#i feel like that would still be less damaging to my psyche

[vampmilf]

.

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Part 6)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awaken in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fall into the clutches of his nemesis, and then into the arms of the Radio Demon himself. 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, reader x Alastor, reader x Vox, Vox x Alastor, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, reader is in Hell for a reason, Valentino, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series links: Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue

Post coital Alastor was different to how you had expected him. You’d thought he would be aloof, to peel himself from your body and your fluids and your stickiness and not deign to touch you for the rest of the night, leaving you to your own devices. Instead, he was cuddly, almost kittenish, pressing his face to the crook of your neck, your collar, your chest, his arms possessive around you. You kissed the tips of his antlers, which brought forth a hum of pleasure from him; nothing sexual, but a sound of satisfaction that you could feel through your lips as you pressed them to his prongs, his slight frame relaxing against yours. You stroked his hair, letting him nuzzle against you, and stroked his back, feeling the edges of the bandages he wore beneath his clothes and delicately avoiding them.

Even after both of you had washed up and changed for bed, he returned to embracing you, his face on your shoulder and the length of his body pressed up against yours, warm and comfortable as both of you settled for sleep.

“Are you always like this?” you asked, carding your fingers through his silky hair.

Alastor curled himself against you further, smiling into the fabric of your pajamas. “I can’t say I recall,” he said, eyes briefly meeting yours with a look that made your heart flutter.

What was he trying to achieve? To seduce you now made little sense, considering the power imbalance between you and your willingness to fuck him. Perhaps like you he enjoyed a warm body next to him. Or perhaps, like you, he was becoming a little attached.

You slept with long limbs tangled, you careful not to put weight on Alastor’s injuries, he careful not to damage your nascent antlers, and when you woke Alastor was still half on top of you, his face against your chest, arms round you, hugging you like you had hugged his pillows previously.

It was hard for Alastor to describe the sensation of touch after its long absence. Sex had been exquisite, of course, the soft squeeze of your thighs and then the heat of your cunt around him, but it had been serving an immediate need, the drug an insistent pull on his hindbrain. To hold you, though, to relax into languid almost-stupor with your warm body against him, that was for him. It was a long drink of clear water after years in the desert, soothing a psyche he had forgotten was parched.

He touched people all the time, of course. An arm around the shoulders, a casual hand on the back, a dance or two. But he was always the instigator, always in control. For an animal demon, to be petted was an act of ultimate subservience, and as the Radio Demon, he couldn’t afford to be seen in such a way. Couldn’t afford to be seen as anything less than monstrous.

Sometimes the lack became too much, and he would find himself a few drinks in, demanding waltzes and tangos with friends, his poor dehydrated heart palpitating with each new touch. But he never really let his guard down; this was Hell, after all, and one couldn’t trust anyone here. His early years had taught him that lesson, before Vox had hammered it home.

But you? You were his mirror, your face devoid of guile and your frequency in tune with his own. Would people think he was weak, if they found out he had slept in your arms, your fingers in his hair? No, they would think it was fucking creepy, and that, in Alastor’s opinion, was just fine and dandy.

You kept a professional distance from each other outside of your shared bedroom, which suited you just fine. Behind that closed door was warmth, and quiet companionship, neither of you demanding much of the other. If this was romance, it was a backwards sort of romance; getting to know a man in the afterglow of fucking, your first dates in the comfort of his bed. You talked about safe things- Alastor’s voice fizzing with a quiet delight when he found out you could play an instrument or two- but both of you skirting around the subject of your mortal lives. Neither of you talking about your methods, or your rationale, or the dark urges that crept beneath your skins.

Each morning as you lay in bed, Alastor would examine your antlers, fingers delicate over your velvet, and each morning he would purse his lips and shake his head, not yet, before kissing you softly good morning.

It was inevitable, of course, that your confinement in the hotel would begin to chafe.

Killing cockroaches with Niffty barely put a dent in your appetites, but you did it anyway to fill your time, until you were able to casually fling a knife across a room and pin a roach to a wall. There was a certain satisfaction to the crunch that they made as they died, but no fear in their eyes, no chase, no hunt. You took one to Alastor’s room to dissect it, Alastor turning up to watch curiously as you did; the carapace of the insect came away in neat segments to reveal organs that looked no different to those of an earthly beetle, right down to the fine tubules that formed its guts. You even cut a sliver of the meat from its back and tasted it, but it was bitter, so you packed up the unfortunate creature, cleaned the tools you had used and took it out to the garbage.

Though you had shown no ability to magically control shadows, you found that the ventilation system in the hotel could be used to much the same effect as Alastor’s teleportation. If you were clever about it, you could vanish from one room and drop from the ceiling in another, and you amused yourself for a good day and a half practicing Alastor’s nonchalant walk and grin as you did this.

Finally your chores were done and your insects dead, leaving you with nothing to do until your antlers grew in. Small things started to irritate you, more than they should.

“Can you stop pacing?��� said Husk, as you stalked the length of the lobby for the twentieth time that day. “You’re giving me the creeps.”

You turned to Husk, frowning. He’d never been anything other than gruffly deferential to Alastor.

“You’re not him,” said Husk, tilting his head to one side. “So don’t expect me to treat you the same.”

“How do you know I’m not him?”

“You’re not smiling, for one,” said Husk. “And for the second, you’re wearing a novelty fez with definitely not Alastor embroidered on it.”

Turning to Husk, you removed the fez from your hair, leaving your head bare, and gave him a smile. “And Alastor definitely wouldn’t stop smiling, even if it benefited him in some way, hm?”

“Are you two fucking?”

You raised an eyebrow. “None of your business.”

“See, that’s how I know you’re not him.” Husk stacked the glass he had been cleaning onto the shelf. “He would be halfway through eviscerating me by now. You’re more in control than that.”

It was probably true- you had seen it. Alastor’s temper was easily frayed; even a mention of Vox set him on edge, his eyes glowing dials and his fingernails long. “Seems pretty risky to provoke someone like that,” you said.

“What can I say, I’m a gambling man.” Husk smiled to himself, leaning onto his side of the bar. “What good am I if I can’t trust a gut feeling once in a while?”

You took a seat at the bar, noting that Angel was absent from his usual spot. No sign of either Alastor or his shadow- perhaps he was dealing with something outside the hotel. “What do you know about him?”

“About Alastor?” Husk’s expression darkened, his eyes going to the shadowy corners you had scanned a moment before. “You’re the one sharing his bedroom.”

It was a cheap deflection. Possible that he was under a magical nondisclosure agreement regarding Alastor’s affairs. Equally possible that he was just being a good retainer. You pushed anyway “And you’ve worked for him a long time now. You must know something.”

Husk raised one long eyebrow. “You’re planning an escape?

“What?” The question caught you unguarded. Why would you want to surrender what you had now? Memory of how Alastor had felt curled against you came to mind, how soft his hair was between your fingers. “You must be kidding.”

Husk snorted. “You actually like that psychopath.”

“What can I say? He reminds me of me.”

“Yeah, you are a creepshow alright.”

“Someone less generous might assume you were still trying to provoke me.”

“I’m telling it like I see it,” said Husk, darkly “That’s all. And right now what I see is someone who looks like my psychopath employer’s creepy twin pacing around like a junkie on the prowl for their next fix.”

A junkie. If only it were that simple. The skin beneath your fingernails itched. You gave Husk a wry smile. “I’m just bored, stuck in here,” you lied.

“Then fuckin’ leave,” said Husk. “He won’t be back until nightfall.”

You looked for a long moment at the stained glass of the hotel doors, then shook your head. You were frustrated, yes, but you’d believed Alastor when he had talked about the vulnerabilities of your anatomy. It was the same as his own, after all. You just needed patience. “I shouldn’t,” you said. “I’ll just find something to occupy my hands for now,” you said, and you saw Husk look at you sharply, probably remembering Alastor’s comment, actually I think they’re more of a strangler.

Unwilling to alienate the hotel staff further, you returned to Alastor’s room, and looked for something to do, and your gaze settled on the gramophone on the table in the corner. You had talked about music in bed, idly, Alastor rattling off a list of recommendations, some timeless and some lost to history, but he’d never offered to play you anything. Since he was usually demonstrative, that probably meant the player was broken, and sure enough, when you inspected it, the turntable was stiff, unable to spin. It was an old model, entirely mechanical in nature, and obviously well-used, given the marks on the handles of the cover where the chrome plating had been rubbed from the brass.

You fetched tools and materials from one of the unoccupied rooms you’d found on your rounds, and set to work dismantling the piece, lining up the screws in order as you took them out. The felt on the turntable had seen better days, but that was only cosmetic. The real problems were likely to be the motor and spring fro the turntable, and given the age of the device, possibly perishing on the rubber components.

Methodically, you cleaned and polished each piece, applying new grease as needed. You let memory take over as you worked, an odd sort of peace overcoming you as your focus narrowed to the task at hand. The rubber diaphragms on the soundbox were in a bad state but not unusable; the major problem was, as you had suspected, the spring that powered the turntable itself. Stress had weakened a certain point on the spring, and repeated use had sheared the metal, leaving it hanging limp.

Taking some of the sheet metal you had taken from the mystery workshop room, you cut and turned a fresh spring for the turntable, testing its strength with your fingers. The task didn’t exactly remove the itch you felt, but it occupied you as the hours passed, the outside world fading into irrelevance.

“What, exactly,” said Alastor from behind you, his voice cold. “Do you think you are doing?”

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end; you hadn’t even registered Alastor entering the room. You’d overstepped. The gramophone had been precious to him, and you hadn’t realized. You raised your hands. “I was fixing it. The turntable-

“You weren’t-” Alastor’s eyes were dials. “-upgrading it, by any chance.”

“Of course not, I was restoring it,” you said, a little archness creeping into your own tone, and you felt your own body shift a little in response to your emotional state, antlers curling. “That is a Pathé Olotonal and once I replace the spring it’ll work fine. Why the fuck would I want to upgrade it?”

Alastor looked at the neatly disassembled parts on the table, and the tools you had put down, his antlers slowly retracting. “Oh? You were an antiquarian?”

“Close. I used to curate a museum.” This was as close as you’d come to talking about your mortal life since you’d come here, and you suspected that Hell was much like jail, in that people didn’t tend to talk about what they’d done before they died.

“I was a radio host,” offered Alastor, and it felt like he was putting the information forward as a gift. Not a secret, exactly, but something for you to know about him in exchange. “I’d like to watch,” he said, nodding to the table. “If that’s alright with you?”

“That’s fine. Do you have a record I can test it on?” you asked. “Nothing too precious, please.”

Alastor polished his claws on his jacket. “I suppose I have one or two I could part with.”

You finished the job as Alastor watched, smiling with satisfaction as you wound the mechanism and the turntable began to spin evenly. Alastor handed you a record, some contemporary jazz, and you placed it down, lowering the needle carefully so as to not damage it.

And you listened to the music. Both of you listened, Alastor looking down so fondly at the little turntable that you almost offered to give him a moment alone with it.

There was an edge to the sound that you hadn’t expected, an almost tinny sound. Electronic. You frowned, lowering your head to the horn, but the sound wasn’t coming from the gramophone. It was feedback. Alastor seemed troubled too, his ear twitching. Not just one source, but many, all broadcasting the music on the turntable.

You looked at him, not voicing your concerns, but your eyes questioning. Given that his room lacked even an electrical socket, you doubted he had anything to do with an array of microphones. The light in the room turned to a dim, angry red at Alastor’s silent bidding, and you caught the gleam of lenses embedded in the room around you.

“I think,” said Alastor, his smile strained. “There may be something wrong with this record. I have more in my tower, if you would care to accompany me.”

You nodded, trying not to sound stilted now that you knew you were being recorded. “Of course.”

No sooner had you agreed than Alastor swallowed you up in his shadow, spitting you out into the floor of the control room of his radio tower, absent any pretense of calm.

“You did this. You’re working for him.” Alastor’s voice was thick with distortion. “Fucking Vox.” He spat the name, like it was a bad taste in his mouth.

Your ears flattened against your skull as you picked yourself up. “I’m not working for Vox. Fuck that guy.”

“Oh, you seem to have that covered,” said Alastor, his smile cruel and his eyes glowing. “Judging by what I saw of you.”

Fury rose to the surface. You’d tried not to let it show how the photos had bothered you, but Alastor had seen, and now he was twisting the knife. You didn’t trust yourself with words- that would just make it worse, but a hiss of static escaped from between your bared teeth.

“I let you in my bed, and you betrayed me,” Alastor continued, rounding on you. There was an edge to his voice, a crack there. You wanted to touch his shoulder and comfort him, but the part of your brain that was still halfway rational told you that would only make him think worse of you.

