your own matter of insecurities that stopped you from telling him your newly proposed idea. “Nevermind, sorry to bother you.” You turned your back to his desk to walk out of the double doors of your home office. Roman noticed your sudden change in energy and decided to chase after you. His hand gently, but firmly, latched onto your wrist and tugged you towards him. Your back hit his sturdy torso and his hands interlaced with yours. “What’s going on? Y’know you can tell me.”

“U-uhm.. Uh…” Your heart was starting to race and your breathing became heavy. You tried to walk away from him, but you must have forgotten who you married. “Nuh uh, stay right here. Tell me what’s on your mind.” 

“Aren’t you in the middle of some work?” 

“Work doesn’t matter when my wife needs me.” He tenderly kisses the side of your neck and his hands rest on your hips. A tactic he used to calm you down when you're nervous. Just as he was about to console you, you spoke up. “Can we try something tonight?” Romans eyes locked with yours and he already knew what you were insinuating. He took your hand and led you upstairs to your bedroom. All of his movements were slow, but sure and tender. All thoughts of work were left downstairs. His focus was on making sure he could make your fantasies come true tonight. He sat on your bed and held both of your hands in his. His thumbs worked over your soft skin as his chocolate eyes looked up at yours. “Alright. What fun things have you thought of to try today, princess?” 

“I don’t know how to say this so that it sounds normal.” You nervously laugh and he joins you in laughter. Still massaging your hands, he says “Well you know i'm not gonna judge you.” “Yeah, I know” You took a deep breath and gathered the courage you needed to say the next sentence that came out of your mouth. “I want to sit on your face. But I don't really know how it’s supposed to work. Like am I supposed to completely sit or ho-” Your body was suddenly caged by Roman’s arms as he pulled you on to the bed. It wasn't long until your lips connected, cutting off your nervous rambling. Your lips danced in an intimate fight for dominance against him, in which you lost. Pulling away from him, you were finally able to get a glimpse of him. His once gentle eyes were low and dark, and laced with lust. He let go of your body, allowing you to rest next to him. He scoots all the way back to the headboard and puts his head on a pillow. He motions you to come over to him and you crawl to meet him.

‘Sit.” He says. You look at him with a surprised look on your face. Again, his hands imitate a “come hither” motion. You slowly straddle his chest and move to hover above his face. His hands dig into your plush thighs as he admires your body from below.

“So umm.. Am I supposed to-”

“Sit on my face”

“Like fully sit?” The tone in your voice shifts to a more confused one.

“Yes mama”

“What if I'm too heavy and you can't breathe?”

“Mama, I wrestle grown ass men for a living. And I'll tap your thigh if I need some air.”

His lips kissed and sucked at the inside of your thighs. “Stop worrying so much. Be a good girl and let daddy eat his pussy.” Soft moans escaped your mouth while he worked his way up your thighs. His thumb creeped up to your aching clit, softly rubbing up and down while continuing to kiss and suck on your thighs. Your head tilted back as you held onto his wrists. You started to grind against his thumb, but Roman grabbed your hips and held them in place. 

“Uh-uh. On my face.” His grip loosened, but his hands landed on your thighs and pushed you down. His arms snaked around your thighs, making it impossible for you to escape if you tried. You didn’t have enough time to process what happened, but a long stripe on your cunt fogged your brain in the best possible way. Once his tongue reached your clit, he planted a tender kiss before sucking and flicking your clit with his tongue. His hands massaged your thighs while he continued to work his magic. He rotated between teasing you with long stripes up your cunt and ruthlessly abusing your clit. 

Roman’s grip on your thighs still restricted much of your movement. You tried your hardest not to grind against his tongue, but the way he was eating you up made it damn near impossible. His hair laid sprawled out on the pillow below him. His right hand let go of your thigh and quickly slapped your ass, startling you and causing you to jump. “Fuck baby,” You moaned, loving the temporary sting on your ass. After a couple more slaps to your ass, his hand returned to its original place, hugging your thigh and holding you in place. His eyes would remain on you and momentarily close while he relished the taste of your pussy, and the loud slurping sounds he was making added on to your arousal. 

You finally succumbed and softly grinded on his tongue. A salacious moan from him vibrated your clit. In return, your moans started to get louder. You tilted your head down and locked eyes with your lover beneath you. You placed your hands on his while you continued to ride his face. You could see droplets of your juices running down his face. He gives you three taps on your thigh and you immediately rise off of his face with concern. He takes a couple of deep breaths while still keeping his hands on you. “I’m so sorry, did you not want me to do that? i’m sorry i got carried away-“

You take a moment to look at Roman. His beard is littered and decorated with your juices and he keeps eye contact with your pussy the entire time he wasn’t devouring you. “Just need a couple of breaths mama. That’s all,” He says, his eyes finally meeting your beautiful ones. The collective heavy breathing occupied the silence for a couple of seconds before you felt those same hands pulling you down to his mouth. “Don’t mean i’m done. C’mere, need to eat that pussy,” He says, before you’re forced to sit on what will be your new favorite seat. Your consistent babbles and whines only made him harder, making him eat your pussy like a starved man. He loves taking care of his baby. Whether that’s pounding you into the mattress or eating you out until you drench the sheets, it was his favorite thing ever. Seeing you lose your mind because of the things he does to you makes him so ecstatic. 

“Got me addicted to this pussy.” He knew that you loved it when he talked you through it. Every chance that he got, he was gonna talk his shit, and it never failed to make you weak. “aah- oohhh shiiiit daddy you finna- ffuuck make me cum.” He moans into your pussy, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Your hips were moving nonstop and you couldn’t stop calling his name. You pried his fingers off of your thighs and intertwined his fingers with yours. His arms were still hugging your thighs in place, and yes, you had the headboard to hold if you lost balance. You wanted to hold him instead. “Ohh myy goddd, daddyy. I’m cummin,” You said, slurring your words due to your mind fogging orgasm. Your movements became uneven and Roman’s hold on your thighs tightened to keep you in place. You let out screams of bliss while Roman lapped up your release, while any remainders he missed landed in his beard. Roman’s hands roamed your lower body as low whines escaped your mouth. He pushed up your hips a little to plant loving kisses on your pussy. “How did I do?”

“Fuck, that was amazing,” You said between ragged breaths. Roman’s deep chuckle vibrated through your body, adding to the intimate atmosphere. You attempted to lay next to him but his hands dug into your skin, preventing you from moving.

“I’m still hungry mama.”

finished this while I was at work :p (so happy that I work at a family business or I would've never finished this today)

🏷️ tags :) @harmshake @jeyusos-girl @alichesmi @thesamoanqueen @alyyaanna @empressdede

~ your hippie author

[thus-spoke-lo]

Pretty Little Mess // Doflamingo Donquixote x afab!reader // NSFW/18+ Kinks: Piss kink + degradation/humiliation

CW: dubcon; afab!reader [no pronouns used]; alcohol use to drunkenness [reader + doffy]; cockwarming; piss kink [omorashi/bladder control]; unprotected vaginal intercourse; desperation; begging; degradation and humiliation; doflamingo is his own content warning™ WC: 2.3k // Fictober Masterlist

It started with a bottle of wine, as it often did with Doflamingo—he enticed you into his office, crooking his finger in a come-hither motion and running his tongue across his lips, watching you saunter across the room, looking for that telltale sway in your hips, the one that always ensured you got your way. He was bored, he groaned as he pulled you towards him, tired of paperwork and planning and long, rambling phone calls with unimportant government men who would never amount anything in their futile little lives; your god was no longer interested in trivial matters, and demanded distraction from his favorite disciple. He ran an ill-intentioned hand up the back of your thigh, pushing up your dress until he cupped your ass, and whispered hotly to get a bottle (or two, or three) of that wine you liked, the one that made you extra warm and sweet and pliable, the one that you’d tasted of the first time he’d kissed you and the first time he’d had you in his bed.

