#like he CREATED earth p much

[c0rvidfagg0try]

Do u think Crowley is ultimately happy he fell? Because he gets to witness Earth and all of its beauty?

[pedantic-poison]

Delicious | LN4

pairing: fem sainz!reader x lando norris

genre: SMUTTTTT, 18+ MINORS DNI, p in v, fingering, light choking, use of pet names (darling, baby, sweetheart, good girl, etc), cream pie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y'all!!!!), language, hold the moan vibes, dirty talk, Lando being a hoe

requested: yes!

word count: 3.9k

author's note: i LOVE me some brother's best friend trope

When your older brother first joined McLaren, you were unbelievably proud of him, so, naturally, you moved heaven and earth to make it to his first race with the team. Meeting Lando, you finally understood why all of Carlos' stories from before the season started were about his new teammate, and how much he made him laugh. He was friendly to you, and kind, and had a knack for making sure you never felt out of place. He also made your chest go a little tight, but you chose to ignore that feeling. Best not to complicate things for your brother.

It's been years since you first met Lando, and you can't quite use that excuse to convince yourself you need to avoid Lando. You still try, certainly, but it doesn't really carry the weight it used to, not with Carlos at Ferrari now. Would it still be messy? Maybe. Would it be a complete shit show? ...Probably not, right?

That little tendril of doubt created just enough space for that weird feeling Lando elicited to bloom. And now, with the Summer break giving Carlos time off, he's invited Lando to your family's home, for an entire week.

"Morning," the sound of Lando's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. As if it wasn't already bad enough that he was staying in your house, now Lando had the audacity to show up in the kitchen, voice gravely from sleep, with a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low enough on his hips to show the V-line of his muscles there. Your eyes trailed up his torso, allowing yourself to indulge in his tan skin and taut muscles for just a moment, before your gaze met his. A knowing look danced across his face, eyes glinting with mischief, as he smirked at you over his mug of coffee.

"Oh, um, good morning," you coughed out, embarrassed at having been caught. "How'd you sleep?" you managed to force out.

Lando took his time, finishing his sip of coffee before answering, "Slept alright. Couldn't fall asleep for a while, for some reason, though." You couldn't quite decipher the look on his face while he said it, but he didn't give you enough time to overthink it. "You?"

Your face heated immediately at the reminder of what exactly you'd been doing last night, instead of sleeping. "F-fine, thanks." It had been four long days where Lando had made himself seemingly unavoidable. Even at night, when you could close your door to the rest of the house, and lock yourself away, your thoughts strayed back to Lando no matter what you did. Last night, the ache in your core had gotten so unbearable that you'd touched yourself to the thought of him. It seemed that even the walls of your room couldn't quite keep Lando out.

"What's got you thinking so hard over there, Sainz?"

You schooled your expression, refusing to let him throw you off balance again. "Wouldn't you like to know, Norris." The coffee mug in your hands hid your face rather well as you lifted it to take a sip, leveling him with a look that you hoped seemed like a challenge.

Pushing off the counter he'd been leaning against, Lando took a step closer to you. "I really, really would, actually."

You allowed yourself to lean in for just a moment, inhaling the smell of him, before pulling back. "Too bad." Chair legs scraping against the floor as you pushed away from the table, standing and taking your mug and book with you.

"Oh, come on! You're really gonna tease me like that?" he whined, shouting at your back as you headed up the stairs.

"Gotta make you work for it, Norris!" you called back, retreating into your room once again, giddier than you'd care to admit, and telling yourself that you'd only left because you had work to do. Certainly not because you weren't sure how much longer you'd be able to hold on with Lando under the same roof.

Just three more days.

The loud splashes and laughter from outside drew your attention away from your book, for what felt like the hundredth time in two minutes. Sighing exasperatedly, you rolled over on your bed, craning your neck up to look out of your window.

Carlos and Lando were in the pool in the backyard below you, squealing like little kids as they hit each other with water balloons. You rolled your eyes at the childish behavior, even as you fought (and failed) to keep a smile off of your lips. You heard your father's voice ring throughout the house, and Carlos and Lando must've heard it too, because they quickly dropped their makeshift weapons at the call that they needed to get cleaned up for dinner. Your parents weren't terribly strict, but even they preferred for everyone at their dinner table to be fully clothed and not dripping everywhere.

Just as you'd made your way out of your room to head downstairs, you froze, finding a sopping wet Lando Norris in the hallway. Even after you (accidentally) ogled him this morning, you couldn't manage to keep your eyes on his as you watched the way the droplets of water fell off the ridges of his chiseled chest and torso. You hadn't quite noticed how close you'd come to running into each other, barely a foot of space between you, that seemed to shrink more and more the longer you stared. And you weren't the only one. The sundress you wore hung off your body in a way that made Lando want to memorize every line and curve of it himself. Looking wasn't enough - he'd always been more of a hands-on learner, anyways. And the way the gentle breeze swirled the skirt of it around your hips and legs made him want to find out if you were wearing anything underneath it. Made him want to rip anything he found there off with his teeth.

"Hermanita! Lando! Dinner in twenty minutes!" Carlos shouted up, from the sound of it in the kitchen, most likely helping your parents like the doting son he was. Helping, unlike you. Standing in the hallway, now only inches from Lando, chest rising and falling erratically as you tried to convince yourself that you should not fuck your brother's friend and former teammate in your parents' house with your entire family downstairs.

"Twenty minutes," Lando breathed, barely above a whisper. He took a final step forward, mouth painfully close to touching yours as his spread into a mischievous grin. "I can work with that."

His lips crashed into yours, hands gripping your face delicately as he did so, moving only after yours landed in his hair. Lando finally, finally, got his hands on those hips that had been torturing him, tempting him, for years, squeezing as he pulled you into him. Your fingers raked through his curls, tugging gently as you pushed him backwards into your room. He went willingly, grinning into the kiss at your enthusiasm as you kicked the door shut behind you, letting you take charge for the time being and falling to the bed when the backs of his knees hit it, hands dragging down your thighs as he went. For a moment, you paused, taking in the way Lando was looking up at you. Adoring. Reverent. Hungry.

His hands on your thighs urged you forward to straddle him, sliding his grip up your back to pull your torso flush with his. "God, these fucking tits," he groaned, squeezing you harder into his chest before sliding his hands around to your front, cupping them harshly. Through lidded eyes, you watched his hands, large, nimble, and veiny, knead your breasts while he hummed appreciatively, unable to look away from your chest for even a moment. "Been waiting to get my hands on you for so long, sweetheart," he heaved, speaking into your skin as his lips trailed over your exposed chest, just under your collarbone, punctuating the statement with a final, firm squeeze of your tits.

Before you could finish the whine building in you at the loss of his hands, Lando had yanked down the flimsy straps of your sundress, allowing your tits to spill out over the neckline. Lando swears he could come from that sight alone. "You're so gorgeous," he muttered, more to himself than to you, before looking back into your eyes, "so fucking gorgeous." His lips found yours again, stealing your breath as one hand reached up to ghost over your nipple, already sensitive and hardening from the cool air in your room, while the other lowered to rest on your waist, gently urging you to rock your hips against him at your own pace. "So," his kisses now landed on your jaw, "so," your neck, "beautiful. I think it might actually kill me," gently nipping at your pulse point before soothing the tender skin with his tongue.

Your breath had grown shallow from the attention he paid to your neck and chest, hitching as he tweaked your nipple just right, almost harsh enough to be painful but light enough to make you crave more. But what caused your breath to quicken was the feeling of Lando under you. Those strong, muscled thighs, bracketed by your own, felt so firm you couldn't stop your mind from wondering how they would feel if you ground yourself against them. The way they tensed as he moved, or restrained himself from moving as he tried to let you set the pace, felt so delicious against your thighs and through layers of fabric, you can't imagine how they would feel flexing against your core. Delicious as those thoughts were, they would have to wait for another time, because nothing was more tempting than the press of his hard cock against you, straining at the material of his swim trunks, the remaining water of the pool dampening your already wet panties.

"Shh, sweetheart, we've got to be careful," Lando startles you, the hand that had been on your tits gently closing over your mouth, and only then did you realize just how much noise you'd been making. Your cheeks heated at the realization, feeling your breath catching in your throat, rapid and uneven, whimpers and whines and a whole host of other, embarrassing sounds trapped beneath the firm press of Lando's large hand. You were so worked up that even that thought, the sheer size of his palm against you, how those thick, nimble fingers would feel between your thighs, made you whine louder, hips speeding up as you sought some kind of friction. Lando's eyes darkened as you ground yourself onto him, harder, faster, hand tightening around your waist and thighs flexing underneath you. He was holding back, you could tell, his restraint hanging by a thread, and every move you made threatened to fray that thread to its breaking point.

You wanted to make him snap.

There would be another time to savor this, to take your time, to memorize every inch of him, later.

You raised one of your hands from his broad shoulders, gripping the hand that covered your mouth and tapping twice. Immediately, Lando removed his hand, eyes filling with concern that he'd done something wrong, but before he could ask you were already whining again.

"Please, Lan," you begged, hips pressing down as harshly as you could manage. "Need you so bad, please, please," your voice was thin and breathy, and if you weren't nearly delirious from finally having this, having him, within your grasp, you might've been embarrassed by it. "Don't tease me, I c - can't take it."

Lando's head fell back with a groan, making no effort to silence himself as he did with you. "Fuck, darling, you want me that much, huh?" You nodded eagerly, hips continuing their grind as you felt Lando's cock twitch beneath you. "Such a desperate little thing, aren't you?" he asked, latching his mouth on the flesh of your breast, sucking a harsh mark into the delicate skin. Low enough that your family wouldn't be able to see, you realized, but dark enough that you'd have a reminder of him on your skin for the next few days. The thought made you flush with heat. The sudden bite of Lando's teeth on your tit shocked you out of your haze. "I asked you a question, sweetheart."

You blinked down at him, bleary eyed, "W-what?"

His grin was wicked as he looked up at you, "Aw, poor baby's already going cock dumb and I haven't even fucked you yet." Your cheeks heated, and he didn't give you the time to gather yourself enough to formulate a comeback. "I asked if you were a desperate little thing for me? You desperate for me to fuck you stupid, darling?"

A whine escaped your lips, unbidden, at his words, and the look in his eyes told you he wouldn't let you deny its cause. "God, yes, Lan, yes I'm so desperate for you, want you to fuck me so bad, I - fuck -"

The sensation of his fingers sliding your thong to the side scrambled your brains again, scattering any thoughts you'd managed to gather. The rough, calloused pad of his thumb brushed over your clit, and your body rocked violently into his hold, chasing the pleasure. "Keep talking to me, sweetheart, tell me what you want. Tell me all the filthy things my pretty little girl wants me to do to her," he whispered into your ear, lips going back to attacking your neck.

"W-want - want you to - ah- fuck me with your fingers, think about those p-perfect hands all the - fuck - t-time, want your thick fingers in me before you fuck me, Lando," you moaned out, pushing through even though your whines threatened to interrupt you.

"Good girl," he purred, sliding his middle finger through your folds, moaning into your neck at the feel of you. "So fucking wet f'me, darling, fuck," his left hand tweaked your nipple, as his right slowly sank a finger into you. The sound he let out was almost animalistic as he felt you clenching around him, reacting to the stretch that even one of his fingers made you feel. "Holy shit, you're so tight, baby," he lifted his head to be level with yours, wanting to watch your face as he touched you. "How am I gonna fit my cock into this tight little pussy of yours if you can barely take one of my fingers?"

The only answer you could give him was a needy moan, one that had his left hand going back up, not to cover your mouth, but to rest on your throat. "Shh, remember, sweetheart, you don't want your parents to hear us, do you?"

You shook your head fiercely, but immediately lost your train of thought again as Lando began to pump his finger in and out of you, slowly to let you adjust. His thumb landed firmly back on your clit, and the way he curled his long, thick fingers had him reaching a spot inside of you you'd never managed to reach before.

"What else do you want me to do, darling? Don't tell me you've already gone brainless? I've barely gotten started with you."

"Want more, Lan, want you to stretch me with your fingers so you can fuck me, want to feel you - oh, god," you barely managed to catch yourself before you screamed at the feeling of Lando pushing another finger into you. Even though he was aided by your wetness, Lando slowed his pace as he let you adjust again, easing into you as gently as possible as he maintained his circles on your clit.

"Want to feel me what, sweetheart?" he encouraged, curling his fingers to that same spot, this time hitting it hit his index and middle fingers and making your brain short circuit.

"Want to - Lan - w-want, I, fuck," you babbled, head falling to the crook of Lando's shoulder as you struggled for words.

"Come on, now, darling, be a good girl and tell me what you want. You do want to be a good girl f'me, don't you?" He chuckled lightly at how quickly you nodded, head staying buried in his neck.

"I- I want t-to feel you in me, feel your cock in me, feel you stretch me out with it, f-feel you fill me up - stuff me full with you, with your cum, leave me dripping with it."

The hand on your throat tightened harshly, briefly, before both of Lando's hands were off you and working on his swim trunks. "Jesus christ, baby, you've got a dirty little mouth on you. Such a perfect fucking girl for me, darling, such a dirty little thing, god you're perfect," he mumbled the praises into your mouth, stopping every so often to kiss you tenderly, hungrily, as his hands made quick work of the tie on his swim trunks, pulling them down enough to let his cock spring free. Your eyes widened involuntarily at the sight of it slapping against his stomach, the hard muscles of his abs and the red, leaking tip of his cock mesmerizing you.

You lifted your hips, allowing Lando to yank you closer to him until you hovered just over his cock, both of your hands bracing against his shoulders as one of his went under your dress to guide his cock through your folds.

"You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?"

"Yes, please Lan, please, ple-"

You had to cover your mouth with your own hand this time, the stretch of his cock making your eyes water, tears springing from them. Lando stared straight into your eyes as he sank you down onto his cock, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in a feeble attempt to silence himself. Both of his hands landed on your hips, gripping harshly as he held himself back from fucking up into you right away.

"God, baby you're so tight, you have such a perfect little cunt," he panted, eyes fixed on yours, not wanting to miss a single expression on your face. Finally, he bottomed out, the slow glide of his cock in you heavenly, fingers flexing against you as he forced himself to be patient.

A weak whimper left you despite the hand over your mouth as you slowly rose up, dropping harshly back onto Lando's cock and digging in your fingers at the sensation.

"Fuuuuuuuck," Lando ground out, hips bucking slightly up into you as you sank back down on him again.

It didn't take long for your legs to begin to shake, pace faltering as you grew tired. "Lando," you breathed out, head nestled in the crook of his neck again.

"Yes, darling?" His voice was thin, reedy, telling you he was just as affected as you were, even if he was better at hiding it.

"Can't - can't," your own gasp interrupted you as the head of Lando's cock hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you. "Too tired, need you to - god."

Lando chuckled, chest rumbling underneath your forehead, "You need me to do it for you, baby? You already too fucked out to move?"

"Please," you whined, unable to muster any embarrassment at the desperation in your voice. He knew he did this to you. Why bother trying to hide it?

Something in your neediness got to him, hands sliding up to your waist and squeezing as he gave himself a better hold on you. "That's a good girl. Don't worry, sweetheart, I've got you."

He lifted you off his cock, before slamming you back down onto him, hips fucking up into you harshly. The feeling of him manhandling you with ease was nearly enough to make you come on its own, but that combined with the way he kept hitting that spot inside of you, over, and over, and over again? You were so close you felt like you were going to explode.

And Lando knew it, too. Could tell from the way your hands scrabbled for purchase on his muscular shoulders, the way your head went limp on his shoulder as you gave him complete control over your body, from the way you clenched around him, and when he dropped one of his hands to graze a thumb over your clit as he fucked up into you, you were helpless to do anything but collapse into his embrace as you rode out your high.

Lando continued to hold you up by your waist, limbs sluggish and heavy, as he chased his own high, spurred on by your whimpers of overstimulation. But what finally pushed him over the edge was the sound of your voice, wrecked and fucked out, whispering weakly in his ear, "Please, Lando, please fill me up."

He came with a groan that he tried to bury in your neck, nipping lightly at the skin as he came down, chest heaving and moving you with it since you still hadn't managed to regain control of your own body just yet. The feeling of him painting your walls made you whimper, unintentionally clenching around him again, which elicited a deep groan from him.

"You keep squeezing me like that, darling, and you're gonna get me hard again."

You giggled, which earned you a playful swat on the ass from Lando, chuckling along with you as he stroked your cheek tenderly, admiring you in your post-orgasm haze.

"Lan-"

"Dinner is ready! Hurry up and get down here, we're starving!" The sound of your brother's voice jolted both of you out of your stupor, matching looks of panic on your faces.

Before you could say anything else, Lando whispers, "We're talking about this later tonight, sweetheart." Placing a kiss on your cheek, Lando lifts you off of him, hissing at the feeling, and setting you on your bed next to him before getting up and running across the hall to his room.

After you managed to muster the strength to move, you quickly fixed your dress, trying to make sure that your face and hair weren't dead giveaways for just having had the best sex of your life. You rushed downstairs, blaming your breathlessness on having run to dispel your mother's concern, and sat down quickly, trying to avoid any questions about what had taken you so long.