You needed to think. You needed to stop him, before he made up his mind to kick you to the curb. Whoever had planted the cameras had betrayed both of you, and if you could convince him you were on his side, you could work together. Mentally, you reviewed the terms of your contract. No physical or metaphysical harm to those within the hotel. That meant you couldn’t hurt Alastor, not that you stood much of a chance against him with his shadow powers. But the way he had spoken hinted that his own obligations imposed similar limitations upon him.

You stared into Alastor’s dials as he approached, steeling yourself as you felt your own antlers unfurling, the buzz of your own static in your throat. All you needed was for Alastor to be surprised for a moment, to be rational, and listen. Keeping eye contact, you stepped within Alastor’s reach, and with a quick jerk of your head, locked your antlers with his.

Pain. That was the first thing you felt, dizzying hot and sharp, like a knife slicing the skin. A rivulet of blood ran down the left side of your face, your eyes inches from Alastor’s. You could feel him through your antlers and through his, his body freezing in place, the vibration of his heart, his rage and his hurt. He grunted at the contact, eyes horrid and wide.

“Alastor, please help me,” you said, dead-eyed, invoking your own contract with him as another stream of blood crept down over your forehead. “I’m being attacked.”

Alastor snarled through his grin, an awful, distorted noise that made the bleeding tines of your antlers ache in time with it, but he did not move his head. Could not, you suspected as the terms of your deal required him to aid you. But now he was captive. Now he might listen to reason.

You breathed out, blinking away blood that flowed into your eye, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I’m flattered that you think I’m capable of bugging our bedroom like that, but I’m really not. You stripped me naked when you brought me here, you’ve been watching me this whole time, and I’ve not left the fucking building.”

Alastor breathed out through his open mouth, teeth wicked sharp, but his eyes no longer maddened. “You’re an idiot.”

“Precisely.” You smiled, blood dripping down over your nose and lips. “Now, what are we going to do about Vox?”

“Oi, are you even payin’ attention?” Velvette snapped her fingers in front of Vox’s face.

Vox sighed. The truth was, he hadn’t been. The truth was, he had been cycling through the feeds of the drones he’d posted around the hotel, looking for Alastor.

“I’m sure whatever you said is the correct thing,” he said, waving her back. Fake Alastor had just fixed Alastor’s record player, and there was bound to be a sexy thank-you for that, right? But they were gone, vanished in a blob of shadow.

“You’re a massive knobhead, you know that?” said Velvette.

“I haven’t had knobs since the early nineties,” replied Vox, deadpan. “What do you want?”

“What I want is for you to quit fucking around on whatever your fucking secret santa wank workshop is and actually fucking contribute to our fucking strategy meeting,” said Velvette.

“I don’t see that there’s much to say. Cannibal town is weak, move the fuck in already.”

“See?” Valentino gesticulated. “That’s what I’ve been fucking saying, for the past fucking hour. He agrees with me.”

“Yeah, right.” Velvette put one hand on her hip. “He just said he agrees with me.”

“Ay, he wasn’t paying a-fucking-ttention,” said Valentino. “You just pointed that out.”

“Ladies. Please.” Vox spread his claws. “I’m sure you can both be right.”

It was always like this, with the three of them. Val was capable of picking a fight with furniture if he was left in a room with it for long enough, and while Velvette wasn’t that bad, she had approximately zero patience for what she termed, not inaccurately, Valentino’s bullshit. They needed Vox to mediate, always. Reluctantly, Vox tore himself from reviewing drone footage and put his talents to work making Valentino and Velvette feel valued, so they didn’t tear each other apart.

By the time he was done and had returned to his control room, all of the feeds to Alastor’s room were dead. The fuck? Vox hissed in frustration, checking the recorded files, and scanning the video back and forth to find the point at which the feed cut.

Alastor carrying you back into the bedroom, both of you covered in blood. Alastor, throwing you down onto the bed. Alastor, crawling over you, tentacles extending from his back. Then, nothing. Vox wound to the point just before the feed cut, playing at normal speed and turning on the audio.

“Hello, old chum.” Alastor turned his neck uncannily and looked directly at the hidden camera, smiling. “I find that these things are really best enjoyed in person. So, if you want to come along-” he treated the camera to a salacious wink. “-you know exactly where to find me.”

The feed cut in a burst of eldritch static, and Vox stared at the blank screen for a good thirty seconds, rock hard in his pants.

[cicerfics]

Q's 10 Favorite Jumpers, Rated and Reviewed By 007

With Rebuttals (and Revised Rebuttals) from the Quartermaster Himself

Gifted to @foxsoulcourt over on Station Pacific, just for being awesome!

Fits Q like a glove and the shade sets off Q's lovely winter complexion. 9/10.

Didn't this ridiculous business of seasonal color analysis go out when I was still in primary school? You're dating yourself, 007.

Well, somebody has to, since you wouldn't let me take you out for a drink last night.

...

Color less garish than usual, but fuzzy texture makes Q look like he's growing mold. Off-putting. At least, as off-putting as is possible for a man of Q's caliber. 6/10.

It's mohair, you heathen, not mold!

And stop talking about my 'caliber' if you

...

The color washes out your complexion. You ought to stick to darker shades, dear. Still, this one fits you snugly and the knit is thin enough that I can see your nipples when it's chilly in the server room. 8/10, it'd look even better on my bedroom floor.

You are no longer allowed in the server room when I'm in there, effective immediately, lest I file a complaint with Human Resources. Stop looking at my nipples. (And there's a phrase I never thought I'd have to use when addressing a colleague at Her Majesty's Secret Service.)

I live to defy expectations.

Color does marvelous things for Q's eyes but the squiggles give me vertigo. 5/10.

Get your eyes checked, old man, and stop blaming my jumpers for your vision difficulties!

Ranking has dropped to 4/10 due to Q's insolence. Be nicer to me, or I'll be the one to file a complaint with HR. Age discrimination is against regulations, my dear.

Stop calling me that

I don't really think you're that old

You do need reading glasses though

I never thought I'd see the day 007 cites regulations to me.

Why are there so many bars and blocks? Why isn't the jumper one harmonious shade of gray? Atrocious. 3/10.

It's comfortable

It reminds me of that time you

Don't lie, I've caught you looking at me when I was wearing th

It's considered artistic, 007, but of course you wouldn't know anything about that.

Grand old warship, Q. Nothing more.

Don't be ridiculous, of course you're more than

...

Reminds me of my grandfather. Deeply disturbing that I still want to shag Q even when he dresses like my grandfather. 2/10, will be reporting the quartermaster to Dr. Wilson for damaging my psyche.

You will do no such thing. That poor woman has enough to bear as it is. Overseeing your routine psych screenings is enough to warrant hazard pay.

I've caught you looking at me in this one too

You don't own this one, but you should. Let me buy it for you, darling. 10/10, would tug you into a broom cupboard during your lunch hour and undo the buttons with my teeth.

What is your obsession with Tom Ford

I don't see why

You say things like this but then you never follow throu

Why did you cancel our dinner the other nigh

I am not the sort of gentleman who permits himself to be despoiled in broom cupboards, thank you very much.

Puts me in mind of those odd little sailor suits posh people used to make their children wear. I think someone put me in one, once, ages ago. 1/10, you already look young enough to make me feel like a filthy old man, no need to make it worse.

I wouldn't mind if you were a bit 'filthier', actua

Well, if the shoe fits.

And you scold me about wasting money with damaged equipment and bloodied suits. Look at the price tag on this. Outrageous. 10/10, worth every penny, you're delectable in this one.

I only bought it to treat myself after

It was my birthday and i

You said you were taking me out for dinner for the occasion but then you

…Thank you.

I'd ask what I've done to deserve this torture, but I suppose I already know the answer to that. 0/10, I will have burned this one by the time you've read this list, and I apologize for nothing.

You know exactly what you've done, yes.

Three million pounds of my department funding for heaven's sake

Not to mention the fact that you canceled our dinner after I

And I hardly bought this to torture you. I don't buy my clothes with you in mind, 007. Don't be so arrogant.

And if that isn't an empty threat and you've actually broken into my flat and destroyed my personal property, I'll have your head.

My. How forward of you, Q. Well, I'll have to insist you take me out to dinner first. Then you can have whatever bits of me you like.

Don't be vulgar, you menace.

Not unless you're going to follow through on

You're the one who backed out of the dinn

Did you really burn it?

It was a threat to national security. Could sear a man's eyes right out of his skull. It had to go.

The cats agreed with me. They didn't put up any protest when I pilfered from your wardrobe.

For heaven's sake.

Then they're getting their least favorite flavor of tinned food for supper. And you're not getting dinner from me at all.

Now, I hope I'm not being punished for cancelling on you last week.

Of course I'm not

I don't see why you

You

...

You're being punished for wasting your day reviewing my jumpers rather than completing your overdue AARs. Please allow me to direct your attention to the rather large pile of paperwork with your name on it.

Sod the paperwork.

Q. I'm sorry I cancelled. You have no idea how sorry. But something came up.

I'm sure it did.

Something to do with the job.

...

Some internal business. Something had to be taken care of.

Somebody had to be taken care of.

...

Mallory told me not to discuss it with any of the department heads just yet. I handled it, but the job won't be declassified until tomorrow. Expect Tanner to call you and the others in for a meeting in the morning.

...Oh.

Well.

You should've told me sooner.

Q, I'm shocked! You're saying I should've gone against Mallory's direct orders and disclosed classified material to you against his will?

Of course that what I'm saying, you filthy hypocrite. You could've told me. I would've been discreet.

I know you would've been. That's not the point.

...

...Bond?

I'm trying to keep you out of trouble these days.

Trying not to be the man who ruins your career.

You've never

If that's how you feel then why

Even if you did, I'd

Rather unflattering that you assume I can't take care of myself.

I can, I'll have you know. And I never asked you to protect me. I can protect myself...and I can protect you in the bargain, thank you very much. I'm rather good at it, in fact.

Well, I can't argue with you there.

...

...?

Suppose we don't wait for tomorrow's meeting.

Suppose I take you out to dinner and tell you all about the whole sordid business tonight.

...You're planning on disclosing confidential intel in the middle of an Italian restaurant?!

Suppose we skip the restaurant.

Suppose I bring a couple of curries round to your flat and we talk about it there.

The flat you recently burglarized.

Let's not dwell on the past, dear.

Besides, I think the cats are warming up to me.

And I've got an overdue birthday present for you.

...Dare I ask what it is?

A replacement for the jumper I burned. A whole new ensemble, in fact.

Something much better than anything in your wardrobe. Much worthier of you. Something to show off those good looks of yours.

Will you let me give it to you this evening?

...Ah.

Well, I was going to ask what I should wear when you come over, since you have such strong opinions on the matter.

But if you're bringing a new outfit along, perhaps I shouldn't bother to put anything on at all?

Darling, I always said you were a genius.

19:00 tonight, your place. I'd say 'dress to impress', but I think your idea is best.

There's no improving on perfection, after all.

Do you really

I want you to

For God's sake, if you don't make good on your promises this time, I'll

19:00, then. I trust you know the address

Please try to be on time, 007.

For you, Q?

I'll be early.

[interstellar-productions]

So this is probably unimportant to anyone who reads this but i feel like i need to explain my though process here, I’m a psych major specializing in abnormal psych with interest in creative writing and art. Very much an art, science and history girlie. Im saying this so there’s some context to the way I visualize certain things.

I want to elaborate on my view of the foxes in a less scientific and more artistic view, metaphors and imagery.

I see Aaron very much as someone who internalizes his hurts. My brain conjures up the example that as he was growing up he was the type that every time a piece of him cracked off he picked it up, at first perhaps to use as a weapon. Taking the jagged edge and using it to lash out but that only got him bad things growing up with Tilda. (Who I imagine as the embodiment of catholic guilt, she knows what she’s doing is wrong but she’s so consumed by her hatred and bad choices the only way she can internalize it is through violence. Specifically directed at Aaron.) So as he got a little older he took those edges and hurt himself with them.

Aaron would have known from living with Tilda that physical marks raise questions that cause trouble, so it wouldn’t have been the same form of self harm that Andrew and some of the others used. But he i image he would have taken those edges and used them to hurt himself mentally, self hatred and self harm that doesn’t leave lasting marks.

Then Andrew and Nicky and Luther start getting in the picture. Tilda was always to strung out to notice and the men she brought around didn’t care. So Aaron learn to carefully shave the edges of his jagged pieces down, purposefully cutting up the parts of himself that remain and taking tape to stick it all back together. Trying to form some semblance of a human being that wont make people ask questions. The pieces don’t fit right though, some pieces are still jagged, some pieces are too smooth, some he cut down too much to be able to put them back right.

By the time AFTG is taking place Aaron has probably caused himself so much damage by trying to self internalize he issues that he more so resembles a stained glass piece before its soldered together. Just pieces that loosely sort of fit together that might be something one day but could also just as easily smash into a million pieces. 

