#its been a slippery slope ever since

[freaky-flawless]

Was drowning in Cleodeen thoughts last night.

[signedkoko]

I saw Charlie and Vaggie in your masterlist but there's no writing for them yet?? Well then I'll be the anon to change that!!

Could you do a plaronic oneshot/headcanon with Charlie and Vaggie (separately or together, whichever you prefer), where reader is the first resident at the Hotel? Think they were there before even Angel. Something about why they went there, how they get along with the others, etc. I'll leave it up to you!

Charlie X Reader X Vaggie [Platonic]

In which the two are happy to invite you to the hotel as their first resident. Reader is genderneutral.

It was an honest mistake

When Charlie was first looking for a spot, the hotel fell into her hands after being owned and neglected by the family

And in its disrepair, they needed someone who could help get it to hotel standards

That's where you came in! They saw your ad for interior design on TV once, and Charlie was quick to call you in to ask for your help

Vaggie wasn't so sure on the idea—not that you could do anything messed up—but she figured something as simple as interior design couldn't be that hard, right?

Either way, they had a lot on their hands, and Charlie was convinced hiring you would get a lot off their plate

When you arrived, you came prepared!

A huge book of samples, another with hundreds of paint colours, wood finishes, and inspiration booklets

But most curious of all, you were kind

You sat down with the two and asked all about their hotel—the first time Charlie had ever been prompted—rather than having to start first

Not only did you think it was a wonderful idea, but you offered to do the consultation free since it counted as 'charity' work

You were a self-owned company, and there was no such thing as 'charity' in hell, but you didn't need to tell them that; they seemed so full of hope

That evening, the two offer you a room to stay the night in, so you can get a feel for the vibe of the place

Unfortunately, when you awakened to several emails from your landlord saying you were being evicted for being past due, you realized you'd be on the streets

The worst part was telling them after they'd been so kind to you, and that's when Charlie offers for you to stay until you can get back on your feet

" It's okay! I mean, we can still hire you to work on the hotel, right? It's a long-term project! We can fund you until you finish! "

Besides, your prices aren't terrible, and they were already going to hire you, so why not?

It was a slippery slope from there, you helped them get all the rooms in order, helping customize as the 'first' guest, Angel, came to stay

Slowly but surely, it was assumed that you were also staying to get clean as well

Though it was called into question several times what exactly made you such a bad person in the first place?

" To be honest with you all, I was never an interior designer. "

You were just a talented scammer who lied about credentials to get a job

" Not that I planned on scamming you guys! I just, usually I'm hired by the wealthy, and you know... But I really do like interior design! I just never studied it. "

It comes as a surprise to most, but it explains a lot

In the hotel, you are closest to Charlie; who isn't! You are both creatives, and she was the one to welcome you so warmly

Vaggie is also a sweetheart, as much as she hesitates to get close to you

Though your muse is Alastor

He handles a lot of the transformative aspects of the hotel, and so you get used to making detailed maps and plans on how a certain area needs to look so he can fix it up for you

Of course, he always adds his own spin, which leaves you huffy

The only time you hadn't designed something was the mess of a bar, which Alastor insisted was 'state of the art' in his time

You let it slide, but very begrudgingly

Overall, you've become something of a 'permanent' designer for the hotel, mostly handling the customization of rooms

While your title of 'first guest' is in the air, the others still consider you such, and you do your best to stay out of trouble for Charlie

Besides, with the money you made, you're able to run your business from the hotel and can start working on getting certified as a designer!

Author's Note - I love these two! I agree, finally I can add something under their names on the list 🖤 Thank you so much for requesting!

[oblivionbladetd]

"She's glancing the very real discourse of villainizing victims of oppression only to land on every villain should be some guy that huffed bad vibes out of a sandwich bag and has been the worst ever since... A villain that doesn't have any semblance of a point is just a flat character, fine if that's all you need, but sorely lacking as the complexity of the story increases."

Exactly! If a flat villain serves the intended story then that's fine, but it's incredibly reductive to argue with your whole chest that stories should never, ever tackle real and relevant topics like revenge cycles, the dangers of mob mania, or the slippery slope of radicalization just because some writers failed to understand their own biases. Also, kind of ridiculous to insist "has a point" is self-explanatory, doubly so when Lily herself is stretching the definition from its original context.

Tends to be what happens when you confuse having a point with being totally correct. For a very consistent few examples, I'll reach down into the MHA bucket and pull out a couple of examples for the class.

Starting with the very first antagonistic voice in the show, Aizawa. He is well aware that Midoria is by far the strongest student to grace the halls of UA, but he can't cover distance or hit any harder than a regular guy without breaking his limbs. Man does not hesitate to slam the boot down on the kid with the intent to crush his dreams, in a rough approximation of his own words, "A hero that only has two good swings before becoming a critically injured civilian is beyond worthless, no matter how hard they hit."

To shift to the purely opposite side of the spectrum, Shigaraki. The guy has a damn good point, Hero society has a rotten, cancerous core. Gifted with a dangerous, hard to control quirk, he was never more than an accident away from disaster, and when it did, he had nobody. regardless of any semantics, it is outright shameful that All for One got to the traumatized Tenko first. A blind, dying man found a child in need faster than All Might and a literal army of heroes. It's very hard to say Shigaraki shouldn't be as resentful as he damn well pleases, and it's even true that more than a couple hero institutions should be made flat to the ground. Problem is that he has zero regard for anyone but a select few, so the innocent and truly noble are just as deserving of being turned to dust as the truly rotten.

Both these characters had excellent points, but aren't in the right. Be it the minor case of Aizawa being exceptionally cruel to an untrained kid growing into his quirk, or Shigaraki using his suffering to justify mass murder. They have points and good points at that, but aren't justified by it.

I'd list and explain more, but Lord knows the list is INFINITELY longer than Lorch would ever believe, even just within MHA.

[tropes-and-tales]

Obsession

Day 6  Voyeurism (Dave York x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Dave is creepy; voyeurism; smut (PiV, protected; between reader character and not-Dave); 18+ only.

Word Count:  2023

AN:  This was requested by the lovely @chemicalalice

It’s a feature of Dave York’s new neighborhood, how close the houses are to each other. 

His new neighborhood, rather:  after his divorce from Carol, his now ex-wife kept the house, so Dave took the opportunity to embrace a new beginning.  He moved from his McMansion in its suburban purgatory into a part of the city where the housing is more varied, closer together.

He buys a small Craftsman-style house, and he makes it his.  He settles into his new life.  Dave York’s Second Act.

He finds his rhythm.  Work, then home.  His daily run through the neighborhood.  His evenings with a scotch, unwinding on his couch in bad weather or on his back porch in good weather.  He has next to no back yard, but he can see where the original plat used to lie:  his house’s original carriage house had been subdivided into its own plot, and the former carriage house was converted at some point to a single family home.

Owned by you.  Occupied by you.

Dave noted you the day he moved in.  He noted all of his neighbors, everyone on his street.  He did surface-level searches on everyone—a hazard of his job, his perpetual distrust of everyone—but he dug a little deeper on you.

It’s been months now.  Dave and you are on polite terms.  You wave hello, call out “good morning” when he’s stretching for his run and you’re walking your dog.  Sometimes your mail gets switched because of the off-kilter numbering on your street.  That’s the extent of it, though.

Dave wonders how you’d react to everything he’s dug up on you.  There’s the obvious stuff, the wide-open social media profiles that give him a good idea of the type of woman you are.  There’s the professional website that shows your work history, your education.  Easy stuff that anyone could find.

But then there’s the stuff no one should be able to find.  The stuff that would probably horrify you, infuriate you, if you ever found out that Dave went spelunking for it.  He’s horrified, a little, at himself, but you’ve become something of a hobby to him.  An interesting puzzle to piece together.  Is it boredom, the long quiet nights without the noise of his family?  Post-divorce rebounding?  Stress relief from his job?  Who can say?

It’s a slippery slope from interested to obsessed.

It’s appallingly easy to hack your computer.  It’s easy to pick your front door lock while you’re at work and your dog is at doggy day care.  Easy to slip a monitoring program on your laptop, and since you have everything saved on the cloud, Dave has the bonus access to your phone as well.

It’s an obsession.  It’s all-consuming.  It’s a constant feedback loop of call and response:  Dave thinks of you, has the image of your float in his mind’s eye.  A moment later, he taps on his phone or laptop, pulls up his spyware, and can see what you’re doing.

Sometimes, you’re not using your phone at all.  Or your laptop.  Sometimes you must be otherwise engaged:  driving or eating a meal, or drinking with friends or walking your dog.  Those moments make Dave feel unsettled, irritated that you’re out of his sight, like the sun slipping behind a cloud and casting the earth in darkness. 

Then the delayed gratification when you’re back, the sun breaking through the clouds again.  You unlock your phone to log your meal—you track your food.  You unlock your phone and pull up a playlist, and he can picture you humming along to ‘90’s alternative or ‘80’s New Wave or old hair bands. 

You unlock your phone and read smutty stories on a website, and Dave reads along with you, sees the kinks you gravitate towards, and he thinks, “oh, you filthy little girl, the things I’d do to you.”

When your phone activity goes idle right afterwards, he can guess why. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see why his obsession grows.  Just a bit of boredom before, a way to pass time until Dave’s Second Act could really get going, yet now he thinks of little else, wants little else. 

His rhythm:  work, then home.  His daily run through the neighborhood.  His evenings with a scotch, unwinding on his couch in bad weather or on his back porch in good weather, the ghost of you beside him, behind him, in his head, hijacking every thought.  The real you, the flesh and blood you, so fucking close—mere yards away, if he’s on his back porch—but you may as well be on Jupiter.

You unlock your phone.  You open the dating app that is really just a hook-up app.  Dave watches on his own phone as you swipe left, swipe right, send opening salvos to men younger than him, but not by much.  He watches those men fumble, fail.  He sees the dick pics that come through, pathetic shots of ungroomed dicks with dirty laundry, unmade beds in the background.  He sees how politely you brush them off, how you return to the search and adjust the age brackets and the distance to cast a wider net.

Dave goes to bed that night and seethes at how unsure he finds himself.  He should make a move.  He should leave you alone. 

If he makes a move, he’ll definitely come on too strong.  His obsession will spill out and scald you with its intensity; he’ll scare you with how much he wants you already, how much he wants to own every part of you.  And Dave is like a wolf:  if you’re scared and run from him, he will want to chase you.

If he leaves you alone, though, will his obsession ever die off?  Will it wilt, then exhale quietly as it dies? 

-----

You unlock your phone.  You have a match on your hook-up app, and you and this guy—this Eric—text.  You make plans.

Dave watches from his darkened living room as you leave your carriage house.  Dress, heels, makeup.  Hair done up nice.

He seethes.  Your phone has little activity for most of the night.  Unlocked a few times, and photos of your dog pulled up.  You must be showing Nice Guy Eric pics of your dog.

Does Eric pay for your meal, or does he make you split the bill?  Does he lay his hand on your lower back, tantalizingly close to the swell of your perky ass?  Does he chance a look down your dress; does he lean in close to take in the scent of your soap, your perfume, your pheromones sparking at the male attention?

In the hours when you’re gone, Dave lays out an infinite number of possibilities.  Scenarios where Nice Guy Eric isn’t nice at all, and for some unknown reason you call Dave.  Dave York to the rescue.  Dave York scooping you into his arms, and when his obsession spills over, it doesn’t scald you at all because in this scenario, you’ve been obsessing over him too.