A few seconds later, Lando joined you, sitting across from you, eyes burning into you in a way that made you shift in your seat. That turned out to be a huge mistake, because just as your brother passed you the salad, Lando's cum leaked out of you as you realized belatedly that not only had you not cleaned up, but you hadn't even put your panties back on. You froze, quickly shifting back and squeezing your thighs together in an effort to stop him from seeping out of you, and miraculously, none of your family seemed to notice.

But the way your eyes widened told Lando exactly what had happened.

When your parents asked how the dinner was, you stammered out some poor excuse of a response, not really knowing how to speak to your family with Lando's cum dripping out of you.

Lando shot you a wicked grin, winking quickly enough that no one else saw it, and stared right into your eyes as he answered.

"Delicious."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

An end to the climate emergency is in our grasp

On June 20, I'm keynoting the LOCUS AWARDS in OAKLAND.

The problem with good news in the real world is that it's messy. Neat happy endings are for novels, not the real world, and that goes double for the climate emergency. But even though good climate news is complicated and nuanced, that doesn't mean it shouldn't buoy our spirits and fill our hearts with hope.

The big climate news this past week is the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's clarion call about surging CO2 levels – the highest ever – amid a year that is on track to have the largest and most extreme series of weather events in human history:

https://www.noaa.gov/news-release/during-year-of-extremes-carbon-dioxide-levels-surge-faster-than-ever

This is genuinely alarming and you – like me – have probably experienced it as a kind of increase in your background radiation of climate anxiety. Perhaps you – like me – even experienced some acute, sit-bolt-upright-in-bed-at-2AM anxiety as a result. That's totally justifiable. This is very real, very bad news.

And yet…

The news isn't all bad, and even this terrible dispatch from the NOAA is best understood in context, which Bill McKibben provides in his latest newsletter post, "What You Want is an S Curve":

https://billmckibben.substack.com/p/what-you-want-is-an-s-curve

Financier and their critics should all be familiar with Stein's Law: "anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop." This is true outside of finance as well. One of the reasons that we're seeing such autophagic panic from the tech companies is that their period of explosive growth is at an end.

For years, they told themselves that they were experiencing double-digit annual growth because they were "creating value" and "innovating" but the majority of their growth was just a side-effect of the growth of the internet itself. When hundreds of millions of people get online every year, the dominant online services will, on average, gain hundreds of millions of new users.

But when you run out of people who don't have internet access, your growth is going to slow. How can it not? Indeed, at that point, the only ways to grow are to either poach users from your rivals (through the very expensive tactics of massive advertising and sales-support investments, on top of discounts and freebies as switching enticements), or to squeeze your own users for more.

That's why the number of laptops sold in America slowed down. It's why the number of cellphones sold in America slowed down. It's why the number of "smart home" gizmos slowed down.

Even the steepest hockey-stick-shaped exponential growth curve eventually levels off and becomes an S-curve, because anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop.

One way or another, the world's carbon emissions will eventually level off. Even if we drive ourselves to (or over) the brink of extinction and set up the conditions for wildfires that release all the carbon stored in all the Earth's plants, the amount of carbon we pump into the atmosphere has to level off.

Rendering the Earth incapable of sustaining human civilization (or life) is the ultimate carbon reduction method – but it's not my first choice.

That's where McKibben's latest newsletter comes in. He cites a new report from the Rocky Mountain Institute, which shows a major reversal in our energy sources, a shift that will see our energy primarily provided by renewables, with minimal dependence on fossil fuels:

https://rmi.org/insight/the-cleantech-revolution/

The RMI team says that in this year or next, we'll have hit peak demand for fossil fuels (a fact that is consistent with NOAA's finding that we're emitting more CO2 than ever). The reason for this is that so much renewable energy is about to come online, and it is so goddamned cheap, that we are about to undergo a huge shift in our energy consumption patterns.

This past decade saw a 12-fold increase in solar capacity, a 180-fold increase in battery storage, and a 100-fold increase in EV sales. China is leading the world in a cleantech transition, with the EU in close second. Cleantech is surging in places where energy demand is also still growing, like India and Vietnam. Fossil fuel use has already peaked in Thailand, South Africa and every country in Latin America.

We're on the verge of solar constituting an absolute majority of all the world's energy generation. This year, batteries will overtake pumped hydro for energy storage. Every cleantech metric is growing the way that fossil fuels did in previous centuries: investment, patents, energy density, wind turbine rotor size. The price of solar is on track to halve (again) in the next decade.

In short, cleantech growth looks like the growth of other technologies that were once rarities and then became ubiquitous overnight: TV, cellphones, etc. That growth isn't merely being driven by the urgency of the climate emergency: it's primarily a factor of how fucking great cleantech is:

https://rmi.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/the_incredible_inefficiency_of_fossils.pdf

Fossil fuels suck. It's not just that they wreck the planet, or that their extraction is both politically and environmentally disastrous. They just aren't a good way to make energy. About a third of fossil fuel energy is wasted in production and transportation. A third! Another third is wasted turning fossil fuels into energy. Two thirds! The net energy efficiency of fossil fuels is about 37%.

Compare that with cleantech. EVs convert electricity to movement with 80-90% efficiency. Heat pumps are 300% efficient (the main fuel for your heat pump is the heat in the atmosphere, not the electricity it draws).

Cleantech is just getting started – it's still in the hockey-stick phase. That means those efficiency numbers are only going up. Rivian just figured out how to remove 1.6 miles of copper wire from each vehicle. That's just one rev – there's doubtless lots of room for more redesigns that will further dematerialize EVs:

https://insideevs.com/news/722265/rivian-r1s-r1t-wiring/

As McKibben points out, there's been a lot of justifiable concern that electrification will eventually use up all our available copper, but copper demand has remained flat even as electrification has soared – and this is why. We keep figuring out new ways to electrify with fewer materials:

https://www.chemanalyst.com/NewsAndDeals/NewsDetails/copper-wire-price-remains-stable-amidst-surplus-supply-and-expanding-mining-25416#:~:text=Global%20Copper%20wire%20Price%20Remains%20Stable%20Amidst%20Surplus%20Supply%20and%20Expanding%20Mining%20Activities

This is exactly what happened with previous iterations of tech. The material, energy and labor budgets of cars, buildings, furniture, etc all fell precipitously every time there was a new technique for manufacturing them. Renewables are at the start of that process. There's going to be a lot of this dematerialization in cleantech. Calculating the bill of materials for a planetary energy transition isn't a matter of multiplying the materials in current tech by the amount of new systems we'll need – as we create those new systems, we will constantly whittle down their materials.

What's more, global instability drives cleantech uptake. The Russian invasion of Ukraine caused a surge in European renewables. The story that energy prices are rising due to renewables (or carbon taxes) is a total lie. Fossil fuels are getting much more expensive, thanks to both war and rampant, illegal price-fixing:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/an-oil-price-fixing-conspiracy-caused

If not for renewables, the incredible energy shocks of the recent years would be far more severe.

The renewables story is very good and it should bring you some comfort. But as McKibben points out, it's still not enough – yet. The examples of rapid tech uptake had big business on their side. America's living rooms filled with TV because America's largest businesses pulled out all the stops to convince everyone to buy a TV. By contrast, today's largest businesses – banks, oil companies and car companies – are working around the clock to stop cleantech adoption.

We're on track to double our use of renewables before the decade is over. But to hold to the (already recklessly high) targets from the Paris Accord, we need to triple our renewables usage. As McKibben says, the difference between doubling and tripling our renewables by 2030 is the difference between "survivable trouble" and something much scarier.

The US is experiencing a welcome surge in utility scale solar, but residential solar is stalling out as governments withdraw subsidies or even begin policies that actively restrict rooftop solar:

https://twitter.com/curious_founder/status/1798049929082097842?s=51

McKibben says the difference between where we are now and bringing back the push for home solar generation is the difference between "fast" and "faster" – that is the difference between tripling renewables by 2030 (survivable) and doubling (eek).

Capitalism stans who argue that we can survive the climate emergency with market tools will point to the good news on renewable and say that the market is the only way to transition to renewables. It's true that market forces are partly responsible for this fast transition. But the market is also the barrier to a faster (and thus survivable) transition. The oil companies, the banks who are so invested in fossil fuels, the petrostates who distort the world's politics – they're why we're not much farther along.

The climate emergency was never going to be neatly solved. We weren't going to get a neat novelistic climax that saw our problems sorted out in a single fell swoop. We're going to be fighting all the way to net zero, and after that, we'll still have decades of climate debt to pay down: fires, floods, habitat loss, zoonotic plagues, refugee crises.

But we should take our wins. Even if we're far from where we need to be on renewables, we're much farther along on renewables than we had any business hoping for, just a few years ago. The momentum is on our side. It's up to us to use that momentum and grow it. We're riding the hockey-stick, they're on that long, flat, static top of the S-curve. Their curve is leveling off and will start falling, ours will grow like crazy for the rest of our lives.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/12/s-curve/#anything-that-cant-go-on-forever-eventually-stops

[dinsbeskar]

Wicked Game (Sauron/F!Reader)

He knows he shouldn't covet you, that he is above such earthy things as love. So why does he stalk you in the forests you call home? It's love at first sight, and the feeling is mutual; or:

Sauron engages in some light stalking and gets the girl somehow.

Prequel to In the Dark of the Night // AO3 Link

Songs to listen to: Wicked Game / Beautiful Stranger / Iris

What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way

What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you

Warnings: 18+! Smut, fluff, lil bit of angst, P in V sex, fingering, licking/biting. Sauron!! He's super creepy, sorry, idk what to say, there's some stalking, some creepy behaviour, he's a bit unhinged. Love at first sight!! Like babe it's been an afternoon, calm down. Anyway we move fast!!

A/N: bro is head empty, no thoughts, down bad in this, sorry!! in this house we subscribe to the 'elves fuck once and they're married for eternity' idea, so there's that tiny spoiler for you!

Word Count: 6.2k!

Mairon was already old when he met you, unfathomably ancient in fact, wandering Arda and beholding the power of creation, amongst other things. He was sure he had already experienced everything there was on the physical plain, but you would prove him wrong indeed. When the first Elves awoke, he felt a pull, like many of the Ainur, to see the new life that now roamed the forests and plains they had sung into being. He was not the first spirit to stumble across the peoples of Middle Earth, and he would not be the last. Watching your people dance and sing and create gave him new inspiration to take back to Aulë's forge, to bring order and balance to your lives as he saw fit, for who could know better than he?

Today was a feast day, when all of your people were out in the forest hunting and foraging, mirthful song filling the glades as you ran barefoot through the trees, breathless with laughter and exertion, carrying a basket of berries meant for the evening's festivities. Pale golden light streamed through the leafy canopy, dust motes floating in the rays and sparkling like the stars above. You looked around for your companions, a little far off beyond the thicket you had picked through for its fruit. Unperturbed, you continued, hearing the silvery sound of water flowing somewhere in the vicinity. A drink or a dip was almost certain, you thought, to refresh you and your companions before the feast, but you would find it first and save them from searching. Soft birdsong and rustling leaves accompanied by a warm breeze made for the perfect setting; how could you wish for more?

He makes a great effort to be silent, not wishing to frighten you, unsure of how his sudden appearance might affect you. After all, you hadn't heard him the countless times before, why should you now? He matches your footsteps, remaining in step with you behind the trees in the merciful shadow, careful not to disturb the undergrowth, picking carefully through the wildflowers that scent the air. Your pointed ears prick up at a rustle in the trees, and you snap your head round to investigate. He darts behind a gnarled oak tree, holding his breath and awaiting your discovery. You smile and shake your head softly; what could you possibly be afraid of in these forests, your home for decades? You continue following the sound of the stream up ahead, ignoring all other sounds in the forest now, much to his satisfaction. How innocent you are, how much you need his protection, for what would you do if there were forces that wished to subdue you or do you harm? The glint in his eye grows as he draws closer, still choosing to remain hidden from you. He could use his powers to disguise himself, to stalk you unnoticed almost hand in hand with you, and had done on a few occasions, close enough to smell your soft hair, even to take a few strands for himself, but somehow he likes this better, imagining you the innocent prey to his stealthy predator, a thrill at the though of catching you rushing through him as quickly as he pushes it away. He only wants to watch you, to know you, to observe, nothing more. What interest could you possibly have in one another beyond curiosity?

The first time he saw you, many moons ago, you'd been surrounded by your fellow Elves, dancing in harmony in a field of wildflowers, sweet music in the air. He hadn't thought much of you at first if truth be told, you were all very much alike; all fair and graceful, joyful and innocent. It was only when the music picked up, your dance became faster and more frenetic, that an Elf with long golden hair had tripped and fallen, disrupting the rhythm, leaving all your companions giggling at her misfortune. He too had laughed at her stumble, grateful that the music covered his sudden outburst, but then he noticed you, with your hand outstretched and a comforting smile to greet your fallen comrade, who shook herself off while you picked stray leaves from her hair. She seemed unhurt, and no one else was concerned, already having resumed their merriment, but you held back a moment to check she was well. He was instantly captivated, itching to reveal himself and carry you off, to protect the light within you, or consume it wholly. The tiny semblance of self-restraint he had left held him back, told him to wait and observe, to absorb all he could about you; the idea of you rejecting his advances was intolerable, triggering waves of nauseous anger throughout his being. No, patience would serve him, and so he had waited, oh so patiently. Your kindness had, and would, be your undoing.

Illuminated up ahead is the stream you've been chasing; it's small, barely a trickle, but you follow it regardless. The water is cool and clear and refreshes your worn feet, and you lift your dress to keep it clear as you pad down the river bed, feeling the sandy mud between your toes being washed away as you lift your feet into the current. The light is beginning to fade now, you know you should turn back, but you're sure there is a pool nearby, and it would feel so good to swim a little before getting back to the others. They could share in it tomorrow, but today you could bask in some sweet time alone.

He has been following your softly trodden path in the mossy forest floor, but when he reaches the water's edge, it vanishes. Cursing, he casts about, searching for a hint of your next steps. He had only stopped for a moment, distracted by the way your hair catches the light, your graceful smile, the way your dress flows over your frame. A fleeting thought of taking that same dress off you, the image of you pliant underneath him, all had left him breathless, frankly caught unawares, still unused to the urge to get close to you even after all this time, and the strange feelings that coursed through his fair form that he had never experienced before setting his gaze upon you. He had passed a few golden afternoons like this - perhaps many if he were ever honest - watching and waiting for you, but every occasion felt like a lifetime, which for Mairon was indeed no understatement.

Frustration coursed through him, filling the pit of his stomach with a strange churning at the thought of losing you; it was a feeling he couldn't quite place, nor come to terms with. These mortal forms were not for him, he decided, the lack of clarity in these feelings was suffering enough, and he turned to leave, embarrassed now that he had let it get this far. It was a foolish errand, carried out once too often, following you through the forest with no thought but to see what you would do if you only turned around, saw him, embraced him-

A sharp crack rang out through the trees as he snapped a branch under his feet in his haste, all thoughts of moving in the shadows abandoned as his self-admonishment moved him to run, to leave now before he could become entangled with you. But as he scolded himself for his lack of self control, he heard you call out.

"Who's there? Did you find me? And here I was, hoping for some peace," you laugh, expecting your friends to join you as you wade in the crystal clear waters.

Your eyes widen and you stare at the stranger who appears as if from the shadows themselves, a small smile gracing his face. He is ethereal, and frankly you have never beheld a being more beautiful, but for the first time in your life, a small voice deep in your mind advises caution.

"I didn't mean to startle you, young one," his smooth voice reaches your ears and sends tingles from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

"You didn't," you lie, after a long pause, not wanting to discomfort him any more than he seemed to be. Blood rushed to your face as he regards you intensely, as if you'd met before.

"Were you looking for something? The pool perhaps? It is a warm day, I couldn't be too surprised to find someone else had the same idea." You gesture to yourself with your skirts around your waist, legs submerged.

He steps closer, still regarding you, his smile widening. You had said something right apparently, and you couldn't shake the feeling of satisfaction that his lovely smile gave you; as long as he kept looking at you like that, you felt you might be content forever, such were the tender pangs your heart suddenly felt in his presence. You didn't even know his name, and so immediately you ask.

"I have many names," he articulates carefully, eyes on yours, unblinking.

"So what name should I use for you?" You ask teasingly, beginning to step out of the water, wringing the edges of your skirts out.

Unthinking he stretches out his hand, and as if on instinct, you take it, not needing the assistance but immediately grateful you took it. His hand is warm and strong, and encircles yours comfortingly, fitting perfectly. A wave of some strange feeling overtakes you, a heat beginning in your abdomen, flowing through you. You've never experienced it before, but from what you have heard from your married kin, it might be called lust.

Your face feeling hot now, you look away, anywhere but at this beautiful stranger, and notice a small dark stain blooming on his shoe. Your eyes widen and you drop to your knees to look closer, unheeding of the change in his stance as he takes you in from above. What magic could you wield over him in this position, he wonders.