Aaron lives his life being one step from the edge. A minor inconvenience could send him spiraling, a change in his routine throwing his entire day off. But he barely registers major incidents. Because for Aaron ignoring the big things is how he survives and yet the things that keeps him alive is focusing on the small details. The little things here or there that convince both him and everyone else that he’s perfectly normal. Sort of like how you can take a piece of glass and drop it from a pretty significant height and it’ll be fine so long as it lands in a way that distributes the impact. Where as if you drop a piece of glass from a small height but it lands on the wrong corner it shaders.

Aaron knows that if he can’t be normal, if he can’t convince himself or others that he is, he’ll fall apart. And if his pieces fall apart there will be no glueing them back together. There will be no getting back up. That’s part of the reason why the foxes put him on edge so much. He’s a unsoldered stained glass piece and the foxes are a swinging hammer. If they collide the foxes will survive but Aaron wont.

[icaruspendragon]

Please stop making spn posts just let it die please

here’s the thing- i will not be doing that.

you see, there’s so much shit in this world. the horrors. the terrors. all of it. they’re out there. and something that makes the horrors and the terrors and all the other shit a little easier for me to deal with is talking about a silly little fifteen year long collective fever dream. it’s one of the last vestiges of adolescence i have.

when i was being tossed about in the sea of my grief, it was spn that kept me from drowning. it was misha collins dubbing himself my nemesis and participating in the mishapocalypse 2.0 that gave me a distraction i needed so terribly in the early days of me trying to learn how to be an only child. he didn’t have to. he could have ignored the whole thing. but he didn’t. and that’s something so special to me i don’t think i’ll ever have the words to articulate the depths of my gratitude. because the first time i felt joy after my brother dying was at a supernatural convention. it was when i asked misha about the silly comment and he had a screenshot of it on his phone ready to show me to prove he had done it, that was the first time i realized that one day i wouldn’t feel so full of nothing i didn’t have room for anything else. it was the community i made there that showed up for me time and time and time again that made me realize i may be lonely, but i wasn’t alone. and that wasn’t the first time the community around that show had made me feel that. and I’m certain it won’t be the last.

the first time i ever encountered fandom in full force was in 2013. that’s a decade of my life. and it’s because i decided to watch supernatural. and it was in this fandom space that for the first time ever, i felt seen and heard and valued. for the first time in my life, i felt like i mattered. and my thoughts mattered. it wasn’t until i found fandom by way of spn that i realized i had value and worth. it was that show that gave me some of the best friends i could have ever asked for. it is because of the spn fandom that i have been given so many opportunities. that i have a way to make an actual difference.

and it has continued to do that for me. even ten years later. there are people who i didn’t know existed less than a year ago who i couldn’t imagine my life without now. people who have been to my home. people who have become my home. people i have flown across the country to see and people who have flown across the country to see me. people who are my family. and i met them because we share the same level of brain rot for a cw show that caused a great deal of damage to our psyches.

we get to curate our internet experience. we get to look at and talk about and post about what we want. and if someone posts something we don’t care for, we don’t have to look at it or engage with it or interact with it. we can scroll. we can block. we can ignore. we each get to carve out our own little space online. we get to build a little home. and my home is full of my love for a lot of things. for avatar: the last airbender and the hunger games and percy jackson and fandom and fanfic in general. my love for poetry and art and words. and yes, my love for a show that ended over two years ago that has haunted corners of the internet since 2005. i have a lot of love for a lot of things. so i talk about and post about the things that i love because i don’t ever want to look back and say, “my god, i should have loved more.” and i’m allowed to do that. because this is my space. i built it just for me.

this silly little show with it’s silly little characters is the one thing i have from Before that has remained unchanged. and even if that weren’t the case. even if i didn’t have all this sentimentality attached to it. even if it was never a lighthouse, a buoy for me. even if it was just something i casually enjoyed. i would still post about it. because it makes me happy. because i’m not hurting anyone by enjoying it. because it’s given me a little blip of light in a dark world. and you don’t have to consume it if you don’t want to. that’s the beauty of all of us living in different houses. we can visit who we want, when we want. and we don’t have to visit the houses we don’t to. how wonderful it is, that we are the gods of this small thing. we get to create and dismantle and create again. as many times as we want. because this is our space to do with what we want.

and i want to post about my love for all things, including hit cw show supernatural. and i can. so i will. because i’m the one living in this house. and no one is making you come visit.

[breached-containment-script]

So the scarring discourse is still going.

No, characters keeping scars does not automatically equate to that being torture porn. In this context, fans clearly intend it in a way that says "even if you end up with physical marks, it doesn't diminish you". Or is Aang getting scarred torture porn too? Or do you think things like Mortal Engines movie shrinking the female lead's facial damage to a minimum "spared her of physical trauma"? No, it was afraid of depicting something deemed "ugly" and it's a huge disservice to real people who look like she was described in the book.

The topic was not handled super well in ATLA. Katara's wounds got healed leaving no trace on her, on her psyche nor on how she views Aang which is not just unrealistic, but you can literally feel in the show Katara having to go "no Aang it's ok, I'm fine, you don't have to beat yourself up over it, I'm healed, let it go Aang, it's not your fault," it is too much. It would have been much stronger had the burns left some mark, even a tiny one, because then Aang's reluctance to practice firebending would have made more sense and all characters would have gotten a more solid demonstration that the Avatar can be dangerous too. It would have been a wakeup call to Katara that Aang isn't a completely harmless kid she can always shield and protect. That's character development! This would have been a more powerful moment in the progression of their relationship, especially after they sort it out and Aang learns safe firebending later on, because they'd have a more real problem to overcome rather than just Aang's guilt.

Again, show didn't frame things too cleverly - there's no heightened moment of perhaps Katara being extremely happy that she discovered a part of her lost Southern waterbending heritage (just remember her behaviour with Hama, there's none of that here). The show just removes her wounds, she's confused about the ability, and this leads to Jeong Jeong making a point about how fire is wild and destructive. The whole segment ends with removing the source of the problem (wounds) and is about how evil fire is. Aang ends up being traumatized anyway, he isn't less traumatized because Katara's wounds didn't scar.

The point is - Katara gets nothing character-building out of this event, even though it made her cry and cradle her arms for several minutes on screen. Because of this her burns could be considered torture-porn (slightly). Her discovering healing abilities is not a reward she got exclusively because she suffered the burns, she could have discovered it by accidentally hurting herself, or healing someone else. Imagine if Aang hurt himself by being reckless and Katara discovering she could heal him? What she should have gotten out of specifically being burned by Aang, is a changed view of him. I don't mean her viewing him negatively, but taking a step back and both learning they should be more careful. Who said zutara stans want Katara getting scarred by Aang in order to make Aang a villain in this? He literally cannot be a villain here, he made a big mistake by being careless. It's got nothing to do with zutara. It's not helpful to misinterpret some storytelling tools that have nothing to do with shipping, just to prevent them from creating some later story hooks which could potentially be used in shipping a NOTP. Heck, Katara getting scarred could even be used (with skilled writing) in shipping her with Aang - like zutara fans use Katara being angry at Zuko and expecting him to demonstrate that he wouldn't betray or hurt them again.

And if you have a distaste for two happy friendly characters hurting each other on accident, that's fine, but well I have a scar on my arm from my brother's scratch that happened on accident. These things happen and stories shouldn't be scared of portraying it, especially if later on they show how to make ammends and overcome the problem. I'm not saying "Katara should definitely have kept her scars!!!" I am showing narrative weak points and suggestions how things could have been done differently, what benefits it could have had character-wise and what that might have changed.

[misty-caligula]

This is my big one for s2e6 and it’s the thing that made me bolt upright in my chair, really just ... kicked me in the chest. For context my point of view on the show is a non-supernatural one, I do not think Lottie is psychic I think she’s delusional. It’s okay if you do not, but that’s the context for my take:

I have a strong suspicion that adult!Lottie’s being played, and I really do not like it.

Full disclosure, I have a history in the psychiatric world as a patient, I’m not schizophrenic but I am psychotic and I am well managed and very stable but like... I know what this shit is meant to be like, from about 15 years of personal experience. So back in s2e4 I was immediately .... confused. By Lott’s new psych. She seemed... just off.

I thought to myself “Hey, you know, psychiatry is one of those things that is so often misrepresented in all forms of media, I’m probably just reading too much into it.” But then I rewatched (and rewatched) and the more I did the more it felt... deliberate. What got to me was that ... her normal psych has gone on sabattical and been replaced, and the new one is trying to tell her not to suppress her visions with medication but try to understand them and what they’re trying to tell her.

A real psychiatrist simply would never talk like that. Would never suggest that. As far as psychiatry is concerned, Lottie is schizophrenic, her visions are delusional. And delusions/hallucinations are less ... they’re less like dreams where you might think “Oh I’m going to keep track of what I’m dreaming about and see if it means anything” (which, incidentally, is also not a thing a psychiatrist would usually do, but that’s besides the point) but are more like... a damaged computer, throwing up random, unsorted and unrelated data. Our brains are pattern finders, we desperately try to make connections in what we experience, and when our brains start misfiring and giving us bizarre and nonsensical data we still try to connect it. Delusional thinking doesn’t ... say anything about you, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just the brain trying to sort nonsense into piles of organised nonsense.

From a psychiatric perspective a delusion or hallucination is a symptom no different to a ... headache or a rash. It’s a non-desirable issue to be treated and ideally cured, not ... explored and looked at for some kind of deeper meaning. And this isn’t even talking about like, trauma, and processing it through therapy. Lottie’s psychosis manifested long before the plane, she’s been on medication most of her life. It’s not something she can just... ignore, or choose to fight, or try not to have. More than that, by actively engaging with it it damages her coping mechanisms that she’s developed over the years to ground her in reality when she’s not certain.

Anyway. This all just seemed.... off. Wrong. And Lottie’s reaction is to say “There’s no meaning, because they’re not REAL.” Because she’s spent a LOT of time in treatment, trying to build a solid foundation of reality to live on. She’s clearly very distressed by the idea of losing touch with that, and her psych is NOT helping. It all seemed very... off.

I thought through options of what was going on. Maybe... maybe her new psych isn’t real? Maybe she’s talking to the wall? That was my best theory with so little to go on. But it was not a very satisfying answer, and didn’t really fit the general themes and style of the show anyway... I was confused.

Fast forward to ep 6 and we get more time with the new psych. Lott is now CLEARLY agitated. She can’t sit still, seems very anxious. She starts talking about “the visions” and “this feeling even about things that I know are right infront of me, it’s like it’s pointing me towards back then.” Her psych says “Is it possible that your fear of the past might be actually your fear of your illness?” Only THAT IS NOT WHAT LOTT SAID. She didn’t SAY she was afraid of the past, she was afraid of “a feeling about things I know are right infront of me, pointing me back towards then.” What does she mean by that? Finding random queens in a pile of papers? Visions of dead bees? The reality is that she’s not afraid of the past, she’s losing touch with reality. In psychiatric wording, she’s struggling to hold onto “insight” i.e. the ability to determine what’s real or not.

Lott kind of misses this disconnected thought though, and instead she says “That’s not the problem, I’m not worried that I’m ill, I’m worried I never was.” This shows a complete LACK of insight, she’s forgotten that only very recently she was terrified of her illness and now she’s suddenly thinking that maybe 30+ years of treatment were all for nothing? Maybe she was just never sick at all?

Then she goes off on a tangent, she says “With Travis coming, Natalie and now Misty’s here too. It’s like it sent them here, to show me.” “To show you what?” “That it WAS real. And that I wasn’t the only one who felt it out there, that it was all of us, that it was a part of us.” “What is...it...Lottie?” And she goes off about the god of the wilderness and the terrible things they did.

But... okay so Lott’s losing her objectivity here, which is ... not uncommon for a psychotic person to deal with. And she’s developing a belief that she was never sick, that she was never delusional, that it was always real. Now only 2 episodes beforehand she’d come to the psych on an emergency basis to increase her meds PRECISELY because she was afraid this would happen. She’s TERRIFIED of getting to this exact point, being this exact way. Because it leaves her absolutely out of control of herself, her own mind.

But listen to what the psychiatrist is saying. First she says to her face that Lott’s psychosis is “controlled.” But... no it’s not! She’s having hallucinations, she’s CLEARLY delusional, and showing all kinds of signs of psychosis. She’s definitionally out of control.

Then she asks probing questions not about her mental state, but about the details of her delusions, about the god of the forest. She STILL hasn’t increased her meds and she’s acting like it’s not at all weird that she’s saying stuff like “I think I’m not sick and never was.” Which, to a psychotic person or a psychiatrist is SUCH a red flag, because the next immediate question to raise if a schizophrenic or bipolar or otherwise psychotic person says those words is “...are you taking your medication?” Because believing that you’re not delusional is one of the core hallmarks OF BEING DELUSIONAL.