Stupid shit.  It’s stupid.  Dave is a grown man; he has a job and a mortgage and an ex-wife and children, for fuck’s sake, but he’s here mooning like a teenaged girl daydreaming over a boy band…

You unlock your phone.  You order a car.  Dave tracks the route from the city center as it gets closer to his home (your home), but when you climb out of the car, you aren’t alone.

Nice Guy Eric is with you.  He’s on your heels, his hands on your hips as you fumble with your keys, as you giggle when you try to unlock your door.  Nice Guy Eric spins you around, presses you against the door, kisses you.  Dave watches from the darkness of his living room, rages to see your hands as they settle on the back of Nice Guy Eric’s neck, on his waist as you kiss him back, then lead him inside your small home.

Dave cannot stop his feet from carrying him outside.  He leaves his porch light off, lurks in the darkness, and he knows exactly how it looks.  He knows exactly what it is.  It’s creepy, it’s borderline illegal, but he cannot stop himself.

His back porch overlooks your bedroom, and though you’ve drawn your blinds, they aren’t drawn tight.  Dave on his porch looking down into your room, and he can see you and Nice Guy Eric.  He watches as you and he spend long minutes on your bed, stretched out and making out, and Dave wishes it were his hands on you instead of this fucking idiot, because he’s touching you all wrong.  He’s groping you, there’s no finesse, and you deserve someone who knows what the hell he’s doing.

Dave doesn’t know where the wellspring of his anger comes from at this moment.  Is he furious because there’s another man in your bed, kissing you, fucking you?  Or is he furious because Nice Guy Eric is not making it good for you at all?

Because Nice Guy Eric is an idiot.  He spends no time seducing you.  He doesn’t sit back and admire you:  that amazing ass, those tits, all wrapped up in the prettiest pink lingerie Dave’s ever seen.  Nice Guy Eric doesn’t ease you out of it; he doesn’t push you back against a bank of pillows to put his mouth and tongue to you.  Nice Guy Eric has this opportunity to taste you, to tease you with his tongue and fingers, but he doesn’t take it.

His only foreplay is the making out, and then he’s rolling a condom onto himself, climbing on top of you.  It’s a paltry four, five pumps before he’s shuddering and then collapsing on top of you.

The asshole doesn’t even cuddle with you more than thirty seconds.  Nice Guy Eric may be nice in other ways, but he’s a selfish lover, and even Dave can see the blatant disappointment on your face as you see your date off.

-----

You unlock your phone.  You pull up your hook-up app.  Back to the drawing board, Dave guesses.

Dave is ready now.  He knows your parameters, and he’s tailored his profile to fall within it.  He’s paid the paltry amount to be featured—he already has a slew of matches, but there’s only one he wants.

He needs you to make the first move.  In whatever twisted logic is ruling this game of his, he needs you to make the opening gambit, to invite him in.

You scroll through your matches.  Dave watches in real time on his own phone, and he sees when you find him:  he pictures your thumb hovering over his profile, because you swipe neither right nor left for a long stretch.

You obviously recognize him.  You scroll through his profile, and Dave has been honest here.  No sense in lying, because you’ve probably seen the girls when they come over for their every-other-weekend visits.  No sense in pretending he’s not on his second act.

You scroll through the photos he’s uploaded, a few nice ones and one where he’s shirtless—an outdoors shot from when he ran a half-marathon last year, then shed his shirt afterwards, and he hopes you like his build, that you like the scatter of chest hair and the way his skin glows from the exercise and the sweat and the sun.

When you finally swipe right, Dave nods to himself, then smiles. 

*****

Your phone chimes, and you unlock it.  It’s a message on the dating app, and you send up a silent prayer that it’s not another dick pic.

Prayer answered:  it’s not a dick pic.  It’s a text message from the guy who lives in the house that’s at a weird angle to your house.  The runner who sometimes gets your mail.  He’s cute, so when he popped up in your possible matches, you matched with him and thought, “why not?  What’s the worst that can happen?”

His message asks if you’d like to grab dinner or drinks sometime.  “No pressure,” he’s typed out.  “I’d just like to get to know you better.”

[aduckinpain]

The Ice and The Snow

(can't melt with each other near)

Tags: Loscar, Logan Sargeant centered, Logan Sargeant Character Analysis, Hurt/Comfort, Rookies handling their first year as mirrors of each other, Happy Ending, That one radio in Qatar with James Vowel, Las Vegas 2023 Grand Prix, the consequences of Qatar haven't left yet

Word Count: 2.7k

This work is also on AO3 under user roianamustang (me).

Eyes would blink open. Body wrapped in a soft, fuzzy blanket. The air cold, but the atmosphere warm. Winter had always felt special, with its holidays, weather, and new year resolutions.

With the snow. Gentle snowflakes descend slowly. Each one has intricate and unique details. Yet each one still falls down. Depending on where they land, they either melt, or they pile up. Stacked on top of each other, invincible to the human eye when they stand alone, but wondrous when they form their patchworks. It’s almost as if a needle is being thread, linking each one with the other.

But this link never happens so delicately. The snow's weight pushes on itself, causing it to get packed. The pressure never leaves, it just unifies them.

Living in Florida gets everyone accumulated to heat and humidity, so when winter starts knocking on windows, it is rare that the package that arrives with it, is made of fluffy whiteness. 

But snow can get deadly. It is slippery and wet. It builds up and always keeps on tumbling. It drags along everything in its path. It pulls.

An avalanche is a large amount of ice, snow, and rock falling down a slope, such as a hill or mountain. 

With 2023 starting, Logan felt like he was hit by an avalanche with no ground to stop him. He was stuck under layers of freezing temperatures. Tremors and shivers were expected. Ice involuntarily and unknowingly scraping his skin.

And he was trying so, so hard. He kept digging and pushing around. But he’s been there for some time. He can’t find a way out. He can’t see the light.

Which way is up and which way is down?

Please. I promise I can do this.

Being the first American to win an FIA Karting World Championship title since 1978, is a fact that Logan keeps close to his heart. Lets it rest there, coil around. Reassure.

Entering in 2015, opened up new pathways and a clear goal to aim for. So the years continued. Full throttle.

The snow kept falling. Piling up.

Snowmen were created, snowball fights were won. And in 2016, as a newly entered Formula 4 driver, he met Ice.

The ice was immovable and quiet, yet intimidating. Somehow it has always been there, yet it just showed up. 

The title was won with him standing as a solid third in the championship ranking. He was closer to the cold than to the trophies. 

Soon enough in 2018, Logan wasn’t achieving podiums anymore. He was achieving wins. The high was exhilarating, the slower he fell from each cloud, the more he appreciated the crisp, fresh air. But the clouds kept rising and without him noticing, the pressure was increasing. His ice left for a bit. He missed his comfort. After all, the cold keeps the snow from melting.

2019 was a year full of points and disappointments, but Logan didn’t let that deter him. His path was now drawn and he’d entered it with purple sectors. The wind had picked up a bit, kept changing the trajectory of the flakes, but the destination was clear. 

In 2020 the ice returned stronger than ever. The snow solidified with no chances of melting and plummeted to results. He ended up third in the championship. A result he added to the coil around his heart. His glacier won the championship, but the snow would catch up.

I promise you James, I will finish this race.

You have my word.

In 2021 Logan decided to take one more year of Formula 3, in hopes of achieving more, of having a more assured future. His ice felt like verglas, further away and much thinner. 

While he had ranked lower than the first time in the championship, a majority of the team's points were won by him alone. He’d worn his gloves and slowly packed the snow together.

Still, when he received the news of Williams' support, he could not believe it., it came as a surprise. Things were looking good, he was excited. A good F2 season would give him more chances to fulfill his dream, his goal, his future. 

He exited Prema’s building, while entering William’s and felt like a rime. Excited and cold, from the rapid freezing of the water around him. He wasn’t alone. Other drivers were there, his teammate was there, but most importantly, the snow touched its ice.

Oscar Piastri was an iceberg . Logan had never met someone quieter. But Oscar didn’t have to act loud, he was loud. His presence screamed hard-work and talent. A champion in F3, that people still underestimated. People seemed to warm up to him with a bit of time, but no one could deny the ruthless gleam in his eyes. Oscar didn’t just come for a win or a road to F1. Oscar was here to be champion. 

So the hail picked up the pace. He couldn’t be beaten easily. He’d make it a challenge. 

The snow cascaded down, each day with a new speed, with a greater intent. Pieces of ice were caught in its plunge. 

Oscar became an intricate part of Logan’s life. Whether he liked it or not the videos and the activities brought them together. The ice kept the snow cold. Logan felt safe, calm. 

The boys spent time together playing on their PlayStations, looking at each other’s simulator results and laughing at jokes with the team. Nothing, however, could beat their quiet nights. 

Being with Oscar made Logan feel serene, if he didn’t want to talk, they just wouldn’t talk. If he wanted to rant, Oscar Piastri and those stupid big brown eyes of his would cling onto every sentence, every word. Logan felt listened to. He felt important. Sheltered, guarded. 

When he was with Oscar, the wind fell silent, the snow fell slowly, softly. It never melted. It got cradled.

Oscar was the Champion of the 2021 F2 season, and no matter how annoyed Logan wanted to be, the pride surging through his chest overwhelmed him. Logan was second anyways, he’d bind for his time. The only thing that this season’s results assured him, was that the snow and its ice would meet again. 

This time in F1. This time competing in their dream.

So while Oscar awaited his turn as a reserve driver for Alpine, Logan went through another season. This time with an ultimatum. If he managed to receive the correct amount points necessary for a Super License, his next year would be in a Formula 1 car, alongside Alexander Albon. 

Coming fourth in the championship allowed him to get his license. What more could he want in life?

During this season however, his ice wasn’t there. Now usually, that would be okay, however the few times they called, texted or even met up, Oscar would seem dim, tired, unsure. Not physically, no. He felt defeated, confused. Alpine had promised him a lot of things yet, there he stood, jobless, dreamless. So this time Logan packed the snow, made a fort, an igloo, anything to protect the ice. 

This is maybe, why he was so surprised when Oscar called him at 1 AM one night, something he doesn’t like to do generally, only to tell him the news. 

@OscarPiastri

I understand that, without my agreement, Alpine F1 have put out a press release late this afternoon that I am driving for them next year. This is wrong and I have not signed a contract with Alpine for 2023. I will not be driving for Alpine next year.

8:00 PM · Aug 2, 2022

44.2K Reposts 50.7K Quotes 386K Likes 4,282 Bookmarks

Next year, his ice will be orange.

Next year, his ice will have his snow.

The year started and while Sargeant realistically knew the potential of a Williams car, it still overwhelmed him. Or underwhelmed him. 

It whelmed him.  

Getting used to an F1 car was different. The step from F2 to F1 was supposed to be gradual, seamless. It was neither of those. 

Every race was a disappointment. At first he had hopes, he’d get used to the car or the car would be good enough to at least go near points. The longer time went on, the more he yearned, the more he lost. Disappointment coursed through his veins.

He was tired. 

At himself.

While at the beginning he could reason with the prospect that he was a rookie and looked at Oscar who was going through the same thing, albeit with more drama, that could not be an excuse anymore after the summer break. 

The ice was growing.

The snow was melting.

The avalanche was nosediving. 

I will show you I can do this, please. I promise you I will.

