#it's almost impossible to stay optimistic

[a-murmur-of-a-prayer]

It is just so, so depressing to still be waiting for a job. I'm so close to getting the one that would be beneficial to me, but the process has been taking SO long (I've been unemployed for almost three months). It feels silly to say, but without a job, it's as if my life has no meaning. I have no structure to my day, I live with my parents and am essentially freeloading off of them. The warm weather down here (my parents are in Texas) is probably the only thing that's saving my mental health at the moment. I have tried to put meaning into it by writing things, but it's so much harder to dredge up the motivation right now to do so. I want to cry just about every day, but my sister and my mom and my dad are all going through things and I need to help them, so I feel like I can't. Being an American, current events are stressing me out - I've connected with new people but they are not my friends that I've had for years, and I'm so beyond sad that I don't have a job that my insecurities about never having had a boyfriend don't even matter to me right now. Every day is just more of the same, and I just really hope I get an answer from the job I want because I don't know how much longer I can go on like this.

[moldyfloorboards]

Going for a 0 on the "taking care of myself" scale

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I think Crowley falls into two of the classic pitfalls of people who see that the problems are systemic long before anyone else around them does: impatience and despair.

(Yes yes I know, “Crowley was an optimist.” Book Crowley is an optimist. I don’t think that line is particularly useful for analyzing TV Crowley. Stay with me here.)

Let it be said that 95% of the time, Crowley has the patience of a fucking saint (ssh don’t tell him) around Aziraphale. He knows that Aziraphale needs to build his little plausible deniability rationales in order to do something that they both know he wants to do (because it’s right or simply because he would enjoy it) but Heaven wouldn’t approve of. And most of the time, Crowley is happy to help Aziraphale get there, asking the questions Aziraphale is afraid to ask, offering excuses and justifications until Aziraphale finds one he can accept. He does a lot of work of parsing out when “no” means “you haven’t convinced me yet, keep trying” and pushing through all the “I’m an angel, you’re a demon, we’re on opposite sides and mine is the good one” talk that Aziraphale gets up to all the way through s1. Because he knows that Aziraphale doesn’t really believe that stuff, right? He just needs some time to talk himself around his own cognitive dissonance, and most of the time Crowley is not only happy to facilitate that but sees it as part of his role in their relationship.

But then when the chips are down and Aziraphale is still dithering, that’s when he gets frustrated, because HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE what’s been blindingly obvious to Crowley for millennia, that Heaven is just as cruel as Hell and no one is going to step in and fix it because the system is working as intended. And that’s when he says things like “how can someone as clever as you be so stupid?” Which is a surefire way not to convince the person you’re arguing with of anything.

And then there’s the despair. I really think the running away thing is not about cowardice or selfishness or some kind of unhealthy level of avoidance of hard or scary things, but about hopelessness. They’ve spent their lives avoiding very very real danger, and of the two of them Crowley is much more constantly aware of the danger that they are in from both sides. Yes he’s hypervigilant but he is also almost always right about the amount of danger they are in. Trying to get as far away from danger as possible is not an irrational response, even if it’s not always the correct one for a given situation.

When you feel like you’re the only person who sees how rotten the system is, how it needs to be dismantled entirely, but you are also VERY aware of how strong the people in power are and how ruthless they are about crushing dissent because you experienced it personally…well that gets fucking depressing after a while. Because even if you think the whole system needs to go, that feels like a completely unattainable goal when it seems like no one else even sees the problem, or if they see it, they are too afraid to do anything about it. And can you blame them? You know exactly what happens to people who speak up.

So it’s very easy for your goals to shrink from systemic change to just taking yourself and the people you love and finding somewhere for them to be as safe as possible, for as long as the system will let you exist. Because reforming the system is a fool’s errand, and dismantling it entirely seems impossible. I think this is where Crowley is at. Even if on some level he knows it’s an imperfect solution, because both of them have enough compassion that they would feel guilty abandoning Earth and humans to save themselves, and because Heaven and Hell really can find them anywhere in the universe. He just doesn’t see another option.

And look, I think Aziraphale is 100% wrong that Heaven can be reformed. But he is not wrong to want to stay and fight to make things better, even if it means sacrificing the Earthly comforts he loves so much, and even if it means doing it without Crowley by his side.

Ultimately they both need each other. Aziraphale needs Crowley for his willingness to ask questions and to see the scale of the problem, even if it’s terrifying. But Crowley needs Aziraphale for his hope, his stubborn determination to believe things can and should be better, and to fight for that. In the right hands, hope is an enormously powerful weapon.

[whateversawesome]

Spy x Family Chapter 99: Fate and Destiny

It took a while for me to recover from that incredible chapter, so I had to take time to breathe and analyze things. And after thinking about it for a few days, the first thing that comes to my mind is that, when it comes to love, it's all about timing.

Wouldn't you agree?

Something I hadn't considered before but that is very prevalent in stories are fate and destiny. Now, after this arc with two very side characters that no one took that seriously, I see it very clearly.

Did you know that fate and destiny are not the same thing?

Fate is about the events or outcomes that are predetermined and we cannot control.

Destiny is something we can change with our choices. It's a purpose or direction shaped by our actions, habits, and even our thoughts. Sometimes, because of our habits and actions, certain destiny is unavoidable.

Like I mentioned before, I see Martha and Henry as a foil of Twilight and Yor. So, even though their stories and circumstances are very different, it's impossible for me not to compare both couples. This time, I would like to do that through the lens of fate and destiny.

The love story between Martha and Henry is about bad timing, about fate, about loss. They had a huge obstacle between them: war. And timing really played against for these two; from the false alarm when Martha was about to confess, to Henry thinking Martha was dead just when he realized his feelings. Fucking bad timing.

The love story between Twilight and Yor starts because of fate. That random encounter in that tailor shop...if Yor hadn't teared that dress, if Franky hadn't made that comment about Anya needing to play the part of a kid from a privileged family, if Twilight had chosen a different tailor shop, if they had come at a different time... Do you see it? That part was 100% fate.

However, what's happening between them now is a choice. It's destiny. Whether they are realizing it or not, they are choosing each other every day.

Think about mole hunt arc. I've talked about it before (because it's my favorite arc): By not killing Yuri, Twilight chose Yor over his mission, over his fears, over peace, over everything. It's that simple. And it's destiny at work. I think that arc and that precise action is going to come back and bite him in the ass; first in a bad way and then in a good way. (I suspect Yuri will be the one who finally discovers Twilight's identity. It has to be him, it's Yuri's destiny. But I think Yuri will also be a key a element to save the Forgers from an awful fate.)

Anyways, going back to Twiyor and the topic of timing, even though Twilight has his angsty moments when he thinks he can't love anyone and stay with his family (cue the violins), I think these two have very good timing (at the moment). They live together, they are at a relatively peaceful time in their lives (and in the story), so this is the time for them to develop that bond.

Will it always be like this? Pshhh...of course not! This is a story and things are going to complicate and get really tough at some point. Fate (and probably destiny too) will put our dear Twiyor and many other characters in trouble. A friend once told me that one day things would be so tough that we were going to miss those silly and fun extra missions and I agree.

BUT (before you start crying about this), let me tell you something: This is when destiny is really going to kick in.

When things get messy, when the Forgers separate, when we don't know if we'll get a happy ending, this is when Twilight and Yor must decide they want to be together. Here is when they will choose each other, like they always have. And when that finally happens, not only it'll be a glorious moment, but also I think it's when fate and destiny will work in their favor.

Why do I feel so optimistic about it? Well, look at another couple who seems to be at that point...

Didn't I tell you that when it comes to love, it's all about timing?

Bonus

Chapter 100 is almost here! So, plot wise, I think it will all come down to: Who is in that cabin with Martha?

Some possible theories are:

a) The Shopkeeper. I still think Martha could be involved with the Garden. If we see a young Shopkeeper (they seem to be more or less the same age) or someone involved with the Garden, we could finally get some answers about that mysterious organization.

b) Yor's family. Yor's parents are probably too young here, but maybe her grandparents?? I know it's a long shot, but a girl can only hope 😄 Plus, everything is linked in the sxf, so there's still a chance.

c) [Redacted]'s dad. Why? Well, he mentioned going to the border during Twilight's past arc. If it's him, he's probably as young as Martha and Henry.

c) Someone we don't know (but that will become important in the story).

Since it'll be chapter 100, I'm almost expecting a big revelation, so I'm leaning towards Shopkeeper or [Redacted]'s dad. We'll see!

[vigilante-3073]

Impossible Choice

James Wilson x Pregnant Female Reader

Summary: If it came down to it, who would you save? Mother or child?

TW: Angst, blood, problematic birth, emergency surgery, difficult decisions, medical proxy, House being House.

James Wilson and Y/N had been married for almost two years before they discovered that Y/N was pregnant. They were over the moon and had been incredibly excited to welcome their baby girl.

Y/N had gone into labor at twenty-two weeks pregnant, Wilson rushed her to the hospital in the middle of the night. Y/N was admitted to the Labor & Delivery unit at Princeton-Plainsboro and got into a private room rather quickly.

Wilson stayed by her side, offering support as the hospital staff struggled to stop her labor. Y/N was put on a few different medications, but nothing seemed to be working. They also gave her a dose of corticosteroids in hopes that it would help the baby's lungs to develop.

Y/N's labor was not stopping and her water suddenly broke at two o'clock in the morning. It was discovered that she was seven centimeters dilated and the delivery of their baby was imminent.

Y/N began to panic, tears gathering in her eyes as the couple grappled with the idea that they could lose their baby.

Wilson tried to be optimistic although he knew that the odds were not exactly in their favor. Wilson coached her through the steadily intensifying contractions, staying by her side and offering support.

The NICU was notified and were ready to take the baby after delivery. Y/N was fully dilated by three o'clock in the morning and staff were preparing themselves to deliver the baby.

A Doctor made his way into the room, sitting at the end of the bed, "I'm Doctor Ramirez and I'm going to be delivering your baby today. I know this wasn't what you were expecting, but we're going to take good care of you, alright?" He questioned.

Y/N nodded with a sniffle, gripping onto Wilson's hand as tears rolled down her cheeks.

"With your next contraction, I want you to push, okay?" Doctor Ramirez instructed.

Y/N grimaced as the contraction started, she squeezed Wilson's hand as she began to push. The nurse counted for her as the contraction continued, instructing her to rest between them.

Y/N pushed three times before the air in the room suddenly shifted. Wilson was a doctor, but the sheer amount of blood that began pouring onto the floor made him squeamish. Y/N cried out in pain suddenly, latching onto his hand as she sobbed.

"Call a code and get me an OR," The Doctor instructed quickly.

"What's going on?" Wilson asked.

One of the nurses called a code overhead while another nurse rushed out of the room to make an urgent call to the operating room. The machines began to beep as the baby's heart rate decreased dangerously.

"What's happening?" Wilson repeated desperately.

"James," Y/N mumbled, the color suddenly draining from her face before she lost consciousness.

"Y/N? Y/N!" Wilson called, cupping her cheeks and trying to wake her up.

Staff began to flood into the room, they moved around quickly as they gathered supplies and rushed to get her out of the room.

The Doctor approached Wilson as they wheeled Y/N's bed out into the hallway. His scrubs were saturated in her blood, "I think she may have had a placental abruption. I won't know how severe things are until I get in there. I do have to ask, if we need to make a choice, do you want us to focus on saving the mother or the baby?" Doctor Ramirez asked.

"What? I-I have to choose?" Wilson asked shakily, eyes glossing over with tears.

"I just need to know in case we have to make a snap decision," The Doctor explained.

"Save her... Save Y/N," Wilson stated.

Doctor Ramirez nodded, "I need you to stay closeby in case you have to make any decisions as her medical proxy, okay?" The Doctor questioned, Wilson nodded.

"I'm not leaving," He assured.

The Doctor rushed out of the room, Wilson looked down at the pool of blood on the linoleum floor before quickly following after him.

Wilson could feel tears gathering in his eyes as he rushed through the hallways. Y/N's blood marked the floor of the hallway, making bile rise in his throat as he realized how severe this really was.

Y/N was bleeding out and their baby was in distress, unlikely to survive beyond delivery. He told them to save her, the decision weighed heavily on him, but he was forced to make it. Wilson ducked into the bathroom, rushing into one of the stalls before falling to his knees and throwing up.

Wilson flushed the toilet and washed out his mouth, tears rolled down his cheeks. He exited the bathroom and continued on down the hallway to the operating room. Wilson stopped outside the door, pulling his phone from his pocket with shaking hands.

Wilson dialed a phone number before holding the phone up to his ear, he paced back and forth across the floor as the line rang. Wilson ran a hand through his hair, pausing when the person picked up.

"Y/N went into labor and they couldn't stop it. She's having a placental abruption and I think she's going to die. Can you come?" Wilson asked shakily.

...

House made his way through the hospital, quickly locating Wilson in his seat outside the operating room. Cuddy sat next to him, rubbing a hand over his back as she offered words of support.

"Why aren't either of you in there?" House asked, Cuddy shot him a pointed look.

"Do you even know what they're doing to her?" House questioned.

Wilson looked up at him with red, watery eyes, "It's bad, House," He mumbled.

House walked by them and into the operating room, he took the elevator up to the theater and looked down at the operation occurring below.

He held out his cane and pressed the intercom button on the wall, "What's happening?" House questioned.

The Doctor looked up, "Severe placental abruption, we lost her twice so far but have been able to get her back," Doctor Ramirez said.

"And the baby?" House asked.

"I'm not optimistic for either of them... It's a mess, House. Her platelets are practically on the floor, bleeding won't stop. Baby is being coded, but there's been nothing yet," Doctor Ramirez said.

House lowered his cane, making his way down and back out into the hallway. Wilson looked up at his friend with wide eyes, "Is she going to be okay?" Wilson asked.

"Her platelets are nonexistent, she just keeps bleeding. They're transfusing packed cells and platelets, but it could go either way. Baby is out and NICU has them, but nothing yet," House said.

Wilson dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking as he sobbed.

"It's not your fault," Cuddy assured.

"What isn't?" House asked.

"He asked me which one to save... I told him to save her," Wilson mumbled.

"He was an idiot to even ask that question. A placental abruption doesn't require you to make a choice. But even if it did, you picked your wife. You'd be stupid to tell him otherwise," House said.

"Everything happened so fast. There was so much blood and then they just took her... I can't lose her," Wilson hiccuped.

"Don't think about that right now. She'll pull through," Cuddy said, rubbing her hand over his back.

...

Wilson had been sitting outside of the OR with Cuddy and House for hours. Cameron, Chase and Foreman had come up in search of their boss. He dismissed them, telling them that he wouldn't be taking a case for the day.

The three young doctors decided to join them in the sitting area, offering silent support to Wilson in his time of need.

Another few hours went by without any word from the Doctor. Wilson was exhausted and felt physically sick as the silence stretched on. He couldn't bear to think about what his life would be like without Y/N.

Wilson twisted his wedding band around his finger nervously as he stared off into space. He almost didn't notice the Doctor step out of the OR, "Wilson?" He called gently.

Wilson looked up, standing from his seat and turning to face the man. He felt nauseous as he waited to hear the worst news of his entire life.

"Your wife is alive. We've moved her into the recovery area and a nurse will be by to collect you when she wakes up. It was really touch and go, but she's going to be fine," Doctor Ramirez said.

Wilson let out a shaky sigh, "She's okay?" He mumbled, the Doctor nodded.

"What about the baby?" Wilson asked.

"She's up in the NICU. Her lungs are still underdeveloped and she'll need to be on a ventilator for a while. It's a very delicate situation, but mother and daughter are both fighters," Doctor Ramirez said.

Wilson let out a relieved sigh, running a hand through his hair as he turned to his friends. Cuddy stepped forward and hugged him, he wrapped his arms around her as he began to sob.

Cameron smiled softly as she watched the interaction, Wilson pulled away from the hug, "Congratulations," Cameron said softly.

"Yeah, congrats," Chase said, Foreman nodded.

"Thank you... Thank you all for being here. I don't know what I would've done without you," Wilson said.

"Do you want me to head up and check on the baby while you stay with Y/N?" Cuddy asked.

"That would be great, thank you," He nodded.

"I'll call you if anything changes," Cuddy assured, rushing off to the NICU.

"Congratulations on the baby," Cameron said, giving Wilson a quick hug before she left.

"You're gonna be the best dad around," Chase said, giving him a pat on the back.

"Tell Y/N that we're all glad she's okay and will be thinking of her and the baby," Foreman said, Wilson nodded. The three young doctors left and Wilson began to walk to the recovery area with House.

"So, you're a dad now, huh?" House questioned.

Wilson nodded, "Looks that way," He said.

"That Doctor should never have asked you to choose between them," House said.

Wilson gulped, "Yeah," He mumbled.

"You made the right choice... She would've had a better chance at survival than the baby anyway," House said, Wilson nodded.

They entered into the recovery area, Wilson made a beeline for Y/N's bed. He looked her over, taking her hand in his and bushing his thumb over her knuckles.

She was incredibly pale from the blood loss, still sedated and no doubt receiving heavy pain medications.

He lifted his other hand, resting his palm on the top of her head. Wilson leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, he settled into the chair beside her bed. House dragged over a stool, sitting down on the other side of the bed.