Literally the definition of a delusion is a belief without evidence that you hold against all odds even in the face of contradictory evidence. If you are sitting there saying EXTRAORDINARY things and requiring zero external evidence to back up your claims and ABSOLUTELY certain in those beliefs no matter what... that’s delusional. Of COURSE you think you’re sane, if you lack insight you simply cannot tell what you’re thinking isn’t rational.

It’s like you are so certain that gravity exists, you can feel it, you can see its’ effects, and you comfortably put your life on the line for gravity a hundred times a day. If someone told you gravity wasn’t real you’d think they sounded mad, and if they told you YOU were the one out of touch, and that actually gravity wasn’t real, you could just look around and go “Uh... obviously you’re wrong.” But if you’re getting bad info into your brain you could be relying on something with JUST AS MUCH certainty and have absolutely no idea or capacity to tell that it’s actually completely wrong, no matter how many times you were told or shown. Medicated psychotic people regain their insight and can say “Sometimes I think things that don’t make sense, and I can tell that they’re not real, and I’m glad I don’t make choices based on that false information.” Unmanaged psychotic people say “I don’t know why I should take some pill, I’m fine, nothing’s wrong at all.”

I just canNOT fathom how any psychiatrist in the world would sit with a known schizophrenic patient who’s describing having active visions, who believes that a god they found in the middle of the forest is sending people to them so they can all be magically healed by them, and not IMMEDIATELY say to themselves “Hmm, this person is clearly having a psychotic event, is clearly in a tough spot, and needs their meds adjusted and maybe we should look into their wellbeing in the short term.”

All of which led me to suddenly jump up in my chair and shout “OH MY GOD” at my poor friend who was watching with me. Because I think that Lottie is being manipulated. I think that someone’s been fucking with her meds. I think that someone got rid of her real psychiatrist and replaced him with a plant. I think the new psych is either trying to encourage her to become a more invested cult leader, possibly the cult is becoming like... more intense without her knowledge and they’re trying to turn her into a saint by removing her meds and encouraging her delusions. OR someone is trying to work out what REALLY happened in the woods and they’re manipulating her so that she’ll tell them the full story while she’s vulnerable and confused.

Either way, I’m 99.9% sure someone’s deliberately fucking with her at this point, and it’s actually really pissing me off because I can’t stand seeing vulnerable people, esp mentally ill people, being manipulated and used. It’s a HUGE thing for me, and ... aaaaaah whoever’s behind this shit I hope they meet Shauna on a very bad day.

[blindmagdalena]

Apologize if you’ve fielded an ask or twenty about this before, but how do you think HL would take it if Vought hired a masseuse to come in to work on him once in a while. Is he touch-starved or touch-averse? or both lol? Is he averse to having to take his top off? Since his muscles probably don’t actually get sore from anything does he pretend they do to get certain types of contact? - 🥰

i do think he's both touch-starved and touch-averse! every so often the idea comes up that there isn't any good reason Homelander isn't regularly drowning in physical affection/sex given how rabid of a fanbase he has, and i think that comes down to several factors:

his brand! it doesn't fit his brand to be sleeping around, especially with fans. i'm willing to bet this was strongly discouraged by Madelyn, along with any other "deviant" behaviors.

his deadly combo of superiority/inferiority complex. from the first episode, Homelander doesn't care about human life. even though he craves the general concept of love and approval on a mass scale, individual lives simply don't matter to him. they're beneath him, and he has a pretty high level of disgust towards people. he doesn't like touching them without his gloves.

i headcanon Homelander to be demisexual. i really don't think he experiences the desire to be touched by specific people unless the person in question has elevated themselves in some way in his mind, or he's formed SOME level of an emotional connection/dependency, even if it's completely one sided/imaginary.

absolutely his body issues are a factor. barely seems to like getting naked with partners, let alone strangers.

when i wrote Eat Your Ego, it didn't matter that he sought her out as an escort. he still entered that encounter hostile until he could find something in his twisted psyche to elevate a human enough to deem them worthy of touching him. the sequence of events in my mind was more or less: step 1, initial physical attraction. step 2, projection. step 3, antagonize/determine worth. step 4, form an abrupt and unhealthy attachment based solely on delusion and wish fulfilment. step 5, profit??? live happily ever after?? still figuring that part out.

i feel like the same would apply to this situation. he definitely WANTS tactile comfort. he likes the idea of someone touching him with the sole intent of bringing him pleasure/helping him relax, even in a non-sexual context. but if he was put in some situation where he was directly told to have a massage for some reason and he did comply, he would be a huge asshole about it until he settled into it. like a cat who wants to be pet but keeps swatting and hissing every time you try because he's so damaged.

once he was settled though? that's HIS masseuse now. daily sessions. he's their only client.

[iceyrukia]

anti-makeup long rambling under the cut

Whenever even some rfs or GCs try to downplay the bad effects that wearing makeup has on women's psyche and just say it's bad because women are forced to wear it but otherwise it wouldn't be harmful (and they cite like human history of humans decorating each other) I can't help but disagree because I think there is something distinctly damaging about painting over your facial features.

Your face is something that gives of strong indicators of human emotion, people look at your face so the slightest clue in how to read you, it gives people first impressions of you as a person and to always have a "beautified" version on display, whether for art or sex appeal inevitably makes the "neutral" bare-face seem like an inferior downgrade. Your "bare" face suddenly becomes undecorated or a blank canvas when it shouldn't be. The term "bareface" even existing without question from many women proves it, even if some women do in fact walk around makeup-less and it's not actually that uncommon.

Not to mention makeup is used to express something and it's not always a good thing because humans use items and beauty standards as class signifiers - and painting your face is one of them....Which is why I don't think that even if we (by whatever miracle) get to a point where woman are never pressured to wear it -whatever that tangibly means - it would still be damaging because it will ALWAYS be remembered in HISTORY and we will see these images of women as beauty standards to emulate as they are symbolic and are inherently tied to some form of beautification. The damage is already done and individual women are bound to like their "makeup face" better so I don't think there is any way it won't be damaging. Even a non-male influenced version would cause harm as even in this current patriarchy women are enablers (gotta be honest) and invent new forms of competition via appearances. Men have very little complexes about "barefaces" (it's not even a concept to them) because they is NOTHING to compare their "bare" faces to in the first place. Young boys do not have an absurd right of passages where they feel the need to become "men" (and bloom into these sexual beings via appearances) like young girls transitioning into women go through. The libfem "expressing my sexuality" via wearing hyper-sexualized clothing (and other aesthetic modifiers) mentality is a perfect example of how women pick up appearance as an expression of sexuality, something men aren't socialized to do or perform. So saying makeup is harmless is pretty shortsighted IMO as it will delve into something women are tacitly pressured via trends to participate in - the only thing that changes is male control of these social pressures.

I just think women are better off not messing with their faces to enhance features and shouldn't be common practice PERIOD.

[fagmolloy]

there's a line in this book "what [is] genuine liberation and what [is] just un-tempered psychic chaos?" and i'm thinking about armand alone. without a coven without a companion. constantly inviting in other figures to liberate him from subservient roles—roles that he imposes on himself, btw, because as a survivor 1. he still retains that to submit is to survive but 2. in choosing to submit he remains in control. the issue is he deludes himself into believing he can take the role off at any time. the issue is that he doesn't, and can't, because it is easier to remain motionless, frozen, and masking the trauma that's formed his psyche.

becoming a maker/choosing a fledgling signals a promising initiation of a new cycle in his mind, saving face from the end of a relationship that surely had met it's expiration (or more likely, saving the monotony of a relationship where two people had become more or less complacent with one another). my theory is daniel molloy is a 70 year man who is, in this iteration of himself, is uninterested in facade. completely turned off by the lie. unsurprised that armand would choose to bind them together, given his damage—but having no memory of a relationship or meaningful tie other than 6 days at divasidero and how many weeks in dubai, he has no reason to seek out a relationship armand, unless it's to write another book (so something transactional). to daniel: yeah, it'd be nice if armand stuck around to show him the ropes, but he's a manipulator, sooo. he's got louis du lac to call up. and eventually, lestat. he's not alone in the vampiric world. he's fine on his own.

all of this to say: i want to see the shattering of armand's psyche upon realizing that he fucked himself, actually. he doesn't have anywhere to go after this. yeah, he's free. but at what cost.

with no persona to build upon (unanticipated fracture of his relationship with louis caused by the one he'd hoped to become their third/child/fledgling), he could create a new persona. or he could regress. move backward. reckon with the fact that he has substantive dissociative fractures that affect his identity and relationships. you know how people are sometimes forced to reckon with the wounds of their inner child upon becoming a parent—well, show me the vicious helplessness of armand looking upon daniel, his fledgling, the love of his life, someone he'd hoped to become a constant in his life, and seeing zero ways he can form a meaningful connection without utter manipulation (that daniel easily dodges, sneers at, unpacks). show me armand being helpless to his own desires and the ways the bond re-activates a kind of psychic vampiric nervous system, lighting his entire body on fire, erupting the bodily shame and fear that is hundreds of years old, anxious to finally be heard and seen.

and daniel is still an asshole, i think, but i suspect he's forced to empathize through the bond. let him see and feel all that chaos and ruin of armand's psyche and decide: armand is self-destructing. armand is losing his fucking mind and cannot process the meaning of his own story. but i can.

[drdemonprince]

resource anon again here, i just read the ask where you talked about how you fantasise about a time you were abused in which you had an involuntary orgasm. i just wanted to say that it's... helpful to see someone talk about that aspect of sexual abuse in a chill way. the fact that i orgasmed, or experienced some degree of sexual pleasure during some of my assaults fucked me up for YEEEAAARRSSS. i used to be able to come so fast but now if someone else is pleasuring me i literally cannot orgasm sooner than like 1 hour and it takes unfathomable focus. and 99% of the time it's unsatisfying because it's not intuitive, shame-free, non-judgemental. i'm like fighting tooth and claw against painful intrusive memories and obsessive thoughts and it just leaves me exhausted in a bad way. i didn't even share with ANYONE that i experienced sexual pleasure during assault/s until my current psych and it was like a year after i started seeing her, i opened up about it once and that was it. it was so completely tied in with shame and disgust. anyway thanks again, this was my Confession. i hope i can fuck wild n free one day without the burden of these messy confusing thoughts and feelings

Hey anon, thanks for your message, and I am so sorry that you have been made to feel so much shame about an involuntary reaction that is not your fault, and happens to a whole lot more sexual assault survivors than gets widely talked about. It is just a thing that happens, and in fact may be a physically protective measure, because if a person's body is aroused during the experience of being assaulted, it is less likely they will experience physical damage to that area.

Our sexual responses are unusual and unexpected sometimes, and we don't always get to choose what we enjoy or how our bodies react. Your sexual assault isn't any less of a violation because you orgasmed from it. And it's not weird or gross that you did.

My experience with sexual responsiveness following the assault was something of the mirror image of yours, which I'll share because I think it's useful again in normalizing such things. The orgasm that I had while being assaulted was so sudden and intense that it cast a long shadow over all my sexual experiences afterward for while. I didn't get triggered during vanilla, consensual sex in the way people normally expect that to mean -- instead, I craved the intensity and overwhelm of the assault experience. It's not that uncommon for survivors to go numb and check out during sex, of course. But I would actively bring myself to orgasm during these moments by thinking about getting assaulted, and recalling things that were said and done to me moment-by-moment during the assault that brought me to orgasm. I would also masturbate replaying the assault for a very long time, and every now and then it's still something I'll reach for.

I don't feel any shame about this. The brain does unusual things, and draws all kinds of funny and upsetting connections at times. Perhaps this doesn't jar me so much because I have always had intrusive thoughts of violence and death but also of tenderness and childish happiness and random absurdity. I don't feel fully in control of my mind, and never have, so I can go along for the ride with what it has to offer me sometimes.

The person who assaulted me isn't able to hurt me anymore, and I feel relief and a sense of victory from the fact that I have extracted from this awful experience a ton of pleasure. At this point, almost 13 years later, I can say that jerking off to the idea of the assault has brought me so much pleasure collectively over the years that it overwhelms any pain the initial experience had. And I think that's pretty cool.

I hope that you can work through your understandable feelings of disgust and shame about your body's reaction to your assault on your own terms and in whatever way works for you. Some people cope with assault and its aftermath by age regressing, others by being celibate, others by finding a completely new sexual identity or role from what they previously enjoyed, some by becoming super vanilla, others by becoming kinky, some people just wait it out with time, and some people find a way to live with the trauma and darkness running alongside them in parallel to their life for as long as it will. There are no rules. Whatever works and feels natural to you.

I'm sure many a psychiatrist would consider me super duper fucked up for jerking off about my rape for over a decade afterward, but i'm having great orgasms and indulging my penchant for being controlled and used far more healthfully now in my relationships because I've embraced what feels like a true rush of aliveness for me, so like, fuck them and their profession as usual lol.