"You're hurt, my lord," you motion to his foot, and he realises that in his trance, the branch had broken his sole and pierced his flesh. The pain had gone unnoticed until now, your spell over him seeming to soothe any ill in his body or soul, but now that you'd pointed it out, he winced and cursed this body of flesh and bone, so easily vulnerable to the perils of mortality, even if his fëa was not.

"Come, let me look at it, it might be serious," you beckon him to follow you to a fallen tree trunk, lying oh so conveniently on its side, as if waiting for two lovers to take their seats on its bark. He stands awkwardly, watching you, his brow furrowed as if he had no idea what you have planned, before you laugh and pull him to sit. Without ceremony, you strip him of his shoe and examine the wound.

"That is a lot of blood for such a small wound," you murmur, tracing the arch of his foot. You find yourself touching his skin a fraction too long, and without looking at him, you straighten and go back to the pool.

His eyes never leave you, even as you avoid his gaze, ripping a strip of gauzy fabric from your dress and wetting it, before hurrying back. Almost imperceptible to the average observer, your hands shake, but he is not the average observer, and he has observed you for quite a while now. You're nervous, he realises with a tiny smirk, and it thrills him, sending a delicious shiver down his spine. All these new feelings this body gave him, they don't appear to cease evolving while you're this close, close enough that he feels your breath on his skin and nearly gasps. He needs to pull himself together, but try as he might, alas, your kindness was intoxicating. He had known such goodness in Aman when he'd dwelt there with his kin, if you could call them that, but his recent company was somewhat lacking in that department.

You sit back on your haunches and look once more at the wound, now nearly clean and seemingly smaller than it had been. Shrugging to yourself, you carefully dab away the blood that still drips onto the ground beneath you, soaking into the moss and ferns; you don't notice how they seem to brown and wilt with each drop.

"Is everything alright, my lady?" He asks, quick to notice your confusion, eager to distract you from the plants at your knees.

His lady, that did sound delightful. You know it is a manner of speech, but for a moment it is rather blissful to imagine it, the lady to this gracious lord.

"I think I might have overestimated how badly you were injured, it seems to be only a scratch," you reply, still a little bemused as to the disproportionate amount of blood. How were you to know that he could heal himself with nary a thought.

You start to pull away, but he is reluctant to let you go so soon, wishing for a moment it had been a serious matter, that he would require all of your gentle care and undivided attention for the foreseeable future, kicking himself that he didn't allow the wound to fester and bloom. He casts about for any excuse and uncharacteristically lands on a weak one.

"Your dress, my lady, how can I make it up to you? After all, your efforts ought not be in vain." He knows how to ingratiate himself with most folk, and makes the most of his skills to do so, but there is a tiny part of him now that actually feels he owes a kindness in return. It's an alien notion, and he attempts to brush it aside, but as he lingers in your presence, he realises that he would sooner abduct you from this glade than let you leave him, and if a kindness is what it will take, then he will fulfil it.

A small crinkle appears in your brow, then you glance down at the torn hem and chuckle.

"It is nothing, my lord, easily fixed, and anyone would have done the same." You graciously reply.

The way you look up at him through your lashes, his heart skips a beat; he didn't even know it could do that.

Your small nervous smile becomes radiant, beaming even, as you bask in the glow of the dappled light illuminating his face. You realise you don't want him to leave just yet, inexplicably drawn to his presence, and you cast about for any reason at all that would keep him here.

"I'm afraid your shoe is a little wet." To your credit, it actually is wet, full of blood, but in an inexplicable act to scupper his departure, before he can react and you can elaborate, you find yourself holding it on the water's edge.

Your hands move faster than your brain, and you drop it into the shallows, looking him dead in the eye.

For a moment, all is still between you, and you bite your lip, your mischievous grin suddenly uneasy as your mind catches up with you and you consider what in all of Middle Earth you just did. This is a total stranger, an ethereallly beautiful one at that, and you have no idea how he will react to your escapade. You straighten and wring your hand a little behind your back, awaiting a wrath that would never come.

"It would appear it is very wet, my lady." And he throws back his head and laughs long and hard, a sound that you want to elicit from him again and again.

When you are lying entwined together, many years and hardships later, he will ask you what you were thinking, and as ever you answer him honestly: you only wanted him to stay, however you had to do it.

With a playful laugh, you retrieve the sodden shoe and shake it off, before holding it out to him. He can still leave, you think, but it will be mighty awkward.

He takes it, throws it behind him, kicks off his other shoe, and shrugs off his robe. Your mouth falls open a little and you lick your lips unconsciously, as his frame is revealed, taut and lean, through his thin shirt. He rucks up his trousers and joins you in the shallow water, shivering a little at the sensation.

Instinctively, you outstretch your hand to steady him, and he takes it without thinking. His touch soothes any nerves you had and sparks a fire that seems to trail up your arm and end in your aching chest. You hadn't noticed you were holding your breath and slowly exhaled, careful not to alert him to your sudden onslaught of sensation. He considers you for a moment, smile tugging at his lips, seemingly fascinated by where you are joined, fingers entwined. And then he has a mad idea.

The tension in the air is cut by a sudden splash of water on your face, and as you clear your eyes, you realise he was the one that had thrown it. He had seen many an elf play-fighting in the water all the time, throwing it at one another joyously, victory seemingly determined by who doused their opponents the most. He had never partaken, obviously, but now inspiration took him, and you had made the first move with his shoe, but now as he watched your face screw up with indignation, water in your eyes and hair, he wasn't so sure it was the right jest with which to entice you.

For a moment you are dumbfounded. This stranger, whose name you still didn't even know, whom you'd only met in the last hour, had started a water fight.

Seemingly affronted, you snatch your hand away and make to leave, turning your back to him. His face falls and he realises this was probably not the way to win your affections.

"My lady, I-" his apology is cut short by an armful of water to the face, as you reach down into the pool and swing as much as you can in his general direction in one fell swoop.

Cackling with triumphant laughter, you can't help but feel a little sorry for him as he stands there absolutely sopping wet, eyebrows in his hairline, looking positively flabbergasted. Unfortunately for you, his eyes narrow as he realises your subterfuge, and the game commences.

It is over soon enough, the two of you emerging soaked and giggling like children, having run rings around each other and giving as good as you got, both of you thoroughly avenged. As you both wade back to shore, he takes your hand and holds it in the air.

"Ladies and gentlemen, lords and ladies, I present the victor of the battle-"

He is interrupted by the both of you breaking down into breathless laughter once again, two strangers no more.

On the sandy bank, he climbs out first, and awaits you, but you hold back.

"What should I call you then, my lord, unless that is what you prefer to be named?" You have to ask, needing introductions now you had so thoroughly beaten him in battle, never mind your fascination with him, the overwhelming urge to pull him close.

"I have many names, my lady, and you have not yet told me yours," he replies, almost but not quite frowning at you, confused as to why it really matters, why you would need to know who he is after having passed such a pleasurable afternoon together.

"You first, I asked you before and you avoided the question." Your expression is now serious; why would he want to conceal himself from you, after you had passed such a pleasurable afternoon together?

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I have many names, but the one I prefer," he holds his breath a little, still unsure as to how you might receive him, "is Mairon."

After a long pause, in which he considers fleeing, or possibly burning the forest down, your expression brightens as you mull over his name, feel it in your mouth, wonder over the meaning.

"That is beautiful," you murmur, "the admirable? You must be something wonderful to have earned such a name, my lord."

Relief washes over him as he realises his true name must not yet be known in these parts; rumours and slander would not colour his attempts to woo you after all.

His gaze softens as he watches you taste his name on your tongue, and he has a sudden aching longing to know what it sounds like when you're on your back and breathless under him. Surely nothing could be sweeter.

"And you, love, what am I to call you?" He is so struck by you, he barely notices the crucial detail that slips from his lips, but you do, and you regard him with a strange look he can't place.

Love, he said, so casually and so delicious to hear, your breath hitches and for a second the world spins. You've only just met this man, if he is even a man, and he uses such pet names as if you've known each other a lifetime.

"Amarië, that's what everyone calls me." You had almost forgotten he had asked, and it was only the silence between you that reminded you to answer.

"Goodness. A fitting name for so virtuous a maiden." He steps closer, still on the bank, oh so tall above you, the light through the trees illuminating him from behind, leaving his features in shadow.

Of course, he already knew your name, and had always thought it fitting. Indeed, it was one of the reasons he had hesitated to approach you, for surely one so good could not possibly want nor need one such as him, despite the ache in his heart that told him you were his to take, the rest of Arda be damned. He knew his purpose in Arda was a valiant one; his methods, however, he was aware they were... contestable.

Your face grows hot at his compliment, and you look down and away, anywhere but at his gaze, currently fixed on you, intense and contemplative. He gently lifts your chin, seeming to study your every feature, every nuance in your expression until he sees what he desires.

A shadow passes over his face, before he tightens his grip and finally pulls you from the shallow water. You stumble a little, but he is right there to catch you, strong arms around you as your free hand is crushed between you, pressed against his chest. His eyes are dark, scaring you and thrilling you all at once, like a wolf studying its prey before their total annihilation. Then he takes your face in his hands and claims your lips, as if he's finally satisfying some dark long-held urge, and you cannot help but melt.

It is as if he has done this a thousand times before, teasing you with his tongue, demanding entrance to your mouth as if he wants to drown in you.

Electric tingles spread over your skin everywhere he touches, from your neck where he grips you softly, to your lips he has claimed for his own, to your waist that he refuses to yield from his embrace.

He is unrelenting, refusing to let you come up for air, even as you claw at his arms for release. Finally he seems to realise his mistake and pulls back, lips swollen and parted in pleasure. You take a deep breath, chuckling a little as you do so.

"You are no Elf, my lord Mairon," you remark, righting your dress and smoothing your hair where he had wound his fingers.

With a slightly apologetic smirk, he nods. "I am something far greater, my love, so from time to time, I might forget such... intricacies."

In this moment, you feel as though your heart might burst, wanting him close, touching you, encircling you. But a shiver travels down your spine as the little voice whispering warnings becomes a scream, beholding him not as an ethereal being sent to ravish you, but a danger to ruin you. It was all too brief and you shook it off, for how could this beautiful creature ever mean you harm?

Evening becomes night, and you migrate from the tree trunk to the forest floor. Nestled into him with his arm wrapped around your shoulders, you share the basket of berries that will surely be missed at the feast of your kin, and talk for hours about everything and nothing. He tells you of his work, that he is a smith and loves nothing more than to create beautiful things, but he has never had more exquisite inspiration than you.

He seems to know just what to say, soft words whispered only to please you, and all you want is more. He traces his fingers up and down your arm, across your collarbone, into the shell of your ear, idly mapping every inch of you.

He doesn't press you further than gentle touches and tiny kisses peppering your skin. Perhaps though he is no Elf, he is aware of your people's customs, that to give yourself to him in body would be to make the two of you one forever, body and soul. You're not so sure that isn't what you want, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless; after all, you have only known him an afternoon.

It takes all of his self-restraint to suppress the urge to take you here and now, after all, who were you to stop him? But he wanted you when you were ready for him, mind, body, and soul, and he was willing to wait, even if it took an age. Admittedly it would be a difficult wait, he muses, as he realises the close proximity of your body to his is having an unexpected effect on him. He shifts position to avoid you noticing how hard he is just from touching you, and he prays to any of the Valar who might have an ear for him that his wait for you will be swift.

You twirl a tiny flower idly between your forefinger and thumb, gazing up at the heavens, your other hand wrapped in his. You are such exquisite inspiration, he muses, smirking as he realises he can have you after all. He sits up, making you groan, robbed of his warmth.

"What are you doing, love?" You complain, taking a slightly petulant tone that makes him chuckle.

"You'll see, patience is a virtue," he reaches out with his closest hand and smoothes your hair, gesturing for you to lie back down.

You kick your feet a little, suitably admonished but impatient still.

"Come back to me, I had just got comfortable, and you've ruined it now!" You laugh at him, his back turned to you so you can't make out what he is doing.

You sigh long and loud, earning an affectionate chuckle, before you lay back down and close your eyes. It is but a few moments later that he grasps your hand and pulls you up to face him. When you see what he has readied, you gasp, tears pricking your eyes.

Purple irises grow with literal wild abandon in these fields and you had always loved them, weaving them in your hair and stitching their image on your garb. In his hand, perched on his fingertips as if it is the most precious thing in creation, is a tiny iris in full bloom, its slender stem wound and plaited into a ring, with its gorgeous indigo flower crowning it like no diamond ever could.

He is on his knees in front of you, ring in hand, and for a second you cannot quite put the pieces together. You have known him a day, if that? It is a beautiful gift, but can you accept the deeper meaning behind it, that seems to lie in his expression, if not his words.

"It is beautiful, my lord," you sigh, "I think I shall require your aid in putting it on, it is so delicate after all."

Your heart aches at his wide smile, the crinkle of his eyes as he wordlessly slips it onto the fourth finger of your left hand, which surely he cannot know would mean-

"I would make you mine, my love, if you would have me," he murmurs, heart beating out of his chest, sentiment momentarily making him soft and weak for you.

So he does know the significance, and in an instant you feel as though you've been doused in liquid fire, nerves tying your stomach in knots, regarding his gift on your finger with equal parts trepidation and excitement.

You close the space between you and grasp his face with both hands, claiming his lips for your own, fingers travelling to his hair and over the pointed tips of his ears. He moans deep in his chest and pushes you backwards into your makeshift bed, peppering you with kisses until all your skin is ablaze.

"I am yours," you breathe, words so soft he might have missed them, had you not whispered directly into his ear, clutching his neck and whimpering as he maps every uncovered inch of you he can reach with his lips.

He groans, a noise so guttural it surprises you in the best way, sending a wave of arousal to between your legs. He rolls his hips against yours, and you feel something hard against your mound, through all the layers of fabric between you.

The stars blaze above you, hot and bright, but they have nothing on the way he makes you feel. You have heard of love at first sight, but never thought it might happen to you, that it was rare enough if it happened at all.

His hot breath trails down your neck to your collarbone, and his clever fingers work to unlace you from the fabric shielding you from his gaze. He stops a moment, breathing heavily.

"Tell me you want this -" his silver tongue licks your ear and sucks at your neck. "Tell me you need this."

His gaze is so heated, and his voice rough with arousal, that you clench your legs together to relieve that ache that has been building there since you met him. It seems like forever ago now, impossible that it has not even been a day.

"I need you," you hiss, desperate for any touch he'll bestow upon you. "...I'll always need you, now that I have you, I can't let you go."

Your words shatter the last remaining resolve he had not to ruin you, and he takes you as his own. Stripping every inch of you until you are bare before him, desperate for his skin on yours, he wraps you in his arms, legs entwined with yours. The violent urge to claim you was not satisfied, but he would have plenty of time to show you all of him; tonight was your wedding night, and you deserved what gentleness he could provide.

He runs his fingers through your slick, fascinated by how wet you are for him. Perhaps these mortal forms were not so bad after all.

You moan his name and beg for more, though you cannot possibly know what you are asking for. His lascivious grin sends tremors through you, a swooping feeling in the pit of your stomach telling you there is no going back now.

He loosens himself from his trousers, shucks them off almost clumsily in his haste to be inside you. He is beautiful, you reflect, as you take in his bare torso, his strong legs, and all the flesh in between. His size shocks you a little and you wonder how he plans to use it.

He sees your eyes widen and immediately covers you with his body, kissing softly at your neck so to better hear your tiny sounds of pleasure. In time he will make you scream, he vows.

"It's alright, love," he reassures you with a soft smile, "I've got you, I won't let it hurt."

His fingers move in comforting circles in the small of your back, at the apex of your thighs, across your mound. He gathers the slick from your entrance, readying himself with a stroke. He is already so painfully hard, but he has to come inside you, no way will he waste his seed on the forest floor.

He holds your gaze as he lowers himself to between your thighs, wrapping your legs around him.

"Pull me to you, love, make me yours," he pants, cock straining at your entrance, waiting for you to take the plunge.

It's like standing at a precipice; the fear of falling is so closely tied to the fear of jumping. But you bite your lip and dig your fingernails into his back, tighten your calves, and pull his lower body into yours.

You want to scream, the stretch is too much, he is too big and he's hitting somewhere delicious inside you that makes you see stars. He doesn't move, letting you feel all of him, relishing in you taking him like the good girl you are.

"Well done, love, so good for me, you feel so fucking good," he exhales, towering over you while the moon illuminates him from behind, leaving his expression inscrutable.

His fingers on your abdomen are so soothing, the stinging stretch you felt disappears, leaving only white hot pleasure in its wake. You begin to move your hips against him, aching for more friction, more skin on yours, you'd take anything he would give you.

At first his movements are slow and rhythmical, as if you are made of glass, but your impatient whines encourage him to release himself upon you, snapping his hips in time to your thrusts against him, endlessly surprised but thrilled at your eagerness to please him. He has chosen so well.

The intensity of the moment gets the better of both of you, and before long you are chanting his name in his ear, chasing your inevitable ruin on his cock.

He comes first, much to his eternal embarrassment, unable to prevent spilling inside you as your tight cunt clenches his flesh. You feel him pulse inside you and it tips you over the edge, a silent scream on your lips as fire overtakes your flesh and leaves you drowning in him.