Each weekend felt like the shards of ice were slipping away from his fingers, or digging deep into the blizzard. Logan started growing quiet, reluctant. He’d seen the jokes, laughed with some even, but what got to him was the comments. 

This year, F2 drivers were chosen to drive an F1 car as a test. They got good results. 

This year, Liam Lawson, his past teammate, stepped foot in an F1 car, passed Yuki Tsunoda, got points and beat Max Verstappen to Q3.

This year, after the summer break, Oscar Piastri was breaking records and expectations alike. He was loved more by the second and gradually carved his way into being McLaren’s greatest choice and Alpine’s greatest failure. 

This year, Logan Sargeant was consistent. For a full season, he had managed to accumulate no points and be outqualified by his teammate in every race. 

His seat was being wasted. All the years of hard work and achievements, reduced to water. Melted. 

It all plunged in Qatar.

Any time someone bothered to use his face on social media, it tended to be followed by two things.

What the fuck is a kilometer, a joke which he had to admit, at first was funny.

And the eagle. 

The eagle was supposed to represent the USA. His home, his safe space. He was supposed to represent where he came from. Give it meaning and value in this sport. Yet at every moment that passed, he felt two sharp talons digging onto his shoulders. Blood dripped down. The weight of this apex predator was bringing him to his knees. He was melting. He sank.

He didn’t ask for this. He just wanted people to be proud.

He just wanted Oscar to be his equal.

He missed Oscar.

He didn’t deserve Oscar.

Logan had given up on setting expectations for himself a long time ago, so the Grand Prix started and he went along with the flow.

Entering the car, he remembers making a joke about the weather. After all, Qatar was known for its intense heat. But nothing could prepare him. Nothing could prepare anyone.

Sweat dripped down his face, fogged up his helmet, sticking each strand of hair to his balaclava. Maybe it wasn’t the fog, because with a sudden jolt, Logan realized his vision was getting blurry. The content in his stomach had been swirling around for some time now, a sensation which only aided to his growing discomfort. Every muscle ached. He could feel every tendon tense in his body. There was a weight pushing down on him. Packing him up.

Every turn he could feel the effects of the G-force. It felt intensified, worse. His hands shook around the steering wheel. He was scared for a moment. He blinked.

He opened his eyes again.

He had blacked out. For a moment sure, but he had blacked out in a car going over 250 km/h.

Lap: 23/57 SAR: 1’29.298

Sargeant: I’m feeling pretty sick. I’ll be alright.

Jego: Okay. Zhou 1.5 behind. Focus on your lap times.

Lap: 26/57 SAR: 1’34.588

Sargeant: I’m not feeling well at all.

Jego: Okay, understood. Are you happy to continue, question?

Sergeant: Yeah.

Lap: 27/57 SAR: 1’53.468

Jego: Are you feeling okay? Are you happy to continue, question?

Sargeant: Let’s keep going.

Jego: Okay.

Sergeant: I feel like I might throw up.

Lap: 32/57 SAR: 1’28.230

Sargeant: I’m not doing well, mate. Fucking hell.

Jego: Can you continue?

Lap: 33/57 SAR: 1’28.804

Vowles: Logan, you’ve fought a brave day, but let’s bring it in and call it a day. Let’s look after you.

Sargeant: James, I promise you I can do this.

Vowles: Alright, I’ll leave it to you, buddy.

Sargeant: You have my word

Lap: 39/57 SAR: 1’29.587

Sergeant: I don’t feel well man.

Jego: Are you retiring, mate? Please confirm.

Sergeant: I don’t know.

Jego: If you’re feeling unwell, you retire. Your call, buddy. Doing opposite to Hulkenberg otherwise, opposite to Hulkenberg otherwise.

Lap: 40/57 SAR: 1’51.661

Jego: Racing Bottas on pit exit. You’re the one making the call if you want to retire or not, Logan. There’s no shame in retiring if you’re feeling unwell.

Sergeant: Yeah, I need to stop. I’m stopping. I’m stopping.

Jego: Okay. Okay. Okay. We will stop. Box, box, retiring the car.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

He remembers anger, sadness, frustration and hands keeping him upright. Getting out of the car was a struggle. He could finally breathe.

He turned his head to one of the TVs in the garage and saw a blurry orange passing by.

He let go.

He came to for a moment, only to see bright lights and white walls. Slowly rising, he managed to sit upright. The room swiveled, or maybe he did. 

He felt dehydrated.

James Vowel entered the room, and for the first time that day, Logan broke down.

He didn't need water to cry. He had melted.

Oscar’s sprint win and second podium and Logan’s fifth DNF. Things to be celebrated, obviously. 

Oscar is not a party person, but having a legendary weekend is bound to make any man break character. That is why Logan refrained from texting him. Closed his phone.

He went back on an old promise. He was having a hard time, sure, but he wasn’t going to let it soil Oscar’s success. He deserved it.

At least that’s what he was trying to convince himself with.

The phone's screen lit up the darkened room. He typed.

You have a new message.

LS: Hey

Oscar Piastri picked up his jacket, bid goodbyes and left.

Wrapped under the covers, Logan didn’t even hear the knocking. What brought him back to reality, is his phone suddenly ringing and shaking the bed.

‘Open the door, mate.’ Logan blanked for a bit, got up, wore his slippers and opened the door. Hands shaking. Exhaling

Oscar Piastri in the flesh was standing before him, remarkably less drunk than he had anticipated. 

An eyebrow was raised and he moved out of the way. 

Before he realized, he felt the wood of the bed frame dig into his back. On his left, stood an iceberg. 

In the quiet.

His mind so loud, he didn’t even hear Oscar the second time he spoke, call out to him.

To be honest, he didn’t think he had more in him, yet the tears flowing down his cheeks were adamant to prove him wrong. 

Each breath that escaped him was held in cold hands, protected. 

As if he knew everything, Oscar reassured. Whispered.

No, it wasn’t his fault.

No, he wasn’t bothering him.

No, it’s completely normal and fair to feel what he’s feeling with everything that is happening.

Never, ever assume his opinions. Of course he wanted to be there.

Because Logan was a priority. He held importance.

He was important. 

The snow froze to a comfortable temperature. Its ice was encased around him.

Las Vegas.

The land of the lucky, impulsive and very, very bright and shiny lights.

Finally at home.

He’d done better these past few races. Even got points in Austin. By pure luck, sure, but points were points and Logan was not complaining. And this track was new to everyone.

And according to everyone, loved by no one.

People's expectations were all over the place.

Friday came and went. Their tyres destroyed, even in a low grip track.

Saturday came. Saturday did not leave.

Qualifying.

P6 and P7.

With Sainz’ penalty, P5 and P6.

Logan was P6. 

James was proud.

Alex was proud.

Oscar went up to him immediately, proud.

Logan was proud.

It may be a small step, but the avalanche had stopped and the clouds were liberating the snowflakes. Small and new, still unique, still falling. Landing on top of soft ice. The sun shined but nothing melted.

Logan smiled.

-End-

Please note that no matter how much I am writing here, it is all artistic speculation of what Logan himself has decided to show the world. Do not forget that these drivers are real people.

A short analysis yay:

The obvious things first, Logan is the Snow and Oscar is the Ice.

Verglas, a thin coating of ice or frozen rain on an exposed surface.

Rime, frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in cloud or fog.

The eagle is the vague legacy the America has put on Logan's shoulders and he feels like he is failing it.

The Qatar radio is completely accurate as I thought it displayed accurately how hopeless Logan sounded and probably felt

His future may be unsure, but for now things are improving.

This piece is 2,777 words I felt like that is a great omen to Las Vegas

I got emotionally attached to an american and I have no excuse besides that he actually sounds so sweet. He's just so.....american you get put off by it.

Honestly, I think this may be my weakest one. Be it because of the lack of Logan content online or just wanting to hug the dude, I needed to write something but I can't say I am the proudest. However I have decided that if it took time to write then I will post anything.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean a lot if I managed to get some reposts, comments or liked!

If you like this, I have written more stories that can be found on my Formula 1 masterlist. Including: Lestappen and Landoscar with more to come. If it manages to spark your interest, please go support those as well!

[magicxc]

Toxic Traits

Pairings: Survey Corps x Black!Reader

Word Count: 1280

Warnings: none

A/N: I love a lil toxicity lol. This is the variety I was talking about earlier. From the mundane to the sexy and even the toxic. Everyone has their flaws, now let's explore what I think theirs is in a relationship. Tell me which trait you think matches their character the best. 

Its as the name suggests - toxic. No physical abuse or sexual deviance of the sort, but do proceed with caution or not at all if toxic-type themes aren’t your cup of tea.

Lastly, do note that I have a habit of modernizing these characters while keeping their stories true at its core lol. So if you see me mention trauma from titans and a range rover in the same sentence, just mind ya business.

Headcannons Masterlist

Eren - Jealous

You never knew what kind of day you were gonna get with Eren. Sometimes it’d be the best day ever and other times it’d be the worst. You make eye contact with some random man for a second too long? Clearly you want him. You’re paying for something and the hand of the cashier slides against yours during the transaction? Thats basically cheating because now you’ve hand fucked a stranger. You give a full frontal hug and not the, more appropriate, side hug to one of your male friends? You two must be fucking each other. As intense as Eren can be, you found that the pendulum swung both ways. He’d get down on his knees and worship the rain for nourishing the grass that you walked on should you ask for it, so it was hard to walk away when he got into his little fits. It was like a see-saw of emotions being in this relationship, the highs feeling ethereal and the lows leaving you distraught. You often wondered why you allowed Eren to get away with such behavior.

Levi - Possessive

It was like a double edged sword with this man. He was all for showing you off until someone's eyes wandered just a little too long, now he’s shoving his tongue to the deepest parts of your throat until they get the message. One time Connie complimented the shirt you were wearing which happened to be a low cut and exposed your chest; and Levi’s immediate response was to litter your skin in love bites. Anything to get the message across and let others know that you were a claimed woman. Cause Levi isn’t too much for the long talking and he would hate to see push come to shove for whichever poor bastard couldn't get the message. While you adored how much he loved you, being with him definitely got a little exhausting from time to time.

Erwin - Controlling

He’s a commander so he’s used to people following his orders without question. And while he isn’t always unreasonable, Erwin does expect you to take into consideration his every suggestion, and by consideration, he means do it. It can be as simple as styling your hair, cooking a certain meal, or saving your more risqué outfits for when he accompanies you. Though he phrases his demands politely you can't help but feel a little confused after every encounter; wondering how he’d talk you down on something you were so headstrong about. Thankfully he didn't ask for such outrageous requests, and you’ve since learned not to question it; for the last time you found yourself with a sore ass.

Connie - Petty/Blackmail 

Slippery slope this one. Pissed him off? Well now he’s taking the things you didnt realise were gone until you needed them. Shoelaces out of all the shoes, backs to your earrings, lightbulbs from each room. Not in the mood for sex? He may as well go get it elsewhere. You finally build up the courage to walk away from him. Well now your boss is about to find out exactly what that mouth do. Connie himself is unsure if he’d ever follow through with his more extreme threats since it always works out in the end. I guess it’s really only one way to find out and thankfully you’ve never been stupid enough to try it.