And after a glass (or two, or three) of that exquisite wine, he’d easily maneuvered you into his lap, spreading your willing legs open across his thighs and yanking your panties to the side, pulling his trousers down just enough to ease his hardening cock inside you. He directed you to sit still, to let him enjoy the warmth of your pretty little cunt for a while as he sipped his wine and pored over papers that all seemed to look the same after a while. You happily obliged, and grew warmer and warmer from the alcohol that he poured into your waiting mouth and from the hard pulse of his arousal deep inside you, closing your eyes and silently begging for him to ruin you as he toyed with you, slowly rocking himself into you deeper until you moaned for him, just the way he liked.

And now, here you sit, leaning back against his chest, tugging at his shirtsleeve and grinding yourself down onto him now and again, just enough to make him cluck his tongue and tap your cheek and tell you to calm yourself, that you’ll have what you desire soon enough. But you’re impatient, and you’re needy, and there’s something about the way the taps grow sharper and sting your flesh and his fingers start to wrap around your neck every time you disobey that makes it harder to control yourself, harder to resist just fucking yourself on his thick cock and taking the pleasure he denies you. It’s becoming especially hard to sit patiently, his shaft filling you to the hilt, his fingers roaming your body to squeeze and grope at you until you whine, with the sudden urgency that grows in your abdomen, your bladder growing full from too many glasses of that damned wine.

You try to carefully move yourself off him, pushing against his desk with shaky hands, already dreading the emptiness of not having him inside you; you need to escape, if only for a moment, just to run off and relieve yourself of this ache—even if it was pleasurable, in a perverse sort of way. As you start to lift yourself off him, Doflamingo’s thick arm snakes around your waist and pulls you back down onto his massive length and you stifle a yelp, the pressure of his forearm and the thrust of his cock almost enough to make you lose control.

“And just where do you think you’re going, pretty pet?” he murmurs, leaning down to run his tongue along the shell of your ear.

“I need”—the air is pushed out of you as he shifts and pulls your back flush against his chest again—“I just need to get up for a minute.”

“I don’t remember saying you could get up,” he coos condescendingly, lightly pinching your nipple through the thin fabric of your dress, his cock pulsing as you squeal. “You’ll stay right here until I say we’re through—and we’re far from through.”

“Please, just for a minute, I’ll be right back.” The ardent need to be fucked and cum on his cock and the painful need to empty your bladder are beginning to overlap, making your brain fill with static and your body twist and move of its own accord. “Please, I need to—need to go.”

“Oh?” You can hear a grin creeping across his lips as he utters the word, and it’s clear he has a very good idea of why it is you’re beginning to squirm so pathetically in his lap. “Go where, little pet? You seem awfully distressed.”

“Stop it, you know where.” You already regret the way the words come out of you, laced with the kind of snark that will have you strung up for a while later, but the maddening mix of arousal and fullness have all but erased your composure.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Where would you rather be than right here with my hands on you?” Doflamingo pushes his cock up into you sharply until knocks against your cervix, and you almost feel yourself burst from the pressure. “Tell me, brat.”

“I—I need to go to the bathroom.” Tears start to form at the corners of your eyes, frustration welling inside you. You hate that he made you say it, despite the fact that he already knows; you hate even more that the embarrassment that begins to settle in your bones makes your clit pulse and your aching legs tremble. He knows all too well just how to push you, the tone he needs to use to make your face flush and your body quiver with a burning feeling of shame, the kind that makes your needy cunt drip down his shaft.

“Is that so?” An ominous laugh leaves his lungs and echoes in the room, eclipsing your soft whines and wails of discomfort. Pressure and pleasure spike as he palms your abdomen, pressing over your bladder lightly, almost delicately—a gentleness you sense won’t last for long. “I just don’t know if I should let you—you’re so cute when you’re desperate like this.”

“Please just let me go,” you whimper, lips fixed in a pout as you start to sniffle. “I don’t think I can hold it much longer.”

“Well you’re going to have to, brat—I’m not done with you yet.”

He holds you against him with one steel-cabled arm, his forearm pressing into your ribcage, while his other moves between your legs, thick fingers dipping past the waistband of your panties and settling on your mound. He tugs at your swollen lips, hisses at how you flutter around his cock with every touch, and presses two fingers over your clit. Something unintelligible tumbles out of your open mouth and you heave against him, jolts of pleasure running through your limbs. You can almost feel the slick dribbling out of you and coating the base of his cock as he plays with you, working you quickly into a rapturous high that has you teetering on the edge of release.

“Please.” The word is hushed, barely audible, as you keen, still writhing helplessly against him. It’s almost impossible now to maintain any sense of calm, and a faint trickle flows out of you as your walls flutter around his thick shaft; the rest, you fear, isn’t far behind.

“Please? Please what?” Doflamingo mocks you cruelly, his movements quickening over your swollen bud. “You want to cum so badly, I thought I’d help my desperate little brat. Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this why you can’t stop fucking yourself on me like a whore—even when you’re about to piss yourself?”

You grasp at his arm, clawing at his skin, babbling something that sounds like “stop” through stuttering gasps, even though you don’t think you want him to—there’s no point anymore, and more than you need to empty your bladder, you need to cum. He bucks his hips into you as he urges you closer and closer to your peak, his cock pressing against the fullness of your bladder until it hurts, until your muscles start to tense and everything feels too much and you start to sob his name, a kind of hysterical prayer that your god will be merciful to you.

“Aw, don’t cry, little pet—you’re just too weak to control yourself, aren’t you?” The arm that holds you against him loosens and he slides his wide hand down, planting it firmly on your abdomen, and you feel liquid starting to dribble out of you, even as your body tightens and your climax nears—you’re just as weak as he says. “You’re so damned pathetic, it’s adorable.”

You’re seized by a rush of sensation so intense that your body jerks, saved from doubling over by the forearm pushing into your stomach, and your legs press down against his. The tensing and tightening in your muscles finally release and you shudder and spasm around his cock, hot tears flooding down your face as your climax overwhelms you and the last vestiges of self-control dissolve.

“I can’t—ca-an’t hold it,” you stammer through panting breaths as wave after wave of pleasure move through you.

You can barely hear him, everything muffled as though you’re underwater, but you can just make out refrains of then don’t and let go and come on, brat being hissed into your ear before he finally sighs and that goddamned cruel laugh manages to break through your haze and he taunts: “Do I have to do everything for you?”

Doflamingo presses down hard over your bladder, and your weakened body finally gives out; an embarrassed whimper passes your lips when the trickling starts, quickly devolving into a torrent as urine cascades out of you, soaking your panties and wetting his fingers that still rest on your pulsing clit. He keeps making circles over your tender bundle of nerves even as you wither in indignity in his lap, uncontrollable mewls and moans tumbling from you with every spasm that interrupts your stream, the overlapping orgasm stretching on almost painfully until you finally feel yourself empty completely.

A sharp “fuck” is the only thing you hear through the humiliating sound of your piss dripping onto the stone floor beneath you through your sodden panties, a puddle of shame pooling at his feet. Your eyes roll back and you slump against him, your every nerve firing, fighting for every quick and shallow breath you can pull from your lungs between anguished sobs. The sound of his perverse cackle rings in your ears as you lay against him, slack-jawed and pleasure-drunk, trying to ignore the impending feeling of regret that creeps up your spine.

“What a filthy little brat you are,” Doflamingo laughs, pulling his hand out of your piss-drenched panties and wiping his fingers on your dress. “Such a fucking mess.”

You start to form a half-hearted apology, but it’s cut short as the hand that had been wrapped around your waist raises to cover your mouth, pulling your head back against him. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and long, low groans reverberate in his chest. His moans are loud and wanton as he starts to rock up into you, his thrusts slow at first, then almost feverish; it’s like he’s possessed by something, a compulsion to ruin you when you’ve already managed to ruin yourself.

“You drenched your panties—and my pants—and my nice fucking chair,” he grunts, every other word punctuated by a sharp thrust, “all because you can’t control yourself.”

You plead for mercy against Doflamingo’s palm, but he doesn’t acknowledge you, only tightens his grip on your face, fingertips pressing into the softness of your tear-drenched cheeks. He slams into you over and over until your teeth clench and your eyes scrunch shut, until your lower half aches and your legs threaten to go numb, until your cries echo in the small room, almost eclipsed by the increasingly debauched sounds that leave his sinful lips. It’s not long until his hips shudder and he groans your name, his cock throbbing uncontrollably and pumping your sore cunt full of his spend. He fucks you through every last spasm, until it’s gushing out of you, until it’s leaking down his shaft and mixing with the wetness that already permeates your panties and his trousers.