[albentelisa]

Hey! I've got an ask for you and I don't mind if it takes a while, because I know that you've probably got so many asks in your inbox, but I wanted to know how do you think Jim would (if he ever did) progress to become a villain and no one realises it until too late?

(I'm feeling a bit angsty this week)

Also, btw, I love your hcs- they're actually really cool and really well thought over, and some of them just really get my creative juices flowing. They always make me smile, especially when I've had a bad today so just... thank you 💙)

Hi! Thank you for your kind words ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

Actually, I have some 'bad end scenarios' with Jim ending as a villain (or sorta).

Grit-shaka. Let's say, Jim never managed to get to Bular in Young Atlas, so he never realizes the true importance of fear. Sure thing, Grit-shaka caused some complications, but those were more or less minor. Jim decides to use Grit-shaka in battles occasionally. Unfortunately for him, it seems like a great decision at first as he gets several victories (against goblins and several changelings). However, as Grit-shaka is a Gumm-Gumm object, it's actually harmful, not only taking away Jim's fears but slowly eroding his moral brakes, so eventually Jim reaches the point where anyone getting hurt doesn't even matter. That's where Toby and even Draal start to realize the extent of the damage done (Blinky is against Grit-shaka from the very start but no one is listening). However, it's already too late because Jim gets too addicted to Grit-shaka and cannot function without it at all. Grit-shaka also gives him some horrible ideas, culminating in him freeing Gunmar and letting him take over the Trollmarket (and get the power up after absorbing the Heartstone energy) so that Jim can fight Gunmar in his prime. It ends as bad as you can imagine.

Decimaar mind control. So, the trip to the Darklands leaves Jim with an unexpected 'baggage' - it turns out that Gunmar's attempt to mind control him wasn't a total failure. Neither it is a full success, yet Jim has short blackouts sometimes when he cannot remember his actions. It turns out that Gunmar has managed to instill his will upon Jim's soul, basically creating a separate personality who is loyal to Gunmar. Jim isn't aware of it for a long time (he chalks everything to stress and overexhaustion). Meanwhile, his other personality keeps spying for Gunmar and helping him in the incoming takeover of the Trollmarket. When Jim comes to Gunmar for the first time, Gunmar initially wants to make him his puppet, but seeing the second personality who is loyal to him, makes him amused, so he decides to nurture that one instead, strengthening it during each visit. Jim's friends realize that something is very wrong when Jim isn't able to remember some of his actions or conversations they had. However, everyone thinks that it can be an infiltration from a polymorph like Otto. So, the team designs a special code to be able to tell apart the real Jim from the fake. The problem is that Jim's second personality knows code as well, so it's pointless. Eventually, Gunmar takes over the Trollmarket and erases Jim's initial personality, keeping him by his side as his loyal champion.

Aspectus Stone and Hunter Jim. This one isn't much of the villain one, but still nasty for Jim. So, Jim manages to send all of his copies back, and at first, everything is back to normal. However, Jim isn't aware that the experience was damaging to his psyche and now his soul is imbalanced. He turns more mission-focused, gradually losing his other interests. It's pretty minor at first so his team easily chalks it to Jim feeling guilty because of Gunmar's escape. He starts to skip school, refuses fun activities, and is rarely at home at night. Blinky tries to talk to him about it, but Jim just waves him off. Toby starts to panic when Jim stops cooking, and Claire notices how cold Jim becomes towards her and basically everyone else. She encounters him and asks if he is Hunter Jim (as she is the only one who has met that one), but Jim tells her he is the only Jim. That's when everyone realizes that something is really off, but it's too late. Jim cuts ties with everyone and goes alone to fight Gunmar, only to be defeated and fall under his mind control.

Gravesand. So, in this scenario, Blinky doesn't stop Jim's training with gravesand in time, so it causes some permanent damage, leaving Jim with some troll traits and a feral mind. Moreover, Jim gets addicted to the gravesand, stealing it from Strickler (who has already realized his mistake and tries his best to keep it away from Jim). The gravesand makes Jim attack everyone as he gets highly aggressive. He doesn't even remember his role as the protector anymore, simply enjoying battles and carnage. He ends up killing several Gumm-gumms and good trolls and for him, it's no different. Gunmar finds him in this state and finds it amusing, so he decides to keep Jim as his feral pet and force him to fight his enemies.

Merlin taking 'his champion' thing too far. Another not-that-much villain scenario, but well... So in this one, Jim's friends and family never reach him at the rooftop, and Merlin is the one who finds him there. It is the moment of ultimate vulnerability for Jim, and instead of support, he gets the manipulator. Jim confesses that it's too much for him to realize what exactly he has lost (😢) and Merlin proposes the solution - which is basically wiping out all Jim's memories except ones concerning his mission. When everyone reaches Jim, it's already too late, and the irreversible damage is done. In his state Jim has no trouble defeating Gunmar, however, it turns out that he's highly vulnerable to Morgana's manipulations and she makes him change sides, convincing him that she is the one who tries to build the perfect world for trolls (and in Jim's mind, he is the champion of the trollkind, meaning that he has to protect them first). Morgana makes Jim her new champion and uses him to hunt her opponents.

Obsidian shard's corruption. This one is post-Wizards. It turns out that while Claire managed to turn Jim human, the evil influence residue remained. It's unnoticeable at first, with Jim simply being easily annoyed, which everyone explains as a consequence of his transformations and losing the amulet. However, Jim is haunted by his memories of Camelot times and the abuse trolls faced there. Those ignite some rage inside his soul and it takes a while until Jim can calm down (which gradually becomes more and more difficult). He also starts to feel some odd repulsion towards humans. Barbara and Toby suffer from it the most (Claire and Douxie are fine because they are wizards, and Jim doesn't treat them differently). It ends up with the Arcane Order contacting Jim and convincing him to join their side and build a better world for magical beings.

[not-terezi-pyrope]

I feel like I'm less engaged with broad scale social struggles these days, and it's because, well, I am. Don't get me wrong I still pay attention, have opinions, do what I can if small choices are available in the course of life. But there was a time where wanting to combat the world's evils was a major factor in my life planning, and now it's no longer that.

The fact is that it's just too much to grapple with, and I've realised at this point that I'm a small fry compared to the fires raging outside my bubble. I don't think that any impact I personally could have feels worth the damage it'd do to my mental health and psyche to throw myself into activism. Yes, I know that the efforts of many small fries make a movement, but I have to think from my perspective as one person who does value herself, weighing that heavily in comparison to the fraction I am of any group whole. My priorities these days are in securing a good life for myself and those I care about, as best as I can, within the domains I can more directly influence. Try to find happiness, income and a home for me and my boyfriend, sustain fulfilling connections and seek sources of joy.

Does this make me a worse person? A callous onlooker not doing enough to push back? Some people would say so. It certainly is a position that indicates privilege. But as I say, my actual potential impact as an individual is small enough that it doesn't cause me enough disquiet to change tack. Thinking small scale has helped me. It has made me feel less directly helpless.

And that's another reason I don't feel overly guilty - because I was forced into that position. Because the struggles of our current world - especially as a trans woman in the UK, and with shaky mental stability at the best of times - burned me once too many already. Confronted with almost apocalyptic inhumanity and lack of hope in the world at large, on so many fronts - I think I have a psyche that has to retreat from that to stay sane. To compartmentalise at least a little. To focus on my own life as things fall apart beyond my walls, and hope for better but not fight for it, because honestly I don't think my fight will really lead to things changing in any way that's tangible.

Maybe some people are the type who can fully take up that fight. I don't think I am. I'm just tired, and I think that it needs to be accepted that that's just the way some people are. Or if you hate me for it, that's fine. Hold that disdain, just please, if you respect my humanity, leave me be. I do feel guilty, some. Just not enough to overcome how tiring it felt to try to push back.

It may be a privilege, but honestly nobody should have to fight all their lives. It's not a fair default state.

I do my best, in a few small ways.

[halite-jones-reblog]

I realize that I been ranty for a long time about negative stuff that's happened to me in the past, and even though I feel like I've got every right to rant, I don't really want to live like the universe owes me. It's true that I've been through a lot, but not acknowledging the fact that I've been able to recover from a lot of things is cutting myself short.

I was damaged very deeply by someone I mistakenly placed a lot of trust in, and I am able to admit 20 years later that if I hadn't been so gullible or desperate for engagement, I might not have fallen for it, but what was offered to me (and then revoked) seemed worth the sacrifice and discomfort at the time.

There was very little notion within my own family about going to therapy or upkeep of mental health. We just all toughed everything out despite the generational trauma. When I was hospitalized on New Year's in 2005, it was the first time the thought occurred to my parents that I needed therapy. I was 22.

Therapy hasn't been a cure-all, and neither has meds, but 2005 was a turning point for me. I could have just given up and let myself get institutionalized, but the small stay in the psych ward where people were just guessing at what was wrong made me realize that if I gave my power to someone else, the consequences would be that I would never be truly advocated for, and I really didn't want that for myself, not after having survived FF7 House. I didn't want to give FF7 House Jen the satisfaction or confirmation that she broke me, or made me like her. I worked instead on getting back to basics - got my car back, got my job back, went back to school. All of these were modest things, based on the income levels and physical health I had access to. I worked at Wawa, my car was used, and the school was a community college. I had local friends I could rely on, and most of them supported me after I came back to my mom's hometown to start over.

20 years later, I'm married and have cats and a house that's okay. I have a cool job that's also okay. Most of my needs are met, and I'm able to work on creative projects on my own, despite losing myself to a few stumbling blocks during the pandemic. Sometimes I'll trip on something that turns out to have been a trauma trigger, and sometimes I'll spiral. I almost lost myself to a strain of The Discourse that came close to overwriting my interests in the name of trying to seem "acceptable" to other people, but I got better.

I have a better sense of my own worth these days, and this year, I've tried to focus less on things that make me upset and send me spiraling. It's always a work in progress.

I didn't want to post this on New Years just in case the trauma anniversary overpowered the notion of how far I've come. I get tripped up and lost in things that happened to me in the past a lot, because it's very easy for me to forget my own accomplishments when I'm stressed.

Anyway, it's nice to still be here, and nice to see everything that's come of my recovery. I want to focus less on what was lost and more on what I've gained post-recovery. FF7 House happened to me when I was 17-21, and in 2026, I'll have lived in this recovery era longer than I lived pre-disaster, and I think that counts for something.

[solivar]

Ghost Stories On Route 66

Chapter Six

“Hanzo.”

Zenyatta’s voice sounded as though it were coming from significantly further away than a distance of a few inches. The slender, elegant hand cupping his jaw felt more like the memory of touch than its actuality.

Hanzo. Now that was far, far closer -- echoing behind the eyes he didn’t remember closing, forcing them open again. Zenyatta’s eyes glowed a cool silver, like moonlight on dark water, held his own effortlessly, and again he spoke without sound. I know that it tempting right now to disassociate from your flesh, my friend, but you cannot. You must not. Your presence here may be all that protects your body from far worse than this. Please, do not let go.

Hanzo forced himself to take a breath, a shaky, painful breath, and then another, and by the third he croaked out, “I won’t -- I promise -- I -- “

“Good. Good. Breathe.” He did, and a few breaths later he could feel Genji’s death grip on his wrist again and a few after that he could hear Hana and Lucio urgently asking questions in low, tense voices. “Please, my friends. I will answer what I can in a moment. Genji, please pull his sleeve back down.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Genji juggle his phone enough to free a hand, and then he felt his arm being covered again. Somehow, that made the churning shock and horror tumbling around inside his head like a sack of rabid wolverines feel slightly less agitated and a tremor of relief ran through his body. Zenyatta saw, and risked a glance away of his own. “Lucio, do you still have that roll of duct tape in your bag?”

Lucio, as a matter of fact, looked as though he’d been hit in the head with a brick -- possibly, Hanzo was forced to admit, by a brick made out of psyche-damaging dread of the sort he hadn’t expected to encounter in the dining hall. Which wasn’t to say that the dining hall didn’t provide a frequent source of existential trauma, it just usually wasn’t the eyeballs where they shouldn’t be type.

“Wh -- what?” Hana elbowed him in the ribs with sanity-jostling force; something visibly clicked together behind his eyes. “Yeah -- yes, I do.”

He fished around in the stygian depths of his messenger bag of holding and came up with an almost untouched roll of tape. Zenyatta accepted it, smiled the sort of gently encouraging smile that would make world champion athletes set new personal best records, and released Hanzo’s chin. “Hana, may I borrow your Sharpie for a moment?”

Hana wordlessly unclipped her signature pink Sharpie from its place on her keyring and handed it over. Hanzo watched, from a delicate, incipient-emotional-breakdown shaded distance, as Zenyatta methodically tore off three strips of tape approximately six inches long and then wrote something on them in a script that resembled no alphabet with which he was familiar and which left vividly pink afterimages on the inside of his eyes when he blinked. “Hanzo, this may be...somewhat uncomfortable. Genji, I am going to need you to brace his arm while I do this.”