Jean - Obsessive

Jean doesn’t have a whole lotta chances at true love lowkey. First real crush paid him dust. His bestie died during training. And his other bestie died during a mission. Considering he’s one of the few people with the least traumatic childhood, I think he loses his shit at the idea of letting love slip away, because everyone somehow always ends up leaving him. Therefore he needs to know your every move, your daily routines, hours spent on a typical girls night out, mileage it takes to make sure that you’re going exactly where you said you were. You couldn’t sneeze without running it past Jean first. But life sure is easier now that he’s got a tracker on both your phone and car. It would raise the tension if you were to find out, he thinks, but what could you do about it really? 

Onyankopon - Arrogance. 

Mans can literally never be wrong and it’s super frustrating. It's like talking to a brick wall. He’s entertaining some girl who’s clearly flirting with him and suddenly you don’t know the meaning of friendship. You wanted pasta for dinner? Well he’s cooking soup because it’s heartier. You’re in the middle of an argument yet he’s only focusing on the minor details that are wrong in the story as opposed to the bigger picture overall. But it’s okay, cause he doesn’t mind working through these little hiccups with you. After all, where else would you go? Who else would love on you the way he does? Put up with your constant nagging? Only he would.

Reiner - Yandere

Not only was he never supposed to find love, but the idea of him finally finding it and almost losing it? Let's just say it doesn’t end too well for your dating prospects; and after a while Reiner makes it clear that it can end just as bad for you. Reiner is a sweetie pie and a devout lover when things are going great. But sometimes he gets to be a bit overbearing, and what was supposed to be a break between the both of you turned into him breaking some bones. The same ones that your friend dared try to comfort you with. Since then, the relationship has been as steady as it can be and you’ve been getting nothing but queen treatment, but at what cost?!

Armin - Dishonesty/Isolation Not a trait that raises too many red flags, until it does. Armin loves being around you. He considers you his best friend and has no qualms about you both spending literally 24/7 wrapped in each other’s arms. Though your friends were happy for you guys at first, it did raise a few eyebrows down the line. You both had gone from sharing similar interests to sharing an identical lifestyle. The same job, the same apartment, and the same friends all seemed to merge into one. But how could Armin help it when you were…well you. So what if a few phone calls from your homegirls to hang out went ignored or a few check in text messages from your family got deleted? Armin would claim to never know, see, or hear such a thing; and it’s usually the story he stuck to. But should you ever question him further, he’d find a way to put your mouth to better use, dick stuffed so far back until you forgot what had you so upset with him in the first place.

Floch - Manipulation 

Any time you get mad at him, he becomes the king of gaslightery. Floch went all day without sending so much as a text message? Well he worked a double to put food on the table. Valentine's day passed and he didn't get you any flowers? He doesn’t need a holiday to show you how much he loves you. You want to wait a while before tying the knot? Now you're using him for all he's got and wasting his time. Very rarely did Floch get nasty in his insults or the manner in which he manipulated you. In fact, they were always followed by a soft voice, gentle touches, and a redeeming act. So how could you stay mad at him when he was truly trying his best to build a great lifestyle for you both. 

[stevie-petey]

Hi M! I saw you mention that you felt bad for Billy because of that particular lack of a chance he got to prove himself to be a good person. And I definitely agree because even tho he was really cruel and horrible, the scene of his death still made many of us cry 🤧

Because of this, I thought of a tiny little angst blurb if you want to write it!

In your latest chapter of come home, it was mentioned that he tried finding bug because he didn’t know what was going on with him and why he was acting the way he was.

Do you think you could write that from his pov?

Thank you! 😁

this one is a challenge because ive never written billys pov but heres my very poor attempt lmao

enjoy !

"dude, are you alright?"

lights blind billy. a ringing in his ears nearly deafens him. his vision blurs and his teeth grind into sawdust. the taste of blood fills his mouth as he bites down on his tongue. he grips at the lifeguard stand, hardly able to stand himself.

theres a guy in front of him. billy thinks his name is alex, who eyes him wearily. alex clears his throat, tries again. "hey, uh. billy?"

billy. his name is billy. billy hargrove.

the metallic taste of blood coats his mouth. he tries to speak, words tumble from mouth like a slippery slope. he doesnt have control over them. he cant remember if hes supposed to breathe in or out when he speaks.

all billy knows is that theres a girl out there. someone told him to come find her of he ever needed anything. what was her name? it started with an h, two, maybe three syllables.

he loses his footing, almost falls against the stands wood, and alex takes a step back from him. hes scared of billy. did he do something? hes cold. his entire body is cold.

"you know what, im just... i'll just go." alex takes another step back. he pushes his glasses up stands awkwardly in front of billy. "y/n is probably waiting for me, anyways."

the hair on billys arms stand up.

y/n henderson. that had been the girls name.

sweetheart. billy calls you sweetheart. hawkins sweetheart. the one who extended help to him.

"where?" saliva mixed with blood follows billys question.

alexs eyes widen. "w-what?"

"where. is. y/n?" he needs to find you. its getting harder and harder to keep the blood inside his mouth. his guts twist within his stomach, billy thinks the cold that attacks his body is really white hot heat, searing his intestines and burning him from the inside.

you said you could help him.

billy doesnt know whats going on. darkness seeps into his brain. he cant think straight. the sunlight casts a blinding streak across his eyesight. is he dreaming?

"she... she should be waiting in her car." alex isnt sure if he should be telling billy this. youve always been weird when it came to the mention of the boy, but billys sweat drips onto the concrete and alex thinks he may be experiencing heatstroke.

he decides then that he should take billy to you. alex knows youll know what to do. you always do. the amount of times youve saved his ass at work is more than hes willing to admit, but alex holds a deep appreciation for you.

alex grabs billys arm to guide him towards the pools exit, but the skin is cold to the touch. he flinches, he doesnt understand whats wrong with the guy. hes drenched in sweat and yet ice cold.

billy doesnt register any of this. all he can feel is his body being moved somewhere. hes removed from it all. his body hasnt been his ever since the night he crashed his car.

theres something inside of billy. something more sinister than the anger his father left him. worse than the bruises and scars from his childhood. and billy is afraid.

it takes some maneuvering, alex has to stop and steady billy every few feet, but eventually they make it to the pools parking lot. only your car isnt there.

alex curses and looks down at his watch. its almost one in the afternoon. your shift at bookstrordinary shouldve ended thirty minutes ago. youre never late.

and yet you never show.

billy and alex stand in the parking lot for nearly an hour waiting for you. the sun blazes down upon their skin. billy nearly blacks out at one point, and alex doesnt know what to do.

then something seems to shift within billy. his back straightens, his eyes suddenly ignite, and the blue in his irises is gone. black now infiltrates, and alex nearly trips on the curb in his haste to get away from him.

billy sniffs the air in an animalistic way. alex watches.

theyre here.

the voice booms in billys mind. its gravelly, rough, it isnt human.

follow them. follow her.

billy turns and sees el walking across the street. shes coming towards the pool. she hasnt seen him yet. neither have the others. those goddamn kids and max.

max.

who is he again?

[stillfrownyclownlol]

I will also talk about Tyler because he's also not normal about stuff 🫠

Right from the start you get these signs he's protective to a detrimental level lol

(BTW Aidlyn scene cuz I'm not normal about them ❤️ The way he literally wraps his whole body in front of her sent me lmao. Mans got his leg around her and everything 🤡)

He's pretty much like this with Taylor in all their scenes. In the Sorrel House he puts his arm in front of her when they see the phantom (that he does not think is real, considering his reaction).

He also has a tendency to drag Taylor away from situations with out asking for her opinion on it 🫠 He just kinda assumes she will want to go with him. Like when he drags her out of the house after saying the phantom was just a prank.

Sir. PLEASE. Kinda possessive of you-

I don't think Red did this on purpose because like. She hasnt really brought up their culture/heritage or anything in the story so far lmao (I'm crying). But idk like just this behavior reminds me a lot of the guys in my family 🙃 I think Latino boys get kind of socialized to be more aggressive and protective of their families at their own expense. He definitely seems like the kind of brother to impose a curfew- He has control issues like. We all see it right? He's a control freak.

Obviously his dad dying has a lot to do with this. His mother took it extremely hard, so then Tyler "stepped up" to take care of both his mom AND his sister, he's been parentified since a very young age (he doesn't look older than 10 imo). I think he feels a need to "be the man of the house" so to speak. He genuinely does not seem to have any hard feelings towards his mom even tho she...you know, fucked up. if any of you know the "latino boys are mama boys" cliche, but.

yeah.

(I do think Taylor has more mom issues because she kinda resents how Tyler has been parentified and she's allowed herself to be angry at their mom for leaving them to fend for themselves)

Sidenote: It looks like his family is very isolated. Like, its strange that nobody came to help Marianna after Ethan died. This isn't always the case but usually Latinos have large families (my mom's family had to push together eight beds so all the cousins could sleep in one room lol) WHICH probably means Tyler's branch of the family is, so far, the first and only to have immigrated to the US. He's probably already a second or third generation tho, his mom has only one surname and he and his sister never seem to speak Spanish, so I don't think they learned it (probably some basics). I don't imagine they've ever been to Mexico except MAYBE when they were very young (its kinda rare to visit...since...it's so hard to get out of there in the first place...🫠 I dont think my parents have been to Venezuela in more than 20 years...but also Venezuela is in way worse condition, so...)

But yeah like. His protectiveness of Taylor is something that actively works against her and something she dislikes. She always looks upset when he drags her out of a situation or tells her what to do. She just wants to help :(

BABYYYYY 🥲

Ofc she never says anything because for most of her life Tyler has put himself in a position of authority and is her caretaker. It's hard to speak up to somebody when they constantly say "I'm doing this for your own good, for your own safety, for-" Whatever. Taylor always believes Tyler does everything for her own best interests, so... even when she doesn't feel good about something, she'll still listen to him. It's a veryyyyyy slippery slope that can quickly become toxic, if it isn't already. Because besides being her brother, he's put himself as her parent figure as well.

He does the thing. You know. Where parentified kids try to overcorrect so they kind of coddle their own children and don't let them do anything because they're scared to death something is gonna happen to them 💀

I don't really know what the point of this was I just wanted to talk about how possessive Tyler can be and how unhealthy his attachment style is 😭 If I write Tyler and Logan angst tho just know it's gonna involve Tyler being overprotective and Logan being Not Cool TM about it 🫠

[klett161]

So I think many people are not aware about the current state of Julien Assange, the founder of Wikileaks since he‘s not getting a lot of media attention any more and the news cycle has long moved on.

Around 2 years ago the British courts already ruled that hell be extradited into the Usa where he will spend the rest of his life in jail under according to amnesty International: „a real risk of serious human rights violations including possible detention conditions that would amount to torture and other ill-treatment“. In the Usa he will face charges for his Journalistic practices such as leaking footage of Us soldiers committing war crimes.

Right now he‘s being held in Belmarsh high security prison in the east of London, England. He has been there since two years ago and is currently being held in solitary confinement. While the courts in the Uk already ruled about his extardidment to the Usa two years ago he is right at the moment in the process of making his last appeal. if it fails which it mostly likely will his last chance would be an appeal to the Un human rights comitee. The last appeal in front of the court in the Uk will be held on the 16th and 17th of February.

He is being charged for „being a risk to the national security of the United States of America“ under the 1917 Espionage act which was put in place during the Usa‘s Involvement in the first world war to fight german spy’s in Us Institutions and should have been abolished after the end of it. Instead it stayed in place up until today conveniently giving the Us-Government a reason to jail some of their stongest critics.