For a second, you behold each other as you truly are, not in body but spirit, and it terrifies you; you see something black as the darkest night throwing off flames that lick at your being, triggering that sick swooping feeling in your abdomen again. He is enthralled by you, bright and radiant like the morning star, and he wants to coat himself in your light, drink it in and burn all of Arda until there is nothing but the two of you in the cosmos.

His attentions to your neck slow and he leans back to look at you in all your glory, radiant under him in body and soul, as you lazily trace his hips with your fingers, coming down from your high and needing nothing more than to be held.

"You did so well, my love, so good for me," he whispers as he releases you from his grasp, laying you down beside him and pressing himself against your back with his arm slung over your torso possessively.

Your eyes begin to droop with the lateness of the hour and the exertion of your wedding night, and while he murmurs in your ear how much he loves you, how proud he is of you, how much he needs you, you take his hand and sleepily press a kiss to his palm. You snuggle in closer as he draws his robe around the pair of you against the night's chill, and slowly drift off, a smile on your face even in sleep.

He gazes at you adoringly, murmuring sweet nothings as your body relaxes into his.

"Beautiful girl, only mine," his voice is so soft yet somehow it finds you even as you begin to slumber. "My sweet wife, we will know peace together, I swear it to you."

He wants to claw inside his own chest and pull his treacherous heart out with his bare hands, for surely that pain would be easier to bear than this. He curses himself for being so weak, and you for being so tempting, before closing his eyes to join you.

He thought by having you, possessing you, that these feelings might be assuaged, that the urgency he felt to be near you would fade, and he could move on from this unique torment. Alas they had increased a hundredfold, and he swore on his fëa itself that no harm would ever come to you, that he would cherish you all his days.

What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you

No, I don't wanna fall in love with you

[beeing1alive]

Cute headcanons with Tokyo Revengers boys p.2

f.t.: Mikey (Manjirō Sanō); Draken (Ken Ryūgūji); Mitsuya (Takashi Mitsuya); Chifuyu (Chifuyu Matsuno); Baji (Keisuke Baji); Takemichi (Takemichi Hanagaki); Angry (Souya Kawata), Smiley (Nahoya Kawata); Hakkai (Hakkai Shiba); Kazutora (Kazutora Hanemija), Koko (Hajime Kokonoi); Inupi (Inui Seishu); Hanma (Shuji Hanma)

Mikey sends people to look after you. Of course, he always prefers to do it himself, but as the leader of Toman he can't leave in the middle of a meeting and that's why he sends someone, usually Draken, to check on you, when he knows you're out alone or with your friends. That's why he wants you to tell him about it.

Draken pays attention to everything you say. For example, if you go shopping and you see a shirt that you think he would look good in, you can be pretty sure that he will buy it, probably without you, but he will still say that it is the best shirt he owns.

Mitsuya will hire you as the first model for his brand. Many of his self-sewn pieces are made for you and your size anyway, so why not? He thinks you are the most beautiful creature to walk the earth and couldn't think of a better model for his make. Many pieces only exist because you inspired him to create them.

Chifuyu talks a lot about you, especially with his best friends like Baji and so on. It doesn't even occur to him that he could annoy them with it. No, there's no more interesting topic for him than you. That doesn't mean that you're his whole personality, of course he's interested in other things too, but sometimes he needs to vent and tell the whole world what a sweet person he has by his side.

Baji loves it when you play with his hair or massage his head. He almost falls asleep when you gently run your fingers through his hair or braid or twist it. Head massages are the perfect medicine for stress or headaches, but even if he can't sleep, a massage helps much more than medication or something like that.

Takemichi carries a small bag for you. He calls it an 'emergency bag' and it contains plasters, hair ties, medication and, if necessary, pads and tampons. So if you need anything, he can always take out this 'emergency bag' and try to help you as best he can, because he has sworn to always be there for you.

Souya looks less aggressive in your presence. Although his usual expression adorns his handsome face, how can someone look violent when a sweet blush colours his face and you have an infinitely amorous twinkle in your eyes. He just can't look angry when you give him a sweet kiss.

Nahoya shares his entire wardrobe with you. He just thinks you look so cute in his clothes and has absolutely no shame in telling you so. Sometimes he even buys shirts that you would look particularly good in just to see you in them.

Hakkai has bought your perfume so that he doesn't miss you so much, especially at night. He simply sprays your perfume on his pillow and it smells like you. It helps him a lot to fall asleep because he associates the scent with you and he can relax and rest 100% by your side.

Kazutora relaxes immediately as soon as you start tracing the tiger tutor on his neck, which is why you always do this when he can't sleep or has a panic attack. His brain is instantly wiped clean and the only thing that fills his memory is you and the gentle fingers that run along his neck and throat.

Koko buys the most expensive and beautiful clothes there are, but she prefers to see you in your relaxed clothes. clothes. It's like a privilege for him because you usually dress very well. He thinks that you are really sure that he loves you, and no less so when you wear relaxed clothes. He is in love with you, not your clothes.

Inupi knows the best places for dates. He knows the classiest restaurants, the most beautiful spots for picnics and the best amusement parks for having fun. No matter where you want to go or what you want to do, he knows the right places and sometimes even the quickest routes to get there.

Hanma prefers to spend his Sundays just snuggled up in bed with you, watching films or series, eating fast food and sleeping. The curtains are closed all day so that the room is nice and dark. At the end of the day, he always likes to take a bath or shower with you. That way, the perfect day ends perfectly and he has motivation for the next few days to fight with all those idiots again.

Attention: The characters and the gif do not belong to me. All credits go to the actual owners. If you want anything to be changed or removed, please write to me.

I Hope you liked it, if yes, here is p.1

[sytoran]

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒 || mdg pt. 5

timelines and lifelines have torn you and natasha apart, but the two of you are bound by the child you have created. though subjected to earth, loki, god of mischief, dangles the possibility of a future with natasha by making you a god.

pairing: goddess!natasha x mortal!reader (not for long)

note: this is the 5th installment to the goddess!nat universe, as per the 4k celebration! please read the other parts first if you haven't already. this part contains depictions of violence. this series is 18+ only.

word count: 1.8k

series m.list | main m.list | AO3

Previously…

Your relationship with the Goddess of Lust, Natasha Romanoff, comes to a screeching halt. Torn apart by timelines and lifelines, you’re not coping well, and neither is Natasha — especially when she finds out she’s pregnant with your child.

On the other side of the universe, Loki, God of Mischief, breaks into your apartment to offer you a deal. Worse still, he eats your leftover pizza.

Now…

When you come back to consciousness, you feel like you’re floating. Not in the whimsical, psychedelic cocaine-induced way, but in the Help-I’m-Physically-Suspended-In-The-Air way. 

And it is true, much to your demise, because despite the fruitful hours of work spent in the gym, your arms and back can’t quite handle the excruciating pain of being strung taut like a rope.

Against the will of every screaming cell in your existence for you to fall the fuck back asleep, you forcefully sit up and open your eyes.

It takes about two seconds for the headache-worthy hangover to sink in, and three seconds for you to regret every godforsaken decision you had made the night prior.

Last night- oh, fuck. Last Friday night. 

(No, this isn’t going to entail a radio pop song with a curly black-haired Katy Perry, because the only curly black-haired one in this story is the God of Mischief himself. Both equally as sassy, but expounding on that would fracture the entirety of the space-time continuum.)

“Oh, you’re awake.” 

Speaking of the devil (quite literally), Loki forces you to bring your blurry gaze up to the cocky expression painting his angular face.

“Fuck you,” you spit, dry and hoarse, memories surging through your teetering consciousness. All you were aware of was the mother of your problems was the man himself.

Now, you were suspended like a puppet in your very own living room, strings of golden magic encircling your body, keeping you stretched to the edge of insurmountable agony.

“Funny,” Loki says dryly, eyes raking over your pathetic form. “That’s exactly what you said last night that put you in this position.”

You would’ve laughed, truly, if not for the ache in your ribs and your back and your– you get the point. “You offered me a proposition,” you comment, licking your cracked lips with distaste. 

“And you said ‘fuck you’ and threw up three bottles worth of alcohol on my ridiculously expensive snake-scaled shoes before promptly passing out from your hissy fit of a heartbreak.”

“Deserved.”

“I will hang you upside down.”

You roll your eyes – however much you can roll them in this position. “You gave me an offer. That means that I had a say in this, and I certainly did not consent to take part in this BDSM-worthy fantasy of yours.”

Loki scoffs at this, shifting in his seat. Your seat, actually, his black robes draped over your armchair like it belonged to him. 

“My sex life is none of your business, and more than often entails men,” Loki begins, putting a finger up. “The only reason I’m taking interest in a hopelessly lovesick woman-lover is because you have something that I want.”

You exhale roughly, lungs and ribs screaming in protest. You weren’t of a godly status by any means, but based on his identity and the fact that a God was lurking around Earth, you were competent enough to figure out what he wanted.

“You wanna get back to the land of the Gods,” you state, eyes narrowing in seriousness. “Like me, you’ve done some shit that made SHIELD put a target on your back. Except it’s ten times worse, considering you’re a God. That’s why you’re here. What you want is connections, because I have – I had – a relationship with Natasha Romanoff.”

Natasha.

It pains you, to even put it in the past tense, that what you had with Natasha would only ever be history.

“Oh wow,” Loki responds, acting shocked. “There’s actually more to you than this himbo attitude you exude.”

You don’t give him the pleasure of a response to his provoking, despite your incessant need to sucker-punch that face of his. But uncovering his plan has that layer of composure slipping, for a second, and you delight in it for what it’s worth.

"Put me down first," you say instead through gritted teeth, looking up with a ferocious glint in your eyes.

"Say yes first," Loki answers promptly, folding his arms over his chest with a self-satisfied grin.

"Put me down and or I won't consider your absurd request," you try again, a wracking cough making your stomach lurch in pain.

"Funny you think you're in a position of power," the arrogant god taunts. "Who's to say I won't torture you to the brink of death until I get what I want?"

"...Who's to say I'd eventually break?" you say finally, narrowing your gaze. You sure as hell were scared as fuck, but you had to survive. "Threats only work on people who've got something to lose. I'm forbidden from ever seeing the love of my life again – I've got nothing to lose, y'know? No amount of torture will get you what you want."

Your little speech of sorts, delivered with an unwavering tone despite the pain coursing through your body, plays out perfectly. Loki's gaze is unreadable as he contemplates upon your counter-proposition.

Unceremoniously, you're dropped to the ground, hitting reality with a grunt of pain. “Shit,” you wheeze, clutching at your ribs with sore wrists. “Warn a girl, man.”

Loki waves you off dismissively. “The pain won’t matter anymore.”

“Wait,” you struggle to say, reaching out to nothingness as the man closes his eyes and raises his hands to the lands you once roamed.

It’s only then that you realise you’re surrounded by candles, so many candles. You’re in the center of some kind of ritual board, and what you assume are ‘offerings’ circle you.

From skulls to black flames, you know something is wrong. Very wrong. Loki is muttering incantations under his breath, a language beyond your human tongue, and the pressure in your room rises to an extent that forces you downwards.

“What,” you ask, exhaling roughly against your cracked ribs. “What kind of God am I going to become?”

Your question goes unanswered, lost in the swirling black flames that surround you. Loki’s eyes open again, and this time they are completely black. He begins a chant, crafted from an inhuman tongue, a language you’d never heard before.

That’s when the pain starts.

You scream, brain waves throbbing, a loud ringing sound echoing in your ears. Psychedelia takes over your conscience, producing images all around you, dark and distorted and everything you thought you’d buried.

“ибяѓюгэю юдякиэҁ, эиѫч ҩ рэд.”

Unbridled darkness, enemy of peace.

Natasha’s face is at the forefront of your mind, unblemished and happy and everything you’d ever wanted. You reach out, spluttering and breathless, trying to grasp that wistful memory like it’d materialize in front of you, like she could ever be yours.

“бцэт юҩщи ҩцядрҩи дю ғдг ҩця ҩиэҁ.”

Put down your weapons and fall to your knees.

Her face gets shattered into smithereens, scattered throughout the dark swirls of your mind, overtaken by shadows. Horrifying screams and flashes of a graveyard overwhelm you, and you yell through the misery for the love of your life.

“тҩ фэн тнэ юэҁѓяэ ҩғ џэиəэдисэ lə'”

To quench the desires of vengeance and rage.

Fury slugs through you, as you crawl away from cold hands that pull you back. “No!” You yell, but your voice is not yours anymore. The only thing to describe what you feel is chaos, darkness creeping in from the shadows, a slithering worm into your ear, a rotting carcass and the stench of carrion.

“ҩҁэ бҩиэҁ сдҁт ҩғ ҁсчнэҁ дию бдюэҁ.”

To see bones cast of scythes and blades.

The world snaps from reality, and you get flung into a different dimension. This place you’re trapped in is unfamiliar. You’re standing on a pile of dead human bodies, and there are ghouls and demons cheering your name. Blackness seeps through your veins, infiltrating your mindwires. 

“Revenge,” you spit, a devilish noise, and the cheers rise again.

You scream, as black wings tear through your back, ripping your collared shirt and spreading towards the sky. You launch from the depths of whatever hellhole that may have been, an inhuman screech echoing around the void, soaring towards the heavens in search of the one you’d lost.

“ҩѫэҩя, гдск-щѓəэю юэџѓг, эт ндҁ иғцяг”

Come forth, black-winged devil, let chaos unfurl

Upon descending on holy ground, unfamiliar faces intrude into your mind, prominent and unmistaken. Backlogged information begs its worth — God of Thunder. Goddess of Magic. God of Science. God of Justice. 

Then one word rings above all, high and mighty, and the darkness of your mind clears to reveal the people that had taken your Natasha away.

SHIELD.

“энҩгю яҩѫ нэг, ҩю ҩғнэ Циюэящҩягю.”

Behold from hell, Ruler of the Underworld.

Reality drives into your side like a thousand semi-trucks, bright and flashing, and then you’re back in your living room. You stay on the ground, all-fours, spluttering and gasping for air. 

Natasha.

Black wings flap behind you, resplendent and marvelous. Those had been real.

Arising from the ground, gone is the fear in your eyes. No more shreds of hope. No more sense of justice. Your blackened eyes burn red, searching for Loki. He stands in the corner of the room, and he seems so much smaller now, compared to you and your bloodlust.

“She was mine,” you growl, dangerously, fearsome and inhuman.

“She is yours,” The God of Mischief answers, marveling at his creation, for there was nothing that could stop you now.

***

“Rockabye baby on the treetop,” Natasha sings softly, a hand gently caressing the swell of her stomach. Colours sweep into galaxies as nightfall arrives, cloaking her land in gentle beauty.

“When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.” As if on cue, the wind gets a little chillier. Worry clouds Natasha’s face, edging in on her safe haven.

“When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.” A holographic image of The God of Justice materializes before her eyes. It meant that it was an urgent message, from one God to the next.

“The SHIELD base is being attacked by an unknown force. We’re in grave danger,” Steve says, urgent and frantic. Screams and chaos can be heard in the background, and the God barely ducks a crashing marble pillar.

Natasha almost scoffs and switches off the image. The Gods had ignored her very existence ever since they had banished you, which was convenient in hiding her pregnancy, but at the same time rather annoying, now that they were begging for help.

That is, until Steve persisted further. “Natasha. This perpetrator has power beyond measure, dark power. It could even exceed Loki’s.”

“......What does this harbinger of hell want?” Natasha asks, steely eyes surveying her homeland.

“Natasha,” Steve repeats, weary eyes hooded with anxiety. “They’re looking for you.”

Down will come baby, cradle and fall.

so that happened.... any thoughts about our new and improved y/n, ruler of the underworld?? loki rlly stirred up a lot of shit huh

reblog or no y/n x natasha reunion

series m.list | main m.list | AO3

[darcylindbergh]

I have no idea what Harris' actual views on I/P are, but even if she is fully pro-Palestine wouldn't she still have to meet with Netanyahu? I mean realistically any change the US can possibly make would have to involve talking to Israel, right? Presidents meet with Putin even if they hate him/Russia's actions because that's how international politics works, it doesn't mean they like/agree with him

Well, theoretically, there's a bit of political game playing involved yes. But because the ICC has issued warrants for Netanyahu's arrest, if we're strictly following international law, Netanyahu shouldn't have been meeting anybody, he should have been arrested. But we're not doing that because the US currently thinks the ICC is wrong, which is a bad look for the US and which undermines the strength of international law, so I think this is bad and also wrong, but that's what's happening at present. And although US presidents etc have historically met with Putin, they would not at this point because Putin also has warrants out for his arrest. The difference between how the US has treated Putin v Netanyahu is, as it seems, pretty hypocritical.

Practically speaking, as you say, meeting with Netanyahu is a bit of a political game. The US has historically been a very strong ally to Israel and the US has historically been very much involved in the normalization of relations vis a vis Israel and the rest of the Middle East, and the US would very much like to remain involved in brokering a lasting peace, which involves not seriously alienating Netanyahu and Israel et al. Netanyahu and his far-right government are the ones holding up the ceasefire, and the US is only able to exert pressure so long as they are a valuable ally to Israel - if Israel has nothing to lose, in other words, the US loses its ability to exert pressure. And Harris wants very much to hang onto that ability, because she's setting herself up to exert more pressure than Biden has.