Genji propped the phone up against the stack of pizza boxes occupying the middle of the table and, yes, that was his Ranger looking worriedly out of the screen and from the way the image kept bouncing around it was fairly clear that he was in a vehicle and whoever was driving that vehicle had little to no concern for the limitations of either terrain or speed or possibly respect for human life. His brother slid close against his side and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, whispering something in his ear that his mind absolutely refused to process. The first piece of tape went around his wrist, positioned precisely between the cuff and the skin itself to keep the sleeve in place, and it sent a jolt of something not quite pain but at least a close cousin to it all the way from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. The second went around his forearm just below the elbow and this time the jolt was much stronger and pain’s cousin gave him a call and Hanzo could feel something writhing beneath the surface of his skin. In retrospect, he was pretty glad that Zenyatta had the sense to make sure his sleeve was covering that because he was reasonably certain that, should he have to look at it, gibbering madness would likely be the only rational outcome. The third went around his bicep and this time the jolt was a nerve-sizzling sensation not entirely unlike that one time he’d accidentally grabbed the business end of a live shock baton in his bare hand with similar head explody inducing results. When he regained consciousness, probably only a few seconds later, his head was lolling in the curve between Genji’s neck and shoulder, Lucio and Hana were bustling around the table gathering up plates and cups and chattering back and forth in a state of pseudo-cheerful sassy action camouflage, and Zenyatta had his brother’s phone in hand, consulting in a low, even tones with the Ranger. His skull was still buzzing hard enough that not a single bit of anything he could hear made even the slightest trace of sense, not the soothing words his brother was whispering against his ear, not the friendly smack-talk going on between their roommates, nothing --

In the distance, he heard it: low, soft, barely above the ambient noise level, weaving through the senseless babble of human voices as though it were trying to hide among them. A howl , a reverberant, continuous ululation, modulating upward through a range of tones until it reached the deep-throated baying of a creature on the hunt.

At his back, Genji went tense, the arm around his shoulders and the hand still cradling his wrist tightening involuntarily. Lucio and Hana came to a complete halt and exchanged a glance, all the color draining out of Hana’s face as they did so. Zenyatta lifted his head and listened, his expression perfectly still.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” Hanzo asked, his voice a shaky rasp.

“Yes.” Genji replied, and that admission in his brother’s voice unlocked the uncontrollable full-body tremors that had been waiting for just that opportunity to come charging out.

“You need to go . You need to get as far from me as possible and I -- “ Hanzo stumbled to a halt at Zenyatta’s upraised hand.

“We are at the UNM main campus Student Union.” He said, calmly, evenly, and somehow that made Hanzo’s heart stop trying to pound its way out of his ribcage, slowed the tremors to the occasional rogue shiver. “Yes, I believe so. I will call you when we are secure.” He hung up and stood, slinging his messenger bag across his shoulder. “We must move. Quickly. ”

For an instant, total physical and mental paralysis greeted those words from pretty much everyone -- even Genji, Man of Action, didn’t so much as twitch out of his seat, admittedly because he might have been pinned in place. Then, Genji kicked his chair back and bodily hauled Hanzo upright on unsteady legs, gathering up their bags and handing them off to Hana. Hana slung their bags over her shoulder and nudged Lucio into motion, his face still fixed in the most perfectly appalled expression Hanzo had ever seen him wear. He nonetheless took Hanzo’s other side as his legs persisted in their misbehavior and together helped haul him along in Zenyatta’s wake as he cut a path for them through the dining hall and out into the second floor mezzanine beyond.

“Where are we going?” Hana asked, loaded down with three bags not her own and apparently feeling much more secure for it.

“Luminaria Conference Room -- no windows, only one entrance, and it is not currently in use.” Zenyatta led the way to the stairwells and the elevator. “We should...probably not trap ourselves in a small box that can be made to stop moving.”

“Stairs it is!”

Hanzo’s legs perversely steadied as they climbed and by the time they reached Luminaria’s door he could stand on his own and insisted on doing so as Zenyatta used his faculty access pass to allow them entry. Once inside, he relocked the door and stepped aside as Genji, Lucio, and Hana proceeded to barricade it with a folding conference table and all the chairs that were gathered around that table. Zenyatta liberated the roll of duct tape from Lucio’s bag and methodically circled the room clockwise, pasting torn-off strips of tape to each wall and writing on them in that afterimage-inducing script. Hanzo followed him and aided as best he could, tearing strips of tape, pulling aside tables and chairs, helping Hana build a secondary barricade in the middle of the room out of three more tables in a triangular formation and a selection of chairs at strategic points. She shoved him down inside it without any discernable hesitation and Zenyatta finished what he was doing and all-but sat on him in order to keep him there.

“What are we waiting for?” She finally demanded, poking her head above the edge of the barricade.

“The ranger and several of his colleagues are on the way -- they should be here presently.” Zenyatta replied, serenely, the fingers of both hands woven together in that mudraish way he had.

“ How presently?” Genji asked, his hands hanging loose at his sides, eyes slightly too bright, a little too iridescent.

The lights overhead flickered once, twice, and went out.

“Hopefully enough. ”

The emergency lights came on a moment later, far dimmer than they should have been given their dedicated internal power sources. A heartbeat after that, Hana lit up their little nest of presumed internal safety with her phone’s flashlight and her headphones’ exceptionally vivid pink lights. Also exceptionally vivid: the spheres of cool silver-blue radiance that burst into existence around the perimeter of the room, perfectly aligned with the strips of tape, banishing the deepest shadows to the furthest corners.

“Zen, please tell me you’re doing that.” Lucio sounded a little less than totally steady, for which Hanzo could hardly blame him.

“Yes, I am.” Zenyatta replied, perfectly calm, but frowning at his phone. “Does anyone have any bars of connection?”

Four phones were pulled from four different receptacles. Hanzo gazed with a certain desolate but not particularly surprised horror at the bright red X where at least five bars of wireless connection should have been and glanced up to find Hana and Lucio doing likewise.

“I will take that as a ‘no.’” Still perfectly calm. “Does anyone have connection to the school’s wireless service?”

Hanzo checked, just to be sure that their isolation was as complete as possible, and was also not surprised to discover that no connections were available.

“Zen,” Lucio asked, poking his head above the edge of the fort, “could your...glowy orb things be cutting off our connections?”

“It is extremely unlikely.” Zenyatta replied, and began tearing off a few more strips of tape. “My boundary wards do not, in general, impede standard functions of reality. Or even telecommunications networks.”

“I cannot believe,” Hana muttered at him, “that you’re being stalked by the supernatural equivalent of a coronal mass ejection. ”

“Sorry?” He slumped back against the table surface providing one third of their little triangular fortress’ walls and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“What do you suppose the ranger will do if you don’t contact him?” Genji asked, somewhat less than idly Hanzo thought.

“Preferably, drive faster.” Zenyatta replied dryly.

Something struck the outer wall -- struck it hard enough that the force of the impact visibly rippled across the surface, so hard that the orbs themselves danced in its wake. Hana squeaked and ducked back down, dragging him with against his will and piling on top of him as though she intended to protect him bodily. She was joined an instant later by Lucio, whom he rather suspected intended to protect them both bodily. A brief, intense burst of vividly green light shone through the cracks in their hidey hole, productive of another series of dismayed squeaks, and then Zenyatta was kneeling next to the barricade, applying more strips of freshly scribed tape to the outside. “Be calm, my friends. That was not something to concern you.”

“Are you freaking serious? ” Hana asked, incredulous.

“He’s right,” Hanzo wheezed from around the pressure her elbow was applying to his solar plexus. “That was Genji, not the thing.”

“Genji?” Lucio poked his head over the top of the table. “...Where did that sword come from?”

“Trust me when I tell you that it’s a long story. One that we were planning to tell you sooner rather than later.” Genji replied, lightly, and a second blow shook the opposite wall, sending a crack shooting from floor to ceiling through the plaster.

“What’s it doing?” Hana whispered through the crack where the tables met, as Zenyatta taped it over.

“Testing the structure of the ward barrier for weaknesses would be my educated guess.” Zenyatta replied and laid more tape, the tip of the Sharpie squeaking as the wrote.

“Are there? Weaknesses?” Hanzo could feel her trembling and did his best to wrap a comforting arm around her.

Zenyatta paused and was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, “I am certain there are. Whatever happens, I must ask you three to stay down and inside this barrier . Please.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Lucio, gods love him, rolled to the side, and put his back against the base of the triangle. “Hana, let the man breathe for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh!” She scooted back, as well, and Hanzo propped himself up on his elbows and from there slouched back against one of the tables. “Sorry about that.”

“No apologies necessary.” By unspoken mutual impulse, they all set their various light-producing devices in the middle of the triangle to supplement the pale silvery glow of the orbs now ringing their little bulwark. “I am more -- “

“What was that about no apologies being necessary?” Hana cut him off.

“This is...not quite the same thing, Hana.” The fingers of his left hand tingled sharply, the sensation running all the way up his forearm, as though he’d just spent an hour sleeping on it at a terrible angle. “Your lives are in danger because of this. I -- “

“You’re right. Our lives are in danger. You can make it up to us in awesome cover art and attractive liner notes for our first -- what, six, maybe eight pro releases?” Hana flicked a grin at Lucio. “More if one or both of us flunks a midterm because, seriously, this is the world’s worst supernatural bullshit timing.”

“Make it an even ten and we’re golden.” Lucio replied, scanning over the tops of the tables. “Man, why is it so quiet? ”

“You are far better friends than I deserve.” His shoulder ached with a dull throbbing pain and he rolled it slowly in an effort to relieve the tension in it. “I -- “

Come

The breath stuttered to a halt in his chest and, for a moment, all he could hear was the pulsing of the blood in his temples as his head went lighter and lighter.

Come

It took all his strength to breathe again.

“Hanzo?”

“It -- “ He fought for the clarity to speak. “I can -- “

Open

The pain seized and shook him like a terrier with a rat in its jaws, sharp and stabbing, from the center of his chest to the tips of his fingers, and it was all he could do to curl around it, desperate, wordless noises escaping him.

Open the wards

The words throbbed inside his skull, driven deeper with every pulsation of his heart, every ragged breath. He felt, beneath his fingertips and beyond any conscious act of his own will, the tape bound around his wrist, felt his nails bite in, felt it begin to stretch and tear.

LET ME IN

“ Hanzo, stop!”

The tape came away from his wrist, taking with it a strip of skin, and tore raggedly across the script. Bilious yellow-green incandescence boiled up through the fabric of his sleeve, corrosive in its intensity, dissolving both the sleeve and the tape wound around it to blackened, crumbling threads. Filaments of that sickly light arced out from the surface of his flesh and hung there for an instant, swaying nauseatingly on their axes like serpents coiling to strike and, when they did, it was with serpentine speed and viciousness. Zenyatta’s wards blinked out of existence in coruscations of conflicting energies, silver-blue spheres overwhelmed and broken from within by hungry, loathsome tendrils boiling their length with extrusions that were almost teeth, were almost eyes. The sound that came out of Zenyatta as it happened was made up of entirely unequal parts of shock and pain and was still ringing off the walls as the light all-but died and darkness rushed in to fill the place it once occupied.

Hanzo felt something trying to force its way up his throat. It was, as it turned out, the sort of laugh that could be assessed as maniacal, malicious, or malevolent and, accurately, as all three, and it completely suppressed his desire to start screaming and never stop. Hana and Lucio, recognizing this as the self-preservation instincts activating signal that it was, decided not to stay in the now-broken ward triangle with him. Or, rather, Lucio sensibly decided not to stay and dragged Hana, kicking and struggling, with him and as far away as he could reasonably manage given the confines of the room. At the vast, insulating distance kindly lent to his conscious mind by substantial quantities of traumatic psychic shock, he felt his body begin to move through no voluntary impulse of his own, pushing himself to his feet, turning to face his friends. Lucio still had one arm around Hana’s middle even as he tried to dislodge the small mountain of folding chairs piled in front of the door one-handed. Hana was staring at him with the sort of genuinely heartbreaking anguish that would have gotten her all his available hugs, were he in any position to dispense them. Genji knelt with Zenyatta lying senseless in one arm, his sword braced tip-down against the floor in the other hand, his face a mask of horror and his eyes burning with grief and rage. Something about that made that hideous laugh fall out of him again, shoulders shaking with perverse and vicious mirth.

“Whoever’s in there, GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR! ” The shout was muffled, from outside in the hallway, and for a fraction of a second, Hana, Lucio, and Genji all froze in place at the sound of it.

Then Hana stopped struggling and dove at Genji and Zenyatta, all three going down together with a startled squawk from his brother, who absolutely did not expect to be bodily covered by a woman he outweighed by a substantial margin. Genji emitted a second, louder but rather more strangled squawk as Lucio joined the pile, dragging the lone unused table with him in an effort to provide them with more protection.