You just have to really think about the Implications that this whole case carries with it, if the Us Government can classify every document they don‘t want the public to know about because it would Inform them about their atrocities and crooked doings and everyone leaking them can get charged how can you still talk about a functioning Democracy? Not that I think that any representative democracy especially not the one in the Usa represents the true will of the people. But even taken this aside the rational of a democracy must be that information is somewhat available for voters to base their decision on. The thing is the Us-Government knows and this includes both parties that all of their little war adventures in the middle east and the all civilian casualties, displaced people and other atrocities commited would,even under the most ignorant Americans, raise some eyebrows. THEY FEAR THE TRUTH

And I think all of this is not only typical for the Us but for basically every liberal democracy. Nominally there is a right to free speech for everyone up until the point that you pose a real thread to the Government. And no, the constitution will not defend you because guess what even if there are no convenient laws like the Us espionage act that help to prosecute you, there are all sorts of secret services that don’t give a fuck about the constitution and their only purpose is to do what ever is best for the nation-state they are serving weather that is overthrowing government’s, bribing a court or assasinations doesn’t matter. And if the Usa can keep on silencing its sharpest critics without international condemnation or condemnation by their citizens, other western countries will follow this example and be more confident to prosecute their own critics openly, I do believe this is somewhat of a slippery slope.

There will be some last big demonstrations on the 20th and 21st of February outside of the royal court where the hearings will take place. Demonstrations starting as early as 8:30(GMT) so if you live in the area consider going. And even if you don’t live near london you can still get active, share Information, talk to friends and family, make solidarity graffitis, write an article for a local newspaper or zine, attend solidarity demonstrations or if there are none in your area organize one yourself. Anything really just don‘t look away

Please Reblog and share not only this post but all posts aiming to raise awareness about this topic.

This struggle is not merely about Julien Assange it‘s about press freedom as a whole. And not just in the Us but everywhere, so go and fight for free speech while you still can

Source:

amnesty International: https://www.amnesty.org/en/petition/julian-assange-usa-justice/

[arcanepactguile]

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐒

ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ. ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴅ ʀᴘ ꜰᴏʀ — @poisonedspider

ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ - ɴᴏ. 19 - ᴛᴇɴᴛᴀᴄʟᴇᴛᴏʙᴇʀ

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐄

Comfortable, the rise and fall of the tentacles’ mimed breathing rate had settled the exhausted Radio Demon — stretched out leisurely, the middle of the plush bed made the perfect place for a sheltered nap. More correlated with a fit of fatigue, sleeping listlessly was a cinch. Alastor's insomnia rarely defeated him, but whenever it did, the Demon's vulnerabilities were exposed. The risks he undertook had to be methodically arranged in advance when possible, an appropriate time scheduled when his absence from the public eye would not raise any brows.

Sleeping on his stomach, Alastor had pulled a couple of muscular tentacles into an affectionate embrace. The boneless limbs looped through his crossed arms and rested their blunt tips respectively atop the line of his shoulder, the other tip draped over the back of his head to reassuringly stroke a tender spot between his twitching ears. 

Undressed for the night, the buck’s skin gave off an indistinctive shine, the wavering candlelight from the sidetable casting a soft glow that bounced off the crescents and graceful slopes of his slumbering body. The buck’s fluffy tail flipped back, tilted to one side, then it shook itself to bristle the fur as Alastor gave a low, contented growl — tightening his grip around the hugged tentacles, turning his unperturbed face deeper into the soothing darkness cribbed by the arcing tendrils shielding his head.

Further down these two appendages their bodies thickened considerably in girth — one tentacle had burrowed it's bulk between his slackened thighs, curved into a gentle incline to prop up the Radio Demon's bare ass, the tapered trunk curling back in on itself to face the gorgeous cheeks one-on-one. 

Alastor's stirring stilled, his upper back slowing it's measured intakes of breath. Stop and go, the demon’s hushed snoring imbued the room’s ambience with the deepest sense of protective sanctum.

The Radio Demon fallen into a greater depth of dreaming, the alert tentacle felt prompted to incite a definitive memorable dream.

Shifting forward, the tentacle devotedly pushed it's slender tip into the dark rift between Alastor's inner cheeks — nuzzling the snug orifice fondly, it played with the buck’s relaxed hole, kneading the sensitive wetness. Dipping in only a little at a time, by degrees the trunk squirmed it's way inside at a quicker pace once Alastor had involuntarily beared down on the intruding guest. The tendril was exultant to find it's Master's inner walls firm and crushing down, so it became all the more eager to reward him.

The tentacle commenced rocking Alastor forward, pumping it's compressed girth back to thrust forwards again in a steady cycle of filling his warm rump to the brim. It avoided touching the buck’s waiting bud, the tingling nerves crackling with mild arousal when one of the tentacle’s suckers had already accidentally latched onto the familiar bump to suckle it. The other spiralling lines of suckers trailing down the limb had bored slightly into the flesh of the buck’s slippery tunnel, locked in with gentle hooks to intensify the stimulating pumps incrementally gaining traction.

𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑

Angel Dust had been staring at the ceiling for far too long, headphones on as he attempted to blare music to override his even louder thoughts. Ever since getting sober (well, mostly sober) for the sake of Charlie and redemption, sleeping had been quite the struggle. Angel was used to either getting high on things like marijuana to actually get him to sleep, or getting high on things like cocaine to keep him awake all night. Insomnia had struck miserably with sobriety, along with the nightmares from trauma.

It had to be close to two in the morning at this point, the hotel incredibly still in its silence as the rest of the patrons slumbered. Fat Nuggets was curled up on Angel's stomach, tossing this way and that, frustrated that his mom just wouldn't fucking go to bed. The spider gently picked him up, setting him on his plush pet bed he had gotten for the hellpig, stretching arms over his head. There was no use trying to sleep if it was just going to make him more irritable that he couldn't.

He knew that Husk was already in bed for the night, taking the sleep he could when Alastor wasn't breathing down his neck to work at the bar. So he couldn't even go down to the lobby and distract himself with a drink. Well, he could, but the empty silence of being alone would drive him equally insane. His fingers tapped along the comforter of his bed, before he blinked with the idea - there was certainly one sinner in the hotel that he knew never seemed to sleep.

Putting on a pair of fluffy knee high socks to hide the feet he never displayed publicly, tugging on an oversized hoodie to hide the small crop top he was wearing to sleep in an attempt to be decent. The hoodie basically made him look naked in how it hid the small pajama shorts he was wearing, but he had worn much less on the daily, so he tossed his headphones aside and headed out into the hotel to attempt to find the Radio Demon.

After being unable to find him, not even in his radio tower, Angel Dust found there was only one other place to look - his room. It wasn't a place he knew that Al went often, and it wasn't a place that Angel felt he was allowed to even be, but he also new the door was unlocked. Most of theirs always were, just in case. He had rapped his knuckles on the door, just as a fair warning, before opening up into the deer's room.

He had been expecting to find Alastor doing something boring like reading, or something ridiculously creepy like voodoo magic. What he hadn't expected was - "Holy fuckin' shit." He cupped a hand quickly over his mouth, because while it seemed like there was plenty of action happening in the other's bed, it appeared that Alastor was sound asleep. The spider instantly knew that this was something he should never have walked in on, stepping back to try and get out of there before Al realized he had been in there, shock causing him to spin and hit his head on the door frame with a - "Ouch! You mother fuckin' stupid piece of shit fuckin' door."

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐄

The tentacle's rhythmic motions were entirely focused on a blend of mutual pleasure; slyly rewarding it's Master via the guarded sleep, explicit permission presumed based on the justification that the imposed masturbation would be appreciated should the Radio Demon wake up before it had finished playing with him. Secondly, It itself relished the thrill of manipulating the unconscious buck, revelling in the stealthy wanton arousal, acting on instincts polished by historic playtimes orchestrated by it's Master (yet awake).

In the minutes before Alastor's second uninvited guest had practically barrelled into his private sanctuary, the preoccupied tentacle had burrowed itself deeper, the suckers pinching the deer’s reddened flesh to establish a rougher cycle of rocking — the thick tentacle’s black outline distinctive pressed against Alastor's sickly ashen skin, It’s black skin shining with slick as it's excited pumps into the demon's ass reached a new crescendo. The sucker latched onto the demon's tingling bud reduced it's suckling kiss, resorting to simply clutching the dully throbbing prostate instead, letting the repetitive rocking apply the constant pressure of an ebb and flow suction.

The ensuing exaggerated change in Alastor's subconscious stirring his dopamine, the succeeding escalation rousing the stag demon’s groggy thoughts to the surface — the curious pool of heat warming in his lower belly, feeling himself on the cusp of hardness redirecting his delayed attention to the immense pressure indulating deeper inside — shocked awake, eyes stretching wide, any crinkles of sleep vanishing instantly, Alastor pushed his groggy face harder into the tangled web of caressing tentacles and his arms, squeezing his eyes tighter as a grudging moan was pulled from him, hunching his shoulders as if the combined actions would send the stern message to his monster that this was not okay, to stop immediately.

As it predictably happened, the tentacle didn't get the message, confused by the shoddy translation, overwhelmed between the Radio Demon's murmured moan, the increased trembling through the buck's inner walls squeezing it's slippery girth, and the way he hadn't exactly ceased it's gentle yet determined pumps in and out. The buck automatically rolling his hips down to give the rocking limb a better leverage, the friction slid further down, the suckers’ pulsating pinches drawing a wet gasp from the stag, failing to predict the sudden onset of the new stimulation.

Keen to figure out what had motivated the tentacles to pleasure him asleep, as the innocent tendrils wrapped around his shoulders and arms seemed oblivious to the diligent tentacle working at spreading his tight hole open. As he slept, Alastor hadn't been aware of the penetration, the probing beforehand registered very vaguely as a harmless, ordinary component of a wet dream. His ass stuffed full, the heavy tentacle unyielding to Alastor's conscious panic, the prospects of resolving this amicably were dashed to pieces when the following bang and the stream of incredulous curses drew Alastor's racing thoughts to his bedroom’s door instead of pursuing whatever the hell was going on in his bed while he had been out like a light.

Paralysed at first, Alastor had scarcely raised his head before it had instantly sunk in that he should have not responded to the intruder, the wise advice slamming into his frozen bravado like a rig intent on running the deer down. Accomplishing nothing but a startled, otherwise impassive expression as his line of sight fell on who else but ANGEL DUST — it appeared the porn star had decided to inadvertently brain himself upon his mortified hasty escape, which explained the loud bang. A scarlet blush creeping up Alastor's chest to flush his cheeks, however half-buried his face was amongst the tentacles, his ears pinned back in horror, Alastor’s voice sounded breathless, hoarse from his deep sleep.

“Please, come in, and SHUT THE DOOR,” the Radio Demon croaked, trying to stifle another aggrieved moan, using that energy to recycle the voiced arousal into a less embarrassing series of hushed huffs, doubling down his efforts to make this all look like a routine Friday night. The busy tentacle persevered on rocking him back and forth, the wet schlicks sounding much too loud to dismiss as a random noise from the bayou further away beyond. The docile tendrils stroking the patch between his ears idly, absent from the conversation. Pushing himself a little higher up on his elbows, grimacing as the base of the thick tentacle pushed up on his throbbing ballsac, his tail wagged once in ill-disguised pleasure, the scene wasn't to the Radio Demon's liking in any way.