He loosens his grip at last as he eases himself out of you, before picking you up and turning you around to face him, a few low chuckles escaping him in between ragged, gasping breaths. He engulfs you with a sudden, devastating kiss, his long tongue pushing past your lips and entangling with yours, and settles you on his soaked thighs again, some spots already cooling in the air of the room, the damp fabric sticking to your legs. His cock, coated in the sticky mix of your juices, lays against your belly, making a darkened wet spot on the front of your dress. He presses you to his chest and rubs your back as you sob, body flooded with a potent mix of lingering arousal and shame, of satisfaction and utter disgrace.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper between gasping sobs, begging for forgiveness from your god. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, sweet pet—you’re perfect.” His voice is soft, his touches gentle and warm, and he shushes while you hiccup and sniffle against his flushed skin. Doflamingo presses a kiss to the crown of your head, then hums contentedly; you listen to it rumble in his chest, mixing with the deep thuds of his heart. “My pretty little mess.”

[voidsentprinces]

Shadowbringers took Emet-Selch from ARR Lahabrea levels of mustache twirling, Saturday Morning Cartoon villain. All monologue and evil laughter while his evil boobs malevolently boobed down the Post-Stormblood's darker breast boobily and changed him into an actual character. And the first Ascian who actually spent time with us in a more meaningful way. Flipping them from one note, evil that must be defeated. To one we came to understand and a group that connected to our character's literal past reincarnation that we do not recall.

Additionally, atmospherically, Shadowbringers brought us to Post-Apocalypse that wasn't 28 Days Later, Mad Max or Rapture-esque. While pulling from all those series. Its a world 100 years after the Apocalypse was averted but still causes the world to live in its shadow.

This expansion seems to be the beloved darling of the community. Even topping Heavensward in most regards. But, also, personally, I feel like Shadowbringers is only good Shadowbringers for the last three levels of it. And rest is just so much set dressing and putting together the A-Team. For lack of a better comparison, 70 - 79 is our Avengers Infinity War. We get the band back together, fight off the big bad and actually almost win. But then we lose and we lose HARD and we spend a handful of quests somewhat wandering aimlessly until we resolve to go after the one who took victory away from us. That lead up, to me, is alright but the story didn't really HIT, outside of my long winded story analysis reasons, until we reach Amaurot.

Even its Post-Patches seemed to struggle to figure out what to do. Having Elidibus bounce hither and thither without the Scions really trying to stop him because, "We don't know what he is up to." which was counterproductively frustrating to me. You are literally not stopping and banishing the villain so the plot can happen. Alisaie literally kept tabs on the Warriors of Darkness because we were focusing on dealing with Nidhogg. Why the hell couldn't they have kept tracked and harassed Elidibus at least? But no, the sky starts to shower stars and then it is go time. And while To the Edge and the Seat of Sacrifice are awesome. My suspense of disbelief that our Scions would just shrug and only off screen keep tags on lesser Ascians and then just be like, "I dunno fellas, this here Elidibus is tricky." strikes me as dense. Like, this is denser than a dead star. They let things happen for the sake of it happening.

Bottomline, there is some wiggle room here. Shadowbringers may be the community's darling. But I wonder if, its just because we remember the super highs of Amaurot to Seat of Sacrifice. And kind of brush things like; the Ran'jit fights, the Supernatural problem of Lucifer's Cousin's Roommate being the big bad in Lunar Primals, Thancred's treatment of Ryne and Speedrunning him some redemption in the Amh Araeng second half.

I'm rambling now, as a whole. Did you enjoy Shadowbringers? If not why? Vote your answer and leave your opinion in the tags if you'd like.

Note: I am aware that the Post-Patch production was stunted by the COVID Pandemic. Still, I'd like your opinion about anything you felt lacking. Even with that dead whale hanging over the entire thing.

[thecomfywriter]

📜 Rewrite Tag 📜

Thank you to @theink-stainedfolk for the tag! This game is so cool, I had to grab my laptop immediately for it.

Rules: rewrite the previous person's lines in your own style, then offer your own line for your tags to write.

Okay, here's my line!

"I'm lost in a labyrinth of mirrors, where reflections stare back with cold, dead eyes. Every step I take echoes through eternity.

A whisper in my ear speaks a single word: 'Remember.' But I have no memory of who I am or how I got here.

The mirrors start to shatter, one by one, revealing fragments of a life I don't recognize. I'm chasing shadows, trying to grasp what's left of my sanity."

- Credit: @theink-stainedfolk

✧༺♥༻∞

The labyrinth is a hall of dead eyes. They all stare at me in conviction. Did I do something to upset the ghouls of the shadows? Why do they stare at me like I am the shackles to their prison?

Each step forward morphs into the endless halls I had already passed. How long have I been here? How long had it been since I had started wandering? What was time to me, when the endless stretch of infinite hallways had become my new reality?

The eyes of the shadows all turn inward. I can hear the chill of their voices long before I can see their faces. If I'll ever get to see them at all.

'Remember,' they warn me. Their voices shiver up my spine, trailblazing across my scalp, tingling the empty spaces of my mind. What was I supposed to to remember? What was reality outside these halls?

The echos of their warnings compel me to the walls. Who had spoken to me? Which faces belonged to the voices in my head, whispering in my ears? The only thing I find staring back is... Me.

The mirrors of the walls shatter with the realisations. Fragments of exploding glass impale my arms and legs with gritty shards. I shield my face from the impact-- on reflex. I don't really care if I get cut. Clearly, my mind was already scarred.

The ghouls of the walls are my reflections. I am the dead eyes that haunt me.

✧༺♥༻∞

OKAYYYYY. That was fun! Now, time to give you guys lines and tag the TCW Crew.

This is from Volume to 2 of ToV. Specifically, the climax. Have fun with that lol:

I swayed on my feet, struggling to stand without air. The world around me was my opponent. I did not know who to fight anymore. There were too many enemies. Too many attacks, all happening at once. I was only one man. How could I fight them all? All I wanted was to protect my people… I thought balefully. All I wanted was to protect my home and finally rest. “Just let me die…” I whimpered, collapsing onto my knees in tears. My tears themselves were poisonous, scalding my skin down to the muscle. Did I extinguish the flames on my arms? I could not see anymore. Black smog and Von Doro’s silhouette blackened my vision blind. Maybe I was still burning. Maybe I was on fire. Maybe I finally get to rest. “Die?!” she hooted as another blazing inferno decorated the sky in blue and red ferality. “You don’t get to die until I allow you to! HA!” Her laughter brought a sudden awareness to my body as it withered in suffering, but not death. “Your death is MY CHOICE, daara. Mine all mine!”

Sick and twisted.

ALRIGHTY. I'm popping in my regular degular links. Enjoy!

✧༺♥༻∞

TCW Blog Navigation Guide

PREORDER THRONE OF VENGEANCE

Join the TCW Tag Crew!

TCW Writing Bar Discord -> i may be whoops on tumblr but i am less whoops on discord, so come hither!

✧༺♥༻∞

Happy Writing

TCW Crew:

@lunaeuphternal @the-golden-comet @renasdoodles

@drchenquill @zackprincebooks @wyked-ao3

@toragay-writing @the-letterbox-archives

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@pexchys @an-indecisive-nerd @thelovelymachinery

[aemondsdoll]

sweet thing | aemond targaryen

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: sex club au, vulgar language, no slur yet;)

A/N: should be a series. i need requests guys, ask box got randomly cleared :)

When you first started working at the exclusive sex club, the Red Keep, you did it because you needed the money. But over time, you found yourself enjoying the job. Pretty outfits and drinks paid for, you were pretty much a sugar baby.

It was extremely hard to get into, only people of status were allowed in. You had seen many a famous people, important political figures, and most if not all of them have thrown bills at your feet.

You found it empowering. You were a dancer there, only limited touches allowed when it came to you. Nothing too explicit, being as you weren’t one of your more physically involved co workers.