"You don't have to stay," Wilson said.

"I know," House replied simply.

[cozymoko]

MOTHERLY READER HCS (FT. SIYUN BAEK)

Synopsis: Siyun Baek growing up with a motherly "obsession". ♡

Pairing: Siyun Baek x female! reader

Format: Headcanons

WARNING(S): Yandere themes, obsession, mild spoilers

Word Count: 1.7k

IN MIDDLE SCHOOL, the two of you were very popular amongst your peers. Siyun for his good looks and charisma; and you for your kind, nurturing attitude that could make anyone swoon. Siyun was no exception.

Your kindness drew him in like a bee, mindlessly chasing sweet nectar constantly, persistently even. Oh dear, can you blame him? It was a thing he was so selfishly robbed of by his own “loving” parents. Something you seemed to have a lot of for even those who don’t deserve it.

It was Love.

Only his closest friends knew of his slight “crush” on you and it came as no surprise. You were loved unconditionally by those in your year, platonically and romantically. You were sweet, and optimistic, and wore your heart on your sleeve for anyone to see. What wasn’t there to like?

Alas, getting close to you was the issue. When you weren’t crowded by students, he was. When you were by yourself and peaceful, he wasn’t. When he finally had free time his nerves were practically eating him alive, causing him to shy away from any attempt to speak with you.

However, giving up wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t allow it.

Naturally, you were chosen as class rep, leaving you to tend to all classroom affairs. Which was quite laborious for just one person. Your teacher, taking note of your troubles, finally gave you a hand. (By making one of your classmates help you.)

“Baek Siyun, help {Name} deliver these to the faculty office.”

You snorted. Not what I had in mind but I'm not complaining.

The walk from homeroom to the facility office was a lengthy difference away. Finding the tense silence to be a bit uncomfortable, you decide to make conversation with your popular senior.

“It's been a while since we've spoken, Baek Siyun; how are you?” You smiled, gazing fondly at your classmate. “You're much quieter than usual, are you sure you're eating properly?”

It was true that you’d never had an actual conversation with the boy, but nonetheless, you remembered his name. It was impossible to forget when everyone in your year was practically enamored with him, though you could clearly see why. So as one does, you strike up a conversation with him.

However, you had not expected that to kickstart such a wonderful beginning.

TWO MONTHS LATER...he asked you out in front of the school at that. In his hand was a bouquet of colorful peonies wrapped in fluorescent papers, with a gigantic teddy bear hooked safely beneath his unoccupied arm. A soft pink painted his skin as he patiently awaited your response. He looked so bashful and sweet that it was almost adorable.

How the fuck could you ever reject that?

Siyun had never been one to stay in one place, in his unloving home nonetheless. Most of his nights were spent at your house, with no call or even a text from his parents on a normal day. Fortunately, your parents were wealthy enough to host the two of you on most days.

You pat his head, motioning towards the clock, flashing [18:27]. Much too late for him to be here, in your house, suffocating you. His childish whines interrupted your thoughts, tickling your skin as he made no real effort to move. He peered at you through thick lashes and you swore you could see hearts in his pale eyes. You sighed, “Figures.”

You were aware of his situation but you never expected him to run away, without contacting you at that. You were devastated, searching every perimeter of his neighborhood. Up, Down, Over, and Under: No matter where you looked, Siyun was nowhere in sight.

Exact at the park down the street from your goddamn house.

“Hey, Siyoon-Ah, where have you been?” You huffed, resting your hands amidst the tempting curve of your hips. You looked as if you wanted to scold him. Yell at the top of your lungs until your throat grows raw, harsh breaths wracking your body. Unbeknownst to you, that's exactly what he wanted.

IN HIGHSCHOOL...you decided to keep your relationship a secret to Siyun’s dismay, but only to maintain his career! It's not like you wanted him to be surrounded by so many girls, vying for his attention. You hated it! Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him that.

“Baby, why are you ignoring me~?” Siyun whined into your chest, his sharp eyes peeking at you through heavily tinted sunglasses.

He had grown much clingier in the time you spent together but given his situation you expected nothing less.

“Was I? I’m sorry, I was just thinking…That’s all.” You weren’t lying but something about your actions gave it away. You had been staring at a random group of girls who you’d recognized from your class, watching them with a bitter expression.

“As much as I enjoy your jealousy, I’d rather see you smile.” He cooed, gently kissing your lips. “I’ll quit being an idol if that’s what you want. I don't mind us being public.”

“Siyun, no!”

In public he never referred to you formally, however, you did. You wished to keep this act up when he could give two fucks about it. Hearing you refer to him in polite speech made him was to bite you, (the fuck) considering you were already past that stage already.

But considering the two of you were attached at the hip, some of your peers had begun to suspect some things; (insert names), specifically. (insert name) had been vying for your attention since you first arrived at that school and you weren’t having it. Seeing the way he treated his fans made you a bit uncomfortable; his arrogance didn't excite you.

He was a polar opposite of your boyfriend and you weren't very interested in speaking with him.

“Sorry Kang Na-Hyuk Sunbae, but I'm already interested in someone. I cannot return your feelings.”

You give him a strained smile, lightly swaying on the balls of your feet. You watch his hand coil into tight fists

“Who is it—?”

“[Name]!” You visibly perk up at the sound of your name, turning to the direction of the culprit.

“Baek Siyun, hi!” Before you knew it you were at his side, ignoring how the idol's gaze lingered on the man just a distance away.

That's when it clicked.

You were romantically involved with Siyun Baek.

Then the rumors started, spreading around the school like a wildfire, tearing down. His reputation in a matter of seconds. It made you sick, being subjected to appalling rumors about your lover, behind his back nevertheless. Watching everyone turn their back on their favorite idol over a few lies. 

But you stayed by his side.

“Look at [Last Name], she's too sweet for her own good, hanging out with someone like him.”

“Right, hasn't she heard that he's violent? Poor girl.”

“Maybe we should talk her out of this, it's too dangerous!”

You payed them no mind as though they slipped in one ear and out the other.

The idol world was a very shady place filled with assholes and weirdos all around it. Your mind had led you to believe this was the doing of a certain brunette, and you weren't too far off.

Despite how calm he looked on the outside, his facade was crumbling. Siyun had lost his temper countless times, fueling the pointless drama swarming the media. Yet, you didn't turn on him. You comforted him as you always did.

Siyun had begun to cave into your affection. He craved you, his only real source of support. Even when those around him looked down upon him, you had not. You gently stroked his ashen locs, hugging him close in a secluded area of the school.

All he needed was you.

HIS ACCIDENT left you heartbroken and you could hardly contain yourself at word of it. Your feet carried you long and far to the hospital that had been hosting him, as you drowned out the faint shouts of your parents behind you.

You knew what Kang Na-Hyuk had done and you couldn't help but think you were at fault. Were you not careful enough with your actions? Did your rejection have something to do with this? How badly was he hurt?

Regardless, you couldn't help but blame yourself. One of the sweetest (and craziest) boys you've ever met was in the hospital and you couldn't do anything to stop it.

“Please show me Baek Siyun's room!” A soft pink dusted your cheekbones at your volume, but you did your best to ignore it.

Your feet carried you down the cold hallways, aching and fatigued. You could hardly remember the last time you ran so fast. You burst through the door, halting the conversation being held within it.

“Out!” You huffed, leaning on the door. “Get the fuck out, all of you!”

Siyun sat there wide-eyed at your outburst, you were never one to curse but you could hardly help yourself. You approached his bed, gently grazing his chilled skin with sorrowful eyes. Even then all you could do was apologize, apologies for something you took no part in.

“How cute~ What are you apologizing for? You didn't do this to me.” A warm feeling bloomed in his chest at your arrival. He never realized just how much he missed you.

“Well...I—Hey!” You shouted, “Siyun-Ah, what're you—?!”

You were so sweet he swore he could just eat you up!

Siyun buried his head between your breasts. His slim fingers grip your sides, leaving deep crescent moons in his wake. He bit his lip, nearly enough to draw blood as he refused to meet your curious gaze. The sporadic drumming in his chest left him flushed, huffing out rushed breaths every second.

He smiled, Maybe this isn't all that bad.

Sure having his idol friends was fun. He wanted them by his side. But eh what's the point? Having his girlfriend coddle him was way more up his alley anyways. You were much more enjoyable to be around than all of them combined.

And at least you'll be here forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and EVeR and EvEr and EveR and EVER!

[angryschnauzer]

In Need Of Help

Summary: Whilst visitng your parents for the holidays you find a present your roommate gave you, a buttplug. Unfortunately for you it gets stuck and there’s only one person you can ask for help; your parents next door neighbour and your dads best friend; August Walker

Pairing: Dads Best Friend August Walker x Female Reader (Slight age difference approx 8 years)

Fandom: Henry Cavill, Mission Impossible: Fallout.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Smut, Age Gap Relationship, Sex Toys, Butt Plug, Butt Plug getting stuck, fingering, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie

Wordcount: 3333

Here is my masterlist and AO3

 I do not run a tag list, instead please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications, you’ll then get an alert each time i post something new. My AO3 also has my entire back catalogue of stories (going back to 2013).

In Need Of Help

This is not the predicament you had been expecting to find yourself in when you’d made plans to spend Christmas with your parents in the suburbs. The worst thing you could have imagined happening would have been your much younger siblings causing bruises as they excitedly climbed on you - their big sister - instead you found yourself with your phone in your hand, scrolling through your contacts from high school to figure out who you could call as this was a problem you couldn’t fix on your own and was certainly not one you could ask your parents with.

When your best friend handed you your Christmas gift before you’d left, she had a shit eating grin on her face and simply said ‘don’t open it in front of your family’. It was only when you’d been sorting through your bag towards the end of your stay you’d found the forgotten gift and unwrapped it, almost dropping it when you saw the silver plug shining in the discrete velvet box, a small package of lube tucked in next to it. A note in your friend’s handwriting was tucked into the lid; ‘you need to open your horizons’. 

“Yeah, we’ll I've got to open my asshole first it would seem” you muttered to yourself, your thoughts interrupted by your Mom as she called up to you.

“We’re going now, enjoy the peace and quiet!”

That had been an hour ago, and now as your parents had taken your younger siblings to their post Christmas gymnastics lesson you’d stayed home, and after a restless half hour of attempting to read or enjoy your other seasonal gifts, you’d found yourself in your bedroom with the plug. You were horny. The walls of your parents' home were thin, so you hadn’t had a chance to use the small vibrator you’d optimistically packed, and had settled down with your kindle and some of the spicy titles you’d downloaded. A brief moment of misplaced confidence and that was how you found yourself in your predicament; the plug was stuck. 

At first you’d enjoyed the sensation, having gone slowly with a small amount of lube, but you’d shifted on the bed to get more comfortable but it’d had the opposite effect. Deciding it was time to remove it you’d stretched, twisted and tried, but no matter what you attempted your ass was not giving up its new decoration. 

So this is where you were, in need of help. Shutting your phone down you sighed, not a single one of your local contacts was someone who you’d feel comfortable approaching with such a matter, those that had stayed in town seemed the most vanilla type of people possible. You couldn’t even call your best friend as you knew she was on duty as a flight attendant, probably somewhere 40,000ft in the air right at this moment. Standing in your room you glanced out of the window and a thought came to you. Chewing on your lip you considered your options, before pulling your woollen socks further up your legs so your knitted dress covered the tops of them, sliding on your boots and making your way out of the house.

-

Your parents had conceived you early, whilst they were in high school, and against the odds had made a teen pregnancy work. Married fresh out of high school they had taken turns to go to local community college whilst raising a small child, only expanding their family once you headed off to college, and now you had twin sisters who were almost a generation younger than you. It also meant that the ages of your friends and the ages of your parents' friends would intersect in the middle. One friend in particular of your parents was their next door neighbour, August Walker. 

Mr Walker, or August as he’d insisted you’d call him, was smack bang in the middle of the age bracket between you and your parents, and although your father’s friend, he was known to throw a wink at you now and again when your parents weren’t looking. When you’d visited for 4th of July you’d be bending over in a short sundress to unload the dishwasher, when you’d turned around and saw him paused at the door to the kitchen. A smirk and a wink, he’d started to approach you when your Dad had called out to you, and with another wink he’d discretely adjusted himself before disappearing back to the party.

As you crossed the short path between houses you did your best not to slip over on the snow, the last thing you needed to happen was to fall on your ass, especially considering your current ass-based issue.

When he opened the door he briefly looked surprised, before a small smile crossed his face;

“Hi, what can I do for you?”

Shivering on the doorstep you hugged yourself tightly, your shivering more from nerves than the cold;

“Umm… can I come in, please?”

-

Ten minutes later you were stood beside the sleek marble kitchen island, August pushing a strong drink across the counter for you to take;

“Thanks”

Rather than staying on the opposite side of the island, August circled around with his glass of whiskey before he stood in front of you. Placing his glass on the counter he rested both of his hands on your upper arms, softly rubbing as he spoke;

“Thank you for coming to me with this. You’re a beautiful girl and i wouldn’t want anything to happen to you”

“August, I’m not a girl, I’m 25” you corrected, slightly annoyed that he called you a girl; “And currently have a buttplug stuck in my ass”

“And we’ll get that sorted. Lots of first times can be embarrassing or tricky”

“It’s not my ‘first time’, i’ve fucked before”

He hooked his finger beneath your chin, guiding your head slightly so you could meet his intense gaze;

“I don’t doubt that, I meant the first time with something in your ass” he said with a slight chuckle.

“So umm… how are we… Are you going to do this? Should I just bend over or…?”

Wrapping his arms around you he pulled you to his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of your head;

“Oh Princess, no. No we’re not. You need to relax, as you’re no doubt wound so tight right about now that nothing is gonna go in or out of that ass”

You let out a sigh, inhaling his aftershave as your face was pressed to his chest, the soft knit shirt warm and comforting. After a few moments you pushed back and looked August in the face, for the first time noticing how his left eye had a little patch of brown in the iris among the icy blue. You were lost in your own mind when you realised he’d been saying something;

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, let's get started”

He slipped his hand into yours but you didn’t make a move;

“How are we going to do this?”

He sighed before stepping back towards you;

“Believe it or not Princess, this isn’t my first rodeo with a lovely young lady being a little over confident with their butt. First and foremost you need to relax, and i don’t mean mentally, i mean physically. You need to relax all your pelvic muscles…”

“Ok…”

“And the easiest way to do that is arousal”

You paused, taking in the reality of what you were about to do

“I see. And you’ll…”

“Help. In any way you need me to”

-

August had led you through his house to his bedroom which was exactly as you’d been expecting; simple dark tones, dark bedding, low lighting. The windows overlooked the wooded shore of the lake, the opposite direction from your parents house. The sense of privacy was comforting, and yet as August shut the door you felt a sense that you were way out of your depth. Crossing the room he stood in front of you, again resting his palms on your upper arms;

“So, what would you like?”

Taking a deep breath you could feel your voice waiver a little;

“I want you to take charge please, August”

He let out an appreciative hum before hooking his knuckle beneath your chin to turn your face to him before kissing you. What started as a small gentle touch of his lips soon developed into more, and before long your arms were around his shoulders as his tongue pushed into your mouth, tasting you as you were pliable in his grasp. He slowly pulled at your sweater dress until it was at your chest, breaking the kiss;

“Lift your arms Princess”

Doing as he told you, he lifted the garment all the way off, taking a moment to appreciate the way your bra cupped your breasts.His gaze travelled further down and smiled at the Christmas print cotton thong;

“Mmm, turn around” he instructed, his voice low

Slowly turning, your socks smooth on the thick pile carpet of his bedroom, when your ass was facing him he rested a hand on your shoulder;

“Hands on the bed”

Leaning forwards a little you set your palms onto the black comforter that was neatly folded on the high bed. You felt as he held your buttocks in his massive hands, warming the skin with his palms before pulling your cheeks apart a little and letting out a long slow breath;

“Now that is one of the prettiest sights i’ve seen”

You let out a small squeak as his hand slid between your legs, his thumb barely grazing against the plug as his fingers worked between your folds, grunting as he found you already soaked. Tenderly his fingers explored your folds, his other hand wrapping around your torso and pulled you up to stand, cupping your chin to turn your head so he could kiss you as his fingers worked between your thighs.

As his fingers pushed further you broke the kiss, panting out as you instinctively rose up onto your toes, your back supported against August’s chest.

“Such a good girl, so wet and tight, your pussy is begging for another finger, isn’t it?”

“Yes August, please”

With another low hum of appreciation he shifted his hand to allow a second finger slide into your eager hole, his breath hot on your face as he worked your body until you were rocking against his hand, eager for release. Your sighs and moans were an easy indication that you were close.

“It’s time to cum Princess, cum for me”

Your mouth fell into a silent O as you came, your hands clinging to August’s strong forearm that sat across your torso, your body shaking as he held you tight and let you ride out your orgasm on his hand. 

Eventually he pulled his hand away, and as you turned slightly you watched as he sucked two fingers into his mouth, sucking your slick juices from them;

“Delicious. Now, on the bed, on your hands and knees”

He swatted a light slap on your ass, to which you let out a little yelp before you did as he asked, settling on the high bed, your ass towards him.