Harris has been critical of Israel. Harris is the highest-ranking Dem that has been critical of the situation in Gaza. She has been upfront about highlighting the suffering in Gaza. She's not oblivious to the conversations going on re: Palestine and the ongoing genocide. She's not sticking her head in the sand on it.

“The images of dead children and desperate hungry people fleeing for safety, sometimes displaced for the second, third or fourth time - we cannot look away in the face of these tragedies. We cannot allow ourselves to become numb to the suffering and I will not be silent.”

But she's trying to walk a very careful line on public sentiment re: Israel and Palestine. She's going to be very cautious to condemn anything with even a whiff of antisemitism in strong terms. She's going to be very cautious to affirm Israel's right to exist and to defend itself, which she does in the article linked above, with the caveat that "how it does so matters." But her willingness to call attention to the crisis ongoing in Gaza and her willingness to imply wrong-doing by Israel in how that crisis has been created signals to Netanyahu that her government will have stronger limits than Netanyahu has encountered previously. Will she be a perfect candidate? No. Will she always align with my moral compass? No. Will she be totally evil? Also no.

As voters, what does this mean for us and how we support Gazans and Palestinians?

To me this is very simple. Harris is a candidate who is willing and able to exert pressure on Israel to end the genocide and, ideally, to broker a long-lasting peace. Trump is a candidate who is willing and able to exert pressure on Israel to blow Gaza off the face of the earth. Between "willing to tell Netanyahu this is unacceptable" and "willing to tell Netanyahu to break out a nuke," I'm voting for the former every fucking time.

Not voting or voting third party doesn't actually tell Democrats anything except that you didn't care. They don't have a list of people who would otherwise have voted blue if only they'd taken harder pro-Palestine stance, they're not cross-checking your voting status against your social media posts and going, oh, nuts, we lost that one. Not voting or voting third party doesn't exert pressure on the Dems to go more left, you're not "teaching them a lesson," you're not making a point. It's non-information. It's not a boycott - it's a white flag. It's giving up.

You know how you exert pressure on politicians? You call. You write. You protest. Are you still calling your representatives about Gaza every day? Are you going to town halls and asking them about what they're doing to stop the genocide? Pressure is exerted through participation.

Progress is made by the people who show up.

If the Dems lose, you can pressure them all day and it won't make a difference because they don't have any power to make a difference. And the racist, anti-Muslim, anti-Middle East far right won't be listening no matter how much you shout.

I'm not giving up on Palestinians just because some greyface anon on the internet tells me I'm a bad person for choosing to vote for the candidate I can pressure to make a change.

I'm also not going to give up on people here at home who's lives are hanging in the balance. I'm a queer woman with a uterus and a pre-existing condition - I simply do not have the luxury or the privilege to stay home in November. I do not have the luxury or the privilege of being a single issue voter. I'm not going to give up on trans kids or immigrants or BIPOC or women or disabled folks or poor folks. I'm not going to give up on healthcare or on libraries or on public schools or on the environment or on the court systems. I'm not going to give up on safe workplaces and livable wages and safe products. I'm not going to give up and let corporate monopolies and censorship and AI and five rich dudes decide what the future will be.

Don't you care? Don't you look around you and care about the people in your own communities? Or are those people too real, too complicated? Do you only care when you can win points off it in someone else's inbox on tumblr dot com?

Is Kamala Harris going to be the perfect pro-Palestinian candidate? No. But I'm not inviting her to brunch. I don't need her to be my bestie. I don't need her to be my moral compass - I have one of my own, thanks.

I just need her to step forward instead of back.

Progress is made one step at a time.

[katakaluptastrophy]

Continuing to think about the horror of what happens to John, and the horrors of love...

When Alecto has first been created, she says to him "I picked you to change, and this is how you repay me?" and "What have you done to me?"

They're heartbreaking questions she has every right to ask, but there's something awful and ironic about them too. Because John also might have asked "what have you done to me?"

It's easy to get distracted by the cartoonish awfulness of John's own narration: "talk about police abuse", "come on, love. Guys as careful as me don't have accidents," "love a working tram system." But all of these comments come after moments where John has unwittingly come into proximity with violent death, an experience he repeatedly likens to having drugs forcibly injected into him; an omniscient, dream-like, out of body experience that seems to propel him forward through his basest impulses. The first time this happens, he's brought back from "the verge of something insane" by being shaken violently by P-. Lines like these aren't revealing John's diabolical plotting. They're a man who would rather own atrocities as premeditated than admit that he was losing his grip.

The second is when he encounters the soul of the earth. His human mind makes contact with the incoherent, furious soul of a planet. In any other context, this would be straightforwardly Lovecraftian. And everything he describes after that is full of elipses, jumbled, and detached. His friends are shot by gun-toting cultists and he says it was like a dream.

Hearing the earth screaming, feeling his friends' deaths under his skin like a drug, he might well have asked "what have you done to me?"

Alecto said to him, "I picked you to change, and this is how you repay me?" But as everything collapses, John says:

"I thought you were going to take me, somehow. Purge me. Use me as an instrument. But you didn't say anything...I was babbling, Show me. Come on. I'm ready. You kept screaming and screaming..."

John has spent months becoming something terrifying, an entity with yellow eyes and uncanny powers. He's discovered that death has an overwhelming impact on him that he cannot fully control. Everyone was relying on him to do something. And he did so many things: well-meaning things and stupid things and things that were lashing out in rage and frustration. Hundreds of people have died because of him. His friends have died because of him. Surely, surely there was a point to this. Surely there was meaning. Surely whatever did this to him, made him into this, had a greater plan.

But there is no plan. There is no great revelation. He tries to hurt the earth, to provoke some kind of answer, but the screaming continues. And when P dies, the person who snapped him out of it the last time, John lets go and the whole world dies.

John is kneeling on the grass vomiting up dirt and tearing out his own ribs, saying "there was still too much of me that was just a human being...", trying to swallow the soul of the earth. And by the end, the one shred he has to hold onto is a memory of playing with a doll as a child. That, and his anger...

The earth tried to reach out in the only way it could, amidst its incoherent suffering. And John tried to use the abilities it gave him, but he was only human. Fallible and proud and angry.

She said, "I still love you." And the horror; the horror of love, the horror of this story, is that to begin with they did this to each other.

To be clear: I don't mean to diminish the awfulness or the very specific forms that John's violence against Alecto takes, and continues to take across the story. I don't mean to excuse his own self-mythologisation. I certainly don't think he's blameless for the decisions he made and the agenda he pursued. But if there's one thing that happens over and over again in TLT, it's that the horror of love is not a one-way street.

And I wonder, in light of what we now know about the permeability of the soul, quite where John ends and Alecto begins. And when that blurring began...

[notaplaceofhonour]

Ah yes, because (((they))) are coming for you 🙄

copied from one of the replies:

This comparison is deeply, offensively ahistorical and incredibly harmful, both in understanding the Holocaust and the I/P conflict. The motivations, the actions those motivations inspire, and the effects of those actions are all deeply different. And if you are mobilizing people around the idea that they aren’t, you are spreading misinformation that actively impedes the ability for us to create a path towards solutions that lead to peace and the safety of everyone involved.

The Nazis aimed for endless expansion (Hitler was very explicit about the fact that he did not just want to return to the historical borders of the German Empire) & total extermination of Jews, and as such rounded up all Jews & dissidents in any territory they occupied & placed them in industrialized labor and extermination camps, and took over most of Europe and much of the Middle East. Whereas the worst of the worst in Israel are irredentist & revanchist—they want a specific piece of land historically occupied by Jews & they want collective revenge on Arabs & Muslims.

This is racist, reactionary, and violent, but it is not Nazism. Israel isn’t rounding up every Palestinian & dissident they can get their hands on in any territory they occupy. The nearly 2 million Palestinians in Israel are still Israeli citizens with full legal rights. An entire tenth of Israel has been openly attending protests of Netanyahu’s, and haven’t ended up in camps. They’re not an ever-expanding Empire with no end in sight; they’re a tiny country the size of New Jersey, surrounded by multiple factions that have made no secret that their goal is to wipe Israel off the map and chase Jews to the ends of the earth to kill them.

Netanyahu & Likud’s disregard for human life in pursuit of preventing Palestinian statehood & destroying IRI proxy groups like Hamas and Hezbollah (whose existence are existential threats to Israel & Jews living in the region) is more than “regrettable”. It’s unacceptable. But there is no “when they come for you”. And hyperbolic Holocaust Inversion like this, shouting about how the Jews in a little tiny country in the Middle East is like the Jew-killing Empire bent on World Domination, and how it’s “coming for you” wherever you live makes you sound like Alex Jones.

You can easily criticize the Israeli government’s action without rhetoric that amounts to Holocaust Revision/Distortion and weaponizes the memory of the industrialized mass-slaughter of millions of Jews against people still living with its impact—people whose motivation in this war (however brutal & blinded by hate) is heavily informed by a desire to ensure it will not happen to them again.

[valentine-cafe]

. ˚◞♡ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒙 𝒕𝒐𝒑! 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ₊˚

⊹ ۪ ࣪ spider monster x reader, hero x reader, spiderman x reader, cw: smut, brat taming, fingerings, penetrative sex, degradation, multiple orgasms ⊹ ۪ ࣪

𖹭. of course you have to brat tame your needy boyfriend when he gives you some attitude

your spider monster of a boyfriend can be so sensitive. to light, to sound —

to your three fingers fucking him senseless.

oh how he whines. his fangs prominent. irises dilated. and his web slits swollen. wrists stained with sticky webs that oozed out when you so cruelly thumbed at the sensitive openings.

“p-please,” tears well up in pretty maroon eyes. “p-please I'll be good - I-I'll be a good boy -"

he says, as though he try to suck you off in the uni bathroom. as though he didn't lay his hand on your thigh when you were driving. or grind his little ass into your lap the second you were sitting on the dorm's sofa.

“b-baby please - I wanna c-cum - angh. . . p-please wanna cum for you —"

his hiccups fall on deaf ears and you swat away his needy hands that try to palm at his dick. leaving it to pulse and swell with pre-cum at the tip. all you give him is a finger to swirl around his head and smear the substance down his underside.

he'd buck his hips into your hand. begging and whining. telling you how much he needs you. trying to fuck himself on fingers with squelches and squirts.

yet it's nowhere to be seen once you've got him pinned down and stretched out on your cock. once you've got him arching and clawing at the material of the sofa or your bicep. his sharp nails drawing pretty lines down your arm. hiccuping his moans and whining his cries from the back of his throat as your ramming thrusts shake his body.

“f-fuck — fuck n-no puedo. . . no p-puedo más - I c-can't - let me cum, let m-me cum baby pleaaasseeeee,”

tears of desperation would fall down his face as his tight hole squeezes around your base. perfectly clenching around a particular vein that makes you groan. milking your dick again and again oh so greedily.

"greedy fucking boy — what, isn't this what you wanted?”

that desperation now turned into overstimulation as he lays there limp against the sofa. head hung back on the arm. back arched in that perfectly lewd way as every thrust plaps against his soft ass. creating a wet slapping along with his slew of wanton babbles. laying there and taking it like the good little slut he always is for you. the perfect cocksleeve.

lips parted and drooling. eyes rolled back. dick messy with all the times he's squirted for you. he'd try to push his plush thighs together but you'd yank them apart. bending his body so that you can pound at that tight little ass from a more intense angle.

“m-mngh! b-baby — babbbyyyy,” rishen sobs, hand scrambling to try and cover his tip to prevent himself from squirting. “i-is too m-much - s'too much. y-your cock's g-gonna - ahh - break meeeee,”

and there he goes again, squirting his creamy cum all over. staining his hand as it squeezes between his fingers and down his stained wrists.

he'd whine for you to go easy on him. but you know the truth. know that he loves it when you pound him sore. after all, he's just your bratty spider boyfriend.

so of course you flip him over and fuck him into the sofa till he's seeing stars and grinding into the throw cushions. your name like a prayer on his pierced tongue. squirting all over.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍪 ꒱ earth 781 rishen⊹ ۪ ࣪

[konigbabe]

mosaic of us

Pairing: plaga!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader

Word count: 6k

Tags/warnings: smut; no y/n; infected Leon (las plagas); p-in-v sex; unprotected sex; female gendered anatomy; rough sex; creampie; manhandling; Leon's a menace and this is yet another pure filth

Summary: Hidden in the village, Leon's condition keeps deteriorating; somehow, his kiss seems to ignite something deep inside you. Something primal — savage in its roots.

A/N: Written as part of my A to Z kinks game. R is for rough sex.

I sincerely apologize for this mess. Divider is mine.

masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

You notice the veins around his eyes growing more prominent, twisting and pulsing like roots searching for water. It’s as if something inside him is struggling to break free from its confines, a dangerous force waiting to be unleashed. With a sudden jerk, Leon looks up at you with an intense fervor; the sclera now twisted into a sickly yellow, the inky tendrils reaching towards his pupils, enveloping them in a macabre embrace.

The glow of the sun filters through the gaps in the wooden walls of the shed, illuminating the space with a warm, golden light. You stand there, hidden away from the villagers (who managed to overrun you not even an hour ago), as a gentle breeze weaves through the nearby trees. It's a sweet melody that accompanies the soft whispers of the diary's pages, its newfound freshness almost palpable as you trace your fingers along its surface.

The air still carries the scent of damp wood and earth, with a hint of mustiness. The shed’s been abandoned for too long, left to the mercy of the elements. Like a forgotten tomb, filled with the memories of a long-departed soul. Neglected in its wake.

Reading page after page – each with intriguing materials hidden inside its folds, you let the ink come alive, painting vivid pictures of his observations.

July 10, 2004

Today marks another day of failed attempts at finding a cure for the outbreak in this village. The scarce resources and limited materials available make it even more challenging to uncover a solution. However, after much experimentation and observation, I finally managed to identify the mode of transmission – horizontal transmission. The virus can replicate its DNA and spread throu–

The shadow of a figure looms over the creaky door, pulling your gaze away from the passage. Your hand slinks towards the gun holster on your thigh, fingers tapping the handle with precision, safety off. You stare at the door, alert like a hawk on the prowl.

With a soft thud, the diary shuts; your senses stir in anticipation as the door opens. The hinges groan under the weight of the door. Recognizing the person entering, an exhale leaves your lips.

Leon's silhouette is backlit by the dimming light, creating a halo effect around his head. His large frame takes up almost the whole space of the door, blocking out any remaining slivers of sunlight that had managed to seep through the cracks.

He swiftly shuts the door behind him, sealing off the outside world like a fortress protecting its treasure. With practised ease, he places a chair underneath the handle, securing it.

"Shit," you cuss as you snap the safety back on the gun, "don’t try sneakin’ up on me like that again, Leon."

Leon's eyes flicker up, scanning your tense frame, alert for any signs of aggression. He nods, a wordless apology for startling you, and steps towards you with a cautious gait.

Restarting the reading, you skip through the rest of the page, flicking to the next one.

–indicates that the virus' spread is heavily influenced by the host's behavior and their relationship with the recipient.

As Leon shuffles past, the air is infused with the heady aroma of his shirt, like the sweet, earthy scent of freshly turned soil. The mustiness of its faded blue is mixed with the sharp tang of his cologne, reminiscent of the crisp bite of a green apple. He runs a hand across his smooth-shaven face, the coolness of his skin a temporary relief from the relentless fever burning inside him.

Today's findings have shed new light on the behavior of the virus. My latest analysis has revealed that the virus has a peculiar ability to alter the composition of the host's saliva. Strikingly, I discovered that infected individuals have elevated levels of–

Your eyes dart across the page, scanning the words with lightning speed. The words blur together as you scan through them with lightning speed, eager to reach the end of the entry in hopes to find a way to help Leon.

The implications of these findings are tantalizing, and suggest that the virus may be manipulating the behavior of its hosts to facilitate its own spread.

"What’re you readin’," Leon asks, stepping to your side with the knife holster dangling from his grip like a coiled snake.

The close proximity of him allows your arm to brush against his chest, the solid mass of muscle beneath his shirt a somewhat comforting presence in the chaos you’ve found yourself in. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, squeezing it gently like a reassuring pat on the back as his eyes dart towards the diary.

You don’t hesitate to show it to him, its cover slightly worn and creased from your constant handling.

"It’s some kind of a diary," you watch as Leon flips through the pages, occasionally pausing to read it, "found it in one of the houses. It’s written by–I think–a scientist who was here; Doctor Javier García."

Leon's fingers trace the faded lines, the foreign letters, as if absorbing the knowledge contained within, yet the puzzled expression on his face tells you otherwise. The rustling of pages sounds like a whisper in the quiet room as he flips through them.

"It’s in Spanish," he grumbles with a tinge of frustration, his voice breaking the tranquil atmosphere. He hands the open diary back to you before rubbing his eyes wearily.

You can't help but notice the subtle movement of dark veins around his eyes, like ink spreading across a page. They're barely perceptible, but the sight still sends a twinge of unease through you.