Your division was to put on a show, draw the men in. And that you did,

The neon lights shined over your figure, illuminating you in a purpley pink colour. You found that cliche, and a bit annoying when it came to dancing.

Dressed in a black babydoll tonight, you worked the pole elegantly, as if it was an extension of you. Your eyes fluttered to the crowd, seeing a few of your regulars. You smiled at them, most of them were kind men.

Your eyes met a familiar person to you, someone you’d seen on the news, and in cheesy tabloid articles.

Aemond Fucking Targaryen.

He certainly held an aura of importance, that almost made you stutter on one of your moves. You regained composure, and continued focusing on your dance. Luckily enough, the song was coming to an end.

Your body seductively became one with the pole, intertwining with it smoothly. The song came to an end and you let go of the pole, doing an exaggerated bow to the crowd, showing your cleavage. It was your little signature, something you did at the end of every dance.

A bouncer walked you off the stage, and you decided to mingle. You felt eyes on you, and you shook off the feeling. You’re a stripper, people are going to look at you.

A regular paid for a lap dance from you, to which you happily abided.

“Hey Jason, how’s it going love?” You spoke fondly, and he rambled about his day to which you’d add in a little comment here and there as you straddled him and swung your hips.

Jason was a tad bit obnoxious, always loved to talk about himself. You didn’t mind that, he could be a lot worse.

You moved seductively, making sure your boobs were bouncing and ass looked perfect. You made sure he was getting a good view of you as you danced, and then you felt it again.

The eyes on you. You looked around, trying to find the source of them. But your attention was torn away as Jason’s hands landed on your hips and began gliding up your sides. You move them back down to your hips, but he doesn’t give up, attempting to move them back to your top half.

“Jason, you know you’re not allowed to touch.” You say sternly, and he shakes his head. “With what I pay for you, I can do what I want.” He says, and your mouth drops. He had never treated you like that, nor had he spoke of you like some object.

His hands harshly grabbed at your breasts and you winced, pushing away from him and getting a distance away.

“Jason, do you think your wife would be appreciative to learn that you’re here, manhandling a woman?” A deep voice spoke from beside you, and you jumped.

You turned your head as fast as light, and saw him. Aemond Targaryen, standing next to you, threatening the man who groped you. Jason gulped, obviously drunken.

“Aemond, we were just having a little bit of fun.” Jason’s shaky voice came out, and you looked over the club and did a come hither motion to a bouncer, who immediately comes to your side, escorting Jason out, no questions asked.

Aemond turns to you, eyes flittering over your figure, and settling at your eyes.

“Jason frequently has issues such as that in establishments like these.” His voice comes out painfully neutral, and you think about how his phrasing meant he also frequents places like these.

“Well then, nice to meet you.” You stutter, putting your hand out for him to grab. His hand is large in comparison to yours as it wraps around it.

“It’s nice to meet you aswell.” Aemond begins, taking a breath and letting go of your hand. You look up at him with curious eyes that affect him more than he is willing to admit.

“What services do you offer?” He asks, and you smile. “I offer lap dances, private dances, in a room where you can be more physical with me.” You speak softly, and lean to whisper.

“I also am a sugar baby, though that is not connected to this establishment.” Your voice comes out a shaky whisper, and Aemond nods.

That’s exactly what he needed to hear.

“I’ll pay for a private room with you, so we can discuss what we can do for eachother, hmm?” Aemond says, already flipping open his leather wallet. His domineering aura made you feel as if you had no control, and that feeling made your pussy wetter than it should’ve.

He hands you the bills, plus a rather large tip which you widen your eyes at the sight of. You nod and make an effort to appear unphased. “Follow me then,”

You take Aemond to a free room, which had bright red LED lights. You sit on the couch, and he does the same.

“What services would you like me to provide?” You ask sweetly, trailing the rough leather couch with your finger to ease your nerves.

“I’d like you to be my sugar baby. I’ll provide you with anything you should need, and you’ll be my arm candy for events.” Aemond speaks bluntly, and you gulp. You’d been a sugar baby before, but not for someone of his stature.

Managing to build the courage to reply, you say “I’d be delighted, sir.”

“Call me Aemond, sweet thing.” he replies, stretching his arms out on the backrest of the couch.

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

how do all the lackadaisy characters react to getting sick/how do the handle the situation. Thanks!! :3c

Lumping these two asks together as they are the same request. Ask and ye shall receive! (A collaborative effort between multiple of our authors as it does involve the whole cast.)

ROCKY

Sick? What do you mean sick. In his over twenty-two years of living thus far he's never been sick once. He has the immune system of a titan, what are you talking about.

Questions he whilst leaning heavily on the bar counter for support lest he is knocked to the ground in a feverish pile by this sudden earthquake that apparently no one else is noticing like seriously you guys shouldn't we evacuate the place?!

In his defense, he's right about one thing: illness seems to avoid him as prevalently and miraculously as death itself. He could get stuck in the rain, take cold mud baths, sleep outside in winter snow, hug someone with Spanish flu, taste the pavement of a rat-infested alley and drink raw sewage and still come out of it all fit as a fiddle.

(Whether he carries anything is a different question, though with the various microorganisms inside him he seems to live in an overwhelmingly peaceful coexistence.)

But every rule has exceptions. And since he frequently does end up in all those situations, when once a millennium he comes down with something it's hard to tell the cause.

How he handles it can be summed up in a short answer of: he doesn't. He refuses to acknowledge it until he's physically incapacitated. If asked about it he keeps insisting that he's fine, a-okay, dandy as can be, never has existed a more invigorated healthy young man on Earth. At best he may invent a perfectly unconvincing excuse, like allergies acting up. (Inside underground caves. In winter. When he's never been allergic to anything in his entire life.)

Aside from perhaps unsuccessfully forbidding him from causing more grievous disturbances than usual, people usually opt to just leave him to it, because once he's set his mind on being "fine" logical reasoning and sound advice are only breath wasted. Ever well-intentioned, Mitzi still tells him to get some rest every now and then, yet keeps stumbling into the boy as he's fumbling through whatever that unresting intent has currently possessed him to be doing.

This wouldn't be such an issue with, say, a cold, because regardless of his masochistic eagerness for activity it inevitably does pass, but if it's something that necessitates any amount of bedrest... well, good luck.

For one he hasn't really a place to rest. I mean... there's the car. No one but Ivy at the Lackadaisy seems to know he technically lives in there, and he's not too enthusiastic to disclose it himself; besides anywhere else actually suitable, like in Mitzi's apartment, he'd just feel like a capital nuisance.

But let's suppose a scenario with the ideal location and someone who cares enough to stick by and ensure he actually does stay put. Shouldering such a responsibility, they must be prepared for a minimum of two things.

For one: he's going to be even more unbearably talkative than usual. Because what else is there left for a restless spirit if the flesh is restrained? Nothing but to complain and lament and versify and prattle on incessantly about whatever comes careening hither along a changeful stream of consciousness. Albeit unwittingly, driving others insane with his aimless rambling is how he keeps himself... well, something.

It's like if his mind had to stop running at maximum speed for just a few minutes it would promptly crash for good. Which, for all we know, may really be the case.

(This is just my two cents, but: I think giving him drawing implements and a coloring book or just plain paper might keep him very nicely occupied, as well as relatively quiet. Be sure to provide plenty of paper though, if you don’t want him to start drawing on other things not meant to be drawn on when the supply runs out like an unsupervised kid... unless you welcome the idea of your walls and furniture being covered in doodles.)

The other, possibly more arduous challenge is keeping him inside the room in the first place. Not understanding nor agreeing with his special treatment largely experienced as imprisonment on his end, he seizes each arising opportunity to attempt to weasel away somehow.

And he's a trained escape artist.

Watch him closely but look away for even a second, and you'll find no trace of him left in the room when you look back. Lock him in there, he'll pick the lock in a pinch - or attempt the window, which depending on the floor number may carry various levels of risk. Tie him down (because you're getting desperate by now) and you're likely to stumble into him minutes later by the front door, having already wriggled his way out. Doesn’t matter which knot was used, he knows most of them by heart. (And even if he didn’t happen to, he’s resourceful enough.)