“Now, let's have a good look here” he muttered to himself, smoothing his palms over your cheeks to pull them apart and take a look at the prize between them. Hooking your thong panties to one side he tenderly ran his finger through your folds and up to your ass, around the jewelled flared base before grasping it and giving it a little tug.

“Hmm, still tightly in there. How much lube did you use?”

“Just… Just a little bit”

He sucked in air through his teeth;

“Tut tut tut, No, with anything butt related you use a ton of lube. Copious amounts, it needs to be wetter than a slip and slide in a thunderstorm. Stay there.”

You heard him moving around the room before quickly returning to you, his warm hand on your ass again, this time carefully pulling your panties down until they sat around your thighs. The soft click of a capped bottle broke the silence before you felt a cold drip of something viscous land on your ass near to the plug, soon followed by the warm touch of his finger spreading the lube around the base of the plug;

“We’ll need to work the lube in around your little decoration Princess. No no, I can feel you tensing up again, relax…”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one with something stuck in your ass”

“How do you know I haven't?”

You whipped your head around in shock, only to be greeted with August’s now tell tale smirk. Narrowing your gaze you glared at him;

“Kinky”

“Yup. Now get back into position”

He pressed a hand to your shoulder blades, pushing you down until your chest was resting on the comforter;

“Time to get you relaxed again”

With your vision now obscured you could only feel what he was doing, the soft furnishings muting his movements, so you were shocked when you felt something warm and wet slide through your folds, followed by the rough brush of facial hair against your labia;

“Oh oooh god”

August set off at a brisk pace, his tongue working against your cunt to the point you barely noticed his fingers working around the plug, only realising something was amiss when you felt the definite stretch of a finger sliding in alongside the plug. The movement was a foreign feeling, but as his tongue delved further into your soaked hole you started to enjoy the feeling, your moans and sighs increasing until you could feel the start of an orgasm building in the pit of your stomach;

“Please… please, so good, more… please August…”

He didn’t reply, one hand now firmly gripped on your hip whilst the other worked at the plug, his mouth all but buried in your pussy until you came with a cry of his name, shuddering as your body was rocked with a strong orgasm, cumming on his face until you slumped forwards and lay twitching on the soft covers of his bed.

As the world came back into focus you saw August moving at the foot of the bed, a soft cloth in his hand before he pressed it to your buttocks;

“Sorry, there was a bit more lube than we needed”

It took a couple of seconds to register, but when it did your eyes went wide and you stretched a hand to your ass, only to find the unwanted decoration now missing from its prison;

“You got the plug out!”

“Hmmm mmm” he hummed, looking down at you as your hands explored your naked below the waist body, running his own hand over the obscene bulge now in his pants. In a moment of confidence you moved forward, resting carefully on the edge of the bed before reaching a hand out to palm over the bulge alongside his own much larger hand;

“I should thank you for your help” you said coyly, looking up through your lashes as you moved to tug the zipper down. 

August cupped your chin;

“Do you think you can handle me? You ever been with an older man?”

“Dude, you’re seven years old, eight at most depending on what month”

He just smirked at your response, instead picking you up and softly tossing you on to his bed;

“Lets apart, I want to see that pussy”

You did as he asked as he stripped, and you were transfixed by his body. Thick with muscle his chest was covered in a thick layer of hair that ran down to his stomach and dick. Speaking of which he was rock hard and girthy, patterned with veins. You licked your lips as you watched him roll a condom down before climbing into the bed.

He kissed his way up your body before settling between your thighs, pressing a kiss to your lips before he suddenly turned the pair of you so you were on top and straddling his stomach;

“You’re gonna show me just how much of a big girl you are Princess, I’m gonna let you ride me, see how much of me you can take”

“You want me to…?! Oh god…”

Pushing yourself up on your knees you took a deep breath and looked down at the monster standing proud beneath you. Reaching out to hold it you positioned him at your entrance before pushing down, feeling him breach your body. Resting the palms of your hands on his stomach you shut your eyes and rocked up and down a little, easing your way a little further each time until you heard him grunt;

“Doing well Princess”

In a moment of bravery - or perhaps stupidity - you rose and then fell all the way, taking him as deep as you could. Both of you let out curse words as your bodies grew accustomed to the size and tightness, trembling as you urged your body to relax until you were confident enough to start rocking your hips just a little.

“You’re so big August…” you praised, riding him with your eyes closed so you could focus on the stretch and pull every time. 

He didn’t respond, and when you opened your eyes you saw his were wide open, jaw slack as he watched where your bodies were joined;

“Your cunt looks so perfect stretching around me. I know you’re struggling to take me, you can do it… ride me Princess”

With renewed vigour and confidence you rode him like he was a pony ride at your 10th birthday, grinding your hips down so your clit rubbed against the root of his shaft, bringing you closer to another orgasm. You felt his hand grip your thighs then hips, pulling you down to meet his upwards thrusts and you could tell he was getting close. You quickly moved your hand to your pussy, rubbing your clit;

“Cum for me August, let me feel you inside me. You needn’t have worn the condom, i’m on the pill and tested…”

He suddenly pushed you up, pulling the condom off and tossing it aside before pulling you straight back down again onto his cock. The groan you both let out as you felt skin on skin filled the room;

“Oh fuck, i’m gonna cum, your cunt feels too good”

Your orgasm surged through you as you felt August filling you with his creamy seed, pumping you full as you trembled around him.  As your throes of passion subsided you collapsed on his chest, sated and full.

-

“It was so good of you to show my girl how to stop that hacker getting into her phone” you Dad said, clapping a hand over August’s shoulder as he stood in your parents kitchen. 

After what had happened you’d had to think of an excuse as your parents had seen you crossing the snowy lawn to which you’d had to come up with something quick as an excuse. That was how you found yourself standing in your parents kitchen listen to August make up a very plausible scenario, whilst his cum slowly dripped down your inner thigh.

“Hey, did she tell you she got a paid internship?” your Dad’s question to August pulled you out of your daze.

“No, where is that then?” August asked animatedly

“Some big law firm in the city”

“Oh really?”

“Where was it sweetie?” your Dad pushed

“Syverson, Marshall & Walker Associates”

“Ohhh really…” August nodded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth

Your Dad missed the expression on August’s face, wrapping his arm around your shoulders;

“Yup, my little girl is all grown up now, playing with the big boys”

August smiled;

“Sounds like a dream come true”

You were completely unaware of just who your bosses come Monday would be.

[power-chords]

My folks and I have been reading some of the literature on COVID/Bipolar I and they seem to suspect — and I’m inclined to agree with them — that what I thought was “long COVID” after my second bout with the virus may have in fact been my first recognizable depressive episode. Most of my symptoms overlapped with the depressive phase of Bipolar I, so disentangling the two is probably impossible in retrospect, but for many many months I was behaving in ways that are completely uncharacteristic of my personality: I was exhausted, unmotivated, and even more inattentive than my ADHD makes me ordinarily; I was uninterested in things that give me great pleasure, like going to shows and creative writing; I had brain fog so bad it was an uphill battle doing things that otherwise come quite easily to me, like communicating verbally and expressing myself with clarity and precision. Gradually these symptoms subsided, and I became even more productive and social than usual, which may very well have been a protracted hypomanic phase. I caught COVID again earlier this year, and by the start of July I was spiraling into full blown mania, prone to intense emotional states like expansive rapturous joy and crying jags at the drop of a hat. Music, theater, and reading fiction felt almost unbearably moving and profound. I was writing like crazy, and pretty soon afterward I was acting crazy, too, with racing thoughts and speech, disturbed sleep, and thoughts/ideas that were growing progressively more disordered and paranoid.

I prefer the term “manic depression,” though some consider it antiquated/offensive, because to me it most accurately describes my experience. But by my 36th birthday my new shrink had diagnosed me with full blown Bipolar I. I’m much better now with several weeks of a mood stabilizer under my belt, and this past weekend we went with the “nuclear option,” I.E. a four-day course of high dose antipsychotics. I was miserable from the extrapyramidal side effects, and had to take Xanax throughout in order to tolerate the akathisia and restless leg syndrome. But thank god, it snapped me right out of it, and knock on wood I’m back to my old self — with a little luck, I’ll have another 15 years symptom-free, or with just low grade hypomanic/depressive states that are so mild as to feel like ordinary, subclinical mood swings.

What I’m struggling with is the feeling that I’ve been handed a label sticker that amounts to crippling disability at best, and an early death sentence at worst. I will probably always have to keep these incredibly powerful drugs with their rotten side effect profile on hand, and may one day need to take them consistently, if I wind up having future severe episodes. To have to choose between Shitty and Shittier over a dangerous brain disease feels like I’ve been dealt the world’s worst genetic hand, and that bums me out a lot. I know it’s not my fault, but seeing the agony I’ve put my parents through is the worst part. Figuring out how to manage this is going to be a lifelong struggle against my own lousy biology, and that sucks. I’m trying to stay optimistic. It’s been really, really hard.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

I've always loved the Steddie SpideyPool pairing, but after DP3, I'd like to suggest Eddie as Deadpool and Steve as a very messed up Wolverine.

Steve who had hard time coping with failing his chosen family and the punishment of not being able to die and join them. It wouldn't be the X-Men characters, but the whole gang of his kids and friends who took up being heroes to protect their world. Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Max, Lucas...all gone.

So Steve survives on alcohol and moments of self-pity and rage. Sometimes he tries to see if maybe his healing factor got up and left, but no. Still there.

Enter Eddie as Deadpool. He tried dating Chrissy, but they ended up breaking up after she got targeted. He is trying to make a honest living, but fuck, it's hard. Then the TVA thing happens, Eddie panics, brings in a replacement Wolverine who just happens to be Steve.

The movie happens sort of the same way.

And then Eddie drags Steve home and Steve just breaks down. Because in this world, his kids and friends are fine. They are alive. They never got into the hero business, Robin tends to the merc bar that Eddie used to frequent. Dustin tried to join Eddie's temporary group X-Force (yes, he's their Peter), Mike is Eddie's former getaway taxi driver. El ended up in the X-Men and she is mentored by Hopper, but she's safe and thriving.

It's when they're all sitting at Eddie's shabby desk with Wayne and everyone that Eddie and Steve stop bickering. It's the very moment that Max mentions that superheroes aren't as lame as she used to think and she might try becoming one.

The joint "OVER MY DEAD BODY' sounds almost rehearsed. The disjointed rant about why this is such a bad idea doesn't, but everyone's eyeing them with suspicion.

When Eddie reminds everyone to be safe on their way home ("or I'll always order pizza with pineapple for the next DnD, I swear it, Wheeler, you'll wish you weren't born in this century!"), and Steve nods behind him, Max scoffs. "We get it. Go kiss your new crush and don't worry for a minute, yeah?"

It takes Eddie several minutes to register what she said, but by then she's gone.

"A crush?" he spits out. "Unacceptable!"

Steve just stares at him.

"I mean, we saved the world together. That makes us so much more. Right, boyfriend?"

Steve still stares at him, but hey, Eddie's an optimist. What else can Steve do than stab him (been there), slash him (done that), dismember him (they'll get there one day), or break his heart? Maybe the last one.

"Boyfriend, huh?" asks Steve, and his claws stay in for now.

Eddie feels brave and puts his hands on Steve's shoulders. "My calendar and heart are free. So what do you say, baby?"

"That depends."

Eddie still isn't stabbed. "On?"

And fuck, it seemed impossible, but it's there. Steve smiles at him. "On whether kissing you shuts you up."

Laughing, Eddie pulls him closer. "Why don't you find out, big boy?"

[humbledragon669]

Lockdown Episode Write Up P2 – dialogue

Introduction

I don’t think there’s much linking the dialogue with the images (apart from the cake sequence), so I’ve broken this write-up down into tableaus and dialogue, because there are just as many Easter eggs (maybe more) to be had from the tableaus as there are from the script. This part of the write-up will address just the dialogue, with the tableaus addressed in a separate write-up. Right, housekeeping done, let’s get stuck in shall we?

Dialogue

So Crowley picks up on the second ring, sounding very irritated. Considering he’s about to tell Aziraphale how bored he is, you’d think he might actually be relieved about the prospect of somebody calling him. And poor Aziraphale; the brusque greeting clearly puts him off, presumably because he was hoping for a more enthusiastic response, particularly given that Crowley openly tells the angel he knows that it was him calling in the first place.

AZIRAPHALE: Uh… Hello. It’s me! CROWLEY: I know it’s you, Aziraphale.

My thoughts about this exchange? I strongly suspect Aziraphale is the only one that ever calls Crowley. Not only that, I think he’s probably calling the demon multiple times a day at this point. I mean, think about it – neither of them work for their respective agencies anymore. For the first time in 6000 years they can be open about their friendship, no more hiding. And for the first time in those 6000 years something other than Heaven or Hell is making it impossible for them to see each other. I know, they really could have formed a “bubble”, or just ignored the rules completely, given their otherworldly status, but they didn’t because don’t forget – this is a PSA film at heart. Everybody had to STAY AT HOME. Besides, it makes it so much more angsty if they can’t be within physical proximity to one another during this time.

AZIRAPHALE: Just calling to see how you were doing in Lockdown.

Aziraphale actually says makes it sound like this is either the first time the angel has spoken to Crowley during Lockdown (which had been going on for almost two months by the time this minisode was released), or that they don’t speak very often. Personally, I don’t buy this, not least because the demon openly says he’s incredibly bored. And what does Crowley like to do best when he’s bored? Hang out with Aziraphale. Be his personal nuisance.

CROWLEY: I’ve decided that if I can’t think of anything to do within the next two days, I’m going to have a nap and I’ll set the alarm clock for June.

I *think* this is the first time we have confirmation that he does sleep, at least as far as the show is concerned (I’m not counting cut/missing bits from the Script Book, or from the original book). There’s also proof here that he’s actually an optimist, despite his efforts to convince the world at large otherwise – he’s convinced that everything will be back to normal by June. Interestingly, the UK’s really strict national regulations had actually been eased by the time the minisode was released, allowing those who could not work from home to return to work (yeah, we didn’t really know what that meant either, considering those of us who were classed as key workers never stopped going to the workplace), but June was still a very optimistic estimate – whilst restrictions were eased as we went into July, local governments were given the authority to impose local lockdowns where necessary. And boy, did they.

AZIRAPHALE: Oughtn’t you to be out and about doing things?

It's interesting to hear Aziraphale actually encouraging Crowley to be more demon-like. And he doesn’t just encourage, he gives him very appropriate suggestions for things he could be doing to fulfil his demonly duties. To my mind, it suggests his preference for Crowley in a demonic state. Or it could be an opportunity to emphasise the STAY AT HOME message, seeing as (for once) Crowley seems keen to stick to the rules. Take your pick. I know which one I prefer. Either way, there are two pieces of information here that I find noteworthy – firstly, confirmation that Crowley can’t get sick because he’s a demon. I think it’s interesting what human weaknesses the angel and demon are susceptible to, and which not. Alcohol, for instance, albeit in larger quantities than a human could imbibe, has the same effect on their human bodies as it does to humans. Illness and disease on the other hand, it would seem not. Laudanum, as we see in series 2, has an entirely different effect on Crowley than it would do to an ordinary human, but Hastur informs us that ordinary fire would easily discorporate a demon. Makes me wonder if the effect that a Heavenly or Hellish being has on its hosting body is one to do with constitution – where the body has an increased resistance to toxic substances but is unaffected in its ability to deal with trauma.

The second piece of information in this little plea from Aziraphale is that he says Crowley still has a job to do. Which, given the outcome of season 1, he doesn’t. I don’t think it was made blatantly obvious that neither of them report to their respective agencies anymore, so perhaps this is just a slip of the pen, so to speak. It might have been a bit more difficult to slip in this blatant reminder to people that leaving home was a BAD thing to do and that staying at home was the GOOD thing to do otherwise, and this little speech is very clear about listing certain things that were being actively discouraged at the time.

CROWLEY: I could do that. I mean I could… but if I did then… well…people might follow my bad example and get ill. Or even die.

Crowley’s response is… less than enthusiastic. It’s funny to hear him say that people might follow his bad example – surely that’s exactly what he’s been contracted to do for thousands of years? But again, I am forgetting – the whole point of this piece of media is to remind them why we should all just STAY AT HOME. So, with that reminder, let’s look a little more about Crowley’s actual feelings on the subject, shall we?

CROWLEY: I know I ought to be making people’s lives even worse but everyone’s so miserable cooped up right now anyway I just… don’t have the heart for it.

And therein lies the problem for Crowley and his existence as a demon – he actually doesn’t like to make people miserable. He loves to cause mischief and make trouble, but not with the sole intention to bring misery into people’s lives. Ultimately, he’s just too soft at heart to be a very good demon, which David himself has described beautifully.

AZIRAPHALE: I’m not miserable. CROWLEY: Really?

I really love this little exchange. Crowley sounds genuinely shocked that Aziraphale is so certain in his proclamation that he’s not miserable. And it’s hardly surprising really – I strongly suspect the reason that Crowley is feeling so down in the dumps is because he’s not getting a regular fix of his angel, so it stands to reason that he would expect Aziraphale to feel the same way. He’s probably had a little bit of his heart broken to hear that his angel is seemingly coping without him so well. It’s a good thing we go on to hear that basically the reason why Aziraphale is so happy at this time is because he’s not getting any customers in with the threat of trying to buy one of his books, although the angel’s speech does present the writer with another opportunity to remind us of our obligations at the time – social distancing and STAYING AT HOME.

