#let's hear it for parasitic birds!!!

[bigfatbreak]

YOU GOT IT LETS HEAR A ROUND OF APPLAUSE!!!!

[euthymiya]

parasite — ft. ryomen sukuna

sukuna desires your presence late at night—oddly, it’s not for his pleasures. alternatively: true form sukuna and his begrudging attempt to cuddle

before you read: fem concubine reader (his favvv concubine) ; heian era true form sukuna ; references to previous sexual activities ; references to previous cannibalism (canon sukuna activities) ; reader is a bit cheeky ; more or less fluff (as fluffy as you can get with true form sukuna, at least)

Sukuna should eat you. You wouldn’t be the first concubine he’s devoured. Probably not the last, either. Instead, he waits impatiently for you to arrive at his chambers.

Finally, there’s a knock on his door.

“Enter,” he commands.

“You’ve summoned for me, my lord?” Comes your obedient reply as you slowly, cautiously step in. You study him for a fleeting moment, only relaxing slightly once you realize he doesn’t seem angered.

“I did. Come.”

That’s all he says…because, well, how is Sukuna meant to explain he’s summoned you here to lay beside him?

(It’s your fault, actually—this pathetic and abominable desire stems from your doing alone. You’re a tad bit bolder amongst the concubines, a bit more expressive in your desires than the others dare to be.

Yes, you let him have his way with you, and yes, you hardly complain when he’s less than gentle. Quite the opposite of complain, in fact. But afterwards…well, afterwards, you are needy.

Exceedingly so.

You dare to curl into his chest and tuck yourself against his side, leeching onto the warmth of his body like a parasite he should kill for the audacity. But…there is something about the way you speak in that hushed, gentle tone of yours. It’s always coupled by your grin.

That radiant, bright, horrible little grin.

The roses are coming nicely, my lord—though, I’ve pricked more than a few fingers tending to them.

Did you hear my lord? There’s been word that two of the servants have ended their romantic endeavors. How sad, no?

Today I’ve made a little friend, my lord. A small humming bird seems to have attached itself to my side no matter where I go in the gardens. I do hope it’ll visit me again tomorrow.

You tell him everything. Silly, stupid, ridiculous nonsense that you spout from your daringly talkative lips. And he…he listens. He listens well, in fact. He hears every overly detailed recount of your day and somehow, for some odd reason, he doesn’t seem to forget the useless information you insist of badgering him with.

And he’s grown accustomed. It’s your doing, he realizes—you’ve forced him into a routine he now finds too habitual to fall into.)

“Yes, my lord,” is all you say to his orders, walking closer to him where he lays sprawled on his bed. Without wasting a moment, you begin to undress yourself, letting your robes fall past your shoulders and begin to expose the beginnings of your chest.

He grunts in irritation before saying, “I did not summon you here for that.”

“O-oh,” you quickly pull your clothes to cover yourself, almost like that small bit of cleavage has left you more exposed than you’ve ever been. You don’t meet his eyes, staring at your feet in embarrassment as you mumble, “My sincerest apologies, my lord. I…I was under the assumption you had summoned me for your usual desires, so—”

“Enough,” he silences you. You quickly close your mouth. (Such a talkative one, you are. He’s always noticed this about you). “Come.”

This time, he gestures ever so slightly to the empty space beside him on his bed. So slightly, that you’d think it took every inch of his efforts to gather enough willpower and set aside his pride to invite you over.

You hesitantly walk over, seating yourself on the edge of the mattress beside him as you look over at him in utter confusion—and then, as you let out a sharp gasp, a strong hand grabs your wrist while the neighboring arm wraps around your waist and pulls you to lay draped across his chest the way you usually like to.

It feels odd, he notes, having you pressed against him with your clothes in the way. He’s used to your nude, bare figure. Perhaps he should have allowed you to disrobe, after all—but having you like this, regardless of being dressed or not, is already much better than before.

He’s almost infuriated by how much easier he can rest when you’re tucked against him.

“M-my lord?” Your voice quivers in shock, looking up at him in more confusion than fear.

He likes the fact that there isn’t as much fear as he expected. Odd, he thinks to himself faintly, Sukuna loves the feeling of being feared.

He decides not to dwell too much on it for the sake of his own peace for now as he grunts, “Sleep. If you don’t wish to be eaten.”

Silently, you relax against his body, molding into him the way you do in that post coital way you’ve gotten him accustomed to. Such a pointless, meaningless gesture that you always seem hell bent on seeking out—somehow, in some way, now you’ve got him doing the same.

He really should eat you.

“You know,” you murmur, giggling quietly, “It’s a bit funny.”

“What is?” He asks dangerously. Still, you don’t fear him.

He’s starting to question a bit whether you’re plain stupid or smarter than you let on. Do you lack fear because you’re ignorant to his evils? Or are you smart enough to realize something keeps him from harming you?

Even he’s unsure of the answer.

“I was just thinking about how nice it is to sleep surrounded by your warmth when the servant informed that you had sent for me,” you hum, “It makes for easy rest, you see. It’s almost as though you’ve read my mind.

He’s silent. And then, “You talk a lot,” comes his gruff reply.

“Sorry,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “I shall be quiet if that is what you wish—”

“I did not say to stop,” he responds, slightly agitated. (Why, he has to question, is he so agitated by the prospect of your silence? Surely…surely he can’t enjoy your incessant blabbering.)

“Oh,” you perk up. “I see.”

Instantly, that radiant, bright smile stretches across your features again. You don’t belong beside such a dark, evil spirit such as himself—but, he thinks, you will never get away with escaping him. Ever.

Not that you’ve ever given even an inkling of suspicion that you’d like to, but resolutely, he decides you will never be free of him.

“My lord?” You whisper, breaking him of his thoughts.

“What.”

His grunt is more of a command than a question. You seem rather fond all the same.

“Is there something on your mind? You seem…deep in thought, you know.” Gently, boldly, you reach over, thumb delicately smoothing over the crinkles between his furrowed brows.

He glances down at you for a moment through the corners of his eyes. The slight mischief in your pupils answers his earlier question—you’re smart. Infinitely so.

You’ve long come to the conclusion that Sukuna can never muster up the desire to see you in harms way. Especially not by his hand.

It slightly eases him to know you are aware, but it puts him in a deeply sour mood just as much.

“Sleep,” he grumbles, tugging you closer with a tightening of his arm around your waist, “You talk too much, woman.”

He just needs a little cuddle to go sleep 🥹 <- me babyfying the worst man ever (but he’s MY worst man ever)

[phemiec]

A Mouthwashing (and How Fish is Made) fansong, unfortunately from Jimmy’s POV mostly, sorry. 🐴 Music and lyrics by me, PhemieC

NOTE: this is my first fansong in five years, and sad to say but my voice has been decimated by illness in the last few years, so please don’t go into this expecting it to sound the same as my old stuff.

That being said, I have released an instrumental version, and I would LOVE to hear covers from other vocalists! Feel free to post and sell if you make a cover as well. <3

LYRICS UNDER CUT

[verse 1] Momma bird sleeping and her nest is empty Pretty and clean I feel the crease of envy Cutting a line right through the sky above me Healthy and green just like a good tree should be Momma bird leaving now her eggs are lonely Out from the underbrush I creep so slowly I’ll lay my own, her home is sound and safe, he’s Grey like a stone among her round blue babies She’ll never tell if she’s a few shells lighter Quick cracking clever comes my little fighter  Babes that feel safer they hatch so much slower Thrown down below then by my own fast grower Momma returns to feed her only child he Smells like a stranger and he cries so loudly Drinks of his fill while I look up on proudly Picking away at the discarded bounty 

[chorus] What hides inside has the skill to thrive Do you have the will to decide to survive? A parasite needs you alive To feed their growing appetite 

[verse 2] Thing crawling thirsty, shared flesh, a blessing Drink of my stagnancy, the taste refreshing Carry a part of me and keep on climbing  Top of the ladder’s just a place for dying Dread in your gullet, ignore it, buddy Lead in the bullet, it’s harmless, mostly Let me consume you, let you defend me Curling protector, my friendly fresh meat Im in control now and I like the feeling I’ll play the role of every wound you’re healing Follow the leader was always my thing Swallow your pills and lay still, unwrithing Master of puppets is my one objective Real apex predators can be selective Relay your message, it won’t stop the spread if I replace your tongue when I open your head up

[chorus] What hides inside has the skill to thrive Do you have the will to decide to survive? A parasite keeps you alive To feed their growing appetite 

[verse 3] My stress relief, she keeps asking questions I can’t believe she thinks I’ll learn her lesson Nothing outside of me will ever get in No mocking birdie with an unblinking grin Four beating hooves, I hate to hear them thunder Trample the metal tomb I’m buried under braying beast, neighing in the womb inside her Breaking its legs to glue you back together

[chorus] What hides inside has the skill to thrive Do you have the will to decide to survive? A parasite needs you alive To feed their growing appetite…

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Can I request a drabble where Arthur comforts a female reader who has a broken heart? The reader's ex-boyfriend cheated on her and left with another woman.

Here we go! I took the liberty to name Reader's ex Jim (pretty random name for that place and time so I thought it would fit alright.)

I hope you'll like it anon!!🙌

࣪ ˖✧ The World is living.

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Warnings/Tags: Mention of cheating, reader's ex is a loser (boo him), reader is in a pretty bad mental state but Arthur is here to save the day, cursing cause he's mad as hell someone hurt you. ✦ Words: 1,5k ✦ a/n: As Anon had requested a drabble I tried to keep this short! Takes place in Clement's Point because the lake is so good for that kind of work, reader is part of the gang. Clearly this drabble is a big hug to all my sis out there who have been poorly treated by their ex🫶🏻

You were sitting by the shore, just behind camp. Flat Iron Lake was always beautiful at that time, just before dawn. Frosty, pastel colors on the sky and the water surfaces, melting into a soft shade of pale lavender and teal blue. You could only hear the occasional chirping of birds, splashing of an adventurous fish jumping out of the water, and lonely howls of coyotes.

The World was living.

You couldn't understand how. How did the World was still turning while you were hurting that much? It should have stopped. It should have. This was the only option after what you had been through.

You felt tears watering your eyes again. You couldn't sleep, as often lately, so you just had decided to come and sit here in the sand to do something, anything else than just lying in your cot, alone in the cold night, alone in the cold silence, alone in the cold emptiness. Alone, so alone even though you were surrounded by people at camp; it didn't mattered. He was gone now, and everything felt tasteless without him, everything looked drearier, even the beautiful morning scenery under your eyes.

You were now crying hard. Damn it, you didn't even knew you still had water in your body for it. You had cried so many times in the past few days your eyes were permanently red, your cheeks scarred by two trails of dry tears; you felt like one of those oranges that people squeeze to get the juice, leaving behind only a corpse of fruit devoid of all substance.

You couldn't do it anymore, it hurt too much. You buried your face in your hands, sobbing once again, trying to let out the sorrow that was eating you up from inside like a noxious parasite since he had left you.

"Y/N? Is everythin' okay?"

You tilted your head up, a slight feeling of panic and shame crashing on you as you searched for your interlocutor.

It was Arthur. He was a few meters away from you, empty bucket in his hands. He probably was on his way to the lake to fill it, but had heard you crying. You weren't too surprised to see him this early, Arthur had never slept much, he was always up before you in normal time, already helping everyone around camp.

He looked at you in the eyes, waiting for an answer. He seemed genuinely concerned; you realized you hadn't seen him for a while since he had been on a difficult job for weeks, he probably should have came back during the night, but you were far too deep in your own dark thoughts to have noticed it. He was clearly clueless and surprised about your state, his arms hanging awkwardly by his sides, his blue work shirt's sleeves rolled up carelessly.

"N-no..." You only answered, trying to wipe what you could of the literal torrent of tears flooding out of your eyes, but it just wouldn't stop, you felt even more ashamed. You must have looked pitiful right now.

Arthur let go of the bucket, letting it fall on the ground without an ounce of care. He then slowly approached you, and sat down in the sand next to you, leaving a little space between your two bodies. He didn't look disturbed or annoyed, but almost as stoic as usual. Except for his eyes. His eyes were telling a hundred stories even if he didn't wanted it. Their azure color bright and deep, you almost recognized a hint of sadness in them, as if he was pained seeing you like this. 

"What's happenin' to ya, miss?" He inquired, voice deep and maybe a bit more empathetic than usual. He wasn't extremely expressive in usual times, so yet you could feel just by his presence how he cared about your well-being.

"It's Jim... He... He slept with one of these pretty girls from the Parlour House and he left me for her..." Saying it was making it all even worse. It was making it all too real. You struggled to get those words out, your tone cracking up as if they were crushing your vocal cords.