Like I’ve said before, he perseveres in resisting his confinement for as long as he's capable of moving his limbs around and some vague semblance of coherent thought. Even with his brains cooking with delirium one may have to rescue him as he's crawling along on the floor dragging with him the tangle of blankets he was last left swaddled in, not entirely clear on what direction he's headed but by all means dedicated.

He's not above manipulation either, in order to divert his warden’s attention or make them relinquish his firm supervision rooted in concern for his well-being. Because it's not like he's concerned about it; so why should anyone else be? In addition he's unshakably certain that his role in the Lackadaisy's rumrunning force as well as there in general is absolutely vital and requires that he always be available for employment regardless of if he’s even in a proper state for it. (Just look at the latest comic arc, for crying out loud.)

But psst. Here's a little personal tip, for (Y/N) specifically. If reasonable advice hits deaf ears, and cuffing him to a bedpost yields little results other than another mildly baffling escape attraction, there remains one other thing to try with better chances of success... a more hands-on approach, if you catch my drift.

(Cuddling. I'm talking about cuddling. If you've got a good grip on this string bean of a man he is certainly not going anywhere so long as you're vigilant. Doing so, of course, means risking your own health, which he won't fail to coyly point out either; but he'll otherwise put up minimal resistance and ultimately cave in because God knows he’s touch deprived and doesn't get held enough otherwise. Well, by not enough I mean not at all, ever. But that's exactly why it's a good thing you're here, isn't it?)

Overall, as amusing of a story collection to recount as his commonly absurd ailing escapades might provide later down the line, the fact that they very rarely happen is no doubt for the best. He engages in enough troublesome shenanigans as is.

FRECKLE

Surprisingly pragmatic about it. Yep. He's getting symptoms. Looks like he contracted something.

Best be careful about it... mostly because Nina wouldn't allow him running himself ragged anyhow.

Along with other moral virtues he's had honesty drilled into him from kittenhood. And although it's not always an option in... other matters... he's upfront about how he's feeling physically if not much else, and eventually does come to terms with it. (Once he’s confirmed with certainty that it’s not just the general nauseated feeling he gets whenever he thinks too deeply about his “work” nowadays.)

He doesn't want to infect other people, or incur the stern concern of his mother, so at the very least he stays around the house, doing small, mostly undemanding chores. He's aware it's not expected of him nor recommended, but he has a bit of restlessness to him too.

Mostly because, were it bad enough to confine him to bed in a blanketed bundle of suffering incarnate, all he'd be able to think about is that God's wrath finally caught up with him for being a horrible person and this was part of his rightful punishment. Even worse if he got a nasty fever; it's like he's already burning in Hell.

Distractions may be scarce, but if he's been told off from chores for sneezing on the washing-up or exhausting himself with much too overzealous hammering, he opts to read instead. Over the years he's amassed quite the collection of books, renowned classics and youth literature, and most of them still give off the fluttering remnants of a good kind of nostalgia when flipping through the pages.

And besides, immersing himself in someone else's story is far more pleasant than fretting over his own current predicaments.

Some company, from a safe distance of course, will do him wonders as well. Nina is not the most conversational woman around, and aside from checking on him regularly and ensuring his wellbeing they don't make much meaningful contact.

Rocky likely pops in from time to time however, forever enthused to just run his mouth for as long as allowed, and although he may get a bit too bombastic for Calvin's comparative lack of vitality sometimes he appreciates the distraction more than he's able to express it. And, believe it or not, it's not entirely one-sided either. Rocky has developed a keen sense for his quiet cousin's intent to contribute and will more than gladly listen to what he has to say.

He’ll also forward Ivy’s wishes for Calvin to get well soon as she’s just dying to be able to meet with him at the speakeasy again. (Definitely also attaches a teasing remark or two to the message.) Then he’s eventually ushered out by Nina and as soon as his hasty goodbyes are swallowed by the outdoors Calvin finds himself missing the noise already.

The paralyzed stillness of being sick gets to him a lot more than it shows… seeing as it leaves him a little too alone with his own mind. So he sinks into the comfort of old books until he’s incapacitated by a headache and sore eyes, and diligently rakes those seven leaves that had gathered across the back lawn since he last attended to them two hours before, and lingers outside in the garden until warmer hues overtake a sun-painted sky and the evening chill starts to bite, taking in all things green and alive and in motion to remind himself that he’s not a walking corpse. Not yet, anyway.

Due to his mom’s supervision as well as his own eagerness to follow instructions in order to escape his personal limbo as soon as possible, he does tend to recover fairly fast; and he’s a pretty hardy young lad, thank goodness, so it’s all quite uncommon of an ordeal. In short it’s back to the ol’ grindstone in a jiffy; you know, the kind of grindstone that pulverizes mortal lives and churns out dripping blood.

But hey, best not stop and mull over it too long.

IVY

Oh, it's a nightmare for her.

You mean she can't go out in the evenings anymore? Can't go shopping with friends? Can't procure booze with her criminal coworkers? Can't attend dates with her cute new boyfriend? (Well, those last two are one and the same, really.)

These are all vital activities for a young woman like her to pursue! What else is she supposed to do? Rot in her room and steer clear of all fun whilst everyone else keeps going on with their lives?!

Some flimsy cold is nowhere near enough to keep her away from the beloved Lackadaisy. She can still man the café counter with a little sniffle (taking care to sneeze on no one's food) or look absolutely gorgeous on the dancefloor decked in glimmering pearls and feathers with a slightly paler constitution. But if it's bad enough that she simply must stay put...

During classes the still life of an empty dormitory fills with upbeat contemporary tunes from her bedstand radio as she lies upon crumpled bedsheets, clad in her prettiest pajamas, surrounded by an almost ritualistic circle of tissues and magazines whilst flipping through one of the latter with her legs girlishly dangling in the air. This is likely the scene any visitors are greeted by as well.

She looks like she's coping rather well... until verbal contact ensues and she begins her long string of complaints about how she's feeling utterly miserable. Runny nose, sore throat, grating cough, an unshakable sense of fatigue and she can't even go anywhere! Her classmates are off studying or having fun themselves (as well as deliberately avoiding contact with her for obvious reasons), and she's got nothing to look at but patterned wallpaper and pictures of pretty clothes she currently can't even visit the boutiques for.

But once the grievances are shared she promptly guides the spotlight in their direction, upon which they are to share every last bit of information and news about all most recent ongoings in the world of the healthy. It is a requirement (she will not let them go until they oblige), but also an opportunity; they're welcome to spill the beans on how their week has been and any noteworthy things that happened to them and also to just chat with her about whatever else comes up in the process.

Another way she keeps herself involved with the outside world is through the telephone. The local operator can already tell if she's under the weather by the prevalence of hearing her slightly weathered, juvenile voice squeak for connection to mostly one line throughout the day.

Her calls may also be scheduled to a certain hour so that everyone can come up to Mitzi's office and say hi. That "everyone" overwhelmingly ends up being Rocky, who lingers around there a bit more insistently than usual nearing that time frame and never fails to make his presence known by shouting his own greetings and cheerful encouragements of perseverance into the receiver.

She always asks him about Viktor and Calvin since the former disappointingly refuses to engage with her calls, and the latter doesn't visit because boys aren't allowed in the dormitory... and because he's afraid of catching her sickness. (What a chicken.)

You’d better believe they both get a scolding once she’s recovered for not contacting her at all… though you can’t really stay mad at sheepishly apologetic, babyfaced Freckle McMurray, now can you

Supposing the presence of company who’s emotionally close enough, she may also get clingy in the physical sense. Yes, she knows it’s not very courteous to rub your germs all over someone, but oh, her head is just killing her and she’s exhausted and achy and utterly sick of being sick, hence she desperately needs to rest her chin on someone’s shoulder and latch onto their soft warmth. Really, they brought this upon themselves by daring to enter the sniffly lion cub’s den. Now they’re likely not allowed to move for… let’s say the next two hours. Alternatively, until she has to go to the bathroom or ask them to get her something to drink.

Yes, she’s a bit of a princess; and especially when she’s miserable she may occasionally indulge in showering a willing servant with her various requests. Fetch her this, throw away that, bring hot chocolate and snacks, take out the trash, give her attention. But how could you say no to those big, innocent eyes?