The subsequent explosion not only opened the door, it flung it across the room, along with the table and chairs piled in front of it, and embedded sizeable chunks of all of them into the far wall. The acoustic tiled ceiling closest to the door collapsed, taking portions of the far walls with it, raising a choking cloud of dust that took on the stomach churning illumination that his body was still shedding, that eddied and swirled as someone entered the room.

“Jamie,” A heartstoppingly familiar voice, sounding more than a little aggravated. “I think I remember sayin’ we needed to do this with minimal force.”

“That was minimal force.” Less familiar, but still enough to earn the designation. “Look, if I were really overdoing it, it would have knocked the floor out too and at least a couple of the walls would be down and not just cracked and sweet zombie Christ on a pogo stick, WHAT is THAT.”

The sound that emerged from his throat probably constituted some kind of evil titter. The voice that came off his tongue and past his lips sounded like it belonged to the sort of creature that would spend weeks slowly torturing small, innocent things to death and, in all likelihood, did. “ Witch-thing.”

The ranger stepped into the poisonous glow he was casting, dust whorls and strands of tainted energy alike swirling away from him, as though touching him would be their end. He was wearing the crimson-and-gold cloak Hanzo remembered from the house and it clung to him like a shield, its reflection catching in his eyes and lighting them with points of color that glowed in the near-dark. Behind him, a pair of shadows -- one mountainously huge, the other merely enormously tall -- began dislodging the wreckage of the ceiling from atop his brother and his friends.

“Witch-thing.” The voice possessing his throat crooned again. “It is so good to see you again. I have missed you, all these years.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same.” The ranger replied, his face a still life in planes of shadow and unholy light, eyes burning crimson. “Hanzo, darlin’. Can you hear me?”

YES! Hanzo wanted to shriek but his voice remained still and all his frantic efforts to use it yielded were tears, blurring his vision, rolling down his cheeks.

“No,” Purred the thing and, inside himself, he screamed and raged and beat against it, to no particular avail at all. “And...even if he could...what would you do? His flesh is mine. His soul is mine. Press me, and I devour him whole and leave his empty husk at your feet. Step aside.”

The gunshot was sharp and loud, concentrated by the relatively enclosed space of the room. Hanzo’s ears rang, almost enough to drown out Hana’s involuntary cry of shock, and the stunned, wordless noise that came out of his own mouth. Distantly, he felt the beginning tremors of what was certain to be quite a lot of pain.

“Well, I gotta say, that’s where you’re wrong. Y’see, I’ve picked up a few new tricks since we last had one o’ these little chats.” The ranger shrugged insouciantly, the barrel of the gun he’d drawn and fired, so swiftly that Hanzo couldn’t even remember seeing it happen, still smoking gently. “Part of the job, y’know.”

“You -- “ The thing choked out, around a mouthful of something that didn’t precisely taste like blood but which nonetheless had a certain piquant saltiness to it. “You -- yátaashkï -- “

“Uh-huh. Tell me something I don’t know.” The ranger stepped forward and caught him close, free hand around the back of his neck, the barrel of the gun pressed into his belly.

The thing spat out a mouthful of not-blood and rasped, its voice a cutting edge of hate and fury, “I will eat your heart before I am done.”

“Yeah, yeah, good luck with that.” The sound of the hammer cocking was loud between them and his voice soft against Hanzo’s ear. “I’m sorry. This is going to hurt.”

It did, in fact, hurt but only briefly. As his consciousness faded into all-encompassing bright nothingness, so did the pain. The last thing he felt, as the ranger lowered them both to the floor, was the sensation of being enfolded in warm, strong arms, safe and protected, and the last thing he heard was his brother screaming his name.

[friendly-books]

Turn Coat live blog

Turn Coat live blog

“I answered it and Morgan, half his face covered in blood, gasped, “The Wardens are coming. Hide me. Please.”

His eyes rolled back into his skull and he collapsed.

Oh

Super.” pg. 15 Ha and what a way to start the book. 

“Truth be told, I still had nightmares occasionally, about being pursued by an implacable killer in a gray cloak,” pg. 18 Yep Morgan is the worst.

“Last place anyone would look for him be my guess.” pg. 18 Yep

“Oh bite me, wizard boy,” pg. 19 Ha

“I am. I’m helping him because I know what it feels like to have the Wardens on your ass for something you haven’t done.” pg. 22 Yep 

“So. How are the headaches?” pg. 22 Bonnie! Would Bonnie’s conception count as an immaculate conception?

“Thank you-“

“Oh shut up” I said, shuddering. “Neither of us wants that conversation.” pg. 28 Ha

“Aleron LaFortier is dead.” pg. 29 I’m not too sad that he’s dead. 

“Gosh. That was irrational of them, to jump to that conclusion.” pg. 30 Ha

“I went to bed two nights ago. I woke up at LaFortier’s private study in Edinburgh, with a lump on the back of my head and a bloody dagger in my hand. pg. 31 Suspicious 

“Stars and stones. What on God’s green earth  was that thing?” pg. 45 What did Harry see? Harry think of your poor brain and psyche. He’s got to stop poking things with his Sight. It’s bad for him. You’ve got brain damage now you’ve got to be careful. 

Oh good Harry got to Georgia and Billy’s house 

What is Harry muttering about the numbers?

Well now Harry’s using horrible memories to get use to the Sight of the Skinwalker. 

“Kirby was the only clearly lit object in sight-an ideal target.” pg. 56 Oh no

Oh no Kirby :( 

How long does someone need to be dead for it to be considered necromancy and not resurrection? 

“You nuked it” pg. 77 So cool

Zero is strange 

“That’s why this place is called Zero, I realized. Zero limits. Zero inhibitions. Zero restraints. It was a place of perfect, focused abandon, of indulgence, and it was intriguing and hideous, nauseating and viscerally hungry.” pg. 88 Not a fan of Zero

They seriously got a wanted poster for Morgan. Old school wild west style. Ha

Madeline? Like back in White Night with the thrall? 

“You are Jessica Rabbit, right?” I asked. “All slinky and overblown and obvious?” pg. 102 Ha

Good for Thomas and Justine for attacking Madeline

“You aren’t doing her any favors by going easy on her, Dresden,” he said, more quietly “You aren’t preparing her for exams. She doesn’t receive a bad mark if she fails.” pg. 129 What happens if Molly fails the exam?

“She threw stones at me” pg. 129 Luccio why would you do that? Why not snowballs or water balloons? Does Luccio and Morgan have a  paternal substitute similar to Harry and Ebenezar? Maybe that’s why Morgan lost it back in Dead Beat?

“Pain is an excellent motivator,” he said “And teaches one to control one’s emotions at the same time.” pg. 129 No that’s stupid. 

Morgan stop calling Thomas a “it” 

“You did a bad thing once” I said “It doesn’t make you a monster”

“What if it does?” pg. 134 No Molly isn’t a monster. Now Molly feels like a monster. I’m reminded of when Harry had similar thoughts back in Proven Guilty. Morgan sucks 

“The Council is not divided” pg. 139 Oh Morgan you sweet summer child. Open your eyes and stop being such a Council supporter.

“You two play nice.” pg. 142 Ha

Alright let’s see if I can sus out this traitor. So it’s got to be one of the senior council members or staff. Merlin, McCoy, Listen-to-Winds, Librety, Mai, Gatekeeper, and Peabody. I don’t think it’s McCoy as he’s trying to get rid of the black council. I don’t think it’s Listen-to-Winds as he’s got a friendly raccoon buddy. I don’t think it’s Merlin as why would he be the traitor he’s in charge? I don’t think it’s Gatekeeper as he seems to be on Harry’s side. I don’t think it’s Mai as she’s got those guardian temple dogs. I don’t know enough about Liberty and Peabody. But Liberty seems to be on Harry’s side. So by some less than logical reasoning I thinks it’s Peabody as he’s the White Council scribe so he probably knows things. And he talked to Merlin at Molly’s trial. 

“The only wizard I see less frequently than he is you.” pg. 153 Interesting I wonder why?

 “When I’d been young man, hauled before the Council to be tried as a violator of the First Law of Magic, they brought me to Edinburgh. The musty, wet, mineral smell of the place had been almost all I knew while I waited, hooded and bound, in a cell for a full day. I remember being horribly cold and tortured by the knots my muscles worked themselves into after so many hours tried hand and foot. I remember feeling more alone than ever in my life, while I awaited whatever was going to happen. 

I had been scared. So scared. I was sixteen. It was the same smell, and that scent had the power to animate the corpses of some of my darkest memories and bring them lurching back into the front of my thoughts.

Psychological necromancy.” pg. 158 Therapy please. This is trauma. 

“You have too much history with Morgan. This has got to be dispassionate, and you’re just about the lest dispassionate person I know.” pg. 161 Ha

“As the mind grows older, it gets established.” pg. 161 

Interesting that with time a person can’t be mind controlled. That does bring into question Luccio and her schrodinger cat position. As while her soul and personhood is centuries old the body she’s in isn’t. So would she be able to be mind controlled?

“Peabody gulped” pg. 164 Suspicious 

“What he doses isn’t dramatic, but his organizational skills have been a critical asset since the outbreak of the war.” pg. 164 That would make him a good spy.

How did Ebenezar know that Harry was holding Morgan?

Did LaFortier not use a death curse? Why didn’t he use it? 

So LaFortier was the point between the White Council and the other countries that weren’t in the Council. 

In every scene Peabody in so far he’s having people sign paper. Could it be part of his plan? Hmm 

“Peabody stopped before the Merlin, blinking.” pg. 182 Suspicious 

“You are an untidy person.”

“I put my hand over my heart, grinning at him “Ow” pg. 184 Ha

Why does Peabody keep wanting to get people to sign paper? Is that part of his plan? An inkwell, seriously? Is it the inkwell? Is it an evil magic inkwell? I bet it is. Who uses inkwells nowadays. Just use a pen. There is such a thing as taking an aesthetic too far. 

“Either LaFortier chose not to use it, or he was incapable of using it.” pg. 191 Interesting

So either LaFortier didn’t use his death curse or he couldn’t use it. If he couldn’t use it there aren’t many ways to counter a death curse. A sniper rifle could do it like what Kincaid said. But the wounds were defensive and no gunshot wounds. There aren’t many melee weapons that could stop magic. Wait hold up isn’t the Warden swords anti magic. So they can fight warlocks. So anyone with a sword could have killed LaFortier. The people who we’ve seen have swords are Morgan, Carlos, and Luccio. I don’t think it would be someone we don’t know. It isn’t Morgan as he claims he didn’t do it. And came to Harry for help. I don’t think it’s Carlos as he hasn’t really been mentioned. So that just leaves Luccio. With the mention of mind control magic and Peabody I think he mind controlled Luccio and got her to kill LaFortier. That brings us to Morgan and his suspicions of two day unconsciousness. I don’t think he was unconscious. I think he saw Luccio either kill LaFortier or stand over his body and take the blame. 

Oh no Thomas is in trouble 

Binder what kind of name is that?

“Binder gave me a gimlet stare. Then he rolled his eyes and shot a brief glance over his shoulder-then did a double take as his mouth dropped open.” pg. 212 Ha

“Ernest Armand Tinswhistle” pg. 213 Never mind his real name is so much worse.

“The sliver oak leaf.” pg. 222 Oh no

“Titania’s retainer told me. The entire Summer court has been laughing about it for months.” pg. 222 Ha

“I took it and pitched it into the haunted woods.” pg. 223 Ha

Toot-toot! 

“‘Accomplice is an ugly word. So is ‘penitentiary’” pg. 233 Ha

“He is kind of a drama queen.” pg. 237 Ha

“Who said anything about magic?” pg. 237 What else is Molly going to do?

“I think your mother would scream bloody murder” pg. 237 I’m screaming bloody murder.

“Morgan made a low, appreciative sound as the door closed.” pg. 237 MORGAN NO 

“Maybe. But that was just…just wrong.” pg. 237 Yep I agree completely. Wrong 

“Received, one six foot traditional Ozark walking club from Mr. Smart-ass.

That’s Doctor Smart-ass to you. I didn’t spend eight years in insult collage to be called Mister.” pg. 241 Ha

“I’m sorry sir,” she said “but the addition-counseling center is on twenty-six.” pg. 242 Ha

“I debated several answers and decided to start things off by annoying her.

I know. Me. Shocking, right?” pg. 245 Ha

“Her eyes were wide, her expression a mixture of terror and awe as she stared up me.” pg. 252 Evelyn what did you see in the soul gaze. Why terror and awe? 

Oh lovely another Mexican stand off now with Luccio. 