More tears, your eyes shutting close in a pained expression, the ache in your heart physically hurting you, as if someone had opened your thoracic cage and was crushing it with his bare hands. In a way, that's exactly what he had done to you.

"Goddamn piece of shit..." Arthur mumbled before looking at you, his intense indigo stare fixated on your face. He felt genuinely sorry, and outraged for you. Who in the world could have to audacity to hurt such a sweet girl like you? He was starting to clench his fists, feeling his blood boiling, a silent kettle on a burning fire. After a few seconds of hearing you cry, he couldn't hold it anymore, empathy getting the better of his rage, and opened his arms to gently pull you against him.

His strong, wide body enveloped you, and you let him. You buried your face into his chest, not really thinking about it, your hands wrapping around his waist, and gripping tight on his shirt. Looking clingy or odd was your last concern, you were way too blinded by your pain. You started crying loudly, wanting to make everything go out of you, your pain, your sadness, Him, everything.

"Yeah, that's it girl, let it all go..." He encouraged you, in a calm and quiet whisper. One of his hands had found its place behind your head, gently caressing it, the other resting around your waist. He carried you, as you screamed your pain to the World, as you poured all these gnawing feelings outside of you.

"He's a damn fool, Y/N. You deserve way better than him, lemme tell ya." Arthur murmured to you, voice still deep and caring. You could also hear behind that a hint of genuine anger in his tone, as he truly was pissed at Jim for having harmed you like this. "And you're gonna be okay, alright sweetheart?"

You slightly nodded into his chest, barely able to answer something properly. His scent and warmth were enfolding you, and you felt like you were somewhere else now, somewhere sunny. Somewhere pleasant. Somewhere better.

As the minutes went by, and his embrace didn't loosen, you slowly started to get out of your personal darkness, breath calming, thoughts clearing. You were taking in the fact that usually, Arthur wasn't frankly fond of hugs or other physical attention, and you felt thankful. He was doing this just for you.

"You're gonna be okay." He repeated like a silent vow. You felt like he was going to make sure of it. And for the first time in days, you honestly believed these words. You were going to be okay. It would take time, of course, but you just knew you would, as certain as the Sun was rising and setting every day.

You gently pulled back, both of you still holding each other in your arms, sitting on the sandy shore, but not as close, so you could look at this face. Your tears had soaked his shirt. You tried to apologize for it, but he quickly opposed it, telling you he had been covered in far worse than your tears. You smiled a bit, knowing he was right.

"Thank you so much for that Arthur..." You told him, genuinely feeling so grateful.

"Eh, I may be a cold-hearted killer, but I wouldn't have let a sweet lil' flower like ya cry..." He asserted, a slight grin on his face. You noticed how he looked a bit reassured himself, less worried. Maybe, just like his affection towards the other members of the gang, Arthur actually cared much more about you than what he was letting everyone see.

He carefully wiped the last tear from your cheek, thumb feeling rough but gentle against your skin, before getting up, his hands leaving your body but not going too far away as he proposed one of them for you to take and help you get up. You gladly took it, enjoying the warm contact of your fingers on his skin.

"I just feel like... I'm not enough..." You concluded with a pained tone, your eyes looking down at your feet. The fact that on top of having broken up with you, Jim had left you for another woman, was absolutely destroying you, making you feel like you were worthless. It was also this feeling that was so hard to handle; so hard to live with.

"Listen t'me." Arthur told you a bit more firmly, his eyes searching for yours. He knew how you felt, he felt bad about himself every day of his life. He didn't wanted you to feel like this in any way, ever. "Don't let this bastard make ya feel shitty. You're a beautiful, sweet, kind young woman, that is the truth." He asserted, his hands squeezing yours in a comforting gesture before letting go of them.

"Thank you, Arthur..." You said once more, feeling like you were repeating yourself, but he didn't seem to mind. He was walking back to where he had left the bucket, grabbing it to finish his chore.

"Ah, no worry, miss." He said to you with a smile, now feeling better as you felt less depressed. "Let me tell ya, this piece of shit better be far by now, 'cause I'm goin' to beat the Hell out of him if I ever see him again." He added, still smiling, but you knew he was being dead serious, and he was way more than capable of it. You almost chuckled, thanking him for the third time and telling him you wouldn't mind if he did.

He noticed the little grin that had curled up your lips. He loved it. His days at Clement's point weren't the same without your bright smile and your pleasant presence.

The Sun had completely risen now, the camp slowly emerging from its slumber. The first drowsy voices of your companion softly filling the air, yawning, saying greetings, some already teasing, merging with the sound of nature around you.

The World was living.

And now, so you were.

[lensman-arms-race]

Which Skibidi Toilet characters should you fight?

You can win and you should fight them:

Plunk: Please fight Plunk. He is foolhardy brave but his recklessness makes him easy to fuck up. He secretly craves defeat because he doesn't feel he deserves his overnight hero status and just wants to go back to being a common foot soldier. Help him achieve his dreams.

DJ Skibidi: It will be the best-soundtracked fight you've ever had.

Titan TV: You will have to be ready and bring your best skills to the fight, and it could well be a pyrrhic victory. But if you take advantage of the fact that he assumes he will always win, and is bad at adapting his strategy on the fly, you can win.

Large Camera: They make good warm-up fights before fighting the other entities on this list. Use them to get a few practice rounds in.

Buzzsaw Mutant: A worthy opponent but not indefatigable. You'll both have a fun fight.

Large Speaker: They rarely appear on the battlefield any more and crave violence. Help them feel useful for a bit.

Skibidi parasites: They like being slapped and kicked; it's good sensory enrichment for them.

You can't win but you should fight them anyway:

G-Toilet: He will annihilate you but it will be so funny.

TV Matriarch: You will die and it will be the best experience of your life. She will make you love her as she exsanguinates you with her beautiful blades.

Polycephaly: You will be dead three different ways before your corpse hits the floor, but you will have a glorious death.

Swat Mutant: Pick a fight just to hear him say 'Why bro is attacking me? Is he stupid? Or she if she is a lady."

Speaker Matriarch: It would be nice to let her fight you to work off some of her anguish. Just don't let her win or she will see through your ruse and perforate your cranium like a colander with her knife strikes.

Titan Speaker: The pair of you will perform a graceful dance. Just don't attack the back of his neck; that's unsporting.

Glitch Toilet: Like the last kaua'i'o'o bird, he is the last of his kind and sings for a mate who will never answer. Give him some comfort in his last days.

You can win but you shouldn't fight them:

Normal Camera: It would be like kicking a puppy. If they start getting mardy just flap your coat and go 'boo!' like you do to a goose.

Normal Skibidi Toilet: Ditto. It's so easy to defeat there's no sport in it. Just let it chew on your fist for a bit until it gets bored.

Normal Speaker: They can put up a challenging fight but it gets tiresome how they expect you to keep giving them a hand up every time they end up on the floor.

Titan Camera: You will destroy him and he will regard you with a sad and baleful mix of disappointment (in you and in himself) and thankfulness for the end of his suffering. Some part of you will die in the process and you will be a hollow shell of a person forevermore.

Rambo Mutant: You can stop him in his tracks by tweaking his exposed nips. It's too easy.

Secret Agent: He will make a worthy opponent but will ultimately fall to you. As he dies, he will say "Well done. You have destroyed this timeline. I hope you got the ending you wanted." You look down at your hands and oh god it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't

You can't win and you shouldn't fight them:

Scientist Toilet: He has already calculated your death with maximum efficiency. He might turn you into something amusing, at least.

Camera Matriarch: Ohh, mate, she has a time-freeze flechette gun. You're toast.

Assassin Speakerman: Leave him be; he's got enough angst.

Astro Mothership: Dude.

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 11

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

First - Prev - Next

CH. 11

“One paddle-paddle, two paddle-paddle-.”

“HEYYY! Miss me, little brother?”

“...What the f-”

“It’s ironic! You used to smother me, with your dependency and lack of originality. Now I’m smothering you, by keeping you in a cage. It’s poetic, in a way.”

“...What are you supposed to be?”

“It’s just me, Stanford Pines. I’m definitely your twin brother, and not a maniac who kidnapped you because I can’t admit when I’m wrong or accept that I push people away.”

“Naw, you’re not him.”

“I assure you-.”

“No. Whatever you are? You’re not the guy who's been keeping me down here. You’re something else.”

“Oh?”

“This some… Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde situation? You one of those hive mind aliens that possess people? Or…?”

“Sixer was right to not underestimate you, conman. Let’s just say I’m a friend.”

“I’ve heard that before, but I recognize another wiseguy when I see one. What do you really want?”

“Why are you in denial, Stanley?”

“Denial is my fourth best skill, actually. It’s right above hoeing, and right below theft.”

“...Ignoring that. Why do you keep insisting you’re not Stanley Pines?”

“Show me the proof, guy.”

“You and Stanford have the same face.”

“Some people are just like that.”

“You have no memory of having a family, but Fordsy here has a gap in his, a gap you could slot into so easily.”

“Lot’s of families ‘lose’ members to homelessness.”

“Sounding a little bitter there, conman. Got personal feelings about that?”

“People aren’t ‘lost’ to homelessness, they’re forgotten. For the comfort of everyone else; for people who love to wax poetically about how other people struggle, but don’t have the stomach to look at it with their own eyes.”

“Well, well, well, well, well-.”

“Buddy, you get a nickel every time you say that?”

“Funny. What’s also funny is your ‘deep insight’. You’re so mad about people like you being forgotten, and yet… You forgot you.”

“What’s your point?”

“Why are you afraid of remembering? Are you afraid that you’ll remember loving people who couldn’t be bothered to remember you?”

“You seem to think you know a lot about me. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I think you cling to this ‘hardcore vagabond with no past’ persona because it’s convenient for you. Because it’s less painful for you. I think you wanted something so bad at one point that it consumed you, and when you couldn’t have it, there wasn’t anything significant left of you.”

“Wow. That’s quite a theory. Wanna hear the one I have about you?”

“Hit me, conman.”

“Oh, I wish I could. My theory is that you’re a lonely, nosey, parasitic little bi-.”

*‘Ford’ presses the mute button*

“Sorry Stanley, but I’m getting the last laugh here- and you’re giving me the bird. No, two birds. The audience will never know if you’re actually doing that, or if I’m just saying that you are.”

(...)

“Hey, Doc?”

“Yes, Stanley?”

“You know how I normally don’t ask you questions about your life because you’re crazy and I’m here against my will?”

“...Are you about to ask me a question?”

“Did you make a Faustian bargain with some eldritch abomination?”

“...What?!”

“Or… Do you use cocaine? I’d believe either, but I can help you with that second one if that’s it; you see, the key to kicking the habit is-.”

“Stanley. Why are you asking this?”

“Because last night something possessed you and tried talking to me about my feelings. But it failed because I don’t have any. What was that?”

“...Nothing possessed me.”

“PhD, you are terrible at lying.”

“Nobody possessed me! You must have just been dreaming.”

“No, I don’t have dreams. I only have nightmares about being suffocated. Or the IRS. Or the IRS suffocating me.”

“...What?”

“Are you a Warlock?”

“A- a what?”

“There’s this game that dorks play - and there's elves, and wizards, and stuff. Warlocks are those guys who use magic, but they have to get it from otherworldly entities. Are you that? Is that what you are?”

“...You are talking about the tabletop roleplaying game, Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons?”

“Yes.”

“You.. play that?”

“No. I never played it.”

“But you know the mechanics?”

“Some of it. Just the basic stuff. None of the actual- I don’t know, rules? Something something something D38; something something something THAC0.”

“How do you know?”

“I dunno, I don’t think too hard about it. Anyways,  so you’re a Warlock and you’re hiding it because your patron, boss, eldritch pimp, or whatever you wanna call it is gonna be mad at you? Is that what this is?”

“Stanley, please. Stuff like that is simply… fantasy.”

“Oh really? This is coming from the guy who has an anatomically accurate poster of a dissected fairy that you drew yourself.”

“...You can see that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s right over there.”

“Stanley, you should not be able to see that. It’s too far away, and you’re not wearing glasses or contacts.”

“Doc, I don’t need glasses.”

“You have needed them our entire lives, just like I do. You have a bad habit of breaking them, or not wearing them because you think you won’t look cool.”

“Shows just how much you know. Are you gonna tell me what that thing last night was? Or are you going to keep changing the topic and hope that I get too distracted to follow up?”

“Nothing happened last night. I’m not a warlock. I can’t believe you lied to me all those years ago when you told me you ignored all of my long talks about the finer mechanics and lore surrounding DD&D. And you should need glasses.”