If it’s a schoolmate she will absolutely persuade them to skip their classes for the day and spend time with her instead, offering cuddles and gossip. Forgetting, or ignoring rather, that not everyone can afford to be so lax about their education. Though surely, full-time service as a personal maid slash stuffed animal is making a much better use of their time. She promises to do the same when they inevitably catch the illness themselves, if that’s any consolation.

Nightly adventures and consequent loss of sleep aside, she takes decent care of herself overall, so the understimulating agony of quarantined solitude luckily isn’t something she suffers more of than the average person… albeit that little she’s an expert at suffering luxuriously.

VIKTOR

No, he's not sick, you're just lying. The great, the indomitable, the fierce Viktor Vasco never gets sick.

Denial is definitely a big part of it. He will not admit to getting sick until he's too weak to stand, and even then he'll fight anyone who tries to get him to rest.

The boredom is somehow scarier than actual health concerns. Staying at home and being too ill to do anything except think means he'll think. And thinking leads to a whole load of other things that he doesn't want to get into.

Essentially, getting sick is a liability to everything, from his job to his sense of self.

However, good luck on trying to make him better. He will also stubbornly refuse any help that comes his way, will slam his door in the doctor's face and threaten to tear apart anyone who so much as suggests getting him medicine.

His colleagues from Lackadaisy have taken to asking Mrs Bapka, his neighbour, to administer anything they want to give him themselves (he will draw a line at punching an old woman and fellow Slovakian immigrant), or Ivy (no one can successfully dispose of Ivy and her headstrong attitude. No one.)

The last person he had actually listened to when he was sick was a certain Mordecai Heller. Needless to say, that's not the case anymore.

Maybe that's what really makes him so grumpy and reluctant.

ZIB

His immune system is either rock hard or absolute dogshit, there is no in-between. He can go through a crowd of cats with nasty 'bouts of the flu without catching it, but gets bedridden by something as small as a head cold.

Said wonky immune system may be because he tends to drink stuff cut with the most ridiculous ingredients (radiator fluid, coffin varnish, paint, water, mud, you name it he's probably tasted it)

When he gets laid up, he gets laid up hard (innuendo not intended). He has to drag himself out of bed during the worst parts of it and may not even bother, electing to curl up and shiver/cry from the pain/die where he's comfortable. His band members have to literally drag him out of there on those days and force food down his throat so he doesn't wither away

Goddammit you lanky noodle bitch look after your sick ass don't make everyone do it for you

MORDECAI

He hates falling ill with a passion. It's one of many reasons he drinks tea so often: if he does get sick, it won't hit him so hard.

He tends to try and shrug off small stuff (runny nose, mild to moderate headache, aches and pains) to go to work anyway; but he's no fool. If he really feels icky he'll stay at home and look after himself. As much as he hates to do it, he's only got one body and somebody has to look after it.

The Savoys bash/tease him relentlessly whenever he comes in sick. If the mild headache becomes something worth staying at home for, they'll go as far as to try and visit him (or get him to come to them). Is it guilt about ragging him about it, them missing him or just boredom? Hard to tell with those two.

Serafine once teased about playing as his "mama" and looking after him until he's better. Mordecai, in his sickness-muddled mind, flew off the handle at her...Though all the Savoys saw was him almost break a glass in his paws before telling them flatly to get out.

Neither one realized Serafine had hit a nerve until he refused to let them in for a few days after. Whether it was something about his past or Serafine betraying his trust to get him into her group, they let it go and pretended nothing happened once he was back in action (though there was a noticeably thicker wall between him and them)

SERAFINE/NICODEME

Meet the "clingy" duo.

They don't get sick often and have impressive immune systems, what with their past roaming the swamps and other dangerous conditions, but when they do? Oh boy...

They'll either cling to each other in private, or play it up and annoy a hapless colleague.

And by "hapless colleague", I mean Mordecai—because of course it is.

Sickness is less of an actual, preventive ailment, but rather an excuse to show off some dramatic acting skills.

"Oh, cher, I simply cannot move until you bring me some nice warm tea and chocolate!"

"If I die, tell the world I was warm and safe, because of our dear ami, Heller..."

"For crying out loud, you've both got nothing but a cold."

They'll still play it up.

Just because your nose is stuffy doesn't mean the rest of you has to be.

The show must go on, mon cher.

WICK

He gets sick really, really easily. He stays up late at night often, so he doesn't get much rest and his immunity suffers for it.

(Licking rock walls probably doesn't help with that. Muffinhead (affectionate))

He still does work and goes out when he's sick, which results in papers with shitty writing and his friends urging him to go and rest up, "we can go with you another day".

When he's not thinking straight he'll whine to Lacie about how no one wants to see him when he's sick; ignoring the fact that she's either making him food, putting a cold cloth on his head or literally came by just to say hi to him

He's a bit dim sometimes, but he's a loveable dim.

The easiest way to see how sick he is is to mention putting the work on pause or crack a joke at his expense. If he rapidly objects to not working or good-naturedly shrugs off the joke, it's a small thing, nothing to worry about. If all he has to say in response to not working is "I can't" and he tries to defend himself from the joke (or even worse, agrees with it), he's feeling god-awful.

Lacie tends to hide the alcohol away until he's feeling better. During the week or so he's really feeling foggy this actually works, since in his addled state he can't properly look for them.

MITZI (BONUS since she's been getting a fair bit of attention)

Mitzi doesn't get sick. She becomes inconvenienced.

She's also a real bitch when she's sick. It's less of a slipping mask and more of a "I can't be nice when my brain feels too big for my skull"

She'll still grin and bear it for Rocky. He's positively devoted to her, after all; the least she can do is swallow her nasty remarks and come up with something softer for him.

Some cats swear that she never falls ill or has anything happen to her...Usually because once it does happen she locks herself in her office and won't open the door if you're not Horatio or Viktor.

If another cat somehow gets through her door, can put up with her attitude swings and goes out of their way to help her through her illness, she may very well open up a little and talk to them easier. Something as small as a cup of tea during a ravenous headache will convince the then-bitchy queen that you're not all bad-and later that since you put up with her ravenous insults and still helped her, maybe you're worth swallowing her pride for and confiding in.

[anukulee]

Happy Birthday @simplyholl

Happy Birthday 🎂🎁🎊🎉🎈!!!

As of today 30 years ago at whenever time @simplyholl/@sailorholly was brought into the world by her parents. Thus making today a milestone day for her, for at thirty anything could happen. Think about it, for Tom Hiddleston it was the around this age he was cast as Loki, and become the super star anti hero he is! But enough about him this is about Holl!!!

While I haven’t known her for long, from the short time I have known her. I know she is a beautiful, smart, and kind mutual! She is always down for my simpering rambling especially since we have similar taste. And she is always sweet no matter the day, and let us not forget how creative she is. With all of her quick to the point stories about our favorite king Loki! And her numerous fictional crushes, I have been opened to so many new worlds!!! Overall making her such a joy to know!!! And I want this day to be amazing for her, because she deserves to have a kick ass birthday, so if you are mutuals with her, please wish her a happy birthday 🎈🎉🎁🎂🎊!!!

So come hither you all let’s celebrate @simplyholl/@sailorholly 30th like she deserves!!!

Tagging, @skymoonandstardust @asgards-princess-of-mischief @aesonmae @holdmytesseract @muddyorbsblr @mochie85 @mcufan72 @michelleleewise @sserpente @smolvenger @lokischambermaid @lady-rose-moon @lokisgoodgirl @lokisbirdofhermes @lokisprettygirl @eleniblue @the--sad--hatter @five-miles-over @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @immyowndefender @liminalpebble @gigglingtiggerv2 @november-rayne @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @chantsdemarins @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @villainousshakespeare @lokis-dark-queen @joyful-enchantress

[thequeer07puss]

On the nature of madness (channeled from Dionysus)

Madness is the fury of a mind unrestrained

The mind, free from the restrictions of logic and conscious thought, rages and claws at the bars of its enclosure, jerking the body hither and thither and burning away the foundation of what makes us human until it leaves behind nothing else but an untainted soul

Fools and madmen often look the same, but the madman speaks deep truth, inspired by nothing else but the holy communion between them and the world beyond the veil, while the ramblings of a fool are as valuable as, well, fool’s gold: they seem sage and precious to keep, but can poison you if applied to real life

[glitteringsunshine]

Pairing : Leroy Jethro Gibbs x Reader Wife

Jethro’s  POV:

“ Hello Y/N ahh Mrs Gibbs , Mrs Boss” Tony rambled as Y/N entered the bull pen.