You have to be paying attention, but Crowley doesn’t seem too pleased with the idea that Aziraphale might have needed rescuing from some errant youths that he wasn’t able to help with; there’s a quiet groan from him when he hears the retelling of the story. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think there was some sort of double entendre going on here with Aziraphale’s tease of there being “a few young lads” who “broke in through the back”, so that groan could actually be one of relief rather than frustration. What is interesting is that Crowley openly mocks the only potential rescue scenarios that Aziraphale would have had available to him – he’s obviously smarting that he didn’t get to be the white knight for once.

CROWLEY: Did you smite them with your wrath?

I’d be very interested to know if the script had been finished and handed to David and Michael at this time, because that particular line feels like a very obvious reference to the smited/smote/smitten exchange. And if the reference is a genuine one, my double entendre idea doesn’t seem so outrageous, given Crowley’s tone – could he be a little bit jealous?

What now follows is the only time that the images in the minisode link directly with the dialogue going on at the time, and they’re all to do with cake. Trigger warning, what follows is a lot of pictures of cake. If, like me, you are inclined to go out and buy cake as soon as you see a picture of one, I would suggest you look away now.

What I love about Crowley’s reception of the knowledge that Aziraphale sent the little vandals away with cake is that he uses the same expression that Anathema uses when she asks about the name of Newt’s car.

CROWLEY: I’m going to regret asking…

His tone shows just what he thinks of the angel’s method for rescuing himself. And if you consider Aziraphale’s tale to be a truthful account of what took place, it does seem odd - that somebody could just have a little chat with some wannabe robbers to change their minds, and then send them away with some excess cake. There is however a missing scene in the Script Book where several thugs enter the bookshop and start to make a mess in an attempt to get Aziraphale to sell the land the shop sits on. In a somewhat “miraculous” turn of events (see what I did there?), they change their mind, clear up the mess they made, and leave without a fuss. I suspect the same sort of turn of events occurred to the lads that turned up to steal the cash box.

AZIRAPHALE: It turns out I have a whole cookbook section here in the bookshop.

I love this idea, that the bookshop is so sprawling and diverse that even Aziraphale doesn’t know what it contains, despite the fact that he must have stocked it in the first place. And I love it because that’s the how every second-hand bookshop feels to me. I’ve spent my fair share of time in Hay-on-Wye and its multitude of bookshops, and I genuinely feel like I could get lost in some of them. There are another couple of lines from Aziraphale that suggests that he does not think it possible to eat anything unless it comes from an eatery.

AZIRAPHALE: Well all the restaurants and cafes are closed […] and I got peckish.

Because he couldn’t just go to the supermarket and buy some cake, could he? Like the rest of us were doing (and were allowed to do). He even goes on to say that he had to miracle the cherries in for one of his creations – quite why it was only the cherries he miracled in I don’t know, I mean he must have gotten the rest of the ingredients from somewhere. Which leads me on to another question – where is the kitchen in the bookshop? There must be some facilities somewhere, otherwise he couldn’t make all of those delightful looking goodies. He’s got to have a kettle or a stove for boiling water/milk at the very least for making his cocoa, so where is all that stuff?

Aziraphale then goes on to reel off a list of cakes that he’s made (another nod to the domestic activities that were going on up and down the country – for those not based in the UK, you might not know that during Lockdown it was virtually impossible to get hold of flour or eggs, largely owing to the huge increase in home baking people did), which includes angel’s food cake (you could argue that all of the cakes he makes is angel’s food cake, hahah. Hah. I’ll get my coat). I don’t know whether it’s interesting, whether it’s an oversight, or whether it’s deliberate, but there’s no devil’s food cake on the list that he gives. I’ve made and eaten devil’s food cake before. It’s awesome. I don’t think that he wouldn’t have made this particular recipe because of its lack of deliciousness. I actually wonder whether its absence is an indicator of Crowley’s eating preferences (and as a reminder, I’m someone who is of the mind that he doesn’t enjoy eating – more on this shortly).

 AZIRAPHALE: And then, once I’ve baked them, I have to eat them all myself.

This line makes me properly snort with laughter, because he simultaneously manages to make it sounds like eating all the cake is something he definitely doesn’t want to do whilst also expressing sorrow that he has no-one around to eat them in front of with. The idea that this angel would ever not want to eat food is laughable. Crowley takes the bait on the sub-text though, employing some his tried and tested temptation techniques to try to get what he wants.

CROWLEY: I could hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle of- a case of something… drinkable?

This is my favourite line of the whole thing. The throwaway reference to his serpent form is delightful, and who’s to say he wouldn’t transform for his trip over to Soho to avoid being stopped by humans? There’s  the idea that he would very much like to get drunk with Aziraphale again, and this time without an impending Armageddon to spoil the mood, and with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be going home at the end of their binge. But most of all there’s that line about the cake. He doesn’t say he can help Aziraphale eat the cake – he says he can come and watch the angel eat it. Which would not only go some way to confirming my suspicions that he doesn’t like to eat but would also help to cement the popular theory that watching Aziraphale eat is a pleasurable experience for him. The whole line is said with such longing too, it’s impossible not to hear it.

AZIRAPHALE: I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules.

If you listen carefully to Aziraphale’s rejection of Crowley’s (quite frankly, adorable) suggestion, you can hear another little bit of the demon’s heart breaking with disappointment. I suppose he probably shouldn’t be surprised that his request of Aziraphale to go against protocol wouldn’t have gone down well and besides we were all supposed to STAY AT HOME, remember? What sort of a PSA film would this be if people just went around to other people’s houses for some flirting nookie company when there was a Lockdown in place?

AZIRAPHALE: I’ll see you when this is over.

So of course, Aziraphale says no thank you very much (quite a lot of Tory party members could have learned a lot from the angel’s morals, and none of them are half as likeable as he is), but how incredibly sad does he sound at the prospect of not knowing when he and Crowley will see each other again? Crowley might have quietly voiced his disappointment multiple times during the conversation, but Aziraphale’s own disappointment here is stated loud and clear.

Crowley’s upset can be heard again after this very final sounding line from his angel (and this time it breaks my own heart a little bit) but he rallies well, changing his planned nap end time to July, rather than June as declared earlier. It’s a pretty perfect way to get out of missing someone, isn’t it? Just go to sleep until you can see them again; I’m sure there are a lot of people that would definitely be on board with that approach. He doesn’t leave any further room for discussion either:

CROWLEY: Good night, angel.

It’s very definite – conversation over, nothing more to say. My thoughts are that he’s just too depressed to carry on talking on the phone to the one person he would much rather be spending time with in person, and now that he’s found a quick and painless solution to the problem (a nap), he just wants to get on with it. Charmingly though, this parting line sounds nothing like the dismissal it seems like it is when you see it written down. The delivery of this line conveys the familiarity and comfort that exists between the two of them, and actually makes it sound like this is a regular conversation that they have, despite the dialogue suggesting otherwise. As it turned out, July wasn’t really long enough to get completely clear of the restrictions that would see our heroes united freely, but who can blame him for being optimistic? And at least if he’s asleep, he’s definitely STAYING AT HOME.

Well I think that’s the lot for this write up. So much for this being such a short episode that it wouldn’t need a lot of time devoted to it. It was a fun little thing; in truth I think it serves more as a PSA that as an additional source of storyline/character development but that hasn’t dampened my enjoyment of it. Time to move on to season 2 now (which I am both excited and a little bit nervous about – there is so much to say!), so for the meantime, questions, comments, discussion: always welcome 😊

[imagine-darksiders]

Mobsiders, chapter 2:

Malunion Fractures.

Summary: What? Is there something on your face?

Tw: Blood, violence, guns, threat, Strife being Strife.

---

There was a time when you thought you could use a bit of excitement in your life. Maybe even a little danger. Of course, that was when you were still living in a world in which humans were the dominant species, where angels and demons weren’t proven to exist yet and they stayed between the pages of storybooks where they belonged.

It was a world that didn’t have giant, mythical Horsemen in it, touting their weapons and sinking their claws into a freshly resurrected population, proclaiming that they were here to stay, all in the name of protecting Humanity.

What a crock of shit. None but the most hopeful, optimistic individuals bought that schtick.

Nobody who offers one hand in friendship while keeping a weapon in the other has noble intentions, and you all knew it.

Well… Most of you knew it.

You might have been naïve once, but then the world ended, and it was a stark lesson in mortality.

You could die.

You did die.

The world seemed a lot more dangerous after that…

And there are few things that remind you more of how dangerous the world can be than one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

You almost want to curse that young, bright-eyed version of yourself who asked for something exciting to happen to her. She should have been more specific.

This, you could definitely do without.

You can’t tear your eyes off that horrific, avian visor canting towards you, no matter how badly you’d love to screw them shut and pretend this is all just a vivid yet harmless nightmare.

But there’s just something about not seeing the monster that’s far more terrifying than being able to see it.

So, you stare, unblinking at the metal space below those incandescent, amber eyes, disinclined to find out if the rumours about meeting the gaze of a Horseman are true.

Broad as a train, standing taller than any human you’ve ever encountered, Strife still isn’t the largest of his ilk, as you’re only too aware of now that you’ve got an up-close and too-personal view of him.

Strife, in contrast, seems determined that you make eye contact with him. It’s hard not to when he’s keeping your chin pinned between a thumb and forefinger, deceptively gentle despite his size and his unyielding grasp.

“That’s better,” a low hum emerges from behind his silvery visor, sounding a little too pleased for your liking, “Shouldn’t hide eyes like yours under a-…”

You’re rather glad he doesn’t finish his sentence, instead trailing off into a stark, tangible silence.

Even from your peripheral vision, it’s hard to tell where he’s looking without any damn pupils to give you some indication.

Suddenly, your heart gives a lurch and you jolt, letting out a strangled squeak as the titanic brute leans down and pushes his visor right up to your face, eyes narrowed to slim, dangerous slats of light.

Alarmed, your hands clench into white-knuckled fists, and it takes everything in you not to lash out or try to push that leering mask away.

“What… the fuck… is this…?” Strife seethes through his teeth, all pretences of gentleness vanishing from his tone.

It’s impossible to repress the shudder that rolls through you from your toes to your fingertips.

In response to his question, the men to your left and right falter, their grips loosening by a fraction.

And then, you feel it; a ghost-like touch on the side of your face. The cool metal of Strife’s fingertip sweeps across your cheek and leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

Aghast, you start to throw your head back to escape his touch, but the Horseman is quick to adjust his hold, sliding the fingers that grip your chin up until they encompass your entire jaw, keeping your head locked rigidly in place.

Without taking his eyes off your cheek, he lowers his voice and repeats, “What the fuck is this?”

The men share a nervous glance over the top of your head.

All of a sudden, at a speed that leaves you reeling, Strife drops his hand from your jaw and spins on his heel, stalking away from you as he raises the same hand to his mouthpiece and drags it down the length of his chin, sighing roughly.

You barely have time to breathe a sigh of relief at having his hands off you.

“Boss?” the nasally man ventures.

Without warning, Strife does a complete about-face, wheeling towards you once again, only this time, his entire body seems to billow and puff up like a bristling wolf, and his eyes are wide open, ablaze with a hellish fire that sends you ducking into your jacket’s hood.

Shit… You don’t know what you just did to set him off, but with a look like that raging across what little you can see of his features, you’re fairly sure that this is the moment you finally die.

“Do either of you wanna tell me,” he starts, huffing like a runaway steam train, “What the Hell that is on her face?!”

Again, you jerk as he throws a hand up and gestures towards you.

‘My face?’ Instinctively, you attempt to lift your hand and touch your cheek, but find your arms still locked in position by the men at your flanks.

As if to remind you of its presence, the swelling on your cheekbone gives a dull, uncomfortable throb, and you’re momentarily thrown by the absurd notion that he might be asking what a bruise is…

Doesn’t he know? Don’t Nephilim get bruises? Surely he’s come across them in his line of work, why would yours be so antagonising?

The strength of the humans beside you wavers. You can feel it happening as they noticeably lean away from you, as though you’re the catalyst to Strife’s sudden hostility.

“I-it’s just like we said, Boss!” the man to your left stutters, shifting his weight from side to side. You get the impression he'd rather be anywhere but here. “She was givin’ us trouble! Wouldn’t get in the car! Dimitri had’ta do somethin’ to shut her up!”

The speed at which Strife’s helm whips towards the guilty party is astonishing. And petrifying. Molten eyes lock onto their target with all the gravitas of a man aiming down the sights of his gun.

Suddenly recognising that he might be in serious trouble here, Dimitri sheds the last of his bravado and rips his hands off your arm, stumbling backwards.

You aren’t granted a moment to even think about trying to break loose before his partner wrestles both of your hands behind your back and pulls you against his chest, holding you there with no choice but to watch Dimitri retreat across the room, away from a posturing Horseman.

“Now, just – hold on a second-!” In his haste, he catches his hip on a drinks table and almost upends several glasses and bottles that look like they’re worth more than you could make in a lifetime. They rattle and clink together precariously for a second before settling again as the man continues his retreat.

With a predatory grace, Strife turns his body towards the fleeing goon and begins to stalk after him, covering more distance in a single stride than Dimitri manages in three.

Swallowing your spit, you cringe when the nasally man behind you hisses a curse under his breath, wafting stale, smoky air across the back of your neck.

“Tell me, Dimitri,” Strife utters, shoulders hunched as he saunters forwards, “Which leg?”

Sweat trickles from the man’s temple, and his face goes a few shades short of translucent. “Wh-what?”

“I said,” the Horseman repeats slowly, taking another step that rattles the glasses on their table, “Which. Leg?”

Blurting out a nervous laugh, Dimitri finally backs up until his spine hits a bookcase on the far wall, cutting off his escape route. Shakily, he raises his hands, turning his palms towards the approaching Nephilim as if he means to placate a feral wolf. “Boss, c’mon, i-it’s just a bruise! Humans get bruises all the time, they ain’t so bad-!”

In the blink of an eye, Strife moves.

Too fast for you to track, he viciously tears Mercy from its holster and points all four of those dark, gaping barrels straight at the trembling man’s forehead, prompting you to let out a shriek of alarm which is swiftly drowned underneath the Horseman’s thunderous roar, “- I know what a bruise is, Dimitri! What I don't know is which fucking leg!?”

“Fuck! I-I don’t know!”

Eyes rolling in his skull like a spooked horse, Dimitri clutches at the bookshelf behind him, darting a helpless glance his partner still pinning you against his chest, and then, when he doesn’t find the solace he was evidently looking for, he even dares to dip a look in your direction.

The only thing you deign to offer him in return when his desperate gaze meets yours is your own wide-eyed stare of abject horror. For just a moment, he’s not the man who kidnapped you and gave you a smarting cheek. He’s human. You’re human. There’s some shared connection there, even if it’s buried deep under layers of animosity and hate and terror. And you can tell in that moment that for as tough as he’s been, this man is utterly and debilitatingly terrified of his own boss.

When faced with an immediate and undefeatable threat, it’s human nature to band together. A knee-jerk drive. You can’t help it any more than he can. You can see the apology written plain on his face now, though you’re sure it’s only there because he wants you to speak up and save his sorry hide.

If you were a better person, you might have said something to the Horseman, drawn his ire back towards you. You might have. Or maybe you want to believe you could.

But you can’t.

So, you look away, dropping your eyes to the floor and pretending for all the world that you’re smart enough to think of a way to save your own skin.

The man’s choked breath of despair cuts through you like a knife, damning and cold.

“Don’t be a coward now, Dimitri,” Strife admonishes, oblivious, “You gonna choose, or am I?”

“Shit – Fucken’, l-left!”

“Left?”

“Left!” Dimitri wails, “Goddammit, Left!”

“Left.” Nodding his helm once, Strife lowers his gun.

Then without warning, he raises his other arm and cocks it back, metal gauntlet curled into a fist. You don’t have time to wonder what he’s doing before he sends it forwards in a vicious jab, his knuckles colliding squarely with Dimitri’s already broken nose.

The nauseating ‘crack!’ threatens to make you lose your breakfast.

A howl of unquestionable agony tears itself from the man’s throat as he crumples to his knees and brings his hands up to cup gingerly over his nose, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms. Blood gushes from each nostril and spatters to the carpet below, some droplets even flying onto the metal boots of an absolutely livid Horseman.

“Not a fuckin’ scratch, I said!” Strife hollers between ragged breaths, towering over the whimpering human as he throws his gun back into its holster, “Not a goddamn hair on her head! You’re supposed to be professionals! The Hell’re we payin’ you for!?”

Shaking from head to toe, Dimitri hardly seems to be listening now, still hacking up breaths and coughs as his brain registers the excruciation.

Appalled, you sag weakly in the thug’s grasp, letting your mouth hang agape. If Strife is willing to do that to his own men… What chance do you have?

An already dangerous situation is getting wildly out of hand.

Heaving an enormous sigh, as if this is all one big, inconvenience to him, Strife wheels away from the man whimpering on his carpet and instead turns his attention back onto you, sending all the blood rushing to your head.

You hate that you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you or the nasally man holding you still.

Regardless, the Horseman peers in your direction for… far too long.