*Ford goes upstairs*

“Well, guess I have nothing better to do than to take a nap. I wonder how the IRS is going to suffocate me this time…”

To be continued…

[tinuviel-ancunin]

The light shines into his eyes and as he drowsily comes to he realizes he's been laying in a sunbeam. He bolts upright to check his skin but he's completely unharmed. Looking around, he realizes He's in a grove of trees, laying in tall grass decorated with purple flowers. A slight breeze moves the leaves and he stops to listen to the birds chirping above him. “Gods, I haven't heard that in 200 years” How is he not being burned to ash? How did he make it out of the crash? A surge of pain rushes through his head and it all comes back to him, the parasite. Mind flayers, of course that would happen to him. He gets to his feet and looks around to get his bearings, but this place is completely unfamiliar. “Where in the hells have I ended up? What the fuck is going on?”

To the west he hears footsteps and lowered voices, sounds like two people are walking close by. He crouches down into the tall grass and edges towards the trees. An elf with long red hair and facial tattoos comes into view, a druid by the awful way she dresses. Next to her a half elf with an annoyed look is dressed in armor, her gear looks familiar but he can't quite place it. He almost lets them pass when a wild boar runs by, giving his position away. Time to act.

“Hello? A little help? I have one of those brain things cornered.”

The druid takes one look at him and he knows she doesn't buy this charade for a second.

“You look perfectly capable, you kill it.” She rolls her eyes but still walks towards him.

He grabs her and pulls her to the ground “ Don't struggle, wouldn't want to hurt that pretty neck of yours. I saw you on that damned ship.”

The druid headbutts him and rolls effortlessly to her feet, grabbing a small dagger at her waist. Shit she's good.

“ I'm sorry! I just…aaagghh!” His mind somehow connects to the stranger, showing her dark alleys in the city, a camp, a child's hand in his, Sebastian’s lips, searing pain on his back. He looks up at her and he knows; she saw all of this. “What did you do to me?”

She puts the knife back in her belt which her companion does not seem to approve of and puts her hands out, a truce. “I was on that ship too, the tadpole.. I think it connects us. I'm Tav, this is Shadowheart. We're going to look for a healer, maybe we should all stick together and figure this out .”

This total stranger is trusting him and he didn't even try to charm her, he must have hit his head harder than he thought. “I'm Astarion, I was going to go it alone but no harm in joining the herd. Lead on.”

As he goes to follow Tav up the trail, he realizes he's standing in full sunlight. To his left a sparkling blue stream shimmers in the daylight. Flowers surrounded by butterflies are bursting with colors he almost forgot existed. A breeze teases through his white curls and he wonders if he could hide here forever from his master. Nonsense, he runs to catch up with his new companions.

A large piece of the ship blocks the path forward, as they step over debris and small fires looking for anything useful for their journey a mindflayer comes into view. It lays in the ruins of its once massive ship, a gash in its belly- the look on its face shows that it knows its near death. He looks down at it with disgust but as he does, the orange eyes lock with his and try to get him to help it. Help it? Not in this life, even if he can walk in the sun. Tav steps in front of him and smashes its head in with her boot. Who is this woman and why is he impressed?

All of this sunlight and walking is exhausting. His mind wanders to thoughts of a goblet of wine or maybe something more sanguine. Can he trust these new companions with the truth of his nature? Best to play it safe for now but how much did Tav see when her mind locked with his?

He emerges from his thoughts and realizes Tav is about to put her hand in a malfunctioning portal. The purple sparks go up her arm and she lets out a yelp. “Well what did you think was going to-”

A hand juts out of the rocks and swirling purple sparks and a man's voice echoes faintly through the portal.

“Hello, anyone care to give me a hand?” The hand politely asks.

Tav looks at him for approval, like he cares what happens to this mystery hand. She grabs on with two hands and braces a foot on the cliff side. Out tumbles a wizard in a long purple robe, a strange marking on his chest is barely visable. “Oh Gods I can't stand wizards, I'm surprised this one didn't blow up.” he muses to himself.

“Hello! I am Gale of Waterdeep. Thank you so much for my rescue. I was just experimenting with a new spell when Tara, that's my cat, opened up a portal and blah blah blah..” He does not care.

“Can we go camp somewhere now? I'm positively exhausted!” Astarion complains.

“I suppose we should figure that out while we still have day light. Are you any good with a bow Astarion? We'll need something for dinner.” Tav hands him a small crossbow and he can't help but think she's teasing him.

“Of course I am, give me that.” The audacity of this druid.

[starlitangels]

That’s Mine

Another Guy/Honey ficlet for the girl who can’t seem to write a full fic for these two to save her life

—

I glanced up from my laptop upon hearing the apartment door open. “I’m home!” Guy called at the same time I heard the thumping of him literally kicking his shoes off at the door.

“Welcome back,” I said flatly, going back to my report.

I could hear him groan with the several popping noises that came with him cracking his back. “I’m gonna shower,” he announced as the front door shut.

“Careful. Kayla left a makeup bomb in the bathroom,” I warned.

“How does she even do that? Like we should not be finding powdered foundation in the bathtub of all places. A little falling off the palette or brush into the sink is one thing but like the bathtub?” He appeared in the doorway of my room and leaned against the frame on one shoulder. “I don’t get it. I’ve worn some makeup in my day but I’ve never been that messy with it.”

I grunted and shrugged.

Guy sighed dramatically. “Not in the mood to talk, honey?”

I shot him a withering glare. “Go get in the shower before I punt your ass into the bathroom and bar the door. I’m trying to work.”

He smirked lasciviously. “If you bar a door that locks from the inside and swings inward, you’d have to be in the bathroom with me.”

I raised a brow. “I’d figure it out. Go away.”

He winked with a click of his cheek and pushed off the doorframe, vanishing down the hall.

I went back to my paper.

Apparently I got really sucked into it because I didn’t even process that I heard the shower start and stop a few minutes later. Hell, I barely even processed Guy singing showtunes while he was in it.

I vaguely heard the bathroom door creak open on that ungodly loud hinge I still needed to oil (the landlords had promised to do it months ago and never had and I was getting sick of it), while Guy continued his one-man-show of Phantom of the Opera. But I ignored all of it. Guy’s singing was a constant in the apartment and I’d just learned to tune it out.

When the essay was done, I submitted it and finally stood up, wincing as my knees popped.

With a heavy sigh, I left my room.

Guy spun around in the kitchen almost instantly. In his favorite hot pink “Kiss the Cook” apron that had been a gag gift from his siblings that he’d actually loved. “There’s my favorite person!”

I grunted. Then froze. “Hang on a second here,” I said, folding my arms. “Hm. Black T-shirt way too long and wide in the arms, logo for a band you don’t listen to poking out from under the top of the apron. Coincidentally matching the one that went missing from my things after a load of laundry a few weeks ago…” As I spoke, I undid the neck loop of the apron and let the top fall away from his torso.

He chuckled nervously, ears and neck turning blotchy and red. “Heh-heh… uh…”

“Guy Erikson, that’s my shirt,” I snapped.

“Whaaat? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Obviously this is mine. See how it just fits me perfectly—ow, ow! Okay okay you don’t have to pinch I get it I get it—damn!” He pouted as I let go of his shoulder. “Can’t I just borrow it for the rest of tonight though? It’s so soft. It’s not my fault that you have the comfiest shirts on the planet!”

“Give it back. Now.”

He sighed dramatically and stripped it off, hurling it at me with all the grace and power of a newly-hatched bird. “Fiiine. You loveless, joyless buzzkill.”

“Thieving parasite,” I retorted, taking the shirt back to my room and chucking it into my hamper.

“Just for that, I’m not including you in my dinner plans.” He whipped the apron back up over his torso and started fixing the neck loop.

“I never asked you to. And I’m going out tonight anyway.”

His head snapped up to look at me. “What?! With who?”

I raised a brow. “Does it matter?”

Guy spluttered. “Oh. Well. I, uh—no, obviously. It’s just—you know what? Never mind.” He turned back to the stove and went back to preparing his pasta.

I snorted. “It’s my stupid reading group for my upper level class. There’s gonna be like five people there. It’s not a date. Don’t wait up for me, honey,” I said sarcastically before ducking back into my bedroom and slamming the door.

I picked the band shirt out of the hamper and held it up to my nose. Curious.

It definitely smelled like Guy.

A small grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. I folded the shirt and set it on my desk. “You know what? I’ll wash it later,” I muttered to myself.

—

Tag list: @pinksparkl @darlin-collins

[jupiterswasphouse]

WASP REVIEW - PARASITICA (TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES 2012)

[Image ID: A screenshot from the 'Parasitica' episode of TMNT 2012, of the parasitic wasp, which is the focus of the episode, mid-flight /End ID.]

Now, for a change of pace, let's have a look at something that isn't from a video game for the first time in this review series! It tends to be harder to find wasps in TV in particular that are notable enough to properly review, which makes it all the more fortunate that I got this suggestion, as this mutant species of wasp is the entire focus of the episode!

Now, I've never been a TMNT enjoyer, I just didn't get into the franchise as a kid and have yet to look into it on a wider scale, however, I did enjoy this enjoy this episode. That's not to say it's without its inaccuracies, though, so let's get into it, starting with the wasp's general appearance!

Looking at it them, they have the shape and eyes of wasps of the family Vespidae, fairly standard fare for wasps in media, likely based on some black and yellow species of paper wasps, or otherwise yellowjackets. The latter would makes sense, given what appears to be an abundance of setae around the mesosoma especially, reminiscent of a fair number of yellowjackets, although of course the glowing lines across the wings, meso- and metasoma, and eyes aren't accurate, but they aren't meant to be. I have to say, props to the modeling crew for making a fairly detailed model with an appropriate amount of wings and legs.

[Image Source: Wikimedia Commons | Image IDs: Two screenshots of the episode, showing one wasp standing and three wasps flying above the Ninja Turtles respectively, followed by a real photo of a common wasp, a type of Yellowjacket, also known as Vespula vulgaris /End IDs.]

They're also notably large, roughly the size of a medium breed of dog, having grown significantly from their mutation. Funnily enough, just before the first appearance of the original wasp, after being asked by Michaelangelo how big the arthropods in a set of photos are Donatello makes a statement I feel the need to comment on, that being "Well, a bee is about four millimeters, and a wasp would be six", which is an odd statement. For one, which species does he mean in particular, he gives an oddly specific measurement when the wall displays images of multiple different types of wasp, including fairyflies (or Mymarids), which can be as small as 0.127 millimeters (Dicopomorpha echmepterygis), and Vespids which can reach up to 45 millimeters (Vespa mandarinia). The western honey bee (Apis mellifera), the most likely candidate for the bee that Donatello is referring to given how common and well loved the species is, itself is 10 millimeters at minimum among the average worker.

[Image ID: Another screenshot, showing the wall in question, which has 4 different papers pinned to it with multiple different species of wasp /End IDs.]

But anyway, with that side-tangent out of the way, let's get into the behavior of the wasps, starting with the first things we see. When the initial wasp appears, we hear vocalizations from it, which isn't necessarily unheard of, although these noises aren't quite the same as the vocalizations of some other types of animals, such as mammals or birds, as these aren't produced through complex vocal cords and structures, but they are created by vibrations in the wasp's body by stridulatory organs or other muscular structures. These are called stridulations, you may have heard of them in cicadas and Orthopterans, but they can also be observed in mud collecting and digging wasps such as potter wasps and Sphecids, as well as velvet ants, and sounds like a charming little squeak! The vocalizations in the wasps in this episode sound like processed sounds produced by birds like corvids or vultures, reminiscent of sounds associated with prehistoric dinosaurs in movies.

After this, we see the wasp start hunting the turtles. One could make the argument that the wasp is simy protecting its egg rather than hunting, but the events of this episode make it very clear that the wasp is hunting the turtles. While there are many social wasps that may forage for carrion or pieces of your barbeque dinner in order to feed their larvae, the specific targeting of a vertebrate species is highly unusual for a parasitic wasp, as they tend to only target other arthropods like their fellow insects or spiders. But it's likely that this particular behavior was onset by its implied genetic modification by Kraang, known enemy of the Ninja Turtles.

After a short chase around the room, the wasp stings Leonardo in the arm and promptly falls to the ground, dying immediately. This is most reminiscent of the worker honey bees, which have a barbed stinger that cannot be removed from a thick-skinned animal such as a mammal, thus taking parts of the abdomen and internal organs with it (including the still-pumping venom gland), killing the bee within minutes. It's a bit longer than the near instantaneous death we see in this wasp, but it is rather quick! The wasp in this episode appears to have a similarly barbed stinger, although it has only one barb, rather than the row of barbs honey bees have, being shaped almost like a fish hook. Other wasps, including parasitic wasps, have smooth stingers, and thus, can sting multiple times. Notably, worker honey bees are infertile females, as opposed to the stinging parasitic wasps, which are, of course, fertile, the stinger being a modified ovipositor in all wasps that have them (including bees and ants), only being found in females.