“ Good Morning to you Tony, Y/N is fine you know” she chuckled.

“ So how was the honeymoon. Boss didn’t give a single detail. “Tony rambled.

“ A lady never kiss and tell “ Y/N chuckled. “ Jethro did you prepare the report state asked for from NCIS”

“ Here darling. Coordinated with the marines,navy  and NCIS agents  deployed on ground , to do the threat assessment.  It’s a go ahead from NCIS , the Director signed on it “ I said.

“ Y/N up for the writer’s  convention this week. “ McGee asked.

“ Yepp , very excited.  Specially the 1920s Gatsby theme. Gonna love that. Already  got a flapper costume. “ she said excitedly.

“ Ouch” , McGee a said as I  gave him a head slap.

“ Work McGee”.

“ Boss  I am trying , but the codes are too tough” McGee said.

“ Hey McGee I am hearing Next Year’s  theme would be Regency England, gonna love that too” Y/N continued

“ They have the best themes” McGee continued.

“ Ouch not fair Gibbs” Y/N protested as I gave her a heads lap.

“ Well you will get another one if you distract my team wifey” I said with humour

“ Ahh tempted” she rolled her eyes.” Well gotta go then. Too bad I can solve the codes on McGee’s big screen, but gotta let him work” she said with a poker face trying  to walk away.

“ Y/N, the code”

“ Sorry love, don’t want to distract your team or you” she said with a straight face. “ Bye”.

Reader’s  POV:

“ No sweetie, you aren’t  going anywhere before cracking that” he said holding me by my waist.

I looked him with a bratty look. He stared at me with a smirk and nodded , baiting me to bring forward my bratty side.

“ Not my Job Jethro. Besides what would the state department think knowing that your agent here is trying to hack the network of a foreign embassy.”

“ So the state department  never hacked anything? Wonder how you recognise the code then my love. I mean I don’t know much about codes and algorithms but even someone like you couldn’t recognise it with a glance, especially when McGee is sweating his ass of on it from the morning. So Y/N ,did you ever Crack this before? “ he smirked.

“ Fine Gibbs. I will Crack it. But I won’t do it pro Bono. I would want something in return.”

“ So what it’s gonna cost me ?” He said clearly loving our game.

“ I don’t know Gibbs , think of something”.

“ What if I ask you nicely ? Please? “ he said with puppy dog eyes and a boyish grin.

“ hhmmm better ,but not enough” I chuckled.

He made his way towards the corner, away from his team’s earshot , calling me with a come hither motion.

“ The rest of you atleast pretend to work?” he said nodding his head.

“ So what secret  deal are you offering me Special Agent Gibbs” I said rolling my eyes.

He held my chin , making me look at him.

“Why why aren’t you a brat. You need discipline. So here’s  my offer darling.  You will Crack the code in return of the discipline  you need. Then I can make sure , you get the punishment you deserve tonight in bed.”he said with lust.

“ And If  I don’t agree love?”

“ You will, cause that’s what you want right.” He smirked trailing his thumb across my bottom lip. “ That and if you don’t, I will not let you cum tonight “

“ Ahh you wont”

“ But I would. You see darling , I love to get you all worked up, hearing your pretty little voice , as you beg me to let you cum.” He laughed.

….

“ All done McGee. You got your data. You knew who your petty officer aka double agent’s  foreign  handler. “ Thanks Y/N.

“ So Y/N what’s your secret.?” Tony asked.

“ What secret?” I asked.

“ You bring another side of Gibbs” ,McGee said.” He is great to work with. But I never realised he can be so fun.”

“ Well ever since you met him , he is so not grumpy. You light up his world you know.”

 

“ and he rocks mine”  I winked making them laugh.

“ Ahh Y/N you don’t want to mess with Boss ‘s coffee.” Tony said as I picked up Gibbs’s  mug from his desk as McGee nodded agreeing with Tony.

I saw Gibbs walking down the squadroom. “ Babe , can you bring me fave chocolate doughnut today” I pouted.

“ Ahh let me think about it” he chuckled.

“ Ahh come on Jethro , I did solve your case” I said with my puppy dog eyes.

“ I will love” he laughed.

“ What’s this?” he said picking up the froth and whipped cream from my hot chocolate cup.

“ It’s  milk foam dear” I said Licking his fingers. “ Ohh this is just a preview of what’s gonna happen tonight.” I whispered  out of everyone’s earshot.

 “ Don’t waste it, and that’s mine hot chocolate not yours.” I continued loudly.

 

“ Where is my coffee?” Jethro asked.

“ Here I said” inhaling it.

“ Baby you are not supposed to have coffee remember, and sit down babe. Don’t tire yourself out. Don’t forget to jeep yourself hydeated” He reminded.

“ Oh come on Jethro, I can’t wear my favourite stilettos anymore. Can’t even have my cappuccino.  Smelling the caffeine  is the only thing that helps with the nausea. I am not having it, just smelling it. Better watch out , I will be a bitch with  terrible mood swings if you don’t allow to inhale the caffeine scent.

“ I like it when you are my bitch” he whispered smirking, making me blush.

“ Well gotta go love” I said.

“ Come let me walk you to the car.”

20 bucks that things are gonna get heated up in the elevator “ Tony said which made him get a headslap from Gibbs.

 

We walked into the elevator. As the door closed , he switched on the emergency stop sign and kissed me with passion. I returned it with the same intensity, both fighting for control and domination. He pushed me against the wall shoving his hand below my skirt. He pushed two fingers inside my panties, feeling the moisture there. “ Good Girl, already wet for me” he smirked. He quickly undid his pants as his hard cock sprang out from his boxers. He lined it with my entrance , running it up and down my slit for a few times teasing me before plunging into me. He pulled me closer thrusting deep while I arched my hips towards him.

“ Jethro…. Oh ohh I whispered. I am close . Can I?”

“ Yes baby. Cum for me darling , cum on my cock.” He said.

As I reached my peak , I felt weak at the knees ,as waves and waves of pleasure hit me. “

Gibbs held me tight against him , still thrusting as he hit my g spot, kissing me and claiming my moans. He picked me up while I wrapped my legs around him , helping me recover from the pleasure. Slowly he build his pace again. “ I am close” he said. “Together “ he said as I clenched his cock knowing I am right at the edge . With one final thrust ,  I reached my climax, finding my release.   Milking his cock ,  I heard him calling out my name as he shot his load deep into me.

Gently kissing my lips he put me down, but still holding me steady  He put his forehead  against mine as we both panted.

He put his fingers inside my pussy scooping  some of cum and Licking his fingers clean.

“ A little preview  for tonight” he smirked, gently petting my ass.

He zipped up his pants and smoothed out my skirt. Then he rubbed my still flat belly whispering “ love you and your mummy”. Then he kissed me on the forehead, before helping me with my shoes.

Jethro’s  POV:

As I made my way to the bullpen after seeing Y/N off and making sure her seatbelt is properly fastened, I made my way to the bullpen.

“ What took you so long boss? McGee asked. “ The elevator is giving trouble for a few days.” You didn’t get stuck did you Boss” Tony asked doubtfully.

“ I think you stopped for another cup of  coffee maybe “ he continued.

“ Do you see a cup of coffee in my hand Dinozzo? Infact did you hear the elevator  bell go off?” I asked, while taking out a 20 dollar bill and handing it to Tony.

“ Ohh thanks boss but why?” Ohh Ewww” Tony said amused as realisation dawned on him.

“ Boss” Mcgee said “ Why is Y/N not allowed to have coffee any more?”

“ You know for two seasoned investigators you too are pretty slow” I chuckled as new realisation dawned on them.