"Yeah, that’s why I’m here, remember? Your Spanish is shit."

Leon emits a faint chuckle, so quiet that even in the closeness of your positions, it's barely audible. Shaking his head, he runs a hand through the mass of light hair, revealing beads of sweat on his forehead. Exertion fills the air around you as he moves.

"Right," taking a step back, the soles of his shoes crunch against the first floor. You sneak a peek at his arms; the veins, network of obsidian tributaries, ripple just beneath the surface of his skin, "Right."

"Did you find out Baby Eagle’s position?" you inquire, your voice echoing through the empty space.

Leon shakes his head, causing the pushed-back hair to fall back over his face, before he speaks again in a soft, hushed tone, "No; got a call from Luis. They’re hiding in the castle." His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, and you strain to hear him.

Speaking of Luis–

Looking back at the book in your hand, you remember the last passage. The first thing you read when you were left alone in this shed.

"About Luis," you murmur, your fingers deftly flipping through the pages until you reach the last inked page. Leon’s eyes follow your hands as you open the page, the words there shaky, the paper wrinkled and smudged with ink. It's like a relic from another time, something that has weathered the storm of time and come out the other side. Written in a hurry; but it’s there as you read it out loud, slowly translating the foreign language:

September 18, 2004

Today, another scientist arrived in this remote village. After a brief conversation about my project, he evaded my queries about his presence here. He divulged information about a private island facility and expressed a keen interest in developing a cure for the virus. However, I couldn't help but sense an underlying malice in his intentions towards the virus. I intend to find out more about this man.

Your eyes scan the smudged ink of another passage, attempting to make sense of the faded words, but it’s no use.

Back facing Leon, you speak, "That’s gotta be Luis, right?," voice filled with suspicion, "Two weeks ago, this García met Luis and now he’s gone. His personal belongings are all here - don't you think that's a little suspicious?"

A low groan interrupts your train of thought, causing you to furrow your brow.

"Leon?"

You turn around and watch as Leon stands a mere footstep before you. Palm resting on his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, you feel your heartbeat pick up; the veins now spreading like poison ivy, creating an intriguing mosaic. The ebony tendrils slither over his skin, covering his neck and sneaking inside the folds of his dirty shirt.

Another guttural growl emanates from his throat, so animalistic and raw that it sends shivers down your spine. Your hand instinctively reaches for Leon's blade, which was left on the table moments ago, while your other hand grips the wooden surface to steady yourself.

"Leon," you repeat in hopes to reach the man’s attention, "what’s wrong?"

Your attempts to reach him prove futile; you stand patiently, gaze firmly following his every movement–with a precise step, you stroll in front of him. Another guttural sound finds its way out of Leon as he moves his hands to his temples, pushing against the thin skin as if he could alleviate a headache.

As you watch, the veins around his eyes grow more prominent, twisting and pulsing like roots searching for water. Something inside him seems to be struggling to break free, a dangerous force waiting to be unleashed. With a sudden jerk, Leon looks up at you with an intense fervor; the sclera now twisted into a sickly yellow, the inky tendrils reaching towards his pupils, enveloping them in a macabre embrace.

"Leon!"

You take a step back as he lunges forward, his movements erratic and uncontrolled.

Anticipating a strike, you raise the knife, its point aimed at Leon’s upper body. Your heart jackhammer in your chest, you brace yourself for the attack; muscles coiled and ready for defence. But before you can make a move, Leon's hand is already on your wrist, his grip vice-like as he twists the blade away from you. You gasp in pain, feeling the sharp sting of the metal cutting into your skin.

The ground feels gritty beneath your feet as you struggle to maintain your balance, trying to free yourself from Leon's grasp. But the man seems to be in complete control, his movements fluid and effortless. Your heart races faster as you realize the danger you're in. This man could easily overpower you, could easily harm you if he wanted to.

A pained gasp leaves your tightening throat as Leon’s hot breath fans over your face. And then, without warning, his lips crash against yours.

It’s messy. Needy.

Wet.

Taken by surprise, your mind races; struggling to make sense of what’s happening. The taste of his lips is familiar, certainly not the first time he kissed you. But never like that – and never when infected.

You can taste the slight tinge of mint on his tongue as it sneaks inside your mouth. His hands, strong and calloused, grip your jaw, tilting your head as his hips back you against the table. Leon’s body easily keeps yours restrained, his body heat almost scorching you. You can feel his every move, every twitch of a muscle, every shiver that runs down his spine. It's like being consumed by a wild, untamed force that you can't resist.

The dominance in his behavior, the way he takes control and leaves you powerless and vulnerable; it all makes your mind fuzzy. A blank canvas.

For a moment, everything fades away–

–until the realization hits you.

He’s infected.

Pressing your palms firmly against his chest, your body freezes momentarily upon feeling the taut muscles of his breastplates before you push with all your might. He barely budges. Yet, when your lips momentarily separate, you manage to call out to him one more time, "Leon!"

His eyes open. Now clear, back to the blue as a tranquil ocean on a sunny day, the agitated storm within them subsided. He looks back at you.

"I’m so sorry," he mutters, his voice low and hoarse. You can see the fatigue etched into his features, the bags under his eyes betraying his lack of sleep. As he meets your gaze, his eyes plead for your understanding.

The sound of his groan echoes in your ears as you watch him crumble before you, his once-strong body now appearing weak. The taste of his kiss still lingers on your lips, a bittersweet reminder of what has just transpired. The dust swirls around him, adding to the already chaotic scene. You can feel your heart racing, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you try to catch your breath.

"Fuck, Leon," you hurry towards him.

You kneel beside him, eyes scanning his face for any signs of consciousness. His lips, bruised and swollen, part lightly as he takes a laboured breath. You can see the pain etched on his features, the lines on his forehead deepening with each passing second.

Minutes flow as you sit by Leon’s side, watching the dark veins fade slowly as he regains his strength. His chest rises and falls steadily now, the rest of his gear lying on the table alongside your gun. You take in the sight of him, his rugged features softened in the moonlight. His hair, disheveled and covered in dust, frames his face like a wild mane, adding to his already striking appearance.

You reach out to brush a strand away from his forehead, your fingertips tracing the curve of his cheekbone, tracing the areas recently covered in ebony veins.

As you sit there, the sounds of the night surround you–the chirping of crickets, the whispering of leaves in the wind. A cool breeze washes over you, the scent of earth and foliage filling your nostrils. You take a deep breath, the freshness of the air soothing your nerves.

But despite the calming surroundings, the sensation within you is like a storm raging inside, the winds tossing and turning your thoughts. Your body feels like a furnace, burning with a heat that can't be quenched. Heart beating faster, the thumping becoming almost unbearable as your body begins to ache with a deep, pulsing desire.

You try to shake it off, thinking it's just the adrenaline still coursing through your system, but the sensation only intensifies. Focusing on the sounds of the night, hoping they’ll calm down the tempest within; but even the gentle rustling of trees sounds like a deafening roar. The once refreshing gust that swept over you now feels like a tantalizing stroke, sending your nerves alight.

Confusion sets in as you start to feel an uncontrollable need for Leon, a hunger that you can't explain. You try to push it away, but the urge grows stronger with each passing moment until it consumes you completely. You begin to tremble, feeling as if you're on the brink of losing control.

You look down at Leon, feeling both embarrassed and ashamed. The urge like a vine, coiling around your body, tightening its grip with every passing second.

Hand reaching towards Leon’s, your fingers skim over his naked palm, the gloves previously protecting his hands now discarded on the table. His skin is cold to the touch, a stark contrast to the feverish heat that consumes your own body. Just as you’re about to give in to the fear, a twitch in Leon's hand catches your attention. His fingers curl around yours, gripping them tightly. His eyes slowly flutter open, revealing a deep shade of blue that glistens in the moonlight.

"You had me worried there for a moment," you say with a tight-lipped smile, elbows resting on your knees, fingers digging into the naked flesh there.

You feel like you’re burning. Hot coals pressed into your skin.

You take in his appearance, the way his hair’s matted and sticking to his forehead. Sweat beads on his skin, a testament to the fever that has been plaguing him. His skin’s still pale, but his eyes are no longer clouded with ferocity. They seem clear, focused, and alert.

"I’m sorry," he murmurs again, but this time his voice is stronger, more resolute, "I don’t know what that was."

"Don’t be," you reply gently. You try to comfort him with your words, hoping to ease his troubled mind.

"Let’s just find you a cure."

He nods before sitting up, his movements slow and deliberate. He looks fragile, like a delicate flower that might break with the slightest breeze.

"How long was I out?"

You let out a shaky breath, relieved that he's awake. "Not long," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. Your gaze returns to him, studying his features with an intensity that you can't explain. The sharp planes of his face, the way his jaw tenses as he speaks, the curve of his lips. You try to push the thoughts away, but they persist, like a buzzing fly that won't leave you alone.

"You good to get up?"

"Yeah," Leon exhales.

Dusting the dirt off your knees, you get up and reach out, helping him prop himself up, his body leaning against yours. The heat from his skin seeps into yours, soothing the burning that has been coursing through your veins–

–which doesn’t go unnoticed.

"You’re burning up," he notes. His knuckles lightly press onto the side of your neck, against the jugular vein. Heart thumping, you swallow as you feel the uncomfortable ache between your legs only intensify the longer Leon’s hand remains on your throat.

"Your heart rate’s elevated," his hand finally leaves your skin, "something’s wrong."

With a firm grasp on your upper arm and without much struggle from your side, he beckons you onto the table decorated with all your gear. Skin pricklening with sensation as he guides you onto the table – it’s old wooden surface creaking slightly underneath your weish as you settle onto its surface, feeling the rough wood groan underneath your palms.

The firm press of his hands on your ribcage is like a spark to a fuse, igniting a flame within you. The heat spreads throughout your body, intensifying with each passing moment. You bite down on your lip, trying to hold back the wave of desire that threatens to consume you.

"I’m alright," you assure him, trying to maintain your composure; yet you allow him his hands to roam over your body as if you were actually hurt.

Leon's eyes bore into yours, intense and unwavering. His sharp gaze betrayed his concern, a worry etched into the creases of his forehead. You couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that he was only looking out for you.

As you gaze at him, you notice the veins slowly returning to his skin; slowly faded over, the pinkish hue underneath his eyes seems to conceal them, but only from afar. Up close, you can see the delicate tracery of veins pulsating just beneath the surface of his skin.

"Are you sure?"

There’s worry evident in his voice as he rests his palms next to yours, enclosing you in his arms.

The weight of his touch’s comforting your heating body.

Your hand moves like a feather, tracing the intricate network of veins spreading across the contours of his face; his eyes flicker down, on your legs, as you stay mesmerized (and slowly being consumed by the raw power of your desire) by the way the veins seems to gain color, fill into the same darkness they were before, underneath your touch. As if they were following your lead.

Leon’s breath quickens as you continue. You try to steady yourself, to push back against the growing tide of desire that threatens to overwhelm you, but it's no use.

Leon's eyes meet yours, his gaze intense and unwavering as the color regains its sickly yellow tone, thin black veins dancing inside his irises like ink on paper. You can see the concern there, the worry that something might be wrong, but you also see something else. Something that sends a thrill through you despite the situation. He's looking at you like he wants you, like he's been waiting for this moment for ages.

The air thinkens with a palpable tension as you both hold each other’s gaze, lost in the charged atmosphere between you. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the electricity in the air, the way your heart races in your chest.

"I’m fine," a faint breath leaves your parted lips when your thumb reaches the slightly wider black vein leading towards his lower lip.

Everything after that seems like a haze. As if you’re observing from afar. Watching a play unfold from the balcony. Detached.

Your lips lock with Leon’s with a wild, raw passion.

It’s fervent.

Intense and fueled by a primal yearning that’s been brewing inside you ever since he kissed you a mere hour ago. Your hands grip Leon’s shoulders, steadying yourself against the mass of muscle standing between your legs.

His kisses are searing – cardinal, almost animalistic and completely uncontrolled; fueled by crude desire that seems to consume him fully. He kisses you with reckless abandon, as if he can't get enough of you. His lips are hot and wet against yours, his breath ragged, and you can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he presses himself against you. It's like he's trying to meld his body with yours, to become one with you, and the sheer intensity of it all is almost too much to bear.

Leon’s hand roam over your body with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. Guttural, deep grunts reverberate through your body.

Hands reaching between your bodies, you tug at the shirt covering his torso – the fabric slides over his head like a curtain revealing a work of art. Taut muscles and veins ripple beneath his skin; your eyes pierce into his chest, the mosaic of black veins creating a network of rivers.

As you trace your fingertips over his skin, every nerve ending seems to come alive, humming with a primal energy that electrifies your senses. The heat emanating from his body is like a flame, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the room; his skin’s like silk, soft to the touch, but strong and sturdy underneath.

The scent of sweat and musk fills your nostrils, overwhelming and intoxicating, pulling you in even closer to him. It's like a drug, addicting and heady, and you can't seem to get enough of it. As you run your hands over his chest, feeling the muscles ripple under your touch, you can feel yourself losing control, your body responding to his in the most sensuous way.

Your shirt soon follows Leon's, falling to the ground in a heap as you find yourself back in the kiss. It's like a symphony of tangled limbs, gasping breaths, and frenzied moans, each one building on the last until you're both lost in a wild, primal dance.

"Fuck–"

Everything seems brumous.

A cloud of haze covering your brain.

Feeling the wetness pool between your legs, heart beating heavy and strong against your ribcage, Leon’s name escapes your mouth as his lips move down your neck, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses in their wake; the scrape of his teeth against your skin, nails digging into the flesh of your hips.

As Leon's fingers trace the contours of your curves, the sound of your ragged breaths fills the room, intermingling with the sound of his own. You find yourself lost in the sensation of his touch, the way his fingers seem to know exactly where to go, where to press, where to tease.

Your bodies collide with a force that leaves you gasping for air. Like the collision of two stars, sending shockwaves through the universe.

Unbridled desire. Wild, untamed dance of bodies.

No longer two separate beings, but a single entity, fused together in a frenzy of passion.

Leon's hands move with a speed and precision that makes your head spin, as he undresses you with an urgency that feels primal. His lips, soft yet insistent, cover yours in a heady, dizzying kiss that leaves you breathless.

It's overwhelming, intoxicating, and all-consuming–

–addicting.

The room spins as you lose yourself in the frenzy of desire. Every touch, every kiss, every breath ignites a fire deep within you, a hunger that can only be sated by this man before you.

His fingers find your cunt–wet, completely soaked as if you’ve already being fucked; yet he hasn’t even touched you.

"Jesus Christ," Leon groans upon the feeling of your slick walls enveloping his fingers, "you’re already soaked."

Head tilted back, your hips buck into his hand as he traces the length of your cunt, pressing his thumb against your aching clit. Pain shoots up your body, spreading like venom. It's almost too much, the intensity of it all, but you find yourself craving more, unable to resist the addictive pull that Leon has over you.

Sweet as poison.

A plague.

The tension in your muscles melts away with each inch of Leon’s fingers sinking inside you; a groan escapes your lips as sense of release washes over you; the tension in your body melts away, like ice thawing under a warm sun. Eyes closed, you focus on the sensation of Leon’s fingers pushing deeper, stretching you in a way that feels both strange and satisfying.

Your mind is clouded with a dizzying cocktail of lust and desire as Leon takes control, his touch igniting a fierce hunger that you can't ignore.

Your hand grips his hair, feeling the strands slipping between your fingers like silk. You pull him towards you, wanting to be as close to him as possible. His eyes meet yours, and you see the intensity in them, a hunger that matches your own.

"Fuck me, Leon—"

The words spill out of your mouth before you can even think. Your body has taken over, consumed by a desire that you can no longer control.

—you just can't help yourself anymore.

As Leon strips down, piece by piece, you find yourself drawn to the way his body moves with such fluidity. Your eyes take in every inch of him, from the rippling muscles to the way the light dances across his skin. Leon’s body completely covered by the system of ebony veins, your eyes following the lines for a second.

It's as if his body was made to be admired, and you find yourself doing just that.

The vulnerability of the moment is not lost on you, and the thrill of it all sends a jolt of excitement racing through your veins. Here you are, both of you completely naked, with nothing to hide. It's as if you've shed your layers of clothing and your inhibitions along with it, leaving only raw desire in its wake. The air between you is charged, electrified with anticipation and lust, and you can't wait to explore every inch of him.

Leon follows your order. Hand wrapping around his throbbing cock, your legs spread wider to accomodate his hips. Your eyes fixate on the thick, pulsating vein that runs along his length, now pitch black in color; like a lightning strike, surrounded by smaller ebony veins.

With each pump of his hand, the bulging head glistens with precum, taunting your hungry cunt.

His name leaves your mouth in a gasp as the tip brushes against your slick folds, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. His eyes meet yours, dark with desire and a hint of mischief, as he teases your entrance with the blunt head of his cock. His hips move forward, the tip disappearing inside you, stretching you wide with a delicious ache.

His arm reaches forward; guiding you down to lie onto the rough surface of the wooden table as he slowly splits you apart. The bark of the table scratches against your skin, adding an edge to the pleasure that courses through your body.

