#many questions to chew and gnaw on

[a-lonely-dunedain]

1, 3, 4, 8, 23, 30, and/or 33 for Margim and Celeair, if any of these tickle your fancy?

ooh ok! that's a lot lol, but these look fun!

1."are they associated with a certain color? what color do they wear the most?"

oh I color code most of my characters! once they've been around long enough they all usually get assigned one. Margim is burgundy and Celeair is silvery blue, I tend to draw them with outfits heavily featuring their respective colors.

3. "weapon of choice? any particular reason they chose their weapon?"

Margim's weapon is a spiked mace, suited to brutal attacks that kill quickly and messily. She didn't exactly choose it, but it was the only thing available to her in Thorzhaf so she just had to get good at killing with it. Really good at killing with it. Celeair has no weapon, as he's a pacifist with no combat skills. As a loremaster he occasionally requires a staff, but only rarely as he doesn't need it for healing (which is most of what he does), so he doesn't usually carry one with him unless to use as a walking stick.

4. "how crafty/resourceful are they?"

as far as fighting is concerned, Margim is used to doing battle in a controlled environment, the same bridge in the same setting day in and day out, so fighting elsewhere might have taken her a little getting used to. As such she's still getting the hang of using her environment to her advantage, as she tends to fall into the habit of seeing her foe through a kind of tunnel vision and not focusing on much else. She has a very blunt and uncomplicated approach to problem solving, usually being "hit it with a mace til it stops being a problem, and if that doesn't work, ask Celeair what to do."

Now I would say Celeair is very resourceful! Between the two of them, he's usually the one with ideas (though he always values Margim's input whenever she gives it). Very 'think on his feet' kinda guy rather than 'plan every part in advance' so he's pretty adaptable even when things go awry.

8. "do they have a nickname? who gave it to them? if it's not derived from their real name, what's the story behind it?"

well I know Margim is sometimes shortened to Mar by Elain, but there's not really much meaning behind it besides "we're friends and I shorten my friends names :>" (Margim certainly prefers it over any title she earned in Thorzhaf)

Celeair is sometimes called Cel (pronounced "Kel" bc this is still a Sindarin C) by his brother. I also feel like Elain would have a sort of nickname for him that isn't derived from his real name, maybe something that started out as a joke but kinda stuck, but nothing has jumped out at me yet.

23. "how would you describe their voice? can they sing?"

Celeair's voice is clear and gentle, and I think he can sing rather well! Margim's voice is quiet, low and almost rumbling at times. It can be a bit husky as well due to how little she speaks. I don't think she's ever tried to sing.

30. "do they smell like anything notable?"

hmm, I never gave much thought to how they would smell. I suppose Celeair would smell pretty strongly of medicinal herbs, but the exact composition can vary depending on what he's been working with. It'd range anywhere from the sweet and fresh (almost minty) smell of Athelas to bright fir needles and pungent poultices. The man basically smells like a walking herb store, which I guess makes sense considering he spends most of his time in such places.

As for Margim, first thing that came to mind was that she smells vaguely smokey? Can't think of a logical reason she would smell that way, at least post-Mordor, besides just *gestures vaguely* vibes™. Maybe smokey and spicy? (some of Celeair's herb smells rubbed off on her. from all the cuddling <3)

33. "if applicable, how would your other characters describe them? i mean specifically the people around them."

well considering Bitter Ash is written from both Celeair and Margim's PoVs, we kinda already know how they'd describe one another, so let's see what my other guys have to say about them! (they have at least met once after all)

Ethedis: likes Celeair a lot, sees him as a very capable healer with an agreeable demeanor. Instantly clocks that this dude has MAXED out his charisma stat, as it wouldn't be easy for just any Gondorian to be welcomed into Dunlanding village like this, and that he's much wiser than his easygoing exterior first lets on. Thinks he would be unstoppable if he honed his offensive Loremaster skills, but understands that hurting anyone would be against his principles. She wishes she could have gotten by on the same path, but the world demanded different things from them.

She was initially wary of Margim, as most people are upon first meeting her, but seeing the genuine trust Celeair has for Margim put her at ease somewhat. She's actually not intimidated by her at all (though she might have been if they met earlier), and is heartened to find such an unexpected and powerful ally. She's difficult for even Ethedis to read, but she got the impression that Margim holds a lot of pain in her past and that Mordor is to blame for it. She'll be the last person in Dunland they need to worry about falling under the sway of the Enemy.