“There are monsters from whom I’d expect better behavior, once they had accepted my hospitality. What’s more, they’d give it to me.” pg. 257 Ha

“Bitch, I know you didn’t just say that.” pg. 258 Whoa there Molly let’s calm down.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” I said. “So think real careful about where this is coming from. Have you people ever considered talking when you’ve got a problem?” pg. 259 Ha

“Sorry,” I told him at once. “Four-footed nonvocalizing company expected.” pg. 260 Ha

“You,” I asked “and Morgan?” pg. 262 What? I didn’t clock that at all. I’m just as bad as Harry. I didn’t see Luccio/Harry, Lara/Harry, and now Morgan/Luccio. So Morgan loves Luccio romantically. He must be so upset that Luccio and Harry are dating. 

“Who do I look like Kissinger?” pg. 266 I hope not. Kissinger is a terrible person. He commented war crimes.

“Is there any reason this can’t be civil visit?” pg. 270 Yes you brought Harry with you.

“Well. I couldn’t argue with that, but the words made Anastasia’s eyes narrow dangerously.” 277 I’m with Harry and Lara on their views on the White Council. 

“It was Thomas’s necklace.” pg. 296 Oh no Thomas 

“Because people in helpless situations come to you for help on a regular basis. And you help them. It’s what you do.” pg. 300 Yep that’s Harry in a nutshell.

“I always enjoy dealing with a man possessing  a well-developed sense if self-worth.” pg. 302 Harry doesn’t have that. 

“At what point did you forget that I am a vampire Dresden? A monster. A habitually neat, polite, civil, and effective monster. Her eyes drifted down the hallway, to where a well-muscled young man was being helped sit down, while a medic secured bandages over his eyes. Lara stared intently at him, the color of her eyes lightening to silver, her lips parted slightly. “So am I” pg. 307 Lara is scary

“He always worried that he’d never be able to talk to you. That the world he came from was so different. That he wouldn’t know enough about being human to relate. That he wouldn’t know about being a br-“ pg. 310 Aw Thomas 

“You’re like family to me, Harry. You always care.” pg. 310 Aw :)

“She focused sharply on Anastasia for a moment-and then upon me. 

Lara’s eyes flicked several shades paler as her ripe lips parted in dawning realization. A very slow smile crept over her mouth as she stared at me.” pg. 313 So Harry doesn’t have true love’s protection anymore. So that means Luccio doesn’t love him :( 

“Margret. You selfish bitch.” pg. 315 Whoa Luccio not a fan of Margaret I see.

I kinda agree with Margret about the council.

I don’t agree with Luccio. That’s a whole separate comment about her argument. 

“As harsh an experience as it created for you, Harry, the Laws of Magic are not about justice. The White Council is not about justice. They are about restraining power.” pg.  319 That’s my main issue with the White Council. I think they should be more about justice than they are. 

“Over. My. Dead. Body.” pg. 321 Yep Harry cares about his family. I wonder how Luccio figured it out but not Elaine. While Luccio had help from Justine it’s surprising that Luccio was able to piece it together but not Harry’s other friends. 

“Because you need your brother to be alright” pg. 325 Yep see previous comment. 

“Then if you want my help, things are going to change. I’m not charging blindfold again. Not ever.” pg. 337 Yep stop keeping your friends in the dark. 

“Then I made a fist and slugged his smug face hard enough to knock him over backward in the chair.” pg. 351 Ha

“The mighty Harry Dresden. Subcontracting detective work.” pg. 363 Ha

“Bear in mind that someone like him can do everything I can do and considerable besides. And even people on the bloody Council are nervous about that one.” pg. 367 Yep Harry can be scary.

“You lost a fight to one overgrown Boy Scout and one pint-sized mortal women, got yourself locked up by the police, of all the ridiculous things, and missed your chance to earn the reward.” pg. 369 Ha Harry is an overgrown Boy Scout. Why is it that these morally dubious people know that but the Council thinks he’s a black sheep/warlock? 

“The air smelled of cordite. Mouse’s fur, all down his left foreleg, was matted and caked with blood.” pg. 380 Oh no Mouse :( 

Oh no Molly broke a Law again. The same on too. 

“I promise that I’ll be beside you,” I said. “I can’t promise anything else. Only that I’ll stand beside you for as long as I can.” 

“Okay,” she whispered. She leaned against me.” pg. 393 Aw 

So subtle mind control. Maybe that’s what Peabody is doing with the inkwell. I don’t trust anyone who uses an inkwell. Just use a pen. 

“I think someone has tampered with Captain Luccio. I’d bet my life on it.” pg. 394 I knew it 

“You were acting?” I said “To make it hit Molly harder?” pg. 394 Good for Mouse.

“A real party. Practically everyone who’d wanted to kill me lately would be there.” pg. 399 Harry given your track record with parties I don’t see this going well.

“That is the plan” I confirmed. Then I bent down and kissed her forehead and her mouth, gently, and leaned my forehead against hers. “Love you too,” I whispered.” pg. 492 Yay Harry/Murph moment! 

“And yet here I am about to pop you in the nose,” I muttered. “Am I daring or what?” pg. 410 Ha and if it works on sharks it should work on Demonreach. 

“It rocked back at the impact. Not much. Maybe half an inch, though that column of fire  would have blown apart a brick wall. But I had moved it that half inch. There was no doubt about that.” pg. 418 So cool

“I am Harry Dresden, and I give thee a name, honored spirit. From this day on, be thou called Demonreach.” pg. 418 So cool

Demonreach is so cool. Harry names another. I wonder how this will play out. 

“I slid will into my voice as I said, simply, “Thank you.” pg. 419 Aw :) Harry being nice to Deamonreach. 

“I’ve got nothing going on in here at the moment.”

I realized what I had said just as the last word left my mouth, and glanced at Morgan. He lay on the bunk with his eyes closed. His mouth was turned up in small smile. “Too easy.” 

Molly fought not to grin.” pg. 426 Ha

So cool that Harry challenged the entire Senior Council. 

I like Toot-toot 

Gatekeeper! 

“I cannot decide,” he said “whether you are the most magnificent liar I’ve ever encountered in my life-or if you truly are as ignorant as you appear.”

I looked at him for a minute. Then I hooked my thumb up at my ridiculous head bandage.

“Dude” pg. 452 Ha

“There is the world that should be,” he growled, “and the world that is. We live in one.” 

“And must create the other,” Ebenezar retorted “if it is ever to be” pg. 469 So cool

“And then it hit me. They were dealing with something far more dangerous than me, Harry Dresden, whose battered old Volkswagen was currently in the city impound. They were dealing with the potential demonic dark lord nightmare warlock they’d been busy fearing since I turned sixteen. They were dealing with the wizard who had faced the Heirs of Kemmler riding a zombie dinosaur, and emerged victorious from a fight that had flattened Morgan and Captain Luccio  before they had even reached it. They were dealing with the man who had dropped a challenge to the entire Senior Council, and who had then actually showed, apparently willing to fight-on the shores of an entirely too creepy island in the middle of a freshwater sea.” pg. 471 So cool! 

Not a fan of ancient Mai 

“He was not truly your apprentice. You kept watch over him for a mere two years.” pg. 473 Yes Harry was an Ebenezer apprentice and it was an important two years!

I love that we got a glimpse into Harry’s appearance time. Yeah, having killed Justin a bunch of bully teenagers isn't all that scary in comparison. 

“Lady Raith,” Ebenezer said, calmly. “Touch that boy again and only things left for your kin to bury will be your five-hundred-dollar shoes.” pg. 479 So cool! I love how much love Ebenezer has for Harry and vice versa. 

“Wile E. Coyote” I said to him soberly. “Suuuuuuper Genius.” pg. 483 Ha 

Ebenezer used a force choke. It was cool.

Ahhhhh!!!! Lara is terrifying. Madeline didn’t deserve that. Why would you do that Lara? I’m going to have nightmares. Lara is definitely a monster. I don’t want her anywhere near Maggie.

“Someone had to be human.” pg. 512 Yep 

Poor Thomas :( 

“Bring it! Bring it, you dickless freak!” pg. 530 Ha 

Toot-toot to the rescue! 

“Mother says you have no place here.” 

“Father says you are ugly” pg. 539 Ha

“Just gonna kick your ass up between your ears.” pg. 540 Ha and Listen-to-winds is so cool. 

“Retribution,” Ebenezer said. “Not justice” pg. 555 It definitely isn’t justice. It’s retribution and vengeance. 

“I remind you that Dresden and his apprentice  aided and abetted a fugitive from justice.” pg. 556 Stop calling it justice it’s not justice.

“Little guy like that, taking on something so far out of his weight class. That was a sight to see.” 

Ebenezer snorted. “Yeah. Wonder where the pixie learned that.” pg. 558 Ha and where do you think Harry learned it from. Definitely not Justin. 

I think Harry should learn from Listen-to-winds. 

Oh no Ebenezer doesn’t know about Thomas. Maybe Harry and sit him down and they actually have a conversation about Thomas. I can dream ok. 

Oh no poor Thomas what happened to you?

“Wile E. Coyote,” I said wisely. “ Suuuuuuper genius” pg. 569 Ha 

“Ebenezar was of the opinion that apprentices were always hungry. Can’t imagine where he got that idea from.” pg. 576 Ha

Ebenezer is a cool bookworm. I wonder if Harry got being a bookworm from Ebenezer.

“The Merlin has demanded that we put the boy under surveillance at once. I think he’s a damn fool.” pg. 578 Ebenezar is right. Harry would not be happy about that. White Council looks like a police state. 

“But then again, I trusted Maggie’s too” pg. 578 Maggie as in Harry’s mom? Did Ebenezer teach Harry’s mom? Do they have a parental substitute dynamic? Actual parent and child? Look I’m going to get one of these relationships right I swear. 

“Merlin,” pg. 579 As in the original Merlin?

“Mai looked daggers at Injun Joe” pg. 584 Not a fan of Ancient Mai

“Mai looked as if someone had hit her between the eyes with a sledgehammer. “That,” she said, in a breathless tone “is a Foo dog.” She stared at me “Where did you get such a thing? And why were you allowed to keep it?” pg. 588 First of all Mouse isn’t a thing or an it. He was the best boy there ever was. Second of all Harry didn’t pick Mouse, Mouse picked Harry. 

“It is my belief that Peabody has been drugging the ink for the purpose of attempting greater mental influence over the decisions of members of the Senior Council, and that it is entirely possible that he has compromised the free will of the younger members of the Council tonight.” pg. 588 I was right!? I knew that inkwell was evil. Never trust an inkwell. 

I will begrudgingly admit that Merlin is a little bit cool with the whole telepathy thing. Incredibly begrudgingly :/

Morgan, what are you doing about it? You should be resting. Keep doing this and it’ll kill you. Go line down. 

I can’t believe I was right about Luccio's mind control. And with Peabody. Maybe I can be a P. I. like Harry lol 

“I knew that you knew how it felt to be an innocent man hounded by the Wardens.” pg. 600 He admits it.

“He died less than a minute later.” pg. 600 He died! :0 Morgan’s died? What? 

Harry’s got a cool eye scar now. 

The Gray Council is cool.

“That the only alternative is to stand around and watch everything go to hell.” His voice hardened. “We’re not going to do that.” 

“Damn right we’re not.” pg. 616 Good

“You’re not even forty.” pg. 622 So Harry’s still in his thirties. He’s grown so much.

Poor Thomas 

Glad that Butters is joining Harry’s D&D group. 

Final thoughts 

Great way to start the book. No Bi Harry moments. I thought the book was funny. I wish we got more Marcone to see who he is and if he’s picked up the coin. My working theory is that he picked it up in the last book. Unsure if he touched it bare handed and just has it in his possession or if he has it and hasn’t given in like with Harry. They both have a lot of willpower. He partnered up with Namshiel after Harry died and there was no longer a wizard in Chicago. I hope he shows up in the next book. I loved Mouse in this. I loved the Harry and Murphy moment. I’m shocked I was right about Peabody. That wasn’t anywhere close to a logical conclusion in my deduction. The inkwell was a total guess on my end. Lara is terrifying. I’m sad that Morgan died and what happened to Luccio. Didn’t like the Morgan and Molly thing. Poor poor Thomas. I hope he can come back from this. Loved Toot-toot in this. Not the biggest fan of ancient Mai and glad she was shocked by Mouse. I’m glad Morgan sort of apologized to Harry at the end there. Harry’s reputation grows among the supernatural community. I loved all the Ebenezer and Harry moments in this book especially with the force choke on Lara. Interesting that Peabody had the stuff from outside reality. So this Black Council is in league with the Outsiders(Is that what they’re called?) my question is why? Presumably the Outsiders want to destroy reality so why would anyone want to side with them? Are they possessed? Also if they’re so bad how did Harry defeat one at 16? Glad Harry and Ebenezar are forming the Gray Council if Merlin isn’t going to do anything. Love that has a cool eye scar. Ebenezer really shaped how Harry views magic and life. That must have been such an important two years. Hope we get more glimpse into it. I’ll probably make a whole different comment on Luccio's argument and why I think it’s wrong. 

Onto the next book! Oh boy it’s the big one.