[Image Source: PBS, Rose-Lynn Fisher | Image IDs: A screenshot of Donatello holding the stinger of the mutated wasp, and an extremely close up, colorless photo of a worker honey bee stinger /End IDs.]

We know that this wasp is a female due to its possession of a stinger, as well as being fertile due to the egg we see just a moment later. The sting does not kill, nor paralyze Leonardo, despite the size of the wasp, instead having a different, immediate effect in that Leonardo becomes extremely protective of the egg. Over the course of the episode we see that Leonardo appears, in a way, brainwashed to protect the egg, the eventual intention being that the egg would hatch safely and he would be consumed by the young wasp inside.

Shockingly, this does have parallels in the real world, first, and in possibly the more well known example, a form of direct brain change is induced by the emerald cockroach wasp (Ampulex compressa). It first delivers a sting to a thoracic ganglion of a cockroach, causing temporary paralysis in the forelegs, allowing the wasp to deliver a second sting to the head ganglia, inducing a zombie-like state, inhibiting its escape response and allowing the wasp to lead the roach by its antennae back to the wasp's burrow, where it lays an egg upon the roach, allowing its larvae to feed.

[Image Source: iNaturalist, ravinaidu | Image ID: A photo of an emerald cockroach wasp leading a 'zombified' cockroach back to its burrow across dirt and rocks /End IDs.]

However, there's another genus of wasps that I believe is the one they took inspiration from here, that being Glyptapanteles, a genus of Braconid wasps that deposit their eggs directly into Lepidopteran hosts, specifically caterpillars. The eggs hatch, and the larvae of the wasps feed on the caterpillar's bodily fluids from the inside, specifically avoiding the vital organs as the caterpillar appears to continue to behave and grow normally despite the parasite inside them. Then, they emerge and pupate, spinning a silk cocoon for themselves, at which point the caterpillar stops moving much or feeding. It only moves then to add its own silk to the pile of pupal cocoons, and, should it be disturbed, thrash around in order to protect the pupae, serving as a bodyguard until it eventually starves to death.

[Image Sources: Wikimedia Commons, José Lino-Neto, and ResearchGate | Image IDs: A photo of a brown Geometrid moth caterpillar looking over Glyptapanteles wasp papae, followed by an image containing several photos of a brown and black Glyptapanteles wasp adult /End IDs.]

There are a few differences, however, evident in the fact that the egg has already been oviposited externally a considerable amount of time before even having a host. This is, of course, understandable given the fact that, if they were to make it more accurate, then this episode would look less like a PG iteration of zombie media and more like an Alien film.

Speaking of the zombie media comparisons, while the change in behavior is down to a direct sting to the brain in the case of emerald cockroach wasps or a chemical concoction in the case of Glyptapanteles wasps, it's described in the episode as being a virus. This virus takes hold and darkens Leonardo's eyes, his mouth producing a viscous fluid, which is eventually spread to all of the other turtles via bite, until Michaelangelo creates an antidote by Donatello's instructions. Obviously, this part is not true of real parasitic wasps.

While Donatello and Michaelangelo are researching the wasp, looking at an article describing its non-mutated equivalent, several photos are shown, and it's here we start to see a couple more inconsistencies and inaccuracies. For one, Donatello refers to a single species as "The Parasitic Wasp", but in reality, there are estimated to be hundreds of thousands of different parasitic wasps, none specifically referred to as being the parasitic wasp. Secondly, at the start of the article, we see an adult of the species, which appears to resemble some form of black and yellow ichneumon wasp, much different from what we've seen thus far.

[Image Source: BugGuide.net, James Reben | Image IDs: A screenshot showing the image of the supposed species, followed by a photo of a real black and yellow species of ichneumon wasp /End IDs.]

After this, we see images of the species emerging from the egg, coming out as a full-fledged, winged adult, more like the wasps we've seen thus far, oddly skipping the larval and pupal stage entirely. This is especially odd considering the fact that adult wasps cannot eat meat, only the larvae, and, as mentioned, the wasps feed on their host after hatc

[Image IDs: Two screenshots of the aforementioned images, showing the wasp emerging and then crawling over its host caterpillar to consume it /End IDs.]

This is later confirmed to be the case in the mutated wasps, which not only emerge from their eggs as adults, but also emerge in a group of three. It is seemingly not unheard if that one single insect egg could produce multiple offspring, but it is exceedingly rare and hard to find information on. In any case, wasp eggs, more often than not, only hatch singular individuals.

[Image ID: A screenshot of the three hatchling wasps above the unconscious Leonardo and Donatello /End IDs.]

As a final note on these wasps, as they go straight for the Ninja Turtles before promptly being taken out by Michaelangelo (with a cannon no less), it seems as though these wasps are all females. It can be inferred from this that this egg was fertilized, as opposed to the males that would come from unfertilized eggs, implying that there was either already more than one of these flying around, or that the female had already mated before becoming mutated, potentially by Mutagen.

All in all, there are many inaccuracies throughout this episode, though I do have to give points for the interesting choice of inspiration! In terms of rating, the episode itself was entertaining and interesting, but it doesn't have much in the way of accuracy to any one specific wasp species.

-

Overall: 4 or 5/10

-

This wasp review was suggested by @kernelbastard ! Leave your wasp review suggestion in the replies, tags, or askbox!

[lavenderfluorite14]

A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Chapter 9: Derailed

Summary: The day is derailed even further, but that might be for the best.

Rating: 16+ for violence and gore. Kissing, making out.

Warnings: This chapter contains detailed descriptions of violence and gore, specifically arrow removal.

Full tag list on AO3. Read on AO3. Chapter 8. Read from the beginning.

Morale plummets in the wake of Lae’Zel’s departure. The rest of the morning is spent in silence as everyone finishes preparing for the day ahead. Even Shadowheart’s smug superiority at finally ousting Lae’Zel fades to a grim determination. Already, the hole Lae’Zel has left feels palpable.

Astarion is sure Lae’Zel will be fine out there. She is a warrior through and through. But an additional prickle of fear ripples through him at the idea that the others may leave him too. He cannot do this alone, he needs every ally he can get. 

He knew this was coming, he reminds himself. He knew Lae’Zel was always going to leave. It’s just happening earlier than expected. This is a good thing, actually. He has less competition now. And less opposition to the illithid powers. He cannot compromise that.

He had never really minded Lae’Zel’s condescension or rudeness, even when it was directed at him. Cazador had been much crueler. At least Lae'Zel was almost funny. And her passion for bloodshed had always been inspiring. He supposed he was just disappointed to see a strong ally leave over such a trifle.

Perhaps there was a tinge of worry for her as well. 

At least he knows that Tav won’t leave. Certainly not with the promise of tonight hanging between them like luscious, unpicked fruit.

Tav, Shadowheart, Karlach, and Astarion all trudge through the forest in silence, doggedly following the billowing smoke plume that Lae’Zel had spotted earlier. Along the way Tav and Shadowheart stop to forage, gathering berries, mushrooms, and eggs from bird nests. They even find a big, juicy honeycomb. All treats Astarion can’t truly enjoy.

“Are you sure about the tadpoles, Fangs?” Karlach asks him when they are finally alone. Tav and Shadowheart are far ahead at this point, digging up what appears to be a buried chest.

“Of course I am,” Astarion insists. The tadpole set him free. He has to follow this thread. 

“Even if it means you’ll become a Mindflayer?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But what if it does?”

He briefly imagines the pain and horror of his bones turning into jelly, his handsome face sprouting tentacles, his personality and memories siphoned away to feed the gluttonous parasite. It’s too grotesque, too unimaginable to feel like a real possibility. 

But he can imagine Cazador placing his favorite knife against the coals of a blazing fire, the searing heat guaranteeing that its blade will be horrifically painful. He can imagine Godey behind him with the pliers, laughing a deep, clacking chuckle.  

“As I have said repeatedly, that is not going to happen.”

Karlach just sighs. “Well. If you’re sure, then.”

Silence resumes. The smoke cloud looms ever larger above them. Astarion thinks he hears a Worg howl.

“I’m just asking you to be careful. Your actions affect the rest of us too. If you begin to transform-"

“I won’t transform!” he yells at her. Up ahead, Tav and Shadowheart try to look busy. “I won’t let it get that far. The idea is to control the tadpole, not become it.”

“But we don’t know if that’s even possible,” she responds. 

“But what if it is? We have to inv-” There’s something up ahead. 

Tav’s message throbs through all their minds, rife with concern. Immediately everyone reaches for their weapons.

“Finally, some action,” Karlach growls, grabbing her sword.

“Finally, I agree with you,” Astarion replies, unsheathing his daggers. 

Let’s carefully approach-

Karlach charges ahead, bursting through the underbrush. She streaks ahead of them through the forest, a comet made flesh. They all race to catch up to her, nimbly dodging rocks, branches, roots, and all manner of forest debris as they hurtle towards danger. Soon they begin to hear the clangs of swords, the twangs of bowstrings, and they feel the unmistakable thrum of the Weave. There’s fighting up ahead, in the town square of the abandoned village.

What remains of a band of goblin marauders have cornered something against a wall. Whatever it is has put up quite a fight: goblin carcasses litter the ground in pools of dark, sticky blood. Astarion reflexively licks his lips. 

“Kill it!” a goblin booyahg cackles as she conjures a poisonous green cloud. She unleashes the magic on her target, which doubles over in a fit of hacking coughs. “Skva!” Lae’Zel barks between wheezes. A worg leaps at her, sinking its jaws into the hard muscle of her thigh. Lae’Zel snarls in pain, rapping its head with the pommel of her sword. The beast releases her, dazed, its jowls dripping blood. As Lae’Zel shifts into a new stance to compensate for her injured leg an arrow strikes her thigh, missing her plate by centimeters and embedding itself into her other leg. She screams in Githyanki, but somehow finds the force to keep standing. Multiple arrows have pierced her, jutting out of her flesh like pins in a horrifying pincushion. Blood drips from a cut on her brow, where a rock had struck her face, pooling in her eyes. 

“Oi! Meatheads!” Tav roars, her mockery grabbing their attention.  “The frog is ours! Back off, or you’ll be joining it!” one of the goblins yells. Lae’Zel uses the distraction to strike, knocking the nearest goblin prone. 

All hells break loose. Karlach jumps into the fray, cleaving the worg in half with her sword. Astarion shimmies up a decaying roof, crouching low as he surveys the fight. He silently looses arrow after arrow, picking off goblins from his vantage point. There’s another booyahg perched on a nearby gable and Astarion quickly dispatches him with a clean shot to the neck, sending him plummeting to the stones below with a sickening thud. A goblin slashes at Lae’Zel but Tav grasps her with Hold Person, freezing her in place. Lae’Zel seizes the moment, chopping off her head with a clean sweep of her blade. The goblin band is no match for all of them, together. 

“Lae’Zel! Are you alright?” Tav calls out to her as the last goblin falls.

Lae’Zel does not answer. She briefly wobbles for a moment, blinking blood out of her golden eyes.  Then she swoons, hard. Karlach dives to catch her but Lae’Zel’s head strikes the cobblestones, knocking her out cold. Shadowheart rushes forward, her blue healing magic flickering at her fingertips. They all stand back as Shadowheart works to save Lae’Zel, watching as she feverishly casts her magic. They may hate each other, but that doesn’t mean that Shadowheart would let Lae’Zel die like this. 

“Lae’Zel better live through this,” Karlach murmurs. She has given Shadowheart the most space, ever conscious of her burning engine.

“She’ll be fine, darling. She’s too tough to let a couple of goblins get to her,” Astarion hand-waves. She won’t die. She can’t die.

“Tav!” Shadowheart calls frantically over her shoulder. Tav rushes over, her hands starting to glow with her own lesser healing magic. The two begin working in tandem: Tav props Lae’Zel’s head up so Shadowheart can carefully pour a healing potion down her throat. Lae’Zel groans, her eyes flickering open in a haze of pain. 

“Astarion!” Tav cries. Astarion dashes over, crouching at her side. “You have the best dexterity. We need you to help excise these arrows,” she explains. “I’ll walk you through it. Just do as I say, and everything will be fine,” Shadowheart assures him. “I can push this one through. But these two are pretty shallow, you will need to rip them out of her. I can’t finish healing her until they’ve been removed,” Shadowheart instructs. 

“That will make it worse!” Astarion frets.

“Not with goblin arrows. They’re just simple metal spikes, they don’t have the fancy head. You’ll still need to be quick though, so they can heal her before she bleeds out,” Karlach explains. “Please Astarion, just do it,” Tav pleads.