Squirming, you try to back up, but the man behind you seems to have locked his legs in position to become an immoveable wall, solid and ungiving at your spine. You can’t tell if the tremors running up and down your arms are from your own shaking, or his.

Gradually, as the titan of a Horseman continues to watch you, Strife’s shoulders start to slacken, and the raptorial tilt of his helm straightens out to something more human.

A stalemate ensues. You don’t say a word to him, he doesn’t say a word to you. The man behind you keeps letting out a string of almost inaudible swear words and huffs, his dress-shoes shuffling restlessly on the carpet.

You can hardly breathe for the ball of nerves clumped at the base of your throat, making every swallow ache and strain against the muscles of your neck.

Finally, with another, exaggerated exhale, Strife lays his hands on his hips and breaks the silence.

“Let her go,” he grumbles to the man behind you.

The grip on your arms relaxes, though only a little, not enough to pull yourself free. Not yet.

“Are you sure, Boss?” he swallows. There’s an air of feigned confidence in his tone, like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t just watch a Horseman of the Apoclypse destroy his partner’s face.

By the sound of Strife’s unamused chuckle, that was the wrong thing to ask.

Tipping his helm down, he puffs a breath at the floor before slowly raising his head to give the man a glower so dark, it seems to suck the light from the chandelier hanging overhead. “Question my orders again, and I really will shoot you. Maybe feed what’s left of you to my horse,” he utters, lifting his chin at you indicatively, “Let her go and get Dimitri outta here…”

When the man still hesitates, Strife jabs his hand sharply towards a door at the side of the room - different from the one you entered through - and shouts, “Go on! Get the fuck outta my sight. Both of you!”

Apparently deciding he’s pushed his luck as far as it’ll go, the man all but shoves you away from him, sending you stumbling a few feet towards the Horseman before you dig your heels in and come to a jarring halt, frantic eyes darting up to see the giant is still looking your way.

Hurrying past you, he gives Strife a wide berth until he reaches Dimitri and bends down, gathering the wretched man off the floor and slinging an arm across his shoulders as he hauls him upright.

With his blubbering, bleeding partner in tow, he shuffles towards the door, never once sparing you another, fleeting glance on his way.

Desperate, you shift your gaze to him and attempt to catch his eye, pleading in silence for him to take you along too, anything to get you out of this room with a Nephilim who has proven he has no qualms about hurting humans.

But it’s all for naught.

Neither of the men acknowledge you. So far as they’re aware, you’re just a dead woman walking. They’ve done their job – albeit badly – and they’d brought you before their boss. Now, they’re off to nurse their wounds and their pride, thinking nothing of the trembling woman they’ve left behind.

With his free hand, the man knocks on the wooden door, and a moment later, it swings open, revealing a long, well-lit hallway beyond. Grunting a hurried word of thanks, he drags the still whinging Dimitri over its threshold, and you’re given a brief glimpse of two more, suited people standing on either side of the doorway before it slams shut once more, sealing you inside with the inhuman equivalent of an unpredictable bear.

There goes that escape route…

“Idiots…”

Sucking in a wobbly breath, you toss your head back in Strife’s direction, fiercely admonishing yourself for taking your eyes off him, even for a moment.

‘Don’t lose focus,’ you remind yourself firmly, keeping your damp eyes glued to the Horseman’s armoured chest, ‘If you lose focus, you die…’

You may very well die even if you don't lose focus, but you’re clinging to any semblance of control you can maintain.

Strife’s posture, you can’t help but notice, has changed drastically in the few seconds you weren’t looking his way.

One of his massive hands sits draped across his hip, while his other arm has dropped to dangle lazily at his side. Those vivid, sweltering eyes seem brighter as they peer down at you, though nowhere near as charged.

In all, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks downright, unapologetically relaxed.

‘Of course he’s relaxed,’ you nearly scoff aloud, ‘He does this sort of thing all the time, and I’m not exactly a huge threat.’

Not a threat at all, in fact.

You’re torn from your harried thoughts when the Horseman lifts his boot to take a step towards you, a move that sends you tensing up tighter than a coiled spring, muscles bunched beneath your clothes in preparation to flee.

To your shock, he seems to take note of your visceral stiffness and… hesitates.

Curious, his silver helm cocks to one side like a bird, and then in a slow, deliberate display, he places his boot back down in the same spot as before.

To say you’re thrown would be an understatement. Hesitation from a beast like him is… Well, it’s just unheard of.

Tentatively, you narrow your eyes at him, trying to see the face beneath that visor and guess as to what he’s thinking. He has a reason for bringing you here, of that you’re certain. But what that reason is, you need to find out. And fast.

[magicalbats]

Kinktober Day 9: Lactation

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 8971

Afab!reader, noncon, mentioned/implied abduction, lactation, milking machine, medical kinks, injections, human experimentation, breast expansion, breastfeeding, possible body horror elements depending on how you want to look at it, general horror/ psychological horror themes, let me emphasize again that this is VERY non consensual 

A/N: okay, this one is dark. It might be upsetting or uncomfortable to some so PLEASE read the tags and pay attention to your own comfort levels before clicking the read more. It’s Dottore and you should expect the worst, so honestly just multiply that by 5 before you make your decision to read or not ndkvndke

⭐

You were hand selected from a group of other women and girls. Neither the oldest or the youngest, you’d fallen somewhere in the middle. It had been a diverse selection, ranging in size and shape, and even physical maturity, but he chose you out of all the rest. You’d watched him summarily dismiss the matrons standing in line with little more than a glance, outright scoff at the ones who hadn’t even hit puberty yet, as if they disgusted him, and then wave off the girls who were thin and malnourished. It was impossible to tell what he was looking for at the time, especially when it had come down to you and a few others who were healthy and ripe; old enough to be of marriageable age but not so on in years that your bodies were showing signs of aging yet … but you’d long since come to realize the answer for yourself. 

After that humiliating selection process and the equally invasive exam that followed, your world receded to a fine, pinprick of existence that consisted almost exclusively of cold metal equipment and him. Sterile and unpleasant, he touched you with impartial hands encased in powdery gloves while he conducted his preliminary experiments in the cold laboratory where he kept you like an animal. When not on his exam table or hooked up to strange, whirring machines that you did not understand the purpose of, you were securely locked inside a cage in the corner. You’d been foolish enough to think it somewhat nice and even comfortable at first, since it was bigger than the one you’d had to share with all the others after those masked deviants took you from your home. He even provided you with a blanket so you wouldn’t catch a chill and expire before he was through with you — or so he’d said —  but the appeal had quickly faded. It was impossible to stay optimistic when you'd been in here so long that you were even starting to forget what the outside world was like. 

You couldn’t tell how much time you’d spent there, unsure if only several weeks had passed or if months had flown by without your noticing. It could have been either, and he never responded when you asked. He never said anything to you, only at you. The Doctor in the frightening bird mask. As cold as any of the steel equipment he touched you with and just as silent as the machines, he merely conducted whatever trial or objective was on the schedule for the day and then left. You weren’t even sure if he had a name, but if he did you certainly didn’t know it. 

He’d also never asked for yours. 

The Doctor called you ‘Specimen’ when he bothered to refer to you at all, sometimes murmuring instructions to the exceedingly rare assistant that would stop in from time to time to help him with tasks. Either to get you hooked up to another set of plugs and monitors, or to strap you down to the table for him. You were much too scared to actually struggle or fight but it seemed to be the way of these things, so you allowed them to secure leather straps over your ankles and wrists without a fuss. He never hurt you beyond temporary discomfort when he’d take stabbing metal pincers to your breasts and notate the measurements with a low hum, or slip an uncomfortable metal device inside your cunt to spread you open. This, you could accept. You tried to tell yourself it was probably still better than what the others were experiencing, wherever they were, and the pain never lasted long anyway. 

But then came the day where he wheeled a small tray over after already securing you in place on the chilly metal slab in the center of the room, and you just caught a glimpse of what was on it. Needles. That wasn’t so strange. He took blood samples from time to time, to do what with you had no idea, but … these syringes were full of something. A mostly clear fluid that looked only slightly murky in the glaring overhead light. He was going to inject you with it. 

You understood this on an intrinsic, innate level of comprehension but still maintain your obedient silence while he putters around with whatever else was on the little tray. It’s not like he would have explained anything to you even if you’d asked. It’s only when he finally turns to you and wipes a cold, faintly clinging swathe over one side of your breast do you start to realize that something is not quite right here. The smell of antiseptic floods your nose all at once and you gasp, jerking against the bindings holding you down. 

It’s no use though. The leather is entirely unrelenting no matter how much you anxiously jostle your wrists, and all you can do is lay there, watching with big, frightened eyes, as he thoroughly wipes the area clean. It was so chilly in the lab that your nipples were already stiffly coiled but the one he’s clinically wiping down with that damp cloth seems to pebble to an even finer point that makes you whimper low in your throat. The Doctor had touched you like this before, many times in fact, so you didn’t understand why your body was reacting like this to him. Almost like it knew something you hadn’t yet realized … 

When he brings the first needle close to your tit you panic even though you try not to. But he merely clicks his tongue at you, murmuring something under his breath about behaving as he reaches out with his other hand to cup the swell of your breast and still you. Your toes curl at the sensation even as you anxiously shake your limbs, so scared and wracked with uncontrollable shudders your chest heaves under his hold but he doesn’t even give it a moment's pause. One second the sharp needle is arching through the air on a sure, steady trajectory, and the next it’s sinking deep into your flesh. 

A hurt, gutted little moan escapes you, hot tears flooding your eyes while you watch him swiftly depress the plunger. It only takes a few seconds for the syringe to empty and he leaves you wildly gasping for breath when he withdraws it from the skin before turning back to the tray. 

You can’t process any of it as he sedately moves around the table to come up on the other side and repeat the process. It’s like you’re suffocating, looking up at him in horrified confusion and disbelief. What the hell was he injecting you with?

“Wait …” It's little more than a timid mouse squeak. 

Softly tutting at you, The Doctor quickly wipes the area down with a second antiseptic wipe and then bends over your chest to bring the next needle close. “Hush now, Specimen. I’ve got you.” 

The sharp point pricks into the meat of your breast and he lets out a low, faltering breath as it sinks in. You lurch on top of the table, too restrained to actually pull away, but it does little to stop you from devolving into hysterical, heaving gasps. You didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. But if your frantic reaction concerns him in any way he certainly doesn’t show it as he straightens up, eyeing you from under that horrid mask for a long moment before humming a brief sound. 

“Perhaps Specimen needs a sedative for today. We don’t want you hurting yourself carrying on like that, do we?” 

Chuckling faintly at the way you wordlessly squawk and shriek, he steps around you again to dig in a drawer on the far side of the room. You’d never admit it but you were so gripped by wild, mindless panic, very nearly choking on it, that you’re almost a bit relieved when he returns and injects another shot into your pinned arm. Almost immediately a false, manufactured calm starts to wash over you and you readily relax into it, happy to let your mind drift off rather than be forced to face the reality you were living. 

*~*

The next day finds you strapped down again, but this time with the upper half of the table propped up so you could sit. You’d woken up sore, your chest aching so fiercely it made you wince and seethe each time you moved, and having the weight of your breasts settle without any support like this was just making it worse. If you could have brought your hands up to elevate them and lessen some of the pressure you would have gladly done that but your wrists remained locked next to your hips. 

The Doctor takes his time giving you the usual examination as he always does, checking your temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, etc until he finally gets to the end and sets his clipboard aside. You cautiously watch him reach out then, twitching when he tentatively prods the underside of one breast with a blunt knuckle. He doesn’t miss your reaction even though you’d tried to conceal it, scared of what he might do with that information, and he noises a brief sound of interest as he brings his other hand up as well. 

Simultaneously, he nudges both of your tits to lift them slightly but not actually support them, and you hiss through tightly clenched teeth. You were already starting to feel lightheaded, a bit nauseous. The deep ache you felt was so close to being unbearable that you can’t help but react even when you know he’s only going to turn it back around on you. 

“My, how interesting,” He murmurs to himself, sounding really quite pleased with this result. “You’re already this tender, Specimen? It must be working even quicker than I thought … looks like I made the right choice when choosing you for this experiment. Aren’t you happy?” 

You want to ask him what experiment, desperate for any information at all, but you bite your tongue, already knowing full well he wasn’t going to explain anything to you. All you can do is helplessly watch as he pokes and prods, and paws at your chest until you can’t hold it back any longer and stinging tears track a wet path down your face. Your chest was so sensitive and sore it felt like he was jabbing you with blunt knives. 

Softly laughing under his breath, The Doctor lifts his hands a little higher and just brushes over your stiff nipples. You choke at the instant, blinding sensation and jerk back against the table so hard it clatters in response. It was all you could do just to keep drawing air into your lungs. You were so oversensitized it hurt! 

“Please,” You somehow manage to grit out. “Stop it!” 

“How precious,” He purrs, low and mean, as he takes delicate hold of the hardened buds between thumb and forefinger. Just holding them for the moment but even that is enough to make you writhe in place, thrashing against the bonds as much as you physically can. “You know, this is the kind of feedback you just can’t get with animal test subjects. All they do is scream and bleat, but you …” 

He leans closer — so close the curved beak of his mask almost touches your face — and you suck in such a ragged, threadbare gasp that it seems to claw at your throat on the way down. Trembling like a leaf now, you just stare at him. Fixated on the spot where his eyes should have been. You can catch only a very small glimpse of the corner of his mouth like this, and you’re more than a little unnerved to find he’s smiling. Delighted. Pleased. 

You just shake even harder. 

“Isn’t it nice that we can communicate like this, Specimen? You can beg me for mercy and I can laugh at you for being stupid enough to try. Why, if I suddenly find myself feeling generous I could even attempt to have a conversation with you.” Pausing, The Doctor appears to give that a moment’s consideration only to softly click his tongue at length. “Probably not, though. I doubt you have anything of interest to say.” 

Before you can even think to respond or formulate a convincing argument for yourself, he abruptly pinches down on your nipples and you shriek. Jerking back against the table only makes your tits bounce and pull at your sore teats where he’s still got them squeezed between his fingers, fresh tears welling behind closed eyes. It was easily the worst thing you’d ever felt. Even worse than the barbaric looking contraption he’d wedged inside your cunt and used to stretch you open when he first brought you here. You’d thought nothing could compare to that discomfort but you were now realizing just how bad it could really be. 

In this manner he spends what feels like many agonizing, endless hours just toying with your breasts; tugging and pulling, and twisting, until the sharp sensitivity somehow exceedes the threshold of comprehension in your mind and dwindles to a dull, mostly numbed but still aching throb. You’re distantly aware of it but too strung out to give it voice anymore. You barely even register the sound he makes when he finally breathes out a quiet sigh of satisfaction and pulls away, leaving your chest screaming in the aftermath. All you knew was that he was stepping away, leaving you to the agony … 

But then he comes back, and a broken little sob bursts out of you when you recognize the two needles in his hand. Whatever this experiment was, it didn’t look like it would be over any time soon. 

~*~ 

The next few days continue in the same manner, repeating the same process over and over again until you almost start to become acclimated to it. The Doctor visits you once in the morning to make note of your vitals and jot down whatever remarks on his clipboard before leaving you to waste away in solitude until midafternoon. Another round of vitals and more note taking, then another session of having him paw at your chest until tears were streaming down your face and, finally, another shot in each breast. He leaves you for the rest of the day until his final check in late in the evening when he makes his final notations and then secures you inside your cage for the night. It all would have been rather humdrum at a certain point except … 

Except that by the end of the first week you start to notice certain changes in your body. You’d thought it was your imagination at first, just a result of the injections and all the brutish pawing he insisted on doing for no reason you could conceive, but your breasts were in fact getting bigger. Swelling to the point that it was noticeable and you couldn’t write it off as a mere flight of fancy. Even worse though was the way your nipples had likewise become puffy and constantly stiff, like they were in a perpetual state of arousal. It was all very strange, to look down at your own chest and see yourself looking like that, but The Doctor was nothing if not pleased. 

He marveled over the results to no end, constantly remarking on how well you were reacting to the treatment and muttering under his breath that it wouldn’t be long now. You didn’t dare to ask until what, really not sure if you even wanted to know, but it’s not as if he would have told you anyway. Utterly helpless, all you could do was try to grin and bear with it for as long as you were able to, hoping that this trial would soon come to a close. 

But of course you’re not quite so lucky, and at the start of the second week he suddenly introduces double dosages of that mysterious substance he was injecting you with. Instead of one in both breasts, you now got two in each and with that increase so too do the results start to speed up. 

Your chest is not only growing bigger, you're more than a little horrified to realize one day, but heavier too. Initially you think they’re one and the same, and you were feeling jittery panic over nothing. But then you’d touched them, lifted them in your palms to lessen some of the strain, and it had occurred to you that your tits weren’t just filling out … they were swelling with an internal pressure, like something was building up under the skin and the resulting inflation was forcing them to expand. You couldn’t make any sense of it. Not only did you just not understand what was even happening in the first place but you couldn’t seem to wrap your head around why he would do this to you. What was his goal? Were these really the results he’d hoped for, or had something gone wrong? 