Once fully buried inside you, he stills.

Only momentarily.

As he sinks deeper, Leon's hand finds your collarbone, securing his grip. The roughness of his thumb grazes the sensitive skin of your throat as his hand sneaks underneath your knee to bring your legs higher – wrapping them around the narrow of his waist, you urge him deeper while wrapping your fingers around his forearm, feeling the muscles tense, veins darken.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare into Leon's eyes, now obscured by the black veins that writhe across the blue irises. The intensity of his gaze burns through you, stoking the flames of your desire to a fever pitch.

With a fierce growl, he ruts against you. Wild.

Leon’s a primal force, a beast unleashed, and you revel in the raw, savage power of his movements. His grip on your collarbone is almost painful, but you crave the sensation, the way it anchors you to the earth as he pounds into you with abandon.

Like an animal focused on breeding; there’s nothing but pure ferocity in the way his hips snaps against you–

– and you welcome it. Meeting his thrust.

The rough bark of the wooden table digs into your skin, but you barely register the pain as waves of pleasure wash over you.

Letting him absolute ravage you. Bring you to the brink of ecstasy way too soon. The smooth, velvety skin of his cock slides in and out of you, hitting all the right spots with unerring accuracy. You can feel the heat building inside you, the coil of pleasure winding tighter until it's all you can do to hold on.

The sight of him, his eyes dark and wild, the veins snaking across his skin like living things, only serves to stoke the fire inside you Moans mix with guttural noises; grunt, growls. Everything mixes together in one dance of primal breed.

Cock-drunk.

Fucked stupid.

That’s how you’d described the feeling when his thumb presses against the front of your throat, hooks underneath the necklace he gave you to your first anniversary.

String of curses, incoherent sentences and something vaguely resembling your name leaves Leon’s lips, painted over with black veins, eyes wide open and staring straight at you. His hand moves to toy with your clit; yet just the single flick, the rough touch uncoils the tightness inside your abdomen. Mouth open, back arched, a silent scream pushes itself out your throat.

But Leon doesn’t stop. The way your walls flutter, squeeze his cock only add to the primarity of it all. Securing his hand behind your neck, he lifts your body up, lips connecting with yours in a heated kiss as his thrusts increase.

A pathetic whine leaves your lips when he pulls back completely. Hands gripping your sides, you gasp when he single-handedly turns you around. Pain shoots through your body as he slams back inside you in one single thrust.

The table creaks and groans beneath the weight of your bodies as Leon relentlessly pounds into you.

His hips meet the flesh of your ass every time his cock kisses your womb – at least that’s how deep he feels. The air thick with the scent of sex, you groan when Leon’s hands grip your hips, forcefully pulling you towards his snapping hips to meet his thrust.

Slick with sweat, you can feel his body heat radiating against your own.

You reach one hand behind you in a feeble attempt to feel him underneath your palms. Nails digging into the wood, your fingers manage to sneak into his hair; grabbing a fistful, you force his face towards yours.

The muscles in your neck strain painfully as you tilt your head to the side to connect your lips in a teeth-clashing kiss – all while Leon’s hand sneak to tease your oversensitive clit while the other covers your hand on the table.

Meeting his thrusts, you stay in rhythm as you feel your high approaching again. Spreading your legs more apart, arching your back, the new angle allows Leon to hit deeper. To split you apart.

"Fuck!"

The pain mixes with pleasure, and you can't help but cry out in ecstasy.

"Oh my god–"

His teeth sink into your flesh, the stinging ache sends you over the edge. It feels almost as if he managed to break the skin atop. With each thrust, it felt like he was hammering against the tight seal of her womb, trying to break through it with sheer force.

The room echoes with the sound of skin slapping against skin as he relentlessly pounds into you. His cock feels like a battering ram, delivering a punishing blow with every thrust. You can feel the impact reverberate through your body, causing you to shudder and gasp for air. It's as if he's trying to breach the walls of your very being, to leave his mark on you in the most primal and intimate way possible.

"Fuck; Leon–’m gonna cum–gonna–"

You feel your cunt pulce around him, like a drumbeat racing against his teeth sinking into your delicate skin. A surge of ecstasy floods your veins, a heady cocktail of pleasure and victory that weighs heavily on your mind like an anchor.

You arch your back, pushing against his chest and whispering his name into the frosty night air as his thrusts become unsteady.

Leon's tongue traces the bite mark he left on you, hands gripping you tightly as he drives himself deeper into your slick heat. His groans mix with the sound of flesh smacking together, his balls slapping against your wetness with each thrust. You cry out as he sends you spiraling into another wave of pleasure.

As he moves inside you, you can feel every inch of him. His muscles ripple against your skin and his breath is hot on your neck. His hands grip you tightly, pulling you closer and deeper onto him.

You convulse around him, your body responding to his every touch. His groans intensify, as he thrusts even harder into you, giving into the raw passion between you. He pulses deep inside of you, filling you up with his warmth.

"Fuck!"

As he moans out your name, his lips trace a path across your skin leaving a trail of wetness. You can feel the heat emanating from his hands as he grips you tightly, branding you with his touch. His body trembles as he savors the last remnants of pleasure, and the evidence of his desire stains your insides like a lustrous sheen of polished marble.

He’s branded you inside and out.

Infected you with his venom.

Your skin is hypersensitive to his touch, as if each nerve is its own entity, firing off signals that jolt through your entire body. The dull ache of pleasure and pain radiates from the points where he grips you, leaving you feeling like a canvas painted in shades of blue and purple–

–and black.

As his weight presses down on you, you feel a dull ache spread through your body, every nerve ending alive and sensitized from his touch. You can still feel the ghostly imprint of his fingers on your skin, branding you with his touch.

His forehead is hot against your shoulder, the dampness of his breath tickling your skin as he rides out the last waves of his release. Each thrust feels like a punch to your gut, leaving you reeling and gasping for air.

The sticky wetness between your thighs is a testament to his desire, a reminder of how deeply he claimed you as his own. You feel the pulse of his spent cock still buried inside you.

Your gaze follows the lines of black veins snaking up his forearm, a stark contrast to his now pinkish skin. You watch as they slowly fade from sight, disappearing like a memory slipping away. Each movement feels heavy, weighted down by the aftermath of his passion.

After a while, Leon finally withdraws from you, a pang of loss echoes through your body, leaving you empty and longing for more of his touch. The heat of his body lingers on yours, branding you with his mark and making it hard to differentiate where his skin ends and yours begins.

You close your eyes, still feeling the ghostly touch of his lips and fingers on your skin, as if he's imprinted himself upon you forever. The room is filled with the heavy scent of sex, a reminder of the raw passion that just transpired.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

I love being a wild card in this fandom.  

What I love about Sauron/Mairon x Galadriel is that their dynamic isn’t some basic Light vs. Dark nonsense. Because this is Tolkien, not some Hollywood digested cr*p, as the professor says himself:

Some reviewers have called the whole thing simple-minded, just a plain fight between Good and Evil, with all the good just good, and the bad just bad. Pardonable, perhaps (though at least Boromir has been overlooked) in people in a hurry, and with only a fragment to read, and, of course, without the earlier written but unpublished Elvish histories. But the Elves are not wholly good or in the right. Not so much because they had flirted with Sauron; as because with or without his assistance they were 'embalmers'. They wanted to have their cake and eat it: to live in the mortal historical Middle-earth because they had become fond of it (and perhaps because they there had the advantages of a superior caste), and so tried to stop its change and history, stop its growth, keep it as a pleasaunce, even largely a desert, where they could be 'artists' – and they were overburdened with sadness and nostalgic regret. Tolkien, Letter 154

This is what I've been telling you guys. The Elves are not hopeless victims of Sauron, nor are they the "heroes" of the story. Tolkien lore is complex, it's not "pure Good vs. pure Evil" like the "lorebros" or the Peter Jackson fanboys claim. Stop believing their nonsense, they don't know what they are talking about. The battle of “good vs. evil”, in Tolkien legendarium, ultimately, happens within each character.

When they first met, Mairon and Galadriel both turned their backs on literal heaven (Valinor) because of their pride: Galadriel wanted the glory of seeking and destroying Sauron for herself; Mairon couldn’t bring himself to face judgement from the Valar. Mairon was the repentant sinner, while Galadriel was on her way to become one.

Galadriel is a literal ticking bomb, ready to explode and turn Dark at any moment, in "Rings of Power". Mairon was drawn to the darkness within her, and not to her “light” (this is another way he self-deceives himself). Her “light” (= Two Trees of Valinor) is merely aesthetic. She doesn’t have that light, and that’s why she’ll use Nenya, and her Mirror and her Phial to harvest purest Light, and become the “Lady of Light”.

In “Rings of Power” there is a clue that Mairon might be blood bound to Morgoth, and, so, he’s always unconsciously seeking his former master, and that’s why he wanted to serve Galadriel. Because he's a Maia, he was created to be a servant to a Vala. The deal, wasn't her becoming his servant, but the other way around.

And we are talking about Sauron, here: his whole character arc is not one of redemption, so he the interest he believes he has on "Light" is not real, it's one of his self-deceptions. And for Sauron to never stop grouping Galadriel’s mind, thousands of years into the future, when he’s already officially the “shadow of Morgoth” it’s because he recognizes her potential for darkness, not her light.  

This doesn’t mean that he’s unredeemable, mind you. Tolkien’s work is infused with Christian doctrine (mainly Catholicism), and in this religion one can always find redemption and forgiveness if one actually repents for their sins, and makes amends for them (which will be Galadriel's case). And this is also present in Tolkien lore: no character is unredeemable on his world. But in the legendarium, after refusing to stand trial before the Valar, Sauron never truly repents, and becomes the "a reincarnation of Evil" aka Morgoth come again.

And there is Sauron. In the Silmarillion and Tales of the First Age Sauron was a being of Valinor perverted to the service of the Enemy and becoming his chief captain and servant. He repents in fear when the First Enemy is utterly defeated, but in the end does not do as was commanded, return to the judgement of the gods. He lingers in Middle-earth [Halbrand]. Very slowly, beginning with fair motives: the reorganising and rehabilitation of the ruin of Middle-earth, neglected by the gods', he becomes a reincarnation of Evil, and a thing lusting for Complete Power – and so consumed ever more fiercely with hate (especially of gods and Elves). All through the twilight of the Second Age the Shadow is growing in the East of Middle-earth, spreading its sway more and more over Men – who multiply as the Elves begin to fade. Tolkien Letter 131

Sauron was of course not 'evil' in origin. He was a 'spirit' corrupted by the Prime Dark Lord (the Prime sub-creative Rebel) Morgoth. He was given an opportunity of repentance, when Morgoth was overcome, but could not face the humiliation of recantation, and suing for pardon; and so his temporary turn to good and 'benevolence' ended in a greater relapse, until he became the main representative of Evil of later ages. But at the beginning of the Second Age he was still beautiful to look at, or could still assume a beautiful visible shape – and was not indeed wholly evil, not unless all 'reformers' who want to hurry up with 'reconstruction' and 'reorganization' are wholly evil, even before pride and the lust to exert their will eat them up. The particular branch of the High-Elves concerned, the Noldor or Loremasters, were always on the side of 'science and technology', as we should call it: they wanted to have the knowledge that Sauron genuinely had, and those of Eregion refused the warnings of Gil-galad and Elrond. Tolkien Letter 153

Halbrand was repentant Mairon. Annatar is Mairon falling back into evil.

Galadriel is not yet the “repentant sinner” Tolkien described her to be, in his legendarium, either. In Season 2, she doesn’t own up to her actions, and is still making excuses for them: “I was deceived”; “Sauron used me”; “Under his harp I was played to a melody not of my choosing”, bla bla bla.

She’s still in self-denial about her actions in Season 1: she’s the one who tempted Mairon with promises of power and, pretty much directly, caused him to choose deception over redemption, and condemned Middle-earth to Sauron’s tyranny (this is also somewhat compatible to what Tolkien wrote, because in the lore the Elves are also to blame).

And I’m almost certain she’ll have to f*ck up even harder in order to have a “eye opening” moment. Because one can’t really be a “penitent” (using Tolkien’s words) unless one takes ownership of one's actions, and makes the conscious decision to atone for them. 

[such-a-daydreamer]

This is such a stupid AU idea but I love it.

I'm calling it the "Chill Bill" AU and it's exactly what it says on the tin.

If you're curious, check it out under the cut :p

There's comics at the bottom if you don't feel like reading

So basically, Bill in this AU isn't AS cynical as cannon Bill. Like sure, he still destroyed his home dimension, but he's not going around turning people inside out for fun.

In this AU, Bill convinced people that he was a god, starting a whole new religion and everything. Bill then goes on to NOT do anything that would get people to think he's evil (cuz he ain't) so the people find no reason to turn against him.

Humanity comes together and advances tech faster than normal to create Bill's portal. He comes to earth around the 1940s, and DOES NOT turn evrerything into chaos. He's actually the reason the second world war came to an end, but is partially also the reason there were world wars at all.

Bill has his usual personality, nothing about that changed, it's just his actions that do. Humanity built a lot of things in his honour, and Bill is EATING IT UP. Like, yeah, ngl he's got a god complex with humanity, but he still cares for them.

Bill is usually in the general assembly (or an equivanlent) most likely sitting on a big ass throne sorting through human problems. After like, seven decades dealing with human bs he's getting a little tired of it. But he does genuinely help out

Bill does like,, dissapear to go visit other dimensions and stuff when he gets sick of earth, but he always returns. Humans celebrate when he does. Unless Bill has given direct permission, no one is allowed to enter the portal. So far, no human has seen the other side.

Sometimes he even brings other interdimensional beings through the portal to show off how much humanity loves him. On rare occasions, these visitors try to take advantage and wreak a lil havock, and Bill plays the hero to save them.

Anywayyy here's some comics

Ford and Stan adventuring through Alternate Universes and ending up in Chill Bill's one

Bill's first encounter with Stan and Ford

Bill gets obsessed with trying to get Stan and Ford to like him and prove that "not all Bills are bad" but lowkey makes it worse

[chainmail-butch]

A Speech For the Colonist.

It is my opinion that communist movements within the US fail because they refuse to address decolonization.

It is my further opinion that the contradiction between colonizer and colonized supercedes the contradiction of class. The Native American Nations are colonized, Black people are colonized, Hispanic people are colonized. Colonization is the key to white supremacy and white supremacy is the key to class within the United States and Canada.

If you talk to most white communists about decolonization within the United States you'll get things like, "Well, decolonization will come with the revolution because we'll give the people the autonomy and resources they need to care for their communities." This is the exact same rhetoric that alienated black revolutionaries from the American Communist Party in the 60s. "Under communism every worker will have what he needs and be able to give according to his means, so we don't need to worry about race."

Comrade, we do. We do need to worry about race. We cannot simply wish a reality away because in our minds Everyone Will Be White in a communist society.

We need to acknowledge the fact that every single White Person within the United States, and the rest of the Americas for that matter, is a colonist. Our institutions are colonial. Our industry is colonial. Our cities are colonial. Our infrastructure is colonial. Our lawns are colonial. Every single aspect of our lives has its roots in colonization.

We still plunder the earth like we're sending silver and timber back to England and Spain.

By pretending that we are not colonists we make it impossible to address the ways in which we colonize. By ignoring the ways in which we colonize we fail to address the ways in which we are imperialist. By failing to address our imperialism we fail address capitalism.

We are colonists. Pretending that this isn't the case doesn't make it any less reality.

You'll acknowledge the fact that we live on stolen land but would you hand Seattle back to the Duwamish? Would you cede Delaware back to the Lenape? Would you take up arms, and then lay them down to a nation of people that are unlike you? Would you take up arms and lay them down again for a nation of people that you might not agree with politically? Have you confronted your fear that they would treat you just like we treat them?

For that matter, how have you addressed your conception of Black Nationalism? Any white communist will tell you that Nationalism as a concept is counter-revolutionary but how do you address the fact that there is an entire race of people who were ripped from their homes and forced to colonize another land? The solution certainly isn't Liberia, which is itself a colonial exercise.

How do you address the fact that any black person will tell you that a nation created for and by black americans would be a pretty good deal in their book? How do address the fact that our colonial nation isn't their nation and they know it? What do you do? Do you call them reactionary? Do you tell them that their desire for a home of their own is because we orphaned their ancestors and that they need to get over it?

Comrade, these are the questions you need to answer. You need to listen to the people we have colonized and you need to really observe our material conditions.

We live with the unique situation that, as a result of a vicious and often ignored genocide, the colonizers are the majority ethnic group within the colonized land. White people make up 57% of this country. And unlike other colonized regions, there's no France for us to return to. There's no England, there's no Belgium, there's no Netherlands, there's no Spain. The working class white is stuck here. It's up to us to address our own reality and to understand that, ultimately, no way and no how can we be the face of revolution within the united states.

No white led communist movement will prosper because, even now, we still have too much to lose. Our people will never start the fight as we are now. Understand that.