Tav gently supports the arrow shaft, holding it still. The shaft wiggles, which is a good sign. It hasn’t struck bone. He surveys Lae’Zel’s thigh, making note of the two arrows he will need to remove in rapid succession. Delicately but firmly, he grasps the shaft near the root. Lae’Zel swears thickly but Tav quietly soothes her, casting Calm Emotions. Blood bubbles forth from her flesh as he quickly rips the arrow out. The urge to bite almost overwhelms him, but Tav swoops in with a rag to staunch the bleeding before he can lose himself. Lae’Zel writhes in pain but Shadowheart does her best to hold her down. Karlach hovers over them, burning too fiercely to safely help.

They repeat the grisly process, removing all the arrows from Lae’Zel’s body. Lae’Zel screams, she swears, she twists in pain, but she does not complain. The last one is too deep, so Shadowheart snaps the shaft and swiftly pushes the arrow through her thigh, forcing it out the other side. When the horrible work is done, Karlach passes Shadowheart a Greater Healing potion, which Lae’Zel gulps down. Shadowheart stands up, wiping the sweat from her brow. Tav stays crouched, casting Prestidigitation to clean the blood and viscera from Lae’Zel’s prone form. Lae’Zel tries to stand but Karlach moves over her. “Hold it, soldier. Your wounds are closed but you are not fit to move,” she says. Lae’Zel chks.  “She’ll live, but she needs to rest.” Shadowheart declares. “And so do I. I’m almost completely out of magic now.”  Tav swears under her breath.

“I could still accompany you to the goblin camp, but I’ll only have my cantrips,” Shadowheart adds. Tav stands slowly so as to not disturb Lae’Zel, then kicks angrily at a nearby tuft of grass. “As much as I’d like to kick some goblin butt, I’m not going into enemy territory without another healer,” Karlach insists.

“Nor I,” Tav agrees. “Not if there’s as many goblins as I suspect.” They all glance up at the billowing smoke cloud. Lae’Zel was right, the camp is just beyond the ridge.

“Well, at least this was fun,” Astarion says. Karlach wraps Lae’Zel in a blanket from her pack, then hoists her up into her arms, gently cradling her. 

“Let’s get this one back to camp, yeah?” Karlach suggests. 

“Put me down this instant,” Lae’Zel demands. She squirms indignantly. “I am Lae’Zel of K’liir, not some hatchling.”

“And right now you are recovering from some serious injuries,” Tav says. “We’re going back to camp so we can all re-coup.”

“You tell me if it gets too hot, ok?” Karlach says. Lae’Zel grunts. 

“Were you anyone else I would strike you down for such disrespect,” she grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, we can fight about it after you rest,” Karlach teases.

“As fierce as you are, darling, you shouldn’t run off like that. We were quite worried about you,” Astarion gently scolds her. Lae'Zel glowers at him but she does not rebuff his chastisement. Perhaps they really are growing on her after all.

As they walk, Lae'Zel eventually settles into Karlach's strong arms. If Astarion didn't know better, she almost seems content there.

Tav falls into step beside him. “Good job today,” she says. She gives his arm a quick, affectionate squeeze. The contact sends a jolt of something through him. He isn’t sure if it’s pleasant or not, but he does know that he loves the compliment.

“Why thank you, darling. What can I say, I’m quite skilled with my hands.”

Tav giggles at him. He leans in close to her, so the others won’t hear. “You’ll find out for yourself soon enough,” he promises. Tav playfully pushes him away, pantomiming annoyance, but once she’s done she shoots him a heated look that belies her true feelings. Astarion smirks back at her.

Tonight is the night.

~

There’s a dog waiting for them when they return. Apparently Wyll and Gale had found it wandering around the woods. It had not wanted to leave the body of its dead master, but Wyll had given it his scent anyway. According to the collar, the dog’s name was “Scratch.” Karlach and Shadowheart are delighted, but Astarion isn’t impressed. But he supposes he can live with the dog, so long as it doesn’t slobber all over his pillow.

Somehow, Wyll and Gale had also found the time to trek back to the Grove, trade for more potions and alchemy supplies, forage for food, and discover an owlbear cave. They had certainly been busy bees while they were gone. 

They all help pitch Lae’Zel’s tent, then Karlach lays Lae’Zel down gently in her bedroll, where she quickly falls asleep. They all mostly agree: if Lae’Zel wants to rejoin their group then she is welcome to stay. Shadowheart loudly objects, but she is overruled by Tav, Wyll, and Karlach. Everyone is welcome here so long as they are willing to cooperate with the group. 

Astarion knew he had bet correctly on Tav. 

They all take turns checking on Lae’Zel, even Astarion. When at last she stirs, Gale hands her a bowl of stew and Tav flits into her tent to talk. They all quietly gather nearby to eavesdrop, Gale included this time. 

Lae’Zel doesn’t apologize. She is still adamantly against using the tadpole, but she does agree to stay. Astarion intuitively understands that this is Githyanki for “thank you for saving my life.” Tav concedes that they are taking an enormous risk and agrees that if they begin to transform, Lae’Zel should kill them. Lae’Zel swears that she will see it so. Astarion frowns to himself. Even though he is confident that they can eventually control the tadpole, he still doesn’t appreciate that Tav has essentially forfeited their lives. But this seems to be an acceptable enough compromise for now.

Tav gives them all a knowing look as she exits Lae’Zel’s tent. No one tries to hide the fact that they were listening in. 

The sun is already beginning to set, so Astarion settles in and begins his grooming regimen. Tav will be expecting him soon. 

“Astarion! Can I trouble you for some help chopping these vegetables?” Gale calls to him from the makeshift kitchen he has staged by the fire. 

“I’m afraid I’m a bit busy, my dear,” he calls over. Astarion doesn’t have nail scissors or clippers, but he’s skilled enough with a knife to make do.

“Very well, then I shall come to you,” Gale announces, laying down his own knife and making his way over. As Gale approaches, Astarion wonders what he has done to deserve this. 

“I’d like to speak to you in private, if I may. About this morning,” Gale says. Astarion raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know we had more to say to each other,” Astarion says icily. “You already made your point quite clearly.”

“I actually don’t think I have,” Gale says. Oh good, more lecturing. 

“I spoke in anger and in haste this morning, and I wanted to offer my apologies. Although we have only known each other briefly, I meant what I said. I would stand at your side again, tadpole or no.”

“What?” Astarion says flatly. 

“I spoke in anger and in haste-"

“I heard you!” Astarion snaps.

“It occurred to me that you and I are not so different, in our ways,” Gale continues. “To be at the beck and call of a supernatural hunger has been challenging, even for a wizard of my acclaim.”

“That has certainly been true in my own experience,” Astarion offers slowly. 

"I know we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances and we have all been relatively slow to confide in one another. But now that we have a tad more trust and understanding, I hope that we can move forward towards curing our mutual infection,” Gale says.

“Do we have more trust in each other?” Astarion cuts in, ignoring Gale's mention of the parasite. “Because right now it seems as though the one waxing poetic about trust is keeping a pretty important secret from all of us.”

Gale sighs. “You are right, Astarion. I am asking a lot of all of you. But I assure you, now is not the right time. I promise that when the time is right, I will tell you everything,” Gale pledges.

Astarion looks him up and down, warily. “I suppose I understand better than most the need to keep a secret until the right time,” Astarion concedes.

“You’ve got to get the timing just right, I’m afraid.” Gale sighs again. “And as powerful as I am, I can't say I've been at my level best this past week. This whole adventure has been rather exhausting, if I’m being honest.”

“I quite agree,” Astarion replies.

“If also a bit invigorating,” Gale continues, conspiratorially. Astarion’s lips twitch.

“I quite agree,” Astarion smirks. 

“So! Shall we put this spat behind us?” Gale offers his hand for a gentlemanly shake.

Astarion eyes Gale’s outstretched hand. He briefly considers asking the wizard about his intentions with Tav. But his brief glimpse inside Gale’s tent lends credence to Astarion’s hunch that nothing of significance is going on between them. Wyll and Shadowheart are wrong.

Besides, they have almost no chemistry. If Tav would have rather bunked in Gale’s tent, she would be in Gale’s tent. Instead she’s promised herself to him.

“I suppose I can forgive you,” Astarion says, clasping Gale’s hand in his and giving it a firm shake. “Your words are…appreciated.”

“And is there anything that you would like to say to me?” Gale says hopefully. Astarion pauses. The cheek of this wizard.

“I suppose I can also make an effort to be more forthcoming in the future. Within reason. I do have an image to maintain, after all.”

“I can content myself with ‘an effort’ so long as it is a genuine one,” Gale chides him. “Although I hope I prove a worthy confidant,” he adds, smiling.

As Gale retreats towards Shadowheart’s tent, ostensibly on his apology tour, Astarion admits that Gale can be charming, on occasion. 

It occurs to Astarion that he hasn’t received a genuine apology like that in decades. 

~

Freshly bathed, trimmed, and coiffed, Astarion swaggers over to Tav’s tent, tapping on the flap by way of greeting. Tav beckons him in.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, my darling,” he asks, sliding inside. Although, he wouldn’t have cared even if he was disturbing her.

“Not at all,” she reassures him. Tav sits on a stool, applying mascara to her eyelashes with the help of a hand mirror.

“We finally have a quiet evening,” he observes lightly, coming around beside her. 

“As quiet as it can be around here, anyway,” she retorts. She screws the tube of mascara shut, slipping it into a little pouch. She then produces a small tin of salve, which she opens with a small click.

“A perfect night for two souls who would like to take some time to themselves,” he hints flirtatiously. “If you catch my meaning.”

“Hm, I don’t think I do,” Tav replies, swiping a fat dollop over her lips.  

“No?” Astarion questions, his tone playfully patronizing. 

“No,” she teases, rubbing the balm between her lips. “You’ll have to be more explicit,” she says, the challenge clear in her voice. Her lips look so pretty and glossy, a tempting target.

“Well then, since you apparently need it spelled out for you-“ Astarion leans down and kisses her, ruining the immaculate shine of her lips with a single press of his own. He lingers against her, enjoying the cloying scent of lavender and honey, the soft pillow of her lips against his own. It must be a beeswax of some kind. Tav opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, but Astarion pulls away.

“Not here,” he says, stopping her in her tracks. “There’s a clearing just over the hill. Once the others have gone to sleep, come find me there. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I will,” she promises. Already she’s rosy-cheeked and breathless. 

He’s going to positively wreck her. ~ Chapter 10: Want❤️‍🔥

[mlmxreader]

Death Do Us Part | Alfie Solomons x m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ "I just... I thought that you would always be mine" + "You will never not be a part of me"

[I don't have specifics but could you make this one angst? Heavy angst is totally fine btw] ❞

: ̗̀➛ The trenches are not somewhere that anyone wants to be, and what happens at night is worse than what happens during the day.

: ̗̀➛ graphic depictions of death & injury, swearing, eaten alive, rats, eye gore

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The sounds coming from No Man's Land would forever echo against the tall wooden graves; burial sites of a land once flourishing and blooming with life, now scarred and wounded with such great cuts that could never heal.

Trees that were once beautiful dark greens in summer and would happily rest with nests on their powerful arms, were now barren and black and smelled of rot and decay. Nothing lived anymore.

Bushes did not grow fruit, spiders did not spin webs, birds did not sing. Nothing lived anymore. The sounds were made up of loud groaning mixed with screeching; sometimes the squeak of rats could be heard as they bit down on achy eyeballs and chewed through the soft, popping flesh.

Hoards of them would gather at night, feasting upon the soldiers who were injured and left on the battlefield; their deaths would be slow, eaten alive from the stomach and out of their backs and through their spines until their bodies gave up. It was a slow, terrible way to go.

Amongst the trenches, it wasn't much easier. Ticks and lice infested every man, regardless of if they were alice or dead, and food was constantly in short supply; the soldiers took to frying their parasites over small fires, and still found their stomachs gurgling and gargling.

Many of them were malnourished, their faces sunken, and their eyes slowly being sucked into their skulls. Disease was rife and rampant.

The mud and the dirt and the clay managed to sneak in through clothes and boots with ease, and if a man fell into the designated shit pits... he would have to stay in his dirty, disgusting uniform. Nobody was having a pleasant time.

Alfie sat by the edge of the trench the entire night, weeping with his face buried in his hands; the hot tears cascading through his fingertips as his body trembled and shook. It was the closest he could get, his fingers and knuckles stinging and raw and red.

His head was pounding, and the snot trickling down his face was sticking to his beard. He could still hear you struggling. The wet slap of the mud as you tried to drag yourself closer to the edge of the trench, leaving behind a slick and sticky trail as your lungs started to get smaller and smaller.