Trying to tell yourself you were still likely faring better than any of the others you’d shared a cramped little prison cell with or any of the women you’d stood in line with to be evaluated like livestock only goes so far. It soon becomes especially hard to consider your situation a lucky one when the daily breast massages steadily turn into a truly tortuous experience. Where you’d once been simply too sensitive and tender, there was now the added sensation of having too much pressure without any way to relieve it. You sob all throughout these little sessions now, groaning and heaving against the exam table while he squeezes and pinches, tugging on your raw teats until you’re sure you’re going to lose your mind. It gets so bad that even after he leaves you to your own devices you find yourself rubbing your chest in a blithe attempt at easing some of the constant ache there. 

That’s how you eventually figure out what’s really going on. 

It’s the start of the third week (you’d made it a point to keep track from that first injection) and your tits are so heavy and swollen they look like they’re ready to burst. Fighting back harsh, body wracking sobs, you desperately run your hands over them even though it’s done you little in the way of good up until now. It’s like an instinctive urge though, something deep in the primal part of your brain compelling you to massage your breasts even when it just causes you more discomfort. But you can feel something building in them and you’re half delirious with the thought that you would soon find relief if you just kept at it long enough. 

The first wet dribble almost goes unnoticed. You think it’s a mistake. A bead of sweat, perhaps, or maybe even a faint little droplet of blood where your nipples felt so chaffed and sore. But when you look at your fingertip only to find a clear, somewhat thick consistency clinging to the skin, you feel faint with disbelief. Try to convince yourself that it’s not what you think it is, that you were excreting literally anything else — anything at all, but … the proof smacks you across the face when you bring it up to your mouth and take a cautious lick. 

It was sweet and bitter at the same time, and more than just a bit cloying and you’re suddenly left with the crushing realization of what he’s done to you. 

~*~ 

For the first time ever, you fight him tooth and nail when it comes time to strap you down to the table for your midday exam. It’s difficult with your chest so swollen and heavy that every shuddering movement hurts, but you still manage to hold out until he’s forced to call for backup. You feel rather proud of yourself for that up until two sets of hands descend upon you, grappling to get you secured in place, “without harming the Specimen!”, he’d irritably snapped. 

It seems to stretch on for many, many minutes, but at last they manage to buckle a restraint around one of your wrists and it becomes frustratingly easy for them to get the rest. You’re left panting and heaving, shooting daggers at The Doctor as well as his assistant when they step back to sort themselves out. The younger man was nursing a bruised jaw where you’d successfully caught him with your elbow and The Doctor … you’d almost knocked his stupid mask off his face, and you regretted not being able to see him without it as he tersely readjusts it’s placement. Maybe next time though. There was always a next time with him. 

Finally drawing himself up, The Doctor impatiently tugs at the cravat around his neck where it had twisted askew before barking at the other man. “Get the table up. I want the Specimen sitting for this.” 

His assistant rushes to obey and you narrow your eyes at him in warning, still gasping for breath as he comes up next to you. Bending down, he reaches under the table to fiddle with some sort of lever or mechanism and then moves to incline the top half of the table, slowly inching you up until you’re left staring directly at The Doctor. He’s standing at enough of a distance that you can see his mouth under the curved beak, and you’re quite pleased to note he’s scowling at you. Good. A bit of frustration was well deserved after what he’d done to you. 

“Now then,” He finally intones, low and dangerous, as his assistant reaches back under the table to lock it in place. “Might I ask just what it is you think you are doing today? I was so sure you knew better than that.” 

It takes you a moment to realize he hadn’t asked you a rhetorical question for once and was actually expecting an answer. You were so unused to him acknowledging you in any way that for a moment you’re not quite sure how to respond. 

“Why don’t you start by telling me what it is you’re injecting me with.” You finally spit. 

The Doctor tips his head to one side, looking so much like a curious carrion bird in his beaked mask and feathers that it actually sends a chill down your spine. “Do you really think you’d understand if I told you? How ridiculous.” 

Your cheeks start to grow warm, but you pull yourself up as much as you’re able to and try again. “You’re a monster! What did you do to me?” 

“That’s better.” Simpering, he roughly yanks at his coat to straighten it and then strides forward. Your already erratic heartbeat picks up at his approach but you can’t pull away when he comes up alongside you and reaches out to rather disinterestedly grab one of your tits. Sharp splinters of pain immediately shoot through you and you wheeze, looking down at his hand on your chest in dull disbelief. “What I did to you is rather simple, really. If you want my honesty so much then let’s just say I’m a little surprised you didn’t start to figure it out sooner. Even someone with rocks for brains should have noticed the correlation when their body started to undergo sudden change. I mean, really. Are you that oblivious or are you just trying to get under my skin, darling Specimen?” 

He emphasizes that last bit with a tight, incensed squeeze on your chest, and you outright choke when a tiny little spurt of discharge flies from your nipple. Going so completely still it’s disconcerting, The Doctor simply stares down at you for a long, tension filled moment. Then, to your reeling surprise, he abruptly lets you go. 

“I see,” He eventually murmurs, tapping a gloved finger to his chin in thought. “So that’s what finally tipped you off. We’ve already made it this far in the experiment so it simply wouldn’t do to kill you now and have to start over from scratch … but we’ll have to adjust the parameters. Specimen is far too erratic to be left to their own devices anymore. Might even need to be put under permanent sedation until the final test results are obtained.” 

Muttering under his breath, The Doctor turns from you to pace the room in deep consideration and leave you violently shuddering on the exam table. You didn’t want to be permanently sedated … just the thought alone is almost enough to send you spiraling into full blown panic. Although you’d welcomed its comforting embrace once you were far too alert now to willingly slip under like that. You needed to think of something. Quick. 

“I’ll cooperate - -“ 

“Your cooperation means less than nothing to me.” He cuts across you like the crack of a whip, making you cower in place. Suddenly turning on his heel, he stalks towards you again and you can do nothing at all when he slips his hand under the heavy weight of one breast so he can lift it in consideration. “Specimen should be close to full production levels at this rate. Another day or two, I suspect.”

A heavy silence settles over the room, interspersed only by your labored panting and the nervous shuffle of the assistant somewhere behind you. But The Doctor is perfectly still while he seems to weigh the options laid out before him, his blunt thumb brushing idle circles over the straining swell of your tit while he thinks. You’re certain the waiting is going to kill you. 

“Dimitri!” He abruptly snaps, startling both you and his assistant, if the tiny yelp behind you is anything to go by. “Prepare the machine immediately. I know just what to do with this one.” 

*~*

With your hands secured behind your back, you’re led from the enclosed section of the lab you were usually kept in and into a different section that housed far more complicated machinery than you could reasonably process. You’d never seen so many different kinds of knobs, buttons, circuits, control panels, hanging wires and thick cable power lines in your life. Half of it you hadn’t even known existed until being brought here, but your relative familiarity with the banks and complicated components in the other room did serve as an effective baseline to at least understand that what you were looking at was far outside your sphere of comprehension. 

Even the tall cylindrical machine The Doctor’s assistant pulls you up to is so far beyond anything you could reasonably wrap your head around that you have no idea what it was supposed to do. You feel a bit like an oblivious sheep being peacefully led to the slaughter, but there wasn’t much you could have done about it even if you did know what was happening. 

Leaving your side, the assistant scurries over to the control bank and starts to fiddle with various levers on the panel, evidently fine tuning the parameters of the output as the strange machine starts to sputter louder. You momentarily consider making a run for it, weighing your odds of escape with your hands tied behind your back, but then The Doctor steps up behind you and takes a pinching hold of your elbow to give you a brief, teeth rattling shake. 

“Did you know,” He says rather amicably, at complete odds with the rough treatment. “Mammalian births are some of the most successful in nature. Even putting aside mankind, they’re among the most common class of animal and for good reason. Tell me, Specimen. Do you happen to know why that is?” 

You give your head a mute shake, a little too unnerved to play this game with him, and he barks out a clipped, humorless laugh. Yanking on your arm, The Doctor drags you closer to the heaving machine until the sound of it seems to swallow you whole and set your guts to vibrate. Suddenly finding yourself more scared than you’d ever been, you instinctively try to backpedal but he all too easily holds you in place. 

“It’s the milk, you silly little nitwit. It promotes growth and development, in addition to a wide variety of benefits to brain functionality.” Grinning a sharp, eager smile under his mask, he reaches up with his unoccupied hand to tug at a clear tube sticking out of the machine. Your mouth drops open when it jerks loose with a loud, forceful suck of air but nothing comes out, not even a peep. You were starting to have strong suspicions what this machine was used for and yet — you didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. 

Turning to you again, he holds up the open ended tube piece and tauntingly waggles it at you. “Now, answer me this … do you have any guess as to what happens to developing infants if they’re denied that very milk they need to grow? Say, in the instance of the untimely death of their mother?” 

Your stomach lurches with an intense, sinking feeling of dread. You did not like this line of questioning and what it would suggest any more than you liked the aggressive shucking noise coming from the machine. Surely you were misunderstanding something and he didn’t really mean what you thought he did. “I — I don’t know. I don’t understand - -“ 

You cut off with a frightened squeak when he gives your arm another tug to drag you closer, nearly pulling you stumbling right into him. Your heavy tits bounce with the sudden motion and bring fresh stabs of discomfort with it, but you’re much too focused on The Doctor to get swept up in the pain. It was all you could do just to stay on your feet instead of collapsing in a dead faint. You’d never been so terribly frightened. 

“They don’t grow.” He hisses, sharp fingers digging mercilessly into your skin. “Not to their full potential, anyway. All the amino acids, antibodies, vitamins and minerals they should have gotten from their mothers milk … gone, just like that. I’d ask you another question but it’s obvious you don’t have the intelligence to even follow along so allow me to spell it out for you instead. A colleague of mine runs an orphanage. Some of the children she takes in are quite young indeed and there is a noticeable difference between those who lost their parents early in development and those who did not. The ultimate goal of this experiment was to determine whether or not a reliable production method could be used to — fill in the gaps, so to speak.” 

He leans down then, putting his face close to yours, but you just stand there, staring up at him in wide eyed terror. It was like he was speaking a foreign language now, every other word so bizarre and incomprehensible that it may as well have been complete gibberish. But somehow you still grasp enough of the meaning to be afraid. You still tremble uncontrollably when he tips his head, and suddenly his breath is intermingling with yours without his mask in the way to block it. 

“And lucky you, our first test subject. Such a resounding success too.” He purrs in a soft, velvety croon that makes your spine snap straight. “Even I wasn’t expecting to see these results so quickly. If only you could have just had the sense to stay nice and docile for me … oh well. It doesn’t really matter now does it, my darling Specimen?” 

You force your constricting lungs to expand, sucking in a harsh, stuttering breath, but he just nudges your right up against him before you can think of something to say. Your blood instantly turns to ice when you feel his coat brush against you as well as the body heat coming off him, and frantically try to twist away. It was much too late though. His hold on your elbow was as good as iron and he now had you standing close enough to the machine that he could direct the suctioning tube towards your chest. So gripped with terror, you desperately try to angle away from it to no avail and you outright shriek when it sucks your nipple up and seals to your breast with a deafening loud schuck. 

Throwing your head back, you scream up at the ceiling until your throat seizes under the stress and you trail off into a gutted, hollowed out groan that seems to echo off the walls. The pressure is so extreme on your swollen, sensitized teat that for a wild moment you actually think it’s going to pull it right off. But when you sway unsteadily, nauseous and sick, then chance a look down, immense relief washes over you when you see the tip of your breast very much intact. That doesn’t make it any less painful though, and you viciously seethe through your teeth as you watch the suction pull at your nipple, stretching the pliant flesh to the point that it hurt just to look at it.

But then, to your groaning horror, you catch a brief jet of milky discharge getting sucked out of you to disappear up inside the tube and whatever it was attached to. You understood perfectly now. This was a milking machine. A horrid creation of The Doctors, no doubt, and it was so powerful that even when his hand falls away it stays suctioned right where it was over your teat. To your surprise, however, the sharp discomfort you’d first felt quickly starts to recede into a dull thrum under that constant pulse and you can’t quite stop yourself from issuing a low, faltering sound of relief. There was still an immense amount of built up pressure inside your breast but somehow the intense suction actually helped make it a bit more bearable. It wasn’t by much, but you were willing to take anything at this point, and your knees violently knock with that realization. 

“O - oh, blessed Archons!” 

Chuckling faintly, The Doctor slowly releases his hold on your arm and you nearly collapse right then and there. The only thing that reminds you to catch yourself is the tube attached to your breast which showed no sign of loosening its hold anytime soon. You stagger and try to reestablish your balance without him there to keep you propped up as he shifts behind you to step up on the other side. From the corner of your eye, you watch him reach out to grab the second suction device, grimacing even when your neglected tit throbs at the prospect. 

“Please, dear Seven, I’m begging - -“

“They aren’t listening, I’m afraid. Such a pity.” Casually, The Doctor curls his unoccupied hand under the weight of your tit and lifts it slightly to better bring the tube down on the nipple. It firmly sucks into place just the same as the first did, and you scream at the initial pain that tears through you. But same as before, it only takes a few moments for the constant, rhythmic sucking to alleviate some of the tension in your chest and, shuddering, you force yourself to relax into it. Easier said than done when it felt like this horrible machine was actively trying to suck the life right out of you but you manage, somehow. 

“How … how long do you intend to leave me like this?” You pant, struggling to swallow around the rock lodged in your throat as you awkwardly shuffle your feet to better ground yourself. 

“Hm?” Crossing his arms, The Doctor puts his head to one side in faux consideration. “What a silly question. As long as it takes for your production levels to reach their maximum output and for you to start milking properly, of course. Your current rate,” He nudges his chin towards the shuddering tubes, still mostly clear save the occasional tiny wet bead moving along their length. “Isn’t even close to being sufficient. Your lactation ducts need to be thoroughly stimulated until they start to trigger your let-down reflex for optimal milk flow. Truth be told, I had wanted to save this for the final step since things could get … messy, but you just had to go and force my hand, didn’t you?”

With a faint click of his tongue, he starts to turn. “No matter. At least now I won’t have to spend quite so much time monitoring your progress to ensure that everything is proceeding as it should. One way or another, that machine will have you sorted out in no time.” 

Gasping, you give a little jerk when he moves to walk away but you manage to catch the subconscious reaction before you can yank on the suction cups and hurt yourself. “Wait! Please don’t actually leave me here! You can’t — nghn! It hurts, you bastard!” 

The Doctor doesn’t even acknowledge your desperate pleas and he disappears further into the lab without so much as a backwards glance, leaving you at the mercy of the machine. 

~*~ 

You’re not sure how long he’s left you like this. All of your careful tracking since that first injection, gone just like that without his clockwork appearances to track the time with. It could have been mere hours or the whole day, a whole night. You never would have known any different. 

Your legs shudder under you, exhausted and sore from standing for the indeterminate period you’ve been hooked up to the machine but the tubes are too short for you to sit. You were effectively tethered to the faintly groaning mechanism with only enough lead to shift from side to side before the powerful suction started to pull and cause a great deal of discomfort. It wasn’t so bad when you just stood there and let it suckle at your raw teats, but that was hardly any comfort to you at this point. 

You’d watched your breasts shudder against the force and slowly, so slowly you hadn’t even realized it was happening at first, let down on the intense pressure that had steadily built in them over the last two weeks. What was initially just an occasional spurt of creamy fluid, shuddering beads sucked up through the tubes and into what you could only guess was a collection unit, had gradually turned into a relatively steady stream of creamy white fluid. Even without any real knowledge on the topic, you still recognized it for what it was and could no longer try to pretend it was something else. You were not only lactating but quite excessively by the looks of it. Whatever he’d been injecting you with had caused such an extreme physiological shift in your body that you were now rapidly producing milk without ever having been pregnant and the output only seemed to be steadily increasing. 

The innate relief that comes with having your tits milked doesn’t do much to pacify you though, and your head slowly comes up when you catch the sound of approaching footsteps. You know it’s The Doctor, so familiar with that slow, confident gait and the unique sound of his boots on the floor that you’d know it anywhere at this point. Shuddering so hard you nearly collapse, you force yourself to straighten from the tired hunch you’d fallen into, hissing when the suction tubes give a stiff jostle over your nipples. You weren’t foolish enough to believe he’d found the capacity for mercy in his twisted soul but a little part of you still hopes … 

“Good morning, Specimen. You look lovely today, don’t you?” He drawls as he comes up behind you, and a hurt little groan bursts out of you when more of the pressure in your tits gives to release a thick, creamy dollop into the sucking machine. You just stare down at the tubes in frozen, slack jawed disbelief. At the sound of his voice? 

He steps up beside you then, startling you, and you snap your attention up to find him grinning under that ugly mask. Waves of deep satisfaction practically roll off him as he halts close enough you can feel his coat brushing your thigh. The two of you just look at one another for what feels like an eternity, your shoulders trembling with every labored breath. 

“I see the machine has served its purpose.” He says at length. 

“Screw you!” 

Clicking his tongue in admonition, The Doctor reaches out and casually — much too casually — slips a gloved hand between your thighs. You jolt so hard the tubes bob with the motion, pulling at your poor tits, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it as he worms his wrist in the tight space even when you try to squeeze him out. Long, blunt fingers find the seam and rudely nudge up into you, nearly knocking you off balance when you give a fierce jolt. 