"— How long have you been here...?"

𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑

He was honestly uncertain which was more shocking to him - the scene that was happening before him, or the fact that Alastor hadn't immediately tried to choke him to double death with those tendrils for walking in on this. It was more than likely the latter, all things considered. It wasn't like this sort of thing was anything new to the likes of Angel Dust, minus the shadowy tentacles that seemed to have a life of their own.

It was more so the fact that this was Alastor. Alastor, who seemed like he had a massive stick up his ass. Alastor, who he was pretty positive had never gotten laid because he was way too fucking tense. Apparently he had been wrong. Though as the initial shock started to wane, Angel realized that the other had made a request. For him to stay.

Clearing his throat, soft feet shuffled across the floor, bringing the taller into the room and shutting it behind him. For good measure, he decided to lock it - it seemed a bit too late for that now, but at least that would prevent anyone else from walking in on....this. His mismatched eyes immediately looked away, not out of shame or embarrassment, because this was just a typical Friday night for him. But at least out of some respect

"Um.....not....not long, really." He couldn't even tell Alastor if he knew. Time had seemed to stop when he had walked in on that, his brain trying to process everything that had been presented before him. So many fucking questions. He narrowed his eyes, face wrinkling up as he heard the continued wet slap of fucking, because again, too often did he hear it and know exactly what it was.

"Ah' didn't mean t' intrude or nothin'. Just couldn't sleep. Figured if anyone would be up, it would be you." And well, shit, he had been right. He cleared his throat again, shaking his head. "Ain't th' first place ah' looked, if that helps. But when ah' couldn't find yeh', ah'...." He's stopping, nodding towards the door again. "But ah' won't tell no one, and yeh' can trust that ah'll pretend ah' saw anythin' and we can just pretend this didn't happen."

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐄

Frantic thoughts scattering all over the place, every which way, Alastor's practical frame of mind was assuredly out of sorts. His own innate rationality demanded defusing the very awkward, embarrassing circumstances. Set upon unexpectedly, from two directions — the monster, and the spider demon; it suddenly occured to the Radio Demon that Angel Dust’s reactions… belied the fact he had seen more than what Alastor hsd assumed was the case.

Inviting him in, Alastor had thought Angel couldn't actually see anything. Sure, he’d figured that the porn star had recognised this was a private affair, a nighttime fantasy where a vivid imagination had gone astray, spiralling out of control… The old vision burning brightly in his mind’s eye, the groggy buck's mental reflexes were impaired by the sensual friction relentlessly kneading his throbbing passage, the slick underscoring the obscene motions loudly as if the deer demon's reputation needed another coat of ribald paint, the hidden sexual part of his life kept close to the chest until tomorrow morning.

Clinging to Angel's promises because the alternative wasn't any better, the overwhelming problem had to be resolved, without further scarring anguish.

Distracted, Alastor hadn't figured out why his friend's body language and tone were the way they are, the sheepish attitude and embarrassed stuttering, the hesitations. Tightening his grip on the tentacle mass encircling his torso, inclining his head to regard Angel's advancing shadowed figure with rising alarm, the revelation he had not just been made aware of the hotelier’s lewd avocation but had SEEN for himself the Overlord indeed getting fucked by a tentacle — Alastor's misunderstanding had made things even worse than they were mere seconds ago.

Forgetting about the porn star's impressive height difference, the rumpled bedding revealing Alastor's fondness for sleeping naked, it meant the tentacle buried inside him was conspicuously in full view. A flagrant disregard for upholding dignity, the tentacles were apt to ignore other factors like clothing and scenery — other participants, as well. The blankets thrown back, in spite of the bayou on the other side of the room, the tentacle nestled between his asscheeks was obviously inside, not wriggled underneath his junk, evidently undeterred by Angel Dust's approach.

The reddened blush simultaneously paled into a blanched plethora of humiliation, confusion, and fear, Alastor simply wanted to disappear. Immediately. As gruesomely as possible.

Ears flattening, sinking lower behind the embraced tendrils, Alastor's distraught eyes were barely seen above the knot of limbs. He had supposed the spider’s vision was limited, and thusly the Radio Demon's erotic dreamlike play was merely mundane masturbation; a …tentaclejob, or humping… Not… gettiing fucked BY the monster, and certainly not when in deepest slumber. The Radio Demon hadn't given due consideration to the uncovered eyeful of the tentacle’s unearthed lust, manifested in it's ceaseless undulation, feeding off the stag Overlord's pulsing prostate: his arousal radiating to encompass his stiffened cock, and tight sac.

Sufficiently explicit, although an ordeal the Radio Demon would give his right arm for, to erase from history, and what’s more…

The blasted tentacle was undoubtedly, positively, getting more excited over this random plight the two demons found themselves confronting, equally mortified. The exposed bulk of the main tentacle had raised itself higher, bent double sharply, and was pumping in shallower strokes, the suckers inside producing a marvellous (in other times) friction all round the aroused buck's inner entrance.

Listening to his intruder’s ramblings, aghast, Alastor couldn't articulate an intelligent answer. Finding it harder, regulating his ragged panting, Alastor was restless, imploring the Overseer tentacle wordlessly to cease and desist, stop this madness. The implications of inviting the spider over, closer, was unfathomable, mistaking Angel's sheepish attitude for a subverted reaction to self-pleasure and not penetration.

What the FUCK… was he thinking, and why hadn't he had called for the only help available?

The Radio Demon already knew the answer; his mirror Shadow knew better than to meddle in It's master’s predicament, keen to stay out of the messy situation. Preoccupied elsewhere under the pretense of lending the Overlord privacy, the Shadow was probably better off avoiding further drama.

Groaning quietly, the stricken buck arching his back, motioned towards Angel with a stiffened hand, gesturing for him to either back up a step, OR turn around. Pressing his burning hot face into the tentacles in abashment, the Radio Demon's rasped riposte came out strained, higher pitched than intended.

“Y-yes, that’s… ah, t-the… best… Do NOT-!” he pleaded, admittedly a desperate act below his usual decorum, this was a total clusterfuck, theatrics better suited for another one of Angel Dust's sordid films or webisodes — “P-please, d-don’t… go — A̷H̷!̷ ♡"

The Radio Demon's last outburst came on out of nowhere, the startled cry in unison with the deer demon's body simultaneously locking up, shoulders rigid and his tail wagging frantically. Whereupon the Overlord was trying to dodge Angel's confession, the tentacles’ shared hivemind had drawn their own conclusions.

Given that the porn star had been sidling closer, at the same time sneaking glances at the exit wilfully discounted, the tentacles had deduced that their Master was asking Angel to not go AWAY, instead of not go any CLOSER.

The absently stroking tendril between Alastor's antlers had suddenly tipped his head down firmly, breaking his already partial line of sight with his friend; two pairs of twin tentacles had whipped out from the bundled mass, coiling around Alastor's waist and hips to pin to the bed, angled at a downward slant — the Overseer tentacle had plunged straight away, picking up the pace and thrusting fiercer into the frozen buck’s throbbing ass, hence why Alastor's reply was so rudely interrupted.

Unaware, unable to see anything but the darkness gathered by his crossed arms and the woven tendrils keeping his head down, the other sinuous tendrils were in fact making this Angel Dust's problem, too.

In kind, not to leave any other participants amiss, a new set of unoccupied tendrils had slithered out from under the rocking bed, snaking around Angel's ankles and calves to ensnare the distracted demon. Their speed markedly slower than the Radio Demon's own delighted tentacles, insofar as one can identify the monster's faceless form permitted, the excited coils were still hurried in their rummaging under the demon's clothes.

Curling up, their blunt tips had glided in under the hemlines of the porn star's pants — their sleek forms outlined under the tightening material, filling the spider demon's clothing rapidly in their search for a damp orifice to satisfy. There was a persistent tug from their base at the floor, the limbs purposeful, intent on bringing the spider to the ground.

— Or let him go free, if the stag had the strength to call them off, engaged as he was: held fast and unable to even rut his hips into the bed, his collection of tendrils adamant to hold him in position as the Overseer limb focused on building up the buck's climax, impelled by the hivemind's botched message

[savelockwoodandco]

Have you ever thought of crowd-funding?

Thank you so much for the question and for your support -- and for the support of those who've asked similar questions.

We got a few like this, so we figured we'd answer them all in one (and our apologies if we've missed your question -- our inbox is apparently very hungry, eating asks before we get them, and we have quite a few people who have to try three or four times before their question ends up in our inbox).

Crowdfunding comes up every now and again as a solution, especially when people see other fandoms doing it to purchase ad space (such as the OFMD fandom recently). We've seem many fandoms do this over the years and many fandoms avoid this, and there's pros and cons to each approach.

As far as we're concerned -- speaking here as Twitter and Tumblr Mod, not by any means speaking as the One True Voice of the Fandom -- crowdfunding is very often a slippery slope. There have been a few things crowdfunded within this fandom -- space at cons being the one that comes to mind -- and in our opinion that kind of thing makes sense. It's small and personal, and has a real, tangible result -- aka a booth -- along with a set price and very little wiggle room for presenting where money is going. You've probably seen posts on this blog alerting the tumblr space of these happenings, and we're comfortable with that.

Crowdfunding for ad space -- billboards, blimps, electronic ads, and their ilk -- on the other hand, gets tricky very quickly. There have been dozens upon dozens of crowdfunding scams within fandoms -- not saying within ours, saying that with our decades of experience in fandom, we've seen more than our fair share. Crowdfunding attempts that start out with a small group's passion can turn ugly very quickly, and it's a big ask to trust strangers on the Internet not just with your passion and time, but also with your money.

And while there's a chance for high visibility, even if everything goes perfectly, it's a lot of outlay for little to no tangible benefit. There have been fandoms who use it who have had their show picked up; there have been fandoms who use it without any effect whatsoever. It's not a guarantee; it's not even something that always does something.

We the mods invest our limited time and humble talents. We're always amazed at how LockNation has gathered to provide their prodigious talents and time to make this campaign something to be proud of. Knowing the inherent risks of a lot of crowdfunding campaigns, especially ones as directionless as saying (random example we made up but have seen in past campaigns) "donate to save the show" with no other information, causes us to be extremely wary of such efforts.

Once again, we don't speak for the fandom at large. At its core, and like we say in our pinned post, this blog is primarily a place for a lot of information to be gathered in one place and for positivity and encouragement -- celebrating the wins, keeping up momentum, and marveling at what LockNation has managed to do, all in less than a year of the show being out, and less than 9 months since Netflix's hissy fit (as we call it). Others may use their allotment of time and energy and, yes, capital, as they see fit.

There's a post about 2 weeks ago on this very blog from our friends at the Discord, looking for donations to get a booth at GalaxyCon Richmond if you're looking to get your wallet involved! If you have the power, more power to you. We're huge fans of the power of cons here on this blog.

Being the Fandom Grandmas (affectionate) that we are, we've seen nebulous crowdfunding events go south a few too many times to try to organize anything ourselves, and you won't see a big sweet to buy ad space on Times Square anytime soon originating from the mods. We're comfortable with the constant, measurable successes we've been able to bear witness to and help along in some small way here on this little blog.

Above all, we all love the same show, and we're all working towards that awesome day that we get the S2 announcement! Let's work towards it the best ways we know how. We'll be at the finish line before we know it.