Alfie knew it was his own fault. He had tried too hard and too much to protect you, and he had killed you. He knew that his hands would forever be coated in blood, smeared all over his tattoos and stained on his pale palms for the whole world to see and then some.

He had tried to protect you. He had failed.

He could still picture it as he wept, rocking back and forth without even realising it.

You were wearing his gas mask, as yours had been damaged by enemy fire and there were no spares; he had pissed on a cloth and held it to his face in hopes that it would prevent the gas from getting to him. It didn't.

His eyes still burned, and he still let a string of greenish yellow foam spill from his throat as he tried to seek relief. You struggled to secure the gas mask, and he was too late to reach you; he watched with wide eyes when the bullet tore through your neck.

The sound of your gargling as you hit the ground and struggled, and although Alfie did his best to find his way to you, he was ripped away by the commanding officer; Jamie was the Colonel, and had wasted no time and grabbing Alfie by the shoulder and dragging him away from you.

And now Alfie was here; listening to you die slowly as he wept and wished that he had never tried to protect you.

Maybe if he hadn't tried, it would have saved you and maybe it would have allowed you to live another day. It was all his fault, and he knew it all too well. It was his fault.

He would have to tell his mother; she would be devastated to hear that he had killed his husband. She would hate him and scorn him for it, and he knew it. Everybody back home would detest him for it, and he couldn't even bring himself to try and absolve himself; he knew that they would be right.

He had killed you.

"Stay down, Solomons!" Jamie called when he noticed Alfie tear his hands away from his face and shakily grasp the ladder. "He's a dead man, now."

Alfie glared at him, clenching his jaw tightly. "So bloody what?"

"So," Jamie sighed as he took a few steps forward. Missing a hand, his blue eyes were full of sorrow as he swallowed thickly and shook his head. Golden hair cut short. "There's no use in trying to get him back. He's a dead man, Solomons. We don't fight for dead men."

Alfie shook his head. "That dead man saved your life. He saved mine! He was mine!"

"I know," Jamie whispered. "Just let him be, aye? He won't last til morning - rats are gonna get him."

"Just let me bring back his body," Alfie whispered. "Just his fuckin' body. Let me at least say goodbye to him, for fuck's sake."

Jamie checked his watch, then listened closely for a moment before nodding curtly. "Five minutes. If Jerry starts the blitz again, you get your arse back in this trench, aye?"

"Yes," Alfie agreed with gritted teeth before hoisting himself over the ladder and slamming into the mud and onto his stomach.

With a groan, he picked himself up, and collapsed by your side; on his back, he pulled your hand to his chest, flipping you over and pressing his temple to yours as he sniffled. You were weak, hardly responsive and only able to groan.

"I just... I thought you would always be mine until we died," Alfie grumbled. "I thought we'd grow old, together... it was always fuckin' meant to be us against all the other cunts in the world..."

Your breathing got shallower, and when he slipped his finger down to your wrist, he wept softly.

"Know I fuckin' loved you," he continued with a trembling voice, "know that you will never not be a part of me... I will never fuckin' let you go, alright? You're always gonna fuckin' be with me."

You spasmed, and he frowned as he turned onto his side and kissed your temple gently; his hot tears against your slowly cooling skin.

[werezmastarbucks]

forestling

pic credit

masterlist

Damon Salvatore's conscience acts up after he kills a pregnant woman in '94

author's note: yup, now I feel I'm getting old. When Damon, of all people, stops being your vampire crush, and becomes an older brother figure, it's time to call it quits. jk

word count: 994

warnings: parent figure!Damon, Y/N is an orphan

The forest was glowing golden in the morning hour, and the birds were spooked by the sharp cracking sounds of the trees being broken and snapped in half. A vampire row is no joke. When Damon gets pissed, that's one thing: he might throw stuff around and push people under the trains. But when he feels like this, half-empty, disillusioned, and dirty, regretful, he becomes really dangerous. Love was a thing of pain, but a feeling so filthy, so intrusive, did not occur in him too often. It was guilt, and Damon hated it. Not the 'what's people gonna think now' type of guilt, and not the 'Stefan's going to pout'. It was sincere, and it was pulling on his ribcage, and now the rage that he felt was urgent, and hypocritical as he swung his hand again to strike Aidan. Aidan was his buddy. A guy he met in Penzance about twelve years ago or so. A kind of a wild card. It was enjoyable drinking with him, they didn't have to confess anything, or speak eye to eye. Aidan was fun at the times when it was easier to let go. But Damon had a fatal drawback: from time to time he swam up. And looked at his life and the scale of destruction. While he still posessed a superego, Aidann lacked it completely. It was fun until it wasn't.

The slender birch trees, growing in a perfect circle, and the light golden pollen of August were reminiscent of magic that used to reside here. Aidan now sacrificed two mortals to gods of his hunger. When it came to the point of taking the baby in the blanket, Damon's eye started twitching weirdly. Unwelcome flashbacks. The conscience, the ultimate bitch. She was now drilling her crooked nail into the back of his neck. And, almost without any consideration, he stroke Aidan again.

"Not the baby", he hissed, warning.

Aidan regrouped and looked at him from the ground with his animalistic, lunatic eyes.

"Why? What does it matter to you?"

He looked in the direction of the bloodless bodies lying on the edge of the clearing. This all looked like an illustration from a children's book. The sun was above the forest, and the white of young trees, the trees that were younger than them, made this place shine with eternal light.

Damon could hear the child whimper, but she did not scream. Two big, thoughtful eyes were looking at them curiously from the blanket nest she was now abandoned in. The eyes were old. Because, he thought, those were the eyes of the unborn child he murdered three months ago. He already forgot the woman's name, but the child's consciousness manifested in his mind. Like a parasite. Such useless, human instinct.

"That's where you draw the line? Babies?" Aidan continued, laughing. His laugh didn't suit this angelic place.

He didn't have it in him to talk things out, come up with witty responses. He attacked again, and, after some commotion that included a broken and recovered arm, and even a bite, managed to impale him with a branch. Aidan's face went white with pain, but the tip of the stick only scratched his heart slightly. The unwellness that washed over Damon was so great that he was determined to avoid any death at all. Just today. So many things in his life he sincerely wanted to fix, and now was hurriedly scooping the baby and the blanket with his bowed head.

He looked into this stupid haunting baby face, thinking, now what? Idiot. You're in the middle of the forest, and now you can't even use the vampire speed to carry it out. It will get a whiplash and die.

So he walked, and walked, through the young slender trees, and the afternoon golden glow, as the light of the sun changed against the greenery. The baby cried a little and then fell asleep. He stood on the top of the hill, allowing his mind to wander for a while. It was good to be old. You had friends in almost every country.

He changed hands and looked at the sleeping child again. She is very peaceful, he thought. A uniquely unbothered new born. Being a vampire does not automatically make you a human conoisseur, so, he gathered, she was about six, seven, eight months old? Who knew. He would find out about her parents and will know soon enough. Maybe, maybe keeping this one baby safe will make up for all these horrible things he's done.

He walked down the hill into the beach as the heat soared. The house with shelves on the eaves was closed off against the summer swelter. He blew on the baby's face gently, trying to keep it warm. No idea how long a mortal baby can whithstand high temperatures. A good witch lived here. She wore boho dresses and had long silver hair - it used to be black. She was the kind of person to accept whatever fate throws at her; that's why she never shut Damon out of her life. She went to the sea every day and did her marine magic. This little old island is protected by her and her ethereal kindness.

He knocked on the door. As she opened, Damon gave her his typical cat smile.

"Ever wanted to be a mother?" he asked, standing in the door like an ink spot against the bright golden of the day.

"Hello to you, too", she replied, standing on her toes. He face changed into the expression of worry.

"If you wanted to visit, you could've just come..."

Damon shrugged.

"What do you think?"

"You look disheveled".

"Do I?"

"Had to fight?"

"A friend of mine has a thing for killing off the families whole".

Her clear bright eyes squinted at the sun and focused on Damon.

She was a little suspicious but agreed that the weird orphaned baby was uncharacteristically quiet.

[rotworld]

23: Breathless

(previous)

quiet moments and stillness leave you feeling uneasy and afraid. jamie and malachi help you relax.

->sexually explicit. contains body horror, parasites, threesome.

.

.

.

“There is death in you,” the thing in the dark whispers. You are handled gently, like a broken bird in cautious fingers. Alien appendages, rippling frills and soft, flexible tendrils, graze against you. An eyelid, thin and translucent gray, flicks across the enormous, moon-like eye. “Slow, creeping death. Perhaps it can be healed.”

This is a dream like all the others. You can’t breathe or speak. Knowing that you could once, that you managed to dispel the crushing pressure and force air through your constricted throat, frustrates you but also gives you hope. There is a way. You just have to remember. 

Your eyes never fully adjust to this sort of darkness, but your other senses sharpen. You hear faraway voices; whispers and song, deep and mournful. You feel the movement of beasts that could swallow you whole, their mere passing knocking you aside. Stars trickle like falling snow. There is light if you know where to look, how to recognize it. Ribbons of it, fluttering like sails in the breeze. You struggle to understand how this could be home—how this could be Anchor. Was it hidden somehow? Cut away like Aliquando Island for its incurable strangeness? Somehow, somewhere, it still exists. You want to see it with your own eyes.

“Brave little thing. Yes, I want to see you, too. To feel you beyond the dream.” You are brought higher, lifted before the great eye. It is silver rimmed with prickling obsidian, a lightless void of dilated pupil stretched across the center. “I will hold you,” it says, auroras waving in the wake of a slow, upward movement, the moon rising and distant. “And I will never let you go.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: GHOST BY NOVAH FEAT. AMANDA MAIR]

You’re woken in the middle of the night. By what, you can’t say for certain. The house is quiet, but you do hear muffled, terse chatter drifting up from downstairs and music softly playing. The shift is vivid through the skylight window. You settle against the pillows and watch reality grow soft and shimmery like the surface of a bubble and other worlds swim by. You think about what Jamie told you about Higgs’ flukes, creatures who send their young beyond the boundaries of the only world they’ve ever known. Do they know what they’re doing? Do they ever wonder what becomes of their children, rocked to sleep in the cradle of their small, fragile eggs by the glistening churn of a shift? 

You wonder if they yearn for home, too. If there is a place in the Drift for every fluke, a strange patch of a grass or a quiet pond where this world intersected with another and birthed a miracle. 

Time passes and your thoughts are too busy to fall back asleep. You get out of bed groggily, passing the bookshelf on your way to the stairs. The photo of Malachi and the God of Nelton sits atop the shelf now, perched on a lace-edged doily and flanked by fresh cut, fragrant roses. The hallway at the bottom of the stairs is dark but the shift illuminates your way in quivering, luminous color. You’re reminded of your dreams—auroras in the dark. Has the place you come from ever passed by without you noticing, the void moving across the sky like a dark ghost ship? 

“I sent out warning letters earlier this evening, but I’m not sure how much good it’ll do,” you hear. Malachi’s voice, deliberately hushed. “I struggle to imagine a scenario where a municipal government would willingly shut off its own anchorware, no matter the risks.” 

You hear Jamie hum thoughtfully; the clatter of a teacup on a saucer. “It’s worth trying. I’m more skeptical the letters will reach their intended destinations in the first place.” 

“A Verlindan volunteered to deliver them. They have their own roads most places. A bit more reliable than ours.”

“Most, you said. No way to Anchor through the Verlindan backroads, then?” 

“Unfortunately, no. They’ve been cut off for a long time now. Makes me wonder how long they’ve been working towards this.”

They’re sitting in the living room, lights off, curtains open to let the alien glow of the shift through. You see Malachi out of his cassock for the first time, dressed in a soft, long-sleeved shirt and blue plaid pajama bottoms. He’s hunched forward in an armchair, leaning over the coffee table with a mug of steaming herbal tea in one hand. Jamie sits across from him on an olive-colored sofa, one bony shoulder exposed by their lopsided, oversized University shirt. They sip from a floral teacup while flipping through a pile of loose papers strewn across the table. There’s a radio sitting on the windowsill, crackling peacefully. 

Your footsteps draw a squeaking creak from the floorboards. Jamie and Malachi look up at the same time, their eyes drawn to your shape in the dark. “I’m so sorry. Did we wake you?” Malachi asks. 

You shake your head. “Can’t sleep. What’re you guys doing?” 

Jamie scoots over to make room for you on the couch. The papers they’re looking over are an assortment of official Nelton documents; anchorware installation paperwork and maintenance reports. “Grasping at straws,” Jamie admits. “Looking for any clue we can find. Getting to Anchor’s just the first hurdle. Everything’s going to be locked down tight.”