“My, my, isn’t that interesting?” He croons, baring sharp teeth with a mean, perverse grin as those oppressive digits slip and slide through an obscene amount of slick. You’d been so focused on the continuous suction on your nipples, the stilted relief of pressure, that you hadn’t even noticed how the rest of your body was reacting. 

Your stomach wrenches with this knowledge but you just stand there, thighs quaking around his hand, while he casually pulls soft, wet little clicks out of your cunt with the drag of his fingers. It was horrible and disgusting, and your nausea only increases when you catch a glimpse of yet more creamy white discharge being pulled up through the tubes. 

“Are you enjoying your milking, Specimen? Good. You’re going to be here for a while so it’s probably best if you find some way to entertain yourself.” Chuckling, The Doctor slowly withdraws his hand, much to your shuddering disappointment, but he ignores your quiet whimpering in favor of straightening up. “Dimitri!” 

A sudden bang sounds from somewhere in the lab. Within seconds, the young man rounds the corner at a flustered sprint and you sway unsteadily on your feet when his eyes widen at the sight of you. 

“Lower the settings on the machine,” The Doctor hisses at him, low and dangerous. “Then leave me for the rest of the day. I will oversee the experiment myself from here.” 

He turns back to you as his assistant goes scurrying off to fiddle with the control panel, leering viciously under his mask when he reaches out to palm your hip. You gnash your teeth, chest heaving with fast pumping terror but there’s nothing you can do to stop it when he tugs you closer. Your pelvis bumps his firm thigh and you suck in a harsh breath. He couldn’t be serious … now, after all this time treating you like little more than a slab of meat? 

Seething, you grimace when the suction suddenly lessens to a weak, hollow tug that you can barely feel through your raw teats. The change in pressure is immediately apparent though and your nipples pulse in its absence. You have to fight back the sobs that try to tear their way out of your throat as you watch him slowly reach up to wrap his hand around one of the tubes still clinging to your breast. He doesn’t pull it off though, not yet, and instead just looks at you for a long beat. 

“I suppose you do deserve a reward. After all, you’ve far exceeded my expectations and I’m quite pleased with you, you know.” He purrs at last. “I wasn’t expecting you to take to the drug so quickly, nor did I foresee you reaching this production level so soon. You’ve impressed me a great deal, Specimen, and I always make sure to reward good behavior where I can.” 

He doesn’t warn you before he does it. So abruptly it leaves you reeling in hurt disbelief, he pops the suction tube free with a firm tug and your nipple throbs against the total lack of pressure. It feels like a million tiny pinpricks are stabbing into the sensitive flesh all at once when the air hits it, wafting uncomfortably against hot, swollen skin. Unable to stop yourself, you look down only to instantly wish you hadn’t. 

Not only was the swollen teat so puffy and dark from the suction, fat with milk that beads and dribbles wetly from the tip, it was also humiliatingly engorged. The constant sucking had pulled at the pliant skin for so long that it now stuck straight out in a plaintive, attention grabbing point. Meaty and so starkly different from how it had once looked, you feel bile rise in the back of your throat. 

The Doctor doesn’t allow you enough time to fully process what you’re seeing though, and you helplessly watch him take the remaining tube in hand so he can pull it loose as well. You shudder so violently at the onslaught of sensation that your knees give out but he’s quick to steady you with both hands on your hips. Fingers digging in mercilessly, he pulls your lower body against his own and your mouth drops open at the hard press of his cock on your stomach. 

“That’s a good look for you, Specimen. Much better than all that hissing and kicking you did yesterday.” Casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to do, he lifts a hand from your waist when he’s sure you’re steady enough not to fall and nudges a single finger under one teat. You loose a gutted, broken sound when a fresh bead of milk trickles out to run down his hand and, humming, he idly presses up to make more come out. “Yes, your production levels are excellent. Your let-down reflex seems to be working quite well.” 

You aren’t sure what he’s going to do next when he withdraws his fingers, but the very last thing you expect is for The Doctor to hunch over your chest and seal his mouth around the nipple. Going stock still at the sensation of a hot, wet mouth suckling at your breast rather than the cold, impartial machine, you just stand there and … let him do it. You were horrified with yourself but couldn’t quite find the wherewithal to be disgusted when it felt good. So much better than you could have imagined it would. His tongue laps at the swollen bud to gather the creamy secretion and swallow it down, the suction of his mouth so much less intense than the merciless tubes and yet — somehow far more satisfying. 

A frazzled whimper rattles through you with the sensation of your milk ducts giving out completely, releasing a steady stream into his mouth. The Doctor groans very softly against your skin at the influx of milk and nuzzles deeper into your breast, bringing his teeth down around the puffed up areola to make it squirt at the back of his working throat. Numbly glancing down at yourself, at his face pressed into your chest, you’re more than a little horrified to find a sympathetic dribble coming out of the opposite teat to splatter on the floor below. You didn’t understand how you were making so much milk and you knew even less why your body was reacting to him like this, but all of that seems to get swept up and dissolved in the dreamy haze that slowly comes over you. 

You’d felt it while you were hooked up to the milking machine as well but had written it off as a defense mechanism of some sort … just an old, primal part of your brain trying to make the situation more bearable so it didn’t break you. The physical discomfort as much as the mental strain of watching your body change against your will was taxing enough that it had made sense at the time. But now you knew, innately, that it was a natural response to feeding. As much as the let-down reflex was, this strange sense of peace was just the nature of your mammalian instincts. 

Suddenly his strange questions and even stranger answers made a lot more sense. 

“Goodness,” He groans when he finally comes up off your breast some moments later. A heavy squirt of milk follows after him, splattering across his open mouth but, much to your heaving shame, he just reaches up to wipe it away. “You really are producing more milk than I expected you to at this stage of the experiment. I suspect at this rate you could likely fill almost two gallons in a single day … such a sublime Specimen you are, darling, and a resounding success at that.” 

You can see he’s breathing heavier now, either excited by the results or the act of feeding from your breast, and you bite down on your lower lip to keep quiet as he straightens so he can reach for his slacks. He’d never crossed this line before, had never shown you even so much as a passing interest even when he had you spread out and helpless on his exam table, and you don’t know what to expect. The rigid cock that springs up in the space between you surprises a strangled gasp out of you though, and you try to jerk away from it. He was big. Much bigger than you were prepared to take. 

The Doctor just grabs onto your hips, squeezing so hard you cry out even as he drags your pelvis closer so he can slot himself between your thighs. Wheezing, you shudder uncontrollably when he takes a moment to sedately thrust into the space and drag his stiff length over soaked lips that seem to cling at him. The calm that had mercifully fallen over you while he was suckling is quickly replaced by jittery panic, and you can’t help blubbering like an idiot when he none too gently forces your pelvis into an upward, tilted angle that almost drags you up onto your tip toes. 

You didn’t want him touching you like this. Didn’t want to even think about him moving inside of you, claiming your body for himself. 

But the stiff rope keeping your hands behind your back is unrelenting and there isn’t anything you can do about it as he nudges closer to line himself up with your entrance. “Oh, don’t be like that. I’m sure you’ll like it. Your sweet little cunt is already so very wet and I bet it’s just aching to be filled, isn’t it?” 

Hissing through your teeth, you twist your head around so you won’t have to look at that horrible mask looming over you. But that does absolutely nothing to deter him though, and you cry out when he starts to slowly sink into your hot, squirming guts. Taking him like this is difficult, the slow stretch so much worse than it would have been if you could properly spread your legs. He just forces you to stay upright when you waver, and you let out a hurt little groan as his fingers dig into your hips so hard you can feel bruises blooming under the pressure. Your cunt grants him entry one stilted inch at a time though, welcoming it as much as your mind wants to fight it. 

But you’re completely at his mercy and when he finally settles inside you, as deep as he can reach in this position, you feel something in you snap. Your hips nudge forward of their own accord to weakly rut against the intrusion as you tip your head down, intending to look at where his body connects with yours, but all you see is … your breasts, so swollen and heavy, leaking copious amounts of milk all over your front. Like being penetrated had loosened a faucet and you were now freely dribbling all over the place without the need for any stimulation. The sight alone almost sends you shuddering right over the edge. 

Hunching closer when your eyes start to roll back, The Doctor studies you up close for a long, drawn out beat while your cunt hollowly contracts around him, squeezing his length in pulses. You feel the excited shiver that runs through him as much as you see it, and then he tips his head to just touch his mouth to yours. “Aren’t you being good for me?”

“P - please —!”

He softly shushes you, lips brushing when he speaks again. “You’ll get your reward, not to worry. But tell me something first, Specimen. If you can do that for me I’ll make sure you feel so good you won’t know what to do with yourself.” 

Mewling softly, you sway against his hold while your tits just keep leaking. “What do you want?” 

“Can you tell me your name?” 

You go still, so caught off guard by the question you can’t seem to process it at first. But then a stiff shudder tears down your back and your eyes go big, jerking back as far as you can when he’s got a hold of you like this. A helpless, trapped little animal sound bursts out of you but he just grins at you, his mouth a razor sharp slash under the mask. You didn’t remember. It had been so long since you’d spoken it, since anyone had called you anything other than Specimen … you truly didn’t know anymore. 

Where there once had been a solid, tangible thought there was only ringing silence. An echoing void inside your head, and The Doctor’s leering smile only grows when he sees the horror dawn on your face. 

You weren’t anyone now. 

Just Specimen.

⭐

Crossposted: here

[skulkiee]

Im getting better at this

But uh yeah. Part two of the siren au i guess :D

Its with their light, their strength, their song, my friends, they show me right and wrong

Polites likes the pod.

Sure, he misses Eury and Odysseus and everyone else horribly, and would give almost anything to be back with them, but the pod are nice.

Epolenep reminds him of Penelope, she acts all frowny and strict, but when she thinks no one's watching she will smile fondly at her friends. She acts like an older sister to everyone, and laughs easily. Shes a brilliant fighter, and has been teaching him to help him get used to being a siren, and she has a beautiful voice. She is a bright soul, very stubborn, and a born leader.

Alope actually reminds Polites of himself before he went to war. A brilliant smile and laugh, incredibly optimistic and fun. Shes best friends with everyone, and it's impossible not to like her. Polites soon finds out that her and Cleito are together, much to Alope's delight, and Cleito's immense embarrassment.

Cleito, on the other hand, is fierce, and is the only one that can match Epolenep's skills and air of command, she could lead the pod just as easily, she just doesn't care to have that amount of responsibility. She's also quiet, and Polites found her quite scary before he realised how kind she is beneath her spiky outer shell of defence.

Hyacinthus is bubbly. Polites can understand why more than one god fell for him. He's always laughing and cracking jokes and playing games and challenging the others to races and such. He loves dragging Polites along to point out some bright piece of coral or some cool creature. He picked Polites back up when he started to spiral into his thoughts of the war and the cyclops and how its his fault- his fault- Polites learnt how Odysseus must have felt that day on the Lotus eater's island, when Hyacinthus dragged him along, laughing and showed him just how beautiful the world can be. (Polites will never forget that day in the sun-lit kelp forest.)

And Patroclus is Patroclus. Hes still the kind man that saved Polites' life that time in the war, and proceeded to teach him healing, and proper fighting, with a level of patience for him that the other men in the camp didn't have. He still has that comforting kindness and patience, and quiet smile, but he carries a deep sadness with him now, one that Polites recognises.

One that is appearing in Polites the longer he stays here. One that even Hyacinthus doesn't try to fix.

He knows that for Patroclus it is the knowledge that Achilles is dead. And Polites does not know what has happened to Eurylochus.

Alope tells him they're probably home, and that she bets she could persuade Epolenep to let them take a journey to Ithaca. Polites falls quiet at each mention of Ithaca, and Cleito usually tells her partner no, shooting Polites knowing looks. He wonders what her past is.

•

The pod goes out on hunts sometimes, always led by Epolenep and Cleito, hungry looks in their eyes. They've never taken Polites with them before, but after a year or so, he gets restless.

Patroclus grins at him when they finally decide to take him along, and Polites grins back. He's hungry.

It's just a small fishing ship that has wandered into their waters, just enough people for him and each of his new friends to have one each.

He isn't Polites in those moments when he digs deep into the man's mind, pulling up images of a wife and three little girls, he isn't Polites when he lets his instincts take over, and his body changes. He isn't Polites when he sings the man with a wife and three girls waiting for him back home into the water to drown him. He isn't Polites when he feasts on human flesh alongside his pod, victory and the thrill of the hunt running through his veins.

The next time they go out hunting, they take most of the pod, leaving only the youngest of the sirens and a few adults behind. Epolenep has counted the men aboard this ship, and picked out fourty-three sirens to accompany her. She will take down the ship's captain.

Polites wonders what form he will take this time, wonders what song he will sing.

(He did not know that he would not change, that the song he will sing is his own.)

Um yeah. This one was shorter and more information-y i guess but i like it

Got these two as well :D

[spade-riddles]

So Karlie has an interview for Elle magazine that I have conflicted feelings about. On the one hand, she ends it talking about the importance of heirloom pieces. Saying her husband bought her a Cartier watch for their wedding and one day she hopes to pass it on to their daughter, if she's lucky enough to have one. It would be stupid to pretend a potential surface reading of this isn't that she plans to stick it out in the lavender marriage with Jerk through a third child. I really don't want this to be the case, but I feel like they've teased us with the hope of it finally being over before, by going dark for weeks, only to suddenly show up again packing on the PR PDA. So . . . who knows. I've been burned too many times before not to be suspicious.

BUT.

If I'm being optimistic. An alternate reading is that the "husband" Karlie is referring to here is actually her wife. We've talked before about the symbolism of Cartier jewelry for these two, and the idea of Taylor gifting Karlie a Cartier watch on the day of her lavender "wedding" fits. Remember the "love locked down" locket during the Tayvin era? We speculated that was to represent Kaylor holding steadfast to each other during the lockdown of the Tayvin contract. Something they could draw strength from. Locket imagery then showed up in Taylor's lyrics, when talking about a secret love.

It makes sense to me that Taylor would repeat this and give Karlie a gift to hold onto during another tough time of romantic lockdown. And watches, clocks, etc have been a recurring theme in Taylor's lyrics since the lavender marriage, just like the locket was before. ("Our old spot by the gold clock" is an example that stands out especially. About a secret meeting place, with someone Taylor fears she keeps letting down. We never could quite figure that one out.) Taylor has also quite literally been wearing watches as jewelry for the TTPD era.

The way Karlie talks about this watch, I'm picturing a gold pocket watch, like in the Bejeweled music video. Fits for an heirloom, and would explain why we've never seen it. It would also explain why the gold compact mirrors keep recurring as imagery - maybe they're stand-ins for a look alike gold watch!

Also of note is that Karlie says she wants to pass this down to her daughter. It reads almost like it was a slip of the tongue? Like she then corrects herself by saying "I have two sons" and "maybe one day". I don't know. I just thought that moment was a little strange. You're pretty much the only blogger I know still on the train of "they had a daughter" and while I respect everyone's opinions on this and have no particular investment in it myself either way (they have kids and they're happy, that's all I need to know), it did seem like . . . in a certain light, you could read it as confirmation of this blog's theory. If we DO get news of a split soon, and this hypothetical third child with Jerk becomes impossible, then that's definitely the light I'll be reading those comments in. A little nod to the truth.

I guess only time will tell.

Thank you for this thorough review. I like your clock analysis. I read the article last night and had this exact same feeling about the daughter comment:

“It reads almost like it was a slip of the tongue? Like she then corrects herself by saying "I have two sons" and "maybe one day". I don't know. I just thought that moment was a little strange.”

Also, while it does imply she is still stunting, we do not know when the interview took place. I have no idea how long it takes from interview to articles published in those magazines. So trying to stay optimistic like you are.

Link to article

[sytokun]

A lengthy thought wall about the recent RT shutdown and DillonGoo Studios' interest in acquiring RWBY - I speculate and entertain some hopium about the pros that could come with it and why all in all, impossible it may be, it's probably the best shot we have for RWBY.

Some rwde cause it mentions Shane's letter and nobody likes that.

I've been reading a lot, a lot of the various discussions around RWBY's fate and Dillon Goo Studio's (henceforth shortened to DGS) interest in acquiring it. Here's my overall evaluation everything so far:

This goes without saying but this is obviously an optimistic take on the matter, I wanna talk moreso about the pros rather than the logistics of whether DGS can afford it, whether you think it's just clout-chasing, etc.

Dillon's a former RWBY animator and a fan of Monty's work. No matter what you think of Monty's style of action, in the greater public sphere, RWBY is known and liked precisely for that and largely that alone, period. Only RWBY fans who are already invested in the show will mention story or characters - for the majority of people, i.e. future RWBY fans, the action is the main selling point, and DGS clearly can deliver on this.

Dillon himself is at least amicable with most of CRWBY and likely open to negotiate with them given prior work history. For any other media corporation, consulting the old IP holders of a defunct company is a minor formality at best or even a laughable waste of time. And if you want to bring up a certain almost 10-year-old letter and the person working with Dillon who wrote it, there are plenty in the comments section who would agree with me that it's not as big a dealbreaker as one might think, given the company the letter largely condemned is well dead and buried. I won't go further into that matter.