[obihiro-division]

Jack’s Thoughts on Arakawa Division

Alexis Ward

“The CIA? I wasn’t informed of… Oh, apologies. It’s quite unexpected to see an operative in Japan, especially in a public setting so to say. My knowledge on how the Americans operate is very limited. But thanks to my young master’s mother, the former CIRO director, I can make a guess on a few things. From what little I’ve learned working for the mistress, the relationship between countries have been fickle. Not to mention how the Party of Words have usurped the government in recent, its no wonder the United States of America is a little more than concerned about what is occurring here. Still, I hope that Ms. Ward isn’t planning to spearhead something extreme. It would be an inconvenience… Not just to the D.R.B. participants, but to everyone in the country if something were to break out again.”

Hoàng Diệu

“Hoàng Diệu? M-My, the Lotus Bloom Jewelry owner, yes? I’ve heard it once or twice. Young master’s brothers have bought her products. Master Akimi in particular purchases her works for his wife. She’s fond of her lotus jewelry, as it is one of her favorite flowers. My knowledge about her otherwise is quite limited. And her presence does perturbs me ever so slightly. It is probably just me worrying over nothing however, so I wouldn’t press the issue.”

Ivelisse Martinez

“A yoga instructor. That most certainly eases my nerves.”

“I personally don’t participate in yoga as much as you might expect. I’ve tried to take a couple classes back in the UK since its insanely popular in the country. I just prefer to do more exhilarating activities. Not to say I don’t practice some of their techniques in my own freetime. Outside of basic stretches, meditation is something I do frequently. The pose that is commonly done as a part of it can feel like a trap though. I find myself listening to the silence and falling asleep on the floor more often than meditating. It’s a slippery slope of relaxation fufu~ I wonder if Ms. Martinez finds her students doing the same in her classes.”

Sounds of Silence

“It is a little difficult for me to wrap my head around this group. I suppose they are as balanced as they can be for a team. I just… Sorry, it’s difficult to articulate what I wish to say. This team might be a challenge for us. I look forward to facing them on stage.”

“Damnit, I need to make some calls. Why the hell the Americans getting involved?”

[creature-wizard]

Y'know, one thing that sets Wicca: Satan's Little White Lie apart from the other "I'm a former member/victim of the global satanic conspiracy" literature I've read, is that Bill Schnoebelen actually argues against ideas he regards as "pagan," and some of what he says is perfectly reasonable.

Unfortunately, he isn't content to merely be a critic of these ideas. He also has to claim, falsely, that Wicca was created by this global satanic conspiracy, and that it's inherently violent and morally corrupting no matter what its practitioners say. He has to claim that he knows this because he, personally, was this Wiccan high priest who was eventually initiated into this global satanic conspiracy, and Wiccans are totally performing human sacrifice, you guys, it's totally part of the religion.

Now he's claiming that the Bible is like an "owner's manual" for human beings. Funny, you'd think that if the Bible was written to be an owner's manual, it might contain content like "warning: constant stress can cause chronic health conditions" or "repeated use of joints without proper rest and care can cause repetitive stress injuries."

But no, what he's actually talking about are the prohibitions from blood, because apparently the Bible's prohibitions on blood exist because otherwise you got a slippery slope to infant sacrifice. Also, he claims horror films are part of this slippery slope:

As I moved deeper into Witchcraft, past the Third Grade level, I found my own fascination with horror films increase geometrically. What began as an intrigue with classic horror films which had no gore, hemorrhaged into a desire to see ever more grotesque displays of charnel house delights.

Then he claims he heard a woman... ummm... having a reaction to a horror film, and that grossed him out so much he left:

During one scene where some totally gruesome things were being done to a female character, I heard these nearly orgasmic moans coming from a middle-aged woman two rows in front of me. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck! I decided I’d better leave.

And he claims:

I realize now that there is a real addiction in operation here, similar to the downward spiral which has been noted in much of substance abuse. Blood may well be one of the ultimate substances to abuse! I believe this is why God forbade His people to become involved in it.

Horror films can be extremely cathartic, but calling that sort of thing an "addiction" is extremely wrong. If you had some weird thing about blood, Bill, that was a you problem. Trying to moralize an entire genre of fiction based on how you personally react to it is small-minded and absurd.

He claims:

One you “grant” that blood has magical power and efficacy, you seem to be carried along on a subtle, but inexorable course toward ever more graphic ways of getting it. I can honestly tell you that when the Lord began to draw me out of the occult, I was just millimeters away, spiritually, from being ready to do murder for my “Old Gods.”

If any of this is true, Bill, this was a you problem. Like I've said before, early in the book this guy tries to pass himself off as an innocent man who was seduced into power, but passages like this paint him as an amoral fuckhead who would go along with anything so long as it promised him more power.

And I really think that's who Schnoebelen is. He demonstrates it through publishing books like these, full of bald-faced lies created to exploit a cultural panic and propel him to stardom within that culture. He's hooked on power and greedy for more - but since he's doing it in the name of Jesus, all his Evangelical audience can see is a passionate man of God. It's the perfect grift.

Schnoebelen proceeds to blame porn and horror for the ills of society (as conservative Evangelicals and other puritanical dipshits are wont to do) even suggesting that Ted Bundy is the product of such media, and says that he, Charles Manson, and Richard Ramirez are a "testimony to the seductive power of blood rituals."

I'm sorry, Bill, but the Wiccan-to-serial-killer-pipeline only exists in the imaginations of conservative Christians.

Schnoebelen claims that blood sacrifices exist in other religions because,

Satan is a copycat, and he is the author of all false religion. He knows the Bible well, so he knows that “without shedding of blood is no remission [of sins].” (Hebrews 9:22) and that “it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul.” (Leviticus 17:11).

And he says,

This was a horrible mockery by Satan of the sacrifices of the Law of Moses which required unspotted animal sacrifices.24 In place of animals without blemish, Satan substituted babies, their tender years being supposed to guarantee innocence. If babies could not be found, then virgin children (symbolically innocent and unblemished) had to be sacrificed.

So he claims that all of these other cultures were practicing human sacrifice in mockery of his god in particular.

Have people around the world done fucked up things? Yes. Has child sacrifice ever been practiced? Also yes. But his whole assertion that all of these cultures were practicing infant sacrifice all the time, and that this was done specifically to mock his god is absurd. Child sacrifice was certainly horrible, but there were reasons behind it that had nothing to do with Christianity. Furthermore, even among ancient pagans, the practice was controversial. This is not a matter of "Christians good, pagans bad." You can look into this yourself.

Schnoebelen claims,

The central “Mystery” of the Roman church is the Mass, a daily sacrifice of Jesus anew on the altar, followed by the ritual drinking of His blood and eating His flesh. Devout Catholics believe that by doing these rites, they can appease God. Thus, they are tragically steered around the real sacrifice of the cross by Satan.

This is such an absurd description of the Mass, a ritual that seems to have been practiced by early Christians, based on contents of the New Testament. Protestant Christians frequently claim that Catholic priests "re-crucify" Jesus, when in reality the ritual of the Mass is thought to allow people access to the one and single Crucifixion, because God is beyond time and space. And taking Communion isn't about "appeasing" God, it's about becoming one with Christ and the body of Christ.

Like, I dunno dude, when you're so hellbent on taking down the Catholics that you're technically attacking the beliefs expressed in the very book you claim to believe in, you might wanna... rethink a few things?

[the-fiction-witch]

I am not sure how to start this, or even what exactly to say let alone how to say it. And I've already had a bit of a breakdown and a bit of a cry over this so I am trying very hard not to be emotional.

But here we go,

Recently I have started to receive comments, replies and Inbox asks not only here but across my accounts relating to the big bad.

AI

I am not going to be tagging or posting any account names or anything like that, I don't feel it fair and I don't want anyone going to these accounts and saying anything negative, and I don't want these accounts to feel bad for what could be an honest mistake.

But the long and short of it is that these comments, asks, replies etc. Are saying my work is written with AI.

I didn't want to say anything about this cause at first I thought it was ridiculous, and I didn't want to start replying to things like this, as I know it is a slippery slope before I start replying to everyone who ever says anything negative and I know that's never a good plan.

But I felt compelled to speak now due to the volume of stuff I am receiving as well as that other accounts are now starting to speak up for me and I don't want these original accounts to get any hate or any trouble for as I said what could be an honest mistake.

For complete and utter transparency, so I never have to answer these things again,

No. My posts are not written by an AI.

I am a real person, who really writes.

I use Grammarly as an editor which does have a built-in generative AI, which as far as I know only helps with spelling and I have used it maybe a handful of times to rewrite or help me edit longer works, but Generative AI with Grammarly isn't free its a part of their premium plan which I don't have so I know its not possible for me to use it much.

I'll be honest these comments have really made me upset because I put a lot of work into all my content and it really makes me upset to think people might find my account through one of these posts, see these comments and then not read anything else of mine assuming I'm an AI writer, that I put a lot of time and work into posting daily and making sure I have a backlog of content ready to be posted currently I work about a month in advance for a lot of things, that people are saying these things about me.

I have been writing on this account specifically since March of 2016, and had been writing on my last account for several years even before that. I have been making content now for over ten years. I am not even sure AI was around two years ago, let alone ten. I work for commission and most of what I post is legitimately work people have commissioned from me.

This is my job, my full-time job. That I have been doing through the thick and thin of a large part my life now. And... not to be dramatic but it is stuff like this that makes me wonder if I should stay and keep doing this, if I sit and spend hours of my day, every day, making content for the first reply to be accusing me of being/using an AI.

It just... makes me really not want to make content,

I don't want to stop cause so many amazing people that say such beautiful things that make me cry with joy, even feeling giddy just when someone reblogs my work. But it is stuff like this that sounds so loud against everything else.

But thats my two cents on the matter, that's my defence, my answer, and how I feel about it. And I don't want to feel the need to bring this up again.

Please don't go looking for these comments, please don't send anything to people who've made them, on here or any other site I've received them.

And as always more content will be coming in the following days.

[dionysia-does-stories]

The Orchid

Cringetober 2023, Day 20: Hanahaki Disease

On AO3

Rating T -1,066 words - Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley

Summary: Aziraphale gifts Crowley an Orchid for his fake birthday and Crowley finds himself coughing up orchid flowers whenever he tries to say something insulting about his angel.

Story:

Crowley did not have a birthday, being that he predated time. But he did celebrate the birthday of the M25 as if it was his own birthday. He wrote it down when he forged legal documents. He got himself a present (it was always another house plant). It went out for an opulent dinner and a slice of cake.

For a few years now, he’d invited Aziraphale to join him for the dinner and cake. They’d get into reminiscing about the good and terrible work that they’d each accomplished during this rotation around the sun. They’d get very drunk toasting another year, and that would be it.

This year, Aziraphale brought him a present. Crowley stared at the plant it had the lush waxy leaves of a house plant. But from its center sprouted a stem covered in colorful geometric blooms. Crowley was looking at an orchid.

“What the devil is this monstrosity?” Crowley said.

“It’s an orchid,” Aziraphale supplied helpfully. “You must have seen them before.”

“Of course I have!” he downed his drink. “But why have I been given it?”

Aziraphale looked confused. “It’s a house plant. You collect them.”

“Not one’s that do that.” he waved at the pretty multicolored blossoms.

“Flower?”

“Well, don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s normal.”

“But it is normal for a plant to flower.”

“Not the kind I have. I don’t need any of that nonsense in my flat.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do you think It’s going to do?”