The most recent document is from your first visit to Nelton, the time you ran into Bachman. He was here, allegedly, to double-check the installation of new anchorware around the meat processing plant. He signed and dated the paperwork to verify everything was satisfactory. “What about this repairman?” you ask. “Does he seem strange to you? I can never quite remember what he looks like.” 

“That’s standard for anchorware technicians,” Malachi says. “They wear advanced shielding tech to stabilize themselves and protect against any sort of anchorware troubles.”

Jamie frowns. “His shielding is cranked up unusually high. We get a lot of repair techs at the University and they’re a little blurry at worst. He might be wearing more than usual, just in case he gets caught up in the malfunctions he’s causing. Then again, you said he hasn’t been here in a while. If you’re going to cause such a catastrophic reaction, it seems safer to do it remotely.”

They take another long gulp of tea and then set their cup down again, just a sliver of dark liquid lingering in the bottom. Malachi plucks the cup and saucer from the table and rises out of his seat gracefully. “Courier, would you like something to eat or drink? There’s lemon balm tea on the stove now. Jamie says you like eggs. I could make a frittata, if you’d like.”

You’re about to decline but Jamie nudges against your shoulder. “Just say yes. He won’t leave it alone,” they mutter, exasperated. “He wouldn’t sit down until I let him bring out half a bakery’s worth of scones and muffins.” 

“There were two of each, Jamie, and I seem to recall you ate them without complaint,” Malachi calls from the kitchen. You hear pots and pans clanging around, the sink running, a knife chopping swiftly across a cutting board. 

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” you say. 

The noises pause and Malachi leans out of the kitchen, smiling gently. “It’s no trouble, courier,” he says. “It’s our way here in Nelton. He didn’t want that to change, and neither do I.” 

The sounds of a busy kitchen resume; the crisp shredding of vegetables, the crack of egg after egg and the rhythmic hiss of whisking. Malachi starts humming a church hymn. “I’m surprised you’re getting along so well,” you say quietly. “I figured, after the last time we were here…”

Jamie rolls their eyes. “I’m not exactly thrilled about what happened, but I’d be a hypocrite if I held it against him, wouldn’t I? We have bigger problems and he’s willing to help. And he makes acceptable tea.” 

“I think you said it was incredible, actually. Some of the best you’d ever had,” Malachi calls. You can hear the smile in his voice. “You asked me for the recipe.” 

“I said it was fine.”

You can’t help but smile a little. It’s nice to have a quiet, peaceful moment, after everything that’s happened. But your thoughts return to darker places before you fully relax. You’re staring down what feels like countless unsolvable problems. Thumbing through the papers on the table, you’re reminded of Anchor’s reach, their stranglehold on the Drift. “How are we going to get in?” you ask.

Jamie gestures towards the kitchen. “They want to come with us; everyone who survived the fire. Malachi thinks they have a good shot of getting past the front gate that way. Anchor probably knew what was going on here, and I’m sure they know they got what they wanted. If all of Nelton turns up on their doorstep seeking asylum, they’ll let them in. It’s an irresistible research opportunity.” They sigh. “That’s assuming we can get there in the first place, of course.” 

You nod numbly. You don’t feel reassured. How many places are like Nelton now, ravaged by disaster? How many places are unreachable, adrift in time and space like Aliquando Island? You think of all the places you’ve been, the people who have shown you kindness. What will be left of them—of the Drift—when this is over? 

“Hey,” Jamie says softly. They reach over, wiping away your tears with their thumb. “It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. We’re not alone in this.” 

“I don’t want to think about it,” you admit. It’s all running through your head now; Glenn and Halvard and their family, and the virus ravaging Verlinda. A deliberate choice, you think, because the Verlindans use so little anchorware. Iridesce, who insisted that you be repaid for your work, who trusted you with the most precious cargo. The girl and the Singer and Compass Hill—is it still standing? Is everyone okay? Does it burn while you sit here? Is it collapsing, dragged into oblivion by a catastrophic failure of reality and physics? 

“Come here,” Jamie murmurs. “Let’s not think for a while.” They tug you gently closer, a hand brushing against your cheek as they lean in and press their lips against yours. You kiss back frantically, wanting to forget. The Road Ripper. The querrow. The fire in Nelton. An island of artists who can never go home again. You’ve stopped moving and now everything that’s happened has managed to catch up, claws of worry sinking in your heart.

Jamie demands your attention by pushing you down gently and crawling on top of you, setting a slow, sensual pace for the kiss. They nip at you, coaxing out your tongue with their own. Their hips grind down on yours, languid rocking motions that make you gasp into their mouth. “Jamie, we’re—” Your words cut off with a moan when their hands slip beneath your shirt and tease your nipples, thumbs flicking, rolling the buds between their fingers. “We’re on Malachi’s couch, he’s in the next room—”

“Then don’t make too much noise,” they whisper. Your shirt gets bunched up around your neck and their mouth is kissing down your chest, dragging their tongue over any spot that makes you squirm. You have to bite back a gasp when their mouth closes around one of your nipples and you feel not only their tongue but the fluke’s firm, flexible body flick against it. Both soft appendages toy with your sensitive flesh, tonguing and suckling, bullying it into hardness. Jamie watches you through their lashes, peering up at you with a heated look in their eyes. 

When they grind on you, you feel something twitch between their legs. A slender, snaking shape throbs against your core. 

“I love how sensitive you are. You just melt under me.” Jamie’s hand slides down and palms your sex through your clothes, rubbing and stroking until you push back against their fingers, panting. “I’ve been fantasizing about all the things we could do together. Dreaming about it, sometimes. I’ve never been with someone who knows about me—all of me. I want to hold you down and make you cry. I want you to eat me out and I want to fuck your throat. You have no idea how long a Higgs’ fluke can get once it’s fully grown, do you? It could be inside both of us at the same time.” 

Their hand slides into your pants and stroke up and down your sex, agonizingly slowly. The pressure is barely there and not enough, and then they’re moving on again, circling your entrance. They kiss your ear, sucking at the lobe. Their soft, pleased sigh tickles your skin. “C-can you…” You hesitate, embarrassed. 

“Can I…?” 

“Can you touch…my neck?” 

Jamie nuzzles against the side of your face, blowing softly into your ear. “You’re so cute.” One of their hands stays on your sex. The other rises, cupping around your neck. Jamie leans back so they can see what they’re doing, stroking the tender spots beneath your skin. “You want it? Want me to squeeze right here?” 

“Please,” you beg. You’re ashamed of how needy you sound already, how hot you feel. 

“Like that, baby?” They push down on both sides, thumb and fingers pinching both sides of your neck. The sudden pressure sends a bolt of pleasure down your spine and you shiver, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. Jamie pauses for just a moment. You see their eyes narrowing, a smile snaking across their face. They dig their fingers in harder, rhythmic, massaging squeezes that have you arching your back. The hand between your legs starts moving again, hard, merciless strokes that have you grinding shamelessly into their palm. 

You’re going to cum like this, still half-dressed and pushing your hips into Jamie’s playful touch. You feel yourself being driven right to the edge by the friction, Jamie’s dexterous fingers and their legs bracketing your body, the heated, husky whispers and tongue grazing your ear.

And then Jamie glances over the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, smirking. “Are you just going to stand there, Malachi?” 

Heat rushes to your face. Of course he heard you. You want to get up and apologize but Jamie shoves you back down and keeps you there with a hand on your neck—playful, not choking, just enough force that you can feel it. You can’t see over the back of the couch but you can hear tense silence, the creak of floorboards beneath nervous shifting. 

“I’m…so sorry,” Malachi says hoarsely. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—”

“Are you just going to stand there?” Jamie asks. “Or are you going to come over here, and make your angel feel good?” 

You squirm again, trying to sit up, desperate to see Malachi and know what he’s thinking, if this is all too far and you’ve overstayed your welcome. But Jamie caresses your neck again and it takes everything you have not to make an embarrassing sound. 

You hear a shaky inhale. “Is that…what my angel wants?” 

Jamie glances down at you, their hands stilling long enough for you to get your thoughts in order. “What do you think, courier?” they ask softly. “Do you want us to help you stop thinking so hard?” 

You swallow hard. “Is Malachi okay with that?” 

You hear movement. Slow footsteps. Malachi comes into the living room and crouches beside the couch, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it reverently. You want him. You want them both. Jamie and Malachi share a brief glance and some shared understanding passes between them. “My bed would be more comfortable for the three of us,” he says, his voice lower than before. 

Malachi’s room is just down the hall. You have little time to appreciate the decor beyond the soft rug beneath your feet. They don’t give you time to stop, doubt and worry. Malachi leads you to the bed and eases you down slowly while Jamie sits above your head. You’re kissed breathless, the two of them working together to have you bare and writhing beneath them. Malachi undresses you like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift and Jamie’s hands smooth over your skin, sliding up and down your sides, caressing your hips, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blades when your shirt comes off and then laying you gently back down.

You can feel Jamie staring. Not at you, but at Malachi, everywhere he touches, everything he does to you. They chuckle. “Awfully bold for a man of the cloth.”

Malachi is between your legs, one hand massaging your inner thigh while the other digs through the bedside table. You hear a bottle click open. His fingers come back cool and slick. “Flesh is holy. Pleasure isn’t a sin,” he says. “I offer this sort of comfort to anyone in the congregation who asks. If you face me while you take pleasure from their mouth, I can show you.” 

“I guess overconfidence isn’t a sin either, huh?” 

Malachi smiles. He’s gentle and patient, sinking one finger into you and stretching you slowly. “I’ve been with you all this time, in a sense. As long as he was there, so was I. I saw what he saw, felt what he felt. I fell in love, just as quickly. So let me take care of you tonight, my angels.”

You relax under Malachi’s touch. He’s thorough, easily able to multitask. One hand moves in a slow, sensual slide over your chest and abdomen, his palm warm and his featherlight touch stirring unexpected pleasure across your skin. The other hand opens you up further, two fingers crooked and massaging your inner walls. Above the slick sound of Malachi’s lubricated fingers, you hear Jamie let out a soft, pleased sigh.

Nobody speaks, but they both move at the same time. Malachi withdraws his fingers and nudges your knees apart. He’s half-hard and stroking himself the rest of the way, biting his lip at nothing more than the sight of you splayed before him. He pulls your hips into his lap, your lower body slightly elevated and poised right against his twitching length. Jamie swings a leg over your head and settles on top of you, hovering just above your face. 

“Hands up here, courier,” they murmur, patting their thighs. “Two taps if you need to stop.” You take their advice. Jamie sinks slightly lower, resting most of their weight on their knees. The position is slightly awkward; with them facing Malachi, you don’t think you can reach their clit very easily. 

This isn’t a problem, as it turns out. Just as your hands settle into place, resting gently on their thighs, Jamie stiffens and moans. The fluke’s lower body protrudes from their entrance, its grasping limbs and tendrils nestling against Jamie’s clit and vibrating rapidly. 

“How is it when the two of you are involved?” Malachi asks curiously. He has a hand around his length and the other on your hips, guiding his tip inside of you. The first thrusts are slow, gentle, rocking motions that gradually sink deeper into your welcoming heat. 

“Indescribable,” Jamie says. “It’s like—like I feel everything twice. Everything is so sensitive.” You slide your tongue against Jamie’s folds and they sigh, encouraging you deeper with a slow grind. At the same time, the fluke pricks your lips. You give it an experimental lick and Jamie shivers. 

“You’re gorgeous together,” Malachi says softly. He holds onto your hips, keeping you firmly seated in his lap as he thrusts a little harder, a little faster. It’s not long before you’ve taken all of him and he savors the sensation, sinking in to the hilt and holding you there, his cock twitching against your inner walls. 

There’s a pause, one of his hands leaving your body. You hear skin stroking skin; his hand on Jamie’s cheek. It’s hard to believe they don’t still have some sort of connection. Nothing is said again, but after a moment of silence and stillness, you hear them kiss. It’s sloppy, tongue and teeth and swallowed moans, and you know the moment Malachi feels the fluke atop Jamie’s tongue because he flinches, startled—and then kisses them even more feverishly. Maybe no connection is needed. Maybe they’re just more alike than you thought, because they both starts to fuck you at the same time. 