DGS is very community-oriented - they're very intimately familiar with 3D animation and produces creator-friendly content like the Goo Engine which helps future animators inspired by RWBY to make similar anime-style 3D content. Every single RWBY fan animator whose work we enjoyed benefits from this acquisition - all of whom can grow into future animators for the series, intimately familiar with its trademark action style.

DGS is probably the only genuine fan of RWBY that has a remote chance of acquiring the IP with the express motivation of using the IP creatively. This can be clearly seen in the steady improvement of their animation content over the years and desire to push the medium. All other candidates are corporations whose motivations with RWBY are, more likely than not, going to be entirely financial (not necessarily a bad or unhealthy thing, but it's a factor).

If RWBY stays under WB or given off to Crunchyroll? They have no stake in RWBY beyond pure business. They have no interest in what's best for RWBY or its growth, only how it will be most profitable or recoup the losses from RT. The only companies I can see being more creatively invested in RWBY are ArcSystem Works who implemented RWBY in Blazblue Cross Tag Battle, or Shaft that animated Ice Queendom, but those are both Japanese companies unlikely to go all-in on a foreign IP - especially given that these studios usually adapt other IPs, not buy them outright.

DGS is invested in RWBY. Their entire studio's style is built on RWBY-esque action animation. Acquiring RWBY more or less guarantees it'll become their main flagship series and their main investment, whereas with WB, Crunchyroll or other big platform, RWBY is nowhere near prolific enough to be much more than another shelf-filler in their library. At worst, Warner archives RWBY for eternity and at best, they only bring RWBY out for tie-ins and crossovers to prop up their larger DC properties. Why give RWBY the spotlight when they own the likes of Justice League and Looney Tunes?

DGS may not be the most plausible choice, but it's clear that unless some big company like ArcSystem Works or something throws their hat in the RWBY ring, DGS is far and away the people's favourite, even gaining approval from JJ Grelle (Tyrian's VA), who quite notably refused to reprise their role for Rooster Teeth.

DGS is still very much an indie studio which IMO RWBY has flourished the most under, the time period where it retained a certain unpolished energy that made you invested in watching it improve and grow. I don't want to watch a RWBY that uses its precious time under a new studio to just go by the numbers and coast by on its existing fanbase. I want to watch a RWBY that grows, innovates and takes risks, that impresses and draws new and old fans in the way it does for every single person that has watched the Red Trailer for the first time.

I think a lot of folks have a preconceived notion that RWBY has to continue on the exact same production value as V9 left off, but that never had to be the case. I think a return to a much more subdued production with smaller teams focusing on strong individual episodes over large overarching narratives will be healthy for RWBY and more easily invite new fans, which it sorely needs if it wants to stay afloat this time around.

Whether this means a continuation to V10 or a reboot I don't know, but I know I'd rather take a RWBY that a new studio respects and will produce in a way that fits their strengths and limits, over trying and overreaching themselves to make something work that even Rooster Teeth failed to, or over no RWBY at all.

That's the crux of it: the worse alternative is no RWBY at all. CRWBY and especially us as a fandom are in no position to be picky when that's the alternative. There's no such thing as a perfect deal, but this is about as sweet as they come. If the only hurdle is WB's refusal to sell, then that's on Warner. If the only hurdle is affording the IP, I, many others and no doubt other associates Dillon Goo Studios knows are likely to help them meet that price.

I do wanna stress, despite my optimism, I'm not asking to stake all our hopes on DGS as the saviour of RWBY, god no - the last thing I want is a weirdo Monty 2.0 cult and I doubt Dillon would want that either. I'm not saying the RWBY they'd make will be perfect or be equitable for everyone either - some compromises must be made and professionally speaking, whoever owns RWBY next has no legal obligation to make V10 or bring back anyone from CRWBY. Any such action is solely on the graces of the new IP holder and at the end of the day, I think whatever creates a healthier, longer-lasting future for RWBY should take priority over our sentiment or attachment.

But as things stand right now, if DGS isn't just farming Twitter likes and is honest-to-god serious about acquiring RWBY, and no better candidate presents themselves, this is about the best option we have right now, and I myself will be ready to help and contribute in whatever little way I can. Because I know the very real alternative is either a complete gamble on yet another faceless media subsidiary, or watching RWBY rot behind a vault for the next decade or more.

[age-of-greta]

Harvest Moon

Author’s note: hi it’s been a minute!!! Here we are starting our Halloween szn series eeeekkk!!! I meant to post this last week but I got caught up. My plan is to post the next two on Fridays and the final one on Halloween. Anywhoooo this was my first crack with a Josh fic so I hope you love it!! Click here for the vibes :)

Pairing: Josh x reader

Warnings: cursing, sexual content, minors DNI

Word count: 2.8k

It was a particularly yucky day outside. It was overcast, windy, chilly, and a light drizzle fell from the sky. Definitely not the weather you had anticipated when you suggested a pumpkin patch date with your boyfriend. You had been so excited to go, take pictures, choose pumpkins, drink cider, and enjoy the day with your favorite person. But the weather had quite literally put a damper on things. Maybe it’s because it was your first fall together or maybe it’s because you had felt extremely sentimental, either way you wanted this day to go perfectly. You and Josh had been together for around 10 months now after a drunken hookup at a New Year’s party blossomed into something beautiful. Almost out of a fairy tale. You struggled to put it into words, but it just felt like he had completed you. You felt whole when he was with you. Which is why you tried to remain optimistic about this day despite the goddamn weather. You adored fall, and all year long you looked forward to having someone to share these activities with. Josh had even made sure to schedule his band’s tour around your fall calendar. That melted your heart into a million pieces.

You sat now by the window staring out into the gloom fidgeting with the frays on your cream cable knit sweater. You wondered if you should change your outfit to dress more appropriately given the circumstances. With your chunky sweater you wore a brown corduroy skirt with sheer black tights and brown chelsea boots. Josh always joked when you wore them that they looked like they were straight out of Jake’s closet.

You saw headlights flash in your driveway and you jolted up with excitement and fled to your door. When you opened the door he was walking towards you with a perfect smile and flowers in hand. He looked so handsome. Light khaki pants, white high top vans, and a white sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. He sported a triangular necklace and his hair was perfectly unkempt.

“Hi beautiful. How are you?” He asked, as he pulled you into a tight hug.

“Better now.” You gushed, taking in his scent of patchouli and teakwood.

“Got these for you.” He said with a bright grin as he handed you the orange daisies.

You smiled and accepted them. “So romantic! Let me put these in water and we can go.”

You walked back into your kitchen and found a cream colored vase under your island. You filled it halfway with water and plunged the stems in, Josh had already pre-cut them. He was exceptionally thoughtful like that.

“Ready?” You asked with excitement.

“Let’s go.” Josh said, reaching out his hand for you.

You climbed into his Jeep and he shut the door behind you. You clicked your seatbelt as Josh flickered with his phone before entering the car. The engine whirred to life as he smiled and placed his hand on your thigh. Josh hummed Neil Young softly in the background. You glanced over and studied his features. He was so pretty. So soft. Your Josh.

About ten minutes into the drive you realized that Josh wasn’t going the direction he needed to get to the farm you had said you were going to. You furrowed your browns and glanced over at his silent GPS. Forty five minutes away? That seemed impossible. The farm you had discussed was only 19 minutes from your house.

“Where are we going?” You asked.

Josh looked over at you and gave you a lazy smile before shifting his eyes back on the road. “The pumpkin patch.”

You cocked your head to the side. “This isn’t the way to Abbott Farms.”

His eyes stayed on the road but he lightly gave your thigh a squeeze. “Nope.”

You made a face, but before you could speak he continued.

“We are going to a different farm, somewhere where the weather will be nicer. I checked the radar the past few days, so I’ve been planning for alternate farms all around here based upon the weather. We are traveling southeast and the bad weather is going more northwest. We should be clear. I know how excited you are for today, so I figure the least I could do was drive you into some better weather.”

You were floored and your heart swelled with love and adoration. That was Josh. The most kind, thoughtful, always planning two steps ahead. Your Josh.

“That’s very thoughtful Mr. Kiszka. How’d I get so lucky?”

He let out a laugh. “I don’t know how you landed such a catch. By the way there are some snacks in the back if you want some. I packed them for the longer car ride. Your favorite m&ms are somewhere.”

You let out a laugh. “Josh! You’re the best. Thank you.”

He grabs your hand with the hand that’s been on your thigh and laces his fingers with yours. “You’re welcome my dear. I love you.”

**

“I like this one!” You yelled to Josh as he jogged to keep up with you.

You had just set your sights on the perfect pumpkin. It was large, round, and was the prettiest shade of orange. You and Josh had arrived at the pumpkin patch nearly an hour ago. First he took you through the corn maze, which you had both figured out rather quickly. Then you got warm apple cider before your mini photoshoot together. Josh never complained once about the hundreds of photos you made him take with you or of you.

“So this one is it huh?” Josh asked, staring down at you with your pumpkin. His hands were on his hips and he was slightly out of breath from jogging uphill.

“Mhm.” You said, giving your new prized possession a rub.

“And you’re sure this pumpkin is better than any pumpkin down that giant ass hill?” He asked, in a joking tone.

“This is the one.” You assured. “And the hill is not that giant.”

He sighed and gave you a smile. “Then we shall have it.” He grabbed the rather large pumpkin and threw it on his shoulder as you both headed back down the hill. Eventually, he would get a cart as you saw the gourds in boxes. By the time you had left you had acquired three large pumpkins, 2 smaller ones, and a plethora of gourds. You were beyond satisfied with your haul. Now it was time to go back to your house and carve them.

Josh loaded up his jeep and began the drive back to your house. It had been quite a blissful way to spend two hours. Josh slightly cracked the windows and blasted the heat so you two could admire the foliage. He truly made you swoon.

When you returned to your house Josh carried in your pumpkins while you lit fall candles and changed into more comfortable clothes. Josh had brought over his “spending the night” bag and changed as well. You wore a pair of fuzzy brown joggers with a white cropped tank. You put on a pair of socks that had little pumpkins all over them. Josh had gone with cream colored sweatpants and a black t-shirt. No shoes of course. You both settled down in your living room, an array of carving tools at your use, both pumpkins plopped down on top of trash bags. There was a black and white horror film that Josh had chosen just beginning. It was one of the many Frankenstein movies. He was such a film geek and you loved that. Your Josh.

“Okay pumpkin. What are you carving on your pumpkin?” Josh asks, giving you a particularly bright smile.

“A scary face I think. Jagged teeth all the way. What are you planning? Something elaborate?”

“Spooky. And no nothing elaborate. Probably a happy face. Everyone loves a happy pumpkin.” He says, reaching up and giving your cheek a pinch.

“Don’t forget to save the best guts! Our homemade pumpkin pie will be what dreams are made of.” You remind him.

“Got it.” Josh says, reaching over for the big knife.

He stabs into his pumpkin and pops off the top. Then he helps you get your knife into your pumpkin, safely. You two spent around 30 minutes de-gutting and carving your pumpkins. It was a surprise reveal type of situation. You had both turned your pumpkins away from one another, sitting in near silence as you both focused on your craft. You had given your pumpkin a set of triangular eyes, a small triangle nose, and a sharp set of gnarly teeth. You left a bit of the flesh out of your pumpkin to give it the appearance that it had just eaten something. You smiled at your creation, satisfied with your work.

“Almost done slowpoke?” You asked Josh, who had a look of sheer concentration masked on his face.

His expression broke and a small smile appeared. “Slowpoke? You can’t rush art baby.”

“Then how do you write songs in less than one day?”

He lets out a chuckle. “I plead the fifth. Anywho yeah yeah I’m done. This is going to blow you away.”

“Ready?” You ask, he nods.

“1…2��3…!”

You both reveal your pumpkins to one another. Josh had created, possibly the cutest pumpkin you had laid eyes on. It had round eyes with small triangles remaining as pupils, a heart nose, and a cute toothy smile.

You giggled at his pumpkin. “Josh! It’s so cute!”

He stifles a laugh. “And yours is horrifying!”

“Thank you.” You reply back with a smirk.

“Okay I’ll clean, light these guys up, and stick them on the porch. You wanna start your pie and I’ll meet you in there?” Josh asks.

You nod and get up grabbing the bowl of pumpkin guts. Josh had already picked out all of the seeds. Thoughtful.

You went through the bowl and pulled out the best chunks, putting them in your food processor to make a purée. Then you gathered the rest of the ingredients you would need. You had already pre-made the crust, so you dusted flour around your island to knead it a bit and press it in the pan. Once the crust was pressed you started to bake it slightly before putting your filling in. Josh returned to the kitchen and began to help. He was actually really good at baking. You two were always baking something together, it was a bonding time between the two of you.

“I think we should add some more nutmeg than the recipe calls for. It will give it that extra pow!”

You let out a laugh. “More nutmeg? Someone’s feeling a bit wild right now.”

“Oooh call me a rebel baby.” Josh said, in a buttery velvet voice as he approached you and planted a rather wet kiss to your lips. He reached behind you and grabbed the nutmeg, returning to the batter.

He dashed some more in and gave it a nice big stir. You grabbed the crust out of the oven so it didn’t overbake.

“Wanna try?” Josh asked, scooping some batter onto his index finger.

You nodded and opened your mouth. You made eye contact and sucked on his finger for just a second longer than necessary.

A smirk appeared on his face. “So naughty.”

“Extra nutmeg was a good call.” You said, innocently.

You grabbed the batter and began to pour it into the crust. Once the bowl was essentially empty, you sprinkled the pie with extra cinnamon and threw it in the oven.

You turned around to see Josh eyeing you. You knew what he was thinking.

Still, you pretended to be oblivious, and started to throw the dishes in the sink and clean up the island. Josh grabbed the batter bowl and slinked around to you.

“You got something right there.”

You slightly furrowed your brows. “Where?”

He stepped close to you, incredibly close.

“Here.” He said, obviously wiping batter onto your neck.

“Josh!” You said with a surprised laugh.

“So messy.” He said as he clicked his tongue. “What ever am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want.” You said faltering, voice just above a whisper.

He leaned in and licked a stripe up your neck, getting all of the batter off. He didn’t stop once it was gone, giving you a small bite on the most tender of flesh.

You leaned your head back and let out an exhale and his hands met your hips. He kissed up your neck until he met your lips, his tongue already eager for yours. You reached up and wrapped your hands into his hair, giving a few gentle tugs. That always drove him crazy. He groaned into your mouth and pressed his body into yours, his hands touching everything he could. Then, in a swift motion he gave your ass a nice squeeze and lifted you up onto the island. He stood in between your legs and began to kiss down your neck. You shuddered with anticipation and butterflies circled throughout your belly. He nipped at your collarbone while his hand found the swell of one of your breasts. He slowly pulled your top down before continuing his descent. His tongue rolled over your nipple as he began to suck and bite. Your head fell back and you were fighting to keep your eyes open as the sensations overtook your body. One of his hands met your hip and you were about to start begging. Luckily, he was working rather quickly as he slid your pants down leaving you just in your panties. His warm hands traveled all around your thighs as his mouth met yours again. When your lips disconnected, he made eye contact with you before sinking to the floor on his knees. He grabbed the back of your thighs and threw them over his shoulders, pulling your body closer to him. He started to lightly kiss the inside of your thighs. You threw your hands back to brace yourself, still wanting to sit up just the slightest to get to see some of the show. His tongue licked up over your clothed center and you let out a soft moan.

That’s one thing that always got Josh going. Your sounds. He loved being cheered on, call it a frontman thing.

He hooked his fingers under your panties and yanked them down, leaving you bare in front of him.

“So perfect.” He growled as he connected his lips to your center.

You let out shuddering breaths trying to breath through the ride you were currently taking on his face. Josh continued to send you over the edge as he added two fingers into you, dipping first then taking the plunge.

“Josh…” You whined lowly.

He briefly disconnected his face from you, replacing his tongue with his caressing thumb.

“C’mon baby I know you’re almost there. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

His encouragement and tongue back in that certain spot was enough to send you over the edge as you threw your head back and gave into pure bliss. Josh dug his fingers into your flesh as you ground yourself further and further until you swore you saw stars. You were a mess as you tried to come back to your senses. Josh always made you feel like you were in a sensory deprivation tank when he was done with you. The only thing that made you come back to Earth was a timer dinging.

Fuck. You thought. How long had Josh had you on this counter? The second ding is what really brought you back to life as Josh continued to slowly kiss your thighs to ease you back.

You took a deep breath to collect yourself. “The pie’s done.” You said, reaching down and wiping your slick off of his face. “Hopefully you haven’t ruined your appetite.”

He grins at you. “My appetite? Darling I’m insatiable, particularly for you. But, I’ve just had the sweetest thing known to man, not sure if the pie will compare.”

You giggle at his antics. “Wanna continue this later?”

He starts to get up and leans over and plants a kiss on your lips. “Yes ma’am. Let’s see how this pie looks.”

He helps you down off the counter and pulls your pants back around your waist, giving your ass a squeeze.

You clean up a little, then grab your oven mitts so you can get your pie out to cool. Josh opens the window above the sink as you sit it on the windowsill.

“Smells good. You’re so talented.” He said as he wrapped you into a hug from behind, pressing his lips to your temple.

He was so kind, so supportive, so gentle, so sweet. He got you in a way that no one else could even begin to. He was the flame that lit your soul. Ignited you. Preserved you. Saved you. That was him.

Your Josh.