“Nothing good.” Crowley sunk grumpily down into his chair.

“All it will do is look pretty,” Aziraphale said.

“Exactly,” said Crowley, but he knew he’d already lost the argument.

Crowley put the orchid in pride of place beside his bed. He knew it was a slippery slope but he couldn’t stop himself. If only he could go back to being the accomplished demon that watched Maggie Thatcher speak lovingly of the M25, his greatest creation. Now he was a demon with a pretty flower in his bedroom.

“You’re not—“ he struggled to find a way to insult the flower. “as beautiful as you could be. You’re like a peacock with its tail all folded up.” Crowley cringed. He’d never uttered such a weak insult to any flora.

“If you don’t grow well, I’ll—“ Crowley scrambled for a threat. “Tell Aziraphale on you.” This was hopeless. Crowley was giving up for the night.

He wandered his flat. He made some evil plans, watched late night tv for a while. He ended up back in front of the orchid.

“Aziraphale had terrible taste picking you out,” Crowley lied. Something stuck in the back of his  throat. For a brief terrible moment, Crowley was worried that it was emotion. But then he coughed and something tumbled out of his mouth. It was a flower. It was an orchid. Shit.

For days, anything cross Crowley said about Aziraphale resulted in him coughing up flowers. It had to be some kind of curse. Crowley had consulted experts. He’d even read several scholarly books. He couldn’t figure out the cause.

His condition worsened when he was in proximity to said angel. Crowley was running out of excuses to avoid him. He’d resorted to telling Aziraphale that he couldn’t walk around the park with him because he had a very important meeting with Hastur. HASTUR! No one had ever had a meeting with that demon that could be described as important.

Crowley was miserable. He didn’t feel guilty for lying to Aziraphale (guilt was not an emotion meant for a demon of Crowley’s caliber). But he did miss the angel. It had been a rather long time since they’d gotten to catch up. 

In his misery, Crowley had a prolonged fit of flower-coughs. He wrapped himself in a blanket and sunk miserably into an armchair by the window. He thought Idly (as he had many times before) that he ought to throw the orchid out and see if that helped. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

There was a polite knock at the door. Before Crowley could tell his visitor to shove off, the lock, miraculously, clicked open. Aziraphale walked in and made his way over to Crowley. Relief stretched across the angel’s face.

“Thank goodness! I thought you might have been kidnapped.” The angel sank down into an open chair.

“Not a chance, you right invasive pr—“ Crowley felt flowers crowding out the air in his throat. He sealed his lips close to hold them in.

“You could have just told me you weren’t feeling well,” Aziraphale pointed out, a little hurt by Crowley’s lies. Then it occurred to him, “Although, we’re not really human. And we shouldn’t get sick. So, I’m not entirely clear on what’s happening to you.”

Crowley clenched his teeth against the build up of flowers, shaking his head no.

“This is getting ridiculous, Crowley!”

Crowley was starting to choke. He didn’t need air the way humans did, but there was a finite volume inside his lungs. An involuntary spasm tore through his body and he coughed bunches of flowers into the room.

Aziraphale blinked. “Those are orchids.”

That’s the,” flower, “problem.  I keep,” flower, “coughing up flora like I’m a,” flower, “shrubbery.”

“Do you know what the cause is?”

“It seems to get worse whenever I say something terrible about you,” flower, “or when you’re around.” flower, “I blame that tasteless plant,” flower, “you gave me.”

Aziraphale hhhhmmmmed in thought. “Have you tried saying nice things about me?”

Crowley wished he could sink into the ground.

“Come on,” goaded the angel, “It can’t be that hard to think of a few nice things.”

Crowley winced. “You’re a nice height.” flower, “And you’re smart for an angel,” flower, “And it was nice of you to get me a present,” flower, “And—,” a heaviness settled over Crowley’s heart. He didn’t know if it was the flowers or the pressure of the million nice things he wanted to say about Aziraphale. “I love you and I wouldn’t want to do any of this divine plan, celestial nonsense without you.”

“I love you too,” Aziraphale casually said, like it was perfectly obvious. And that made the orchid flowers stop trying to strangle him from the inside. 

Crowley could breath again. He looked at all the orchid flowers around them and thought to himself, ‘They really are pretty.’

[floralcrematorium]

I don't know if youve answered this before, but what made you come back? I'm not that old in the fandom, maybe half a year and it's so interesting how that fandom changed and how it used to be.

Thanks for the ask! I'm gonna be real with you, it was an accident. This is about to be a loooooooong ass post so I'm putting it beneath the cut:

It happened steadily in July. A very slippery slope.

I left in or around 2018 just because I lost interest. A friend in 7th grade introduced me to it in early 2014. I had been running my Instagram account since Summer of 2014 with my best friend (who at the time had been my partner, and by 2018 we had broken up) and our other friend. We'd all moved on and the account became dead. It wasn't a good account, but we'd amassed 1.1k followers during our tenure. Those were the days of if you wanted to post a comic, there were no Instagram slides. You had to post it all individually. The account was deleted in 2021? I think? 2020?

So come July 2023, I was poking around in my old Google Drive and found some of my old Hetalia stuff. Which included a fic with the aforementioned friends. It uh. Is not good. I reread it and oh boy is it a product of its time (we were probably 13-15 when we wrote it) and it was a 3 way POV that we all wrote with self insert characters. It was basically Heta characters get thrown in the setting of Outlast but with the plot of FNAF. Yeah. So uh. Not much to defend there. I jokingly went to my friends like "Hey, what if we rewrote this but not horrible" and we genuinely thought about it! For a night.

But for me it wasn't one night.

I kept thinking about it.

And one thing led to the next, I was revisiting old Youtube videos I liked and reread a fic I used to like.

I think what really did me in was listening to the character songs again and a couple of hetaloid covers. I was doing artfight and listening only to Hetalia music while I drew.

I genuinely did not really use my normal Tumblr before floralcrematorium came to be. I have an entirely separate account for personal stuff and art (I will not be sharing it) and it got to a point where I was seeking so much Hetalia stuff that I figured, why the fuck not, and eventually made an account. I also eventually made my first A03 account (I was on Wattpad and FFN back in the day) because someone wrote a CanUkr fic where Mattie had overexerted himself and was in the hospital and Katya and Alfred were going to kill him because he kept insisting he could work (I CANNOT FIND THIS FIC AGAIN, I FOUND IT ON TUMBLR ORIGINALLY, PLEASE HELP IF THIS RINGS A BELL!!).

And uh, so here I am!

I draw Hetalia stuff on occasion (I should... draw more considering that's what I went to college for but whatever) and have a couple of ideas for illustration series in my head.

I've got a lot of fic ideas I want to write. I have a literal list on my phone. I think about it in bed, at work, and little things remind me of Hetalia all the time.

I've gotten back into RP (I used to use Shamchat and Kik).

I've met so many cool people and I've been having a wonderful time being back so far. When I was originally in the fandom, I consumed a lot of content, but as far as mutuals went it was just me and my two friends. Meeting so many new people has been absolutely wonderful.

Hetalia is really the only fandom I've been in. I've liked other media and consumed fics/enjoyed art/bought prints (COUGH RWBY), but Hetalia is the only media I've ever had fan accounts for. It's the only media I've so deeply entrenched myself in that I feel comfortable writing fics. My walls used to be covered in Hetalia -- both official wall scrolls and shitty art I'd made myself (I have pictures I can attach at the end of the post). I had... so much merch. When I was 14 I only asked for Hetalia related things for my birthday. Every now and again I get that "am I doing the right thing?" ick because of the negative fandom reputation and reactions I'd get from people when I would admit to having liked Hetalia in the past, but I don't care about that now. Genuinely, fuck that. I like this piece of media whether I want to or not. I'm not going to be a self-hating Hetalia fan like I was in 2018-2021/22. I've come back to the show with completely different... motives? Idk what the right phrase is here -- I'm here to explore the characters of these little freaks (looking at you, Francis), I love all of the fanart I see, I like the exchange of historical and cultural information/resources.

Sure, I'd consider my fandom niche to be humanverse Francis and FACE fam, but I genuinely enjoy exploring outside of my corner of the fandom. I try to spread myself out -- I want to consume everything. I want to be exposed to everything.

Hetalia is one of the single most impactful pieces of media in my life. Without it, I wouldn't have my best friend, who broke up with me for APH Austria in 2015. The friends I ran the Instagram account with and I are all still in contact. I talk to one much more frequently than the other, but they are both so near and dear to my heart and I can't believe that this silly show is what got us to where we are. The youngest of us is about to graduate college a whole year early. I met her when she was 11 and I was 12 or 13? I couldn't be more proud of her, of the three of us, and it's been so fun to have these occasional nights where we (okay, just me) get tipsy and go through old fandom media/watch the dub and go ooooof. I was in a really bad place when I was originally into Hetalia. Coming back now feels like coming full circle.

The old fandom had plenty of its own issues, and the fandom now certainly isn't devoid of issues, but now that the fanbase has shifted to an older audience and I actually have like. Social skills. I love talking to other people. I like creating. I like thinking about these stupid characters before I go to bed.

My single favorite thing about the Hetalia fandom now is the care put into historical work as well as the exploration of portrayals of the characters. Because Hetalia lacks a plot and Hima is constantly retconning things, everyone has their own interpretations of everything. Everyone has their own version of Francis Bonnefoy, Yao Wang, or Alfred F. Jones. And that's so cool!!! You don't see that anywhere else.

I know I'm typically a pessimist on main, but I'm genuinely glad to be back. It's weird to be back. I've had mixed reactions from irl friends that I'm back.

But who the fuck cares?

I'm having fun, I'm making friends, and I can't believe there are still people here.

I genuinely hope I'm here for a while. I have so much I want to write. I want to draw all of the things my skill level was too low for back when I was a teen.

CRINGE IS DEAD AND I AM FREE.

The following images are certainly about to destroy any cool perception anyone has of me, if they even do. I was... certainly a teenager, is all I have to say! I am,,, thankfully not like this anymore. I hope.

Here are those pictures of my bedroom circa 2015 I promised:

DO NOT ASK ME ABOUT THE LIVE LAUGH LOVE.

That drawing of Russia with Neko-Talia Russia? Yeah. Uh. I did that for an art project in the 7th grade for class. I also did a ceramics piece with the mochis, that I've since lost. These images scream "I'm 14 and like Hetalia in 2015."

I used to have little hearts with all the ships I liked in them (I think that's AusHun in the picture on the left?). I also had "I love you" written in like 20 languages on index cards taped above my headboard.

Also a literal timestamp I found in my old emails with the friend who got me into Hetalia:

Being a young teenager in the old fandom certainly,,,, was something. I would not relive that, but by god would I do ANYTHING to get my favorite pieces of fan media back from that time. There was a video called "Hetalia What Did You Do To Panda" which was a bunch of clips from the anime with Katie Herzig's "Hey Na Na" playing in the background. Every now and then a dub audio clip would interject with the song.

I also really miss this one very specific Character Theme Songs video that had Poland in the thumbnail. Mein Gott would play between each song and I could tell you most of the songs that had been assigned to each character.

I would do ANYTHING to get those videos back. I miss them so much.

Anyway, if you read this whole thing, thanks for reading??? I am very Cool And Normal about the things I like, unfortunately. It's nice to come back to Hetalia and like... be a normal person about it.

All I've got to say is, when I like something, I like it a lot.