Malachi’s hips slam into you and the fluke is opportunistic, slithering past your lips when you gasp. It doesn’t choke you or cram itself down your throat, but you feel that it wants to, the impatient slither of it against your tongue. It’s there, taking its pleasure while you please Jamie with your mouth. It thrusts in and out and you feel it pulsate, the segmentation along its body a strange but appealing texture against your tongue. It’s thicker than the part of itself that comes through Jamie’s mouth, less chitinous, more worm-like. You give it a gentle suck and Jamie rips away from Malachi just to praise you, whimpering, “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

“Beautiful. Both of you, so beautiful,” Malachi says, sounding enraptured and breathless. He rolls his hips and rarely pulls out of you more than halfway, his deep, grinding pace hitting all the right spots. “If only you could stay, I would worship you like this every night.” You can hear yourself, the slap of Malachi’s hips against yours, the muffled moans you make around the fluke as it ravages your mouth. 

Your only warning that Jamie is about to cum is sudden tension in their thighs, more of their weight settling against your face. The fluke fills your mouth and your throat spasms gagging around it. Jamie nearly sobs, riding out their orgasm with harsh thrusts that drive the fluke deeper, and there’s a moment where you are completely, utterly full. 

“Fuck, that was amazing,” Jamie mutters. They collapse into bed beside you, smiling lazily as they wipe their juices from your cheeks. “Your turn, baby. Let me see you cum.” 

You’re close and you know Malachi’s not far behind. He’s losing his composure and careful gentleness, slamming into you harder. With your mouth unoccupied, he feels emboldened to surge forward and bend you nearly in half, hard, missionary style fucking with your legs wrapped around his waist. He mumbles incoherently and you catch only snippets, slurred worship and keening whispers of, “angel, my precious angel,” as he pounds you into the mattress. 

“Are you gonna cum, priest?” Jamie teases. Malachi answers with a groan. He’s losing his rhythm, thrusting mindlessly. His hips snap against yours and all you can hear is his ragged breathing, the slap of your bodies meeting. “Go on. Cum in your angel. Fill them up, give them everything.” 

Malachi crushes your lips with his, one last, desperate cry of “Angel!” muffled in the kiss, and you reach the edge. He fucks you through it mercilessly and you’re sobbing, toes curling, your nails raking his back. You don’t know how long he goes after that but it feels like you’re perched on the boundary between pleasure and pain for hours. Malachi trails his lips along your jaw and sucks on the side of your neck, and you think you cum again.

By the time your pulse has slowed and you’re aware of yourself again, no longer tingling and weightless, you’re surrounded by pillows. Jamie is curled up against your side and there’s a warm washcloth dabbing between your legs, soaking up some of the dried cum that trickled out and stained your thighs. You have to get up—have to get back to the guest room, you think—but Malachi chuckles and kisses your inner thigh.

“Get some rest, angel,” he whispers. For the first time in a while, you slide easily and willingly into a deep, restful sleep.

(next)

[jtficprompt]

A Young Outlaw's Guide to Hitching a Ride Home

Prompts for a series of fics I'll likely not get around to ever writing.

Feel free to adopt and adapt, using as little or as much as you like.

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Wonder Woman; Tim Drake; Ferdinand the Kithotaur (title ideas: "Tell an Adult" "Doing what needs to be done")

Batman is on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic. A slow civilian plane, that definitely isn't big enough to fit the BatPlane in the hold.

Which isn't kind of plane Batman takes when he knows Robin is being hunted by the Joker.

Superman looked half dead in the news footage. He was barely walking by the time parasite was arrested.

The Titans seem to be off world. Tim has no idea how to contact the Flash.

That means Wonder Woman. Which means Tim need to get to the Themiscarian Embassy in DC as fast as possible.

(Also featuring: Cooking lessons and discrete child neglect assessment questions with Ferdinand the Kithotaur.)

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Roy Harper (title ideas: "Friends in Low Places" "The Corn Pollen Path" "First Step")

You don't stop shooting up because heroin stops feeling like heroin. You stop shooting up because you find something more important than the next score.

Roy Harper finds that in a seedy bar in eastern Kasnia, when he hears two thugs he recognizes as Joker henchmen talking about "the boss" going bird hunting in Ethopia.

He may be an addict. He may be a has-been. But he was a Titan, and he will be damned if he scrounges for his next score while another Titan falls into that clown's trap.

Even if it kills him. (He tries not to hope too hard that it does).

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Veronica Vreeland; Roxy Rocket (title ideas: "Ronnie & Roxy's Rescue Service" "I'm the Cool Aunt")

"Roxie! Darling! I need a ride! I have to get to Ethopia so I can kill Harley's ex."

Roxie knew Veroinca Vreeland was crazy. She regularly encouraged Harley to kidnap her "for brunch." She dated the Penguin. Voluntarily. Before today, she just didn't know that "crazy" extended to HALO jumps from a rocket plane on a mission to kill the Joker. … Maybe Ozzie has good taste after all.

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Jordan Hill; Barbara Gordon (title ideas: "Someone who's been there before")

"I'm not an idiot, Babs. I've known you and every single member of the Wayne family since we were kids. We don't have time for this. I don't care what you all get up to at night: Jeckko is hunting Jason, and I'll be damned if I let that asshole hurt another kid."

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Garth of Shayaris (title ideas: "Tagging in" "The-Batman's-an-Asshole-Phone-Tree")

"You're telling me that Vic has a program running that goes through the entire internet to sort out if I'm doing 'something weird'."

"I mean, it used to track Dickie-bird. But yeah."

"Because if Dick was doing something weird, it means B was an asshole."

"Obviously. He's still an asshole, right?"

"Yes. And there is a phone tree for this. For when B is an asshole."

"Yes."

"Aren't you supposed to be King of Atlantis right now? Seems like you should have shit to do. Besides following my ass to Ethopia."

"Acting King. And if Arthur can be an asshole and dump all his work on me without asking, I can definitely take a personal day."

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Ra's Al Ghul (title ideas: "Ra's Al Ghul is many things")

"Sir, he has the boy."

"Where is the Detective?"

"He's on his way. But, sir, he won't make it there in time."

"I should never have allied myself with that madman."

Ra's paused and gazed out the window. Talia wondered how may people besides her would recognize regret in her father's face.

"Then I must go in the Detective's stead. Have the hangars ready our fastest plane, then fetch my armor and swords." Her father did not turn from the window as Ubu rushed out to see to his orders. He simply stared out the window until he spoke again.

"Talia. Prepare the pit while I am gone. His father will not thank me for it, but if my folly comes to its worst end I will not deprive my grandson of his brother."

[robinyourcreator]

@defira85 tagged me in wip whenever and i am up WAY too late already but here have some scribblings

draft is called "beach episode" in my documents because unfortunately for all of you, I think im funny.

In which Adana continues to have a Time, as she has the world's scrungliest stalker, and will eventually learn that her new friends are all terrible at lying and that some of them have very strong feelings on the tactic of taking hostages.

You wake up alone on a beach. The sun is shining, birds are singing, and the mind flayer ship is a smoldering wreckage on the cliffs above you. You’re alive!

And because you’re alone, you are well overdue for a proper breakdown. 

You’re alive! There is an alien parasite actively eating your brain as you think this thought. 

You’re alive! You will turn into a terrible monster over the course of the next week in the most agonizing, repulsive death imaginable if you don’t find help soon. 

You’re alive! And even though you’ve woken up alone, without your ‘buddies,’ they've hopefully come out of this unscathed. You had no reason to survive that fall, so maybe whatever saved you, saved them, too. They had been… good people, you think. Certainly interesting ones. You hope they’re alright.

A distressing thought, that they might not be. If only you’d been faster reaching the helm’s controls, it wouldn’t be a question.

If they aren’t, there’s nothing you can do about it now. And if they are… you need to pull yourself together enough to go find them. You need to calm down.

So you close your eyes and let your heavy head fall back against the warm sand, humming idly to yourself until you can find that calm. Gods, you’re tired. Your whole body feels like it’s made of lead. What is this tune you’re humming? It’s not one of the bawdy, crowd pleasing drinking songs or overly long dramatic ballads that have made up the bulk of your performances since you attended the College of Lore.

…Oh. It’s… a concerto. One of your first recital pieces from when you were six, when you had to play on a violin specifically made for a child’s tiny, clumsy hands. The piece that made your surly grandfather concede your music lessons might be worth the expense. How… disgustingly sentimental of you.

You haven’t heard that piece in twenty years. You haven’t even touched a violin in ten. You would surely only butcher it now, were you to pick it up again. Even such literal child’s play as that. 

It quickly ceases to be comforting after that, so there’s hardly any point in wallowing in it anymore. 

You sigh and force yourself to open your eyes, only to find… Alde staring down at you. 

Unsettlingly. But that seems to be how she does a lot of things, actually, so you’re not planning on holding it against her.

“...Alde, how long have you been there?” 

Alde continues to stare unsettlingly down at you. “A while.”

“...And how long is ‘a while?’” 

She frowns minutely, taking a moment to consider her answer. “Long enough to hear you talk to yourself and sing. About ten minutes? The singing was nice.”

“I didn’t realize I was… talking to myself. Or singing.”

“You were saying things like ‘you’re alive,’ and ‘you need to calm down,’ and then you started singing with your mouth closed.”

“...Humming. That was humming, Alde.”

“Well, when you stopped ‘humming,’ I got worried you weren’t alive so I stopped stalking you from the bushes and came to check on you.”

[prince-simon]

AIGHT I thought DBD was gonna be a fun lil show. You have: two dead boys with AMAZING chemistry (I LOVE their different accents/slangs/outfits to reflect the times they're from), two living girls with AMAZING chemistry (deadass thought Crystal saw the lights around Niko because maybe she liked herrrrr and the lights were psychic related instead of LITERAL SPRITE INFESTATION), two wildly horny demons who I believe need to get it on and leave Crystal and Edwin alone please and thank you (David and the Cat King), TALKING CATS, a witch cosplaying as Cruella de Ville (I thought she was MURDERING her poor bird Monty!!!!), the cutest adorable most precious little astrology nerd I've EVER SEEN (the aforementioned Monty who wasn't a victim of animal abuse after all), a cursed walrus (still salty Edwin interrupted Tragic Mike's story of how he was cursed, I was INVESTED) OH AND A SUPERHOT BUTCHER LADY!!

ANYWAY this show was supposed to be fun. I watch Supernatural and yeah there were scary episodes but I can't think of anything as traumatic as the Devlin House episode! 😭 Just... watching the dad murder his poor family over and over was awful, seeing how affected Charles was broke my heart, the dad having a secret room to spy on his family was creepy and disturbing and OH MY FUCKING GOD?!?! THAT MISERY WRAITH?!?! I ALMOST THREW UP!! I NEARLY DIED!!! ABSOLUTELY AWFUL TERRIFYING 0/10 WOULD NOT RECOMMEND I NEVER WANT TO SEE IT AGAIN!!!!!

I can't wait to watch more DBD tonight!

PS sorry for the essay

okay okay first of all. i'm so excited about this ask. don't apologise haha i've got things to say!!! (i hopeee i'm not spoilering you for anything with this longgg reply lol)

the chemistry between all of them is soooo insane i'm so happy about it!! and yeah lol i think the entire fandom thought it was gay lights for crystal and niko lmao (and you know what? just bc it was parasitic lights who's to say it's not ALSO gay!! sksk i was spoilered about this particular thing before i watched the show and when i saw that scene i STILL thought it was gay lol

sksk thank you for clarifying that by demons you mean david and the cat king bc i was like ??? david and edwin's demon??? interesting take but sure. let's go with it slfjsldfj but yeah calling the cat king a demon works too lmaooo i just love how pathetic the cat king is kssksk

the talking cats are sooo iconic hahaha

omg i totally thought esther was killing monty too. when i first watched it i did a bit of a live reaction with friends and i literally was like noooo not monty!!! he doesn't deserve it!!! i was FLOORED when he turned human skjdflsj in general esther is such a good villain. like i fucking hate her so so so much but man. i LOVE to hate her she just steals every scene she's in ("ouch my ghost skin" lives rent free in my head tbh)

SUPERHOT BUTCHER LADY yesss i love jenny so much. her "oh my fuck" cracks me up every time. fun fact before i watched the show and only saw stuff on tumblr i thought she was gonna be the bad guy sksksk

the show is so camp one second and then soooo devastating the next!!! the devlin house absolutely broke me!! fun fact- or actually not fun at all, idk if you noticed but when the camera is on charles when they're watching the murder happen, you can hear him begging his father to stop hurting him in the background. also another not so fun fact i was listening to jayden revri's charles playlist and the song that's playing in that episode is on there and when it came on i literally had to skip it after a couple seconds bc it triggered me sooo much lmfao but yeah omg don't get me started on the misery wraith!!! the first time i watched it, i was binging and i'd started pretty late already so when i got to that episode it was already dark and i was supposed to go to bed soon and i literally had to cover my screen bc i usually can't do horror at all!! so i was like nopenopenope this isn't happening nope

enjoy the rest of your watch and you're always welcome in my inbox for more yelling!!