“ Boss”

“ Yep we are pregnant “ I grinned proudly making them jump up with joy and excitement  as they embraced me in a group hug.

[ladyofvoss]

16) the classic “oh, let me help you put some sunscreen on” but then the little massage turns into something more (Thalia/Thancred)

Le spice is under le cut

“Born and raised Ul’dahn. You really ought to have known better.”

Thalia’s response to Thancred’s teasing was to glare at him over her shoulder. A fair reaction, given her irritated, sunburnt skin he was applying salve to. The small pile of rubble that could barely pass for a house made for a poor infirmary, but the sun was setting, and Thancred thought it better to make camp so he could take the time to properly see to her. Her shoulders and legs got the worst of it with red blotches spreading across her skin, uncovered as they were with her choice of attire in a white vest, brown shorts and a pair of boots. And really, if it stood out that much against her darker complexion, than surely it was bad enough for her to notice.

“I had a lot on my mind”, she said, as if reading his, but then he realized she was simply retorting to his earlier barb.

He wanted to respond, to keep up their banter (something about how heroes who liberate nations don’t have time to fuss over something as trivial as a sunburn), but then he noticed the way she slouched over, nearly curling in on herself, hugging her vest that she removed to make it easier to cover her shoulders with the salve. She stared blankly ahead, seeming a thousand miles away.

Of course. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she was running on fumes these past couple of weeks. Ala Mhigo was free. It was over, they had won, yet Thancred couldn’t blame her for not feeling comfortable in their victory. Who among the Scions would, after what they endured at the Waking Sands, or the Banquet? And really, who was he to judge her for running hither and yon, taking on every task that needed seeing to, even if it meant negligence to herself?

Thancred changed tact then, still rubbing in the ointment, but this time seeking the stiff muscles in her shoulders and applying deliberate, firm pressure. He could feel her stiffen, but something loosened under his fingertips, and she practically deflated, shoulders drooping with a relieved sigh.

That’s it, he thought, feeling more pleased than he ought to have been. This was dangerous territory. He had resigned himself to keeping her at arm’s length after the Praetorium, that sentiment cemented after everything they had been through in Ishgard. But those troubles seemed far and distant, when her skin was warm and soft under his hands, small appreciative sounds coming from her at each unwound knot.

He had realized his mistake too late when he pressed the heel of his hand to a particularly stubborn spot in her lower back, and the sound she made when the muscle loosened, a long high and needy whine, shot straight down his spine.

Thalia froze once she realized what she had done, clamping her mouth shut with a tight press of her lips, squeezing her vest to her otherwise bare chest even harder. Thancred knew she’d dare not risk looking at him now, but he had no doubt the expression on her face was horrified.

“That….” she stammered, wound tight as if ready to bolt from him, “That was…..”

A squeeze to her shoulders stopped whatever ramble was on her lips, and this time she did look at him, peering at him over her shoulder with such vulnerability and uncertainty that Thancred knew his decision was made.

Truly, there was never any choice to begin with, was there?

“You said you had a lot on your mind”, he spoke, low and clear for her ears alone, “There are things that can help…..distract you.”

He let his words linger there, hands remaining on her shoulders as he awaited her answer.

She held his eyes. A beat passed. Then another. Then, slowly, she lowered her arms and let her white vest drop to the dirt.

—————————————————————————

This was dangerous territory.

It was hard for Thancred to keep that mantra at the forefront of his mind, with Thalia panting in his ear as one of his hands palmed her breast, the other between her thighs and working furiously into her cunt.

It was hard to keep any thoughts in his mind at all, not while she clenched around his fingers, so tight and wet and warm. Nor with the way her hands were everywhere, fisted into his hair or desperately gripping the muscles of his back, made bare when he quickly threw down his vest for a poor excuse of a blanket for her to lie on.

And then she gripped his hand, the one between her legs, and pressed against him harder, canted her hips higher as she begged him for more, Thancred, please more I need it gods please-

All logic and good sense fled his mind.

His other hand abandoned her bare breast to bury itself into her blue curls, pulling her mouth to his to catch her wail as he worked her with a newfound frenzy, twisting and curling to hit that one spot as she scrabbled at the planes of his back, nails biting into his skin as her body shook and trembled in the throes of her orgasm.

He held her as she came down, easing his fingers into gentle strokes as her trembling subsided. By the gods, she was a vision, her skin made dewy with sweat, practically glowing where the moonlight shown on her warm brown skin.

“Fuck”, he groaned, withdrawing his hand entirely and shifting to move between her legs.

That got Thalia’s attention, but she wasn’t given enough time to inquire about what he was doing, as in a matter of seconds, he had settled on his belly, pulled her legs over his shoulders, and now put his mouth where his fingers were moments ago. It earned him a strangled noise as she dropped onto her back, hands finding their place again in his now-mussed hair.

This was dangerous territory. But he found himself caring less with every needy sound he drew out of her.

It mattered little. He was a dead man anyway.

[cycas]

Elwing, Elros & Elrond ramblings

I imagine that Elwing and Elrond were interested to meet one another when Elrond finally sailed to Valinor. There would be some big emotions flying around there.

But I don't believe that Elwing has been longing for her son for six thousand years, or that their relationship would immediately be warm. That's not because of Elwing's choices, which seem legendary but unimpeachable. It's because of Elrond's choices.

My big question with Elrond is why is he still there in Middle-earth?

He could have left with his brother at the end of the War of Wrath, gone to Numenor, then perhaps sailed west to rejoin his mother when his brother died, or when his nephews or grand-nephews did.

That would be entirely in keeping with an Elrond who missed his parents, loved his brother, felt reasonably confident in the power of the Valar, and was obedient to their counsel that the Elves should sail to Valinor.

The threat in middle-earth was, so far as anyone knew, ended. His childhood and youth were spent in a place increasingly overwhelmed by war, and his original childhood home was lost.

But OK, maybe he wants to enjoy the peace, with Galadriel, Celeborn, Cirdan & Celebrimbor, who have their own reasons not to leave, plus Gil-galad and whatever Noldor and Sindar chose to linger in the Hither Lands. Maybe Elrond likes Men and Dwarves, and wants to stay with them too. (Maybe he's even spending time with Maglor, if the 1937 Silmarillion has that bit right.)

All reasonable feelings for Elrond. After all, people don't generally come back once they have sailed into the West.

(I think? It has just occurred to me that since there is a long period when elven ships regularly visited Numenor from Valinor, and Mannish ships visited Lindon, and Elrond has chosen to be an Elf, it is possible that he visited Valinor, or at least the Lonely Isle.

Perhaps Elrond's departure at the end of the Third Age was a journey to a home that he had visited regularly in the Second Age? I don't think I've seen that interpretation before but I can't see anything to entirely rule it out! However, this intriguing theory breaks the theory I was typing so let us ignore it.) So. Assuming that Elrond remains in Middle-earth throughout his life until his final journey after the War of the Ring, that does mean he prioritised life in Middle-earth over re-union with his mother and possibly father (if you assume Earendil gets breaks from being a star).

Elwing can't return, but Elrond could leave. Elros did, after all, and moved to an island as close as possible to Valinor, even if his ultimate decision to become a Man took him away from his parents in the end.

So, in the Second Age, Elrond makes his own choices, and they don't involve reunions with his parents, so far as we can tell.

Then Sauron falls, Gil-galad falls. Elrond could quite easily sail at that point. But there is Celebrian. Perhaps she doesn't want to leave her mother - though you wonder. If Celebrian and Elrond had married and then gone to Valinor, then very likely all their children would have chosen to be Elves. But Elrond, again, makes the reasonable adult choice to prioritise his wife, friends, perhaps family responsibilities, over safety and reunion with his parents across the Sea.

And he sticks it out in Middle-earth right to the bitter end. Even after Celebrian is wounded and has to sail to Valinor. Elrond is very definitely not someone in a rush to get to Valinor.

So, really, I very much hope that Elwing had friends and occupations and enjoyment that did not in any way centre around her children.

I can't really see why she should not. She spent seven years with her children, and seven thousand without them. Mothers are also people! I hope she had a period where she was able to come to grips with her grief, and then went on with her life.