[designation-zi]

Murder Drones Timeline of Events

Disclaimer: Most of this is speculation based off of background details and conjecture. Subject to change. If you notice anything I missed feel free to comment and I’ll make adjustments :)

Proceeding Events:

Sometime in the Future, around the 31st Century

- Humanity becomes advanced enough to venture into space and establish colonies and civilizations on exoplanets in other solar systems. Some of these include the “Proxima System”, “Plat-Binary System”, and the “Copper System.”

- JCJenson, an interstellar megacorporation creates a brand of autonomous robots known as “Worker Drones” to serve humanity and mine resources on the exoplanets. One of these planets is Copper-9 from the Copper System.

- Worker Drones are heavily abused and mistreated by humans, often being improperly disposed of and thrown into landfills.

- JCJenson is aware of the fact their drones have a chance of self rebooting if disposed of incorrectly, dubbing these “Zombie Drones.” This can happen if the drone and their core wasn’t properly disconnected and destroyed, or the software cleanup program “wdOS_606” wasn’t installed or was interrupted or rejected (even up to five years later.) The company is also aware that among these instances, there’s also a chance of the drone developing “Hazardous Mutations.”

- Camp 98.7 is established in the year 3002 on Copper-9.

Humanity’s Downfall:

Year still unknown, but still in the 31st Century

-Underneath a landfill of discarded drones on Earth, presumably in Australia, a drone with a P/N starting with “CYN” self reboots. A so called program named the “Absolute Solver” seemingly contacts her through her broken visor and appears to make a deal with her, promising not to “discard her.” This is how the Solver gets its first host. It’s not known if the Solver took complete control there or if Cyn’s possession was a process.

- The landfill is close by to the mansion of a wealthy human family known as the Elliotts. Their daughter “Tessa James Elliott” enjoys retrieving discarded drones from the landfill so she can repair them. These drones become part of the manor’s wait staff, but Tessa treats them like people and as her friends, even giving them wigs so they can have identifying traits — much to the annoyance of her parents.

- Among the drones Tessa has brought home three are known as N, V, and J due to their serial designation numbers visible on their yellow armbands. It can be noted that it seems Tessa scratched out the “Marked For Disassembly” on the bands with sharpie after she repaired them.

- One day Tessa finds Cyn in the dump and brings her home. She introduces her to N, V, and J shortly after.

- N treats Cyn kindly, and she refers to him as her big brother.

- An unknown amount of time passes and eventually Tessa seems to become unnerved around Cyn due to the drone’s odd behaviour and mannerisms. J often locks Cyn in the library basement because of this.

- Many of Tessa’s drones seem to mysteriously contract some sort of error which leaves them in a catatonic state with their visors flashing a large yellow X alongside the words “error 606” (note that 606 matches the software cleanup program’s name of wdOS_606.) Because of this they are placed into the library. One of these drones is V, who N regularly visits so he can try and talk to her and read to her.

- The Elliotts’s decide to throw a gala at their manor alongside another family called the Frumptlebuckets (lol.) An interesting observation is that these wealthy humans (or at least those in the Elliott’s social circle) apparently like to dress up and act similar to those from around the Victorian era.

- Cyn escapes from the basement and convinces N to attend the gala, so they head to the ballroom to ask Tessa. This ends up leading to an altercation with Tessa’s mother Louisa where she orders Tessa to dump Cyn and all of her other “broken” drones in the library back into the landfill.

- Cyn talks back to Louisa, but N takes the fall for her and ends up being chained outside next to a dead drone that had been picked apart by a flock of crows. Meanwhile, Tessa has been chained up in her bedroom alongside J and Cyn as punishment. This, alongside an earlier scene where she seemingly rubs her wrist in pain implies this happens fairly often to her and highlights that her parents are abusive.

- Tessa berates Cyn for N taking the blame for her, angered that N may end up dead. However, Cyn seems indifferent and calmly claims she has “backups” of N.

- Cyn transforms into her horrific eldritch Solver form and claims Tessa won’t have to “discard her pets” and that she won’t discard her either. She leaves out the window after warning Tessa to stay away from the gala due to her seeming squeamish, revealing her intent to massacre the humans.

- Wanting to save everyone from being killed, Tessa gets J to break their chains and the two of them sneak out and arm themselves with a revolver and sword respectively. Despite this, after they arrive everyone is massacred anyways thanks to Cyn/the Solver corrupting the other Worker Drones, including J, who shuts the door so Tessa can’t escape.

- It’s assumed N escapes being killed by the crows and walks in on Cyn slaughtering the humans at the gala due to a brief flashback of him seeing Cyn eating a human hand (when he touches the Zombie Drones VHS tape.)

- Tessa is killed, and in a twisted way of sticking to her word of not discarding her, Cyn skins her corpse to graft it onto her drone body. (Due to an image of humans in hazmat suits finding Tessa surrounded by the remains of the people from the gala, it’s not fully known if Cyn also killed her at the gala and then posed as her, or if she was killed shortly afterwards.)

- Cyn converts the drones from the manor, including N, V, and J into deadly “Disassembly Drones.” They are given a “nerfed” version of the Solver that Cyn has admin access over to better remain control over them. Their memories are erased before setting them loose to slaughter the rest of the humans on Earth. Sometime after, the Solver causes the planet to implode into a black hole.

- The other colonies on the human exoplanets catch wind of what’s happened back on Earth, so JCJenson establishes “Cabin Fever Labs” to research the Solver and how to stop it.

- One of these labs is established on Copper-9 at Camp 98.7 and its surrounding mineshafts (and a cathedral that was there for some reason.) Multiple drones are purposely given the Solver, notably Nori (002) and Yeva (048.)

- The other exoplanets of the Proxima and Plat-Binary systems are corrupted and wiped out due to the Solver spreading and the Disassembly Drones presumably being sicced there.

- Nori ends up becoming possessed by the Solver. Eventually the JCJenson scientists on Copper-9 are able to create a Crucifix USB patch that can get rid of the Solver’s hold on its hosts. This patch is seemingly only successfully used on Yeva. Unfortunately, before it can be used on Nori, the Solver uses her to kill all the scientists except for an intern named Mitchell who had mistakenly put on the wrong uniform of a doctor and had been sent to fetch Yeva.

- Before the Solver can kill Mitchell after he returns, Yeva saves him and throws the USB into Nori’s face which frees her from its control, but also leaves her mind scrambled. However, the Solver is still able to create a small black hole with Nori’s hand that Yeva is forced to cut off. It’s sent falling into a pit to the planet’s core that the Solver had opened up prior.

- Copper-9’s planetary core partly implodes which wipes all organic life off the planet and turns it into a frozen wasteland. (Don’t worry. The dogs had been evacuated beforehand.) It seems a group of humans tried to survive by cryogenically freezing themselves in a bunker called “Outpost 3” in one of Copper-9’s cities. This didn’t work due to the computer having an error. This leaves the Worker Drones to inherit the planet and embrace their freedom.

Aftermath:

Year still unknown

- Nori and Yeva escape Cabin Fever Labs, while other test subjects such as Alice (017) are left behind to try and survive the lab’s Anti Drone sentinels. Nori meets a drone named Khan Doorman and ends up marrying him while Yeva also finds herself a husband.

- Uzi Doorman and Doll are created by their parents uploading parts of their code into Untrained Neural Networks and they both inherit their mothers’ connections to the Solver.

- The Doorman family experiences moments of happy family memories until Nori begins to have “kooky insane” ramblings and visions about the Solver and Disassembly Drones which she refers to as “Sky Demons” as a result of her brain being scrambled from the USB patch.

- Nori tries to warn the other drones and tells Khan to build doors to shelter themselves from the upcoming dangers.

Return of the Solver:

Sometime before the year 3071

- Cyn/The Solver sends squads of Disassembly Drones to Copper-9. Their memories are wiped and they are made to believe they were created and sent by the humans of JCJenson to eliminate the rogue Worker Drone population. Their directive also involves piling their kills into a “Corpse Spire” and locating Cabin Fever Labs. Cyn also wants to kill all other Solver hosts for an unknown reason.

- The squad consisting of N, V, and J lands close to the bunker of Outpost 3 and begin killing any Worker Drones they come across.

- V is seemingly the only Disassembly Drone that has retained some memory of Cyn and the Solver. She keeps this to herself and follows her directive so Cyn will leave her alone. Additionally, she also pretends to forget about N, believing this will protect him.

- A colony of Worker Drones takes shelter in Outpost 3 where Khan starts to build protective doors like his wife had requested. Around this time Nori is stung with a Disassembly Drone’s nanite acid. Khan uses a wrench to put her out of her misery. However, unbeknownst to anyone else, Nori manages to survive in her Solver core/heart form and goes back to Cabin Fever Labs so she can look for the Crucifix USB Patch.

- V kills Doll’s parents. Doll witnesses this while hiding and the trauma seemingly causes her Solver abilities to begin manifesting.

- The “Worker Drone Defence Force” is established in Outpost 3 with Khan as the leader. Unfortunately, they don’t really try to defend anything and just play cards behind the doors.

- The other Disassembly Drone squads that make it to Cabin Fever Labs are killed by either the Sentinels or Alice and (presumably) her son Beau. Alice scavenges parts from Disassembly Drones and Worker Drones to add to herself and Beau since he is stuck in an Untrained Neural Network body. She also learns to put the Solver cores in heat as it “makes them sluggish.”

Year 3071

- The events of episodes 1 - 7 occur

• Recent Revelation: At the end of episode 3 Cyn arrives on Copper-9 impersonating an older Tessa. She is accompanied by a backed up copy of J who was previously killed by Uzi in episode 1. It’s currently unknown if J is aware that Tessa is actually dead.

[tracybirds]

Started this a wee while ago because @astranite and I were excitedly discussing astronomy textbooks and in particular BOB which is a real astronomy textbook for the undergraduate level, written by Carroll and Ostie as mentioned in the fic. We started joking about Lucille being an academic and writing the second BOB and then well... this happened :P

Many thanks both to @astranite and @gumnut-logic who have both read bits of this at some point - I hope you enjoy the finished fic!

---

"Imagine a world with no stars."

John reached down, brushing his fingers across the familiar preface, the uncomfortable weight of his mother's textbook feeling like home.

"Hi Mom," he whispered, his heart aching as he turned the pages.

Her orange highlighter was everywhere, notes in her clear, rounded hand scattered across every paragraph as month by month, year by year, she read yet another paper that strengthened the collective understanding of the universe. He knew that some of these notes made it into the second, third, and even fourth editions of BOBv2, but others lay dormant, waiting for a fifth edition that would never come.

Until now.

John took a steadying breath. He hadn’t dared to touch his mom’s personal copy of the astrophysics textbook that had redefined a generation in years. The Tracy text, with its dry wit and clear conceptual language, voiced with an undeniable love for the heavens above, similarly ignited a passion in everyone who read it. John was too young to know exactly when BOBv2 – the Big Orange Book – had become the standard text, but in doing so, Lucille Tracy had cemented her name as one of the great educationalists of modern astronomy. A companion to the original Carroll & Ostie, a text that delved with enthusiasm into every branch of space science, his mom had inspired a generation of astronomers.

His mom had inspired him.

And, as it turned out, there were people who wanted to see that legacy continued.

John scanned the email that had arrived without fanfare in his inbox that morning, though he already knew every word.

“Dear Mr. Tracy…” it began, and John knew they hadn’t meant him. Scott had forwarded the email himself, not reading beyond the subject line that mentioned only the title of the astronomy textbook he held in his hands.

This was how John learnt that his mom’s old publishing company were seeking permission to engage a new author to perform the necessary revisions for a new edition. John had never thought of Scott as being the executor of their parents’ estate, had never given much thought to any of the legalities of what their parents had created.

He glanced up as TB5 rounded the dark side of the Earth, the familiar patch of ocean his family called home slowly moving towards sunset.

His brother had gotten home less than an hour ago and it was for this reason, John told himself, that he hadn’t drawn attention to Scott’s error.

In truth, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

Well.

That wasn’t quite true.

John’s grip tightened around the book as he steadied himself once more.

This text had belonged to everyone, that’s how his mom had wanted it, and that’s what John would want too.

He connected to Scott’s line.

With each ring, his heart sank further and further.

“Hey John, wha–”

“Don’t do it,” blurted John.

Scott’s blue face scrunched up as he peered at him through the holo. “Don’t do what?” he asked.

“Mom’s book, let me instead,” said John, his words beginning to stumble across themselves in his hurry to make Scott understand. “I can do it, just don’t let someone else take it away from her.”

“Woah, woah,” said Scott, looking more alarmed with every second. “Nobody’s going to take Mom away from you, what are you talking about.”

“They want to revise BOB,” said John desperately.

Scott’s silence rang between them, a pause that filled the distance between them before John huffed and thrust the book into the holocam.

“BOB,” he said impatiently, “Mom’s textbook, the Big Orange Book the Second.”

“Can you.. can you start from the beginning, John,” said Scott weakly.

John’s fingers twitched, struggling to steady his shaky inhalations.

“Mom’s publishing company sent you an email. You sent it to me so I read it, but it was for you.”

With every word, John willed Scott to hear him, to understand what he was asking. It wasn’t the revision that was troubling him, John had worked alongside academics too long to question the need for an updated edition as new evidence emerged and new lines of reasoning developed into discoveries.

“It’s the only link to her that’s just mine,” he said quietly. “I have to share everything else, and maybe that’s selfish of me to ask, Scott, but I want this one. I don’t want someone to overwrite her words, her passion, her memory with a fake. Someone who’s just pretending they could ever know what she would have said.”

“I can say no,” suggested Scott, but every fibre of John’s being rebelled at the thought.

What was worse, he wondered, to remain true to her memory and thus condemn his mother’s greatest achievement to history? Or to give up his claim to her and allow her work to shine anew, albeit polished with a varnish he’d never known.

Obscurity or lies?

John knew which he’d choose.

It felt like burying her all over.

“John,” said Scott hesitantly. “Would you want to do it?”

John’s eyes widened. At once a thousand reasons to say no erupted, his mind running through emergency scenarios and the intensive workload that revising a beast like BOBv2 would take, not to mention remembering the half a dozen other projects he’d made promises to look at when he got a chance.

There was no chance he would ever be able to agree to what Scott was suggesting.

There was no chance he’d ever say no.

“How?” he asked breathlessly.

“We’d make it work for you, John, you know we would,” said Scott. “We’d do it for Mom, but we’d also do it for you.”

John’s smile was wobbly, and he rapidly blinked back the tears that welled in his eyes as warmth flooded and swelled in his chest.

“Then let’s do it,” he said hoarsely.

***

“John!” shouted Alan, racing up the stairs two at a time. “You’ve got a package, Grandma picked it up on the mainland, it’s here – it’s here!”

John leapt up from the sofa, his quiet conversation with Brains and Virgil forgotten in a heartbeat as he reached out with eager hands.

“Scott, Gordon!” bellowed Alan, running outside and leaning over the balcony’s edge. “Hurry up, John’s book is here.”

There was a mad scramble, water splashing all over, but John hardly heard it, his hands turning the brown paper over and over. He could feel the bio-bubble packing material, its gentle give beneath his fingers making him doubt the reality of what he was about to find.

Alan slammed into his side, legs bouncing with excitement. John could see the amused glances traded between Virgil and Gordon out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored them, suddenly terrified that he’d ruined his Mom’s book forever.

“We all know you gave it everything,” said Scott, dripping water all across the floor as he gripped John’s shoulder with firm encouragement. “She’d be proud too. Let’s see it.”

The spine was orange, the dusky colour of sunsets as the night gave way to twilight and the field of astronomy arose. Tracy & Tracy stood out, stark white and magical. Each leaf was glossy and vibrant, full of excitement and wonder.

He glanced down at Alan, whose eyes were wide in awe, and smiled, opening the book to the dedication page.

To Jeff, who travelled my stars and inspired my heart. – L.T. 1st edition To Scott, John, and Virgil, who helped me to dream. – L.T. 2nd edition To Gordon, who gave me new adventures. – L.T. 3rd edition To Alan, for all the skies we’ve seen together  – J.T. 5th edition

John wrapped an arm around Alan, who had gone still as he read.

“It was time you were added to the Tracy text,” he said quietly.

Alan only hugged him back.

“It looks incredible, John,” said Virgil. “It’s all paid off.”

One by one, everyone gave their congratulations and wandered off, the novelty soon wearing thin. Even Alan slipped away, his video games beginning to call, but not before making John promise to get him his own copy.

Eventually, only Scott remained and he fell down on the sofa next to John, watching him quietly as he flipped through the pages one by one.

Soon enough John paused, running his fingers over the familiar foreword, every letter of Lucille’s passion immortalised once again. His foreword came second in deference to the original and, sandwiched between his mother’s words and the contents page, John had allowed himself more sentiment than he usually considered wise in a public sphere, comfortable in the knowledge that only the few who were truly inspired by what he and his mom had made would ever read them.

“She would be proud,” he said with certainty. “Of this, of what we’ve done without her.”

“She would,” Scott agreed. “They both would.”

John nodded, and closed the text, laying it carefully on the coffee table.

His green eyes shimmered earnestly, a mirror of their mother.

“Thank you, Scott,” he said. “For giving me this.”

“It’s yours, John,” said Scott. “Always.”