Tossdir: was very wary of Margim upon first meeting and was slower to trust her than Ethedis was, mostly due to past experience with a certain Man of Mordor (*cough* Mordrambor *cough*) messing with his head that one time. I think once he's certain she's on their side and hates the forces of Mordor as much as they do, he would see her as the archetypal 'shady loner with a mysterious past' but he can tell she cares a great deal for the people of the Stag-Clan, and for this random Gondorian who's here too for some reason (he does NOT clock that they are madly in love. so oblivious it's almost embarrassing). He's curious about her past, but understands she wouldn't take kindly to him trying to pry into it, so he keeps a respectable distance. Even if they aren't friends, she's still a foe of Mordor and Isengard, and that at least, makes them allies. Still kinda wishes he knew what her whole deal was...

Speaking of Celeair, I honestly think Tossdir was too distracted by Margim to pay much mind to him in the short time they spent in Trum Dreng lmao. He's a bit odd, like Ethedis in some ways, but seemed like a nice enough guy. Tossdir couldn't say much more about him than that tho.

[claymoresword]

The Queen And Her Knight | Chp: 8

Alicent Hightower x Knight Fem!Reader

Summary: Alicent Hightower against her better judgement, falls in love with her sworn protector. Can she bear to fight her feelings or will she finally just give in?

Pairing: Alicent x Reader

Wordcount: 2.5k

Disclaimer: angst, masc/butch coded reader, alicent is a mess, aemond & y/n, otto is a scheming little prick

Note: honestly idk if it's writers block or just a general lack of motivation but i could not for the life of me convince myself to sit down and write this story lol i'm very sorry for the delay

this chapter doesn't move around too much as it focuses on the events directly after Storm's End. sorry if it's boring... but I really hope it isn't! ok that's it, love y'all

Taglist: @blackbirdv98 @flaiire1805 @alicentfangirl @memarrymilf @thegayassbit-ch @vantestark @hauntedfictionland @livinginafantasysposts @baddie-on-a-mission-xx @evolutionsglory @darthtargnister @dxrewclf @rozmrazaradelfinow @wlwfanfictionss @karsonromanoff

You are jolted out of your slumber with the feeling of Criston's rough hand on your shoulder. "Council meeting, Lord Commander. you have been summoned." 

In your half asleep state, you open your eyes just enough to squint at him, a grimace covers your features. 

"What? Why can't you take the watch, Cole?" You question, rubbing your face in frustration as you sit up in bed. 

You feel a breeze through the open window, it is still noticeably dark out. Nowhere near first light; your expression twists further in confusion. "What hour is it?"

Criston doesn't respond to your inquiry, his jaw is set in a way that always makes him appear mad at the world. "The dowager queen has sent for you, specifically." 

At the mention of Alicent, you quickly tug the blanket off your frame, rising from your bed. "Very well, Ser. I will be out in a moment, just let me dress."

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You observed as Otto Hightower paced the length of the small council chambers, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. His stare is pensive, but he is anxious– despite his meager attempt to conceal it.

Alicent wears a similar look on her face, although instead of pacing she repeatedly brings her fingers up to her lips, gnawing at the skin around her nails.

The sight makes you grimace. Every time you allow yourself to believe she has abandoned the horrid habit, it resurfaces ten fold.

Alicent would manage to chew her fingers until raw and bloody unless you put a stop to it.

Infuriatingly, now you can only afford to rest both hands on the hilt of your sword. You cannot reach out; too many eyes.

The last thing you want is to be seen touching the dowager queen without her leave.

"Your Grace." You chide instead, your voice only loud enough for Alicent to hear.

The dowager queen looks your way, her gaze distant before her eyes finally settle upon your own. 

Your narrowed gaze was enough for her to remove her hand from her mouth, clasping both of them over her belly instead, stifling the impulse.

Something has happened. But what, exactly? 

You want to ask, but the words soon die in your throat as the doors to the chambers open. 

Prince Aemond enters, dressed in his riding attire. His hand propped on the pommel of his longsword, his head held high.

You manage to catch the way Alicent stiffens at the sight of him.

Something is wrong, very wrong.

"Prince Aemond, I am certain we are all eager to find out what matter is so pressing that it requires our immediate audience at this time of night." Ser Tyland is first to address the obvious issue that's been left unspoken. 

The Lannister's annoyance represents that of the other men in the room. It is thinly veiled if not entirely unconcealed. 

Though to his luck, it somehow evades Aemond entirely. The prince decides to speak plainly.

"Lucerys Velaryon is dead." 

The room falls silent, safe from the crackling of firewood in the hearth nearby– the air so still you can hear the beating of your heart in your ears.

"How–" Ser Tyland tries but Aemond interjects.

"He died on dragonback. Vhagar and I happened upon him in the Stormlands." The Targaryen explains and your eyes widen.

You glance at Alicent on instinct, the dowager queen appears ready to faint, or wretch– you could not say. You remain standing beside her just in case.

Once again there is only silence, even from the Hand of the king himself. Otto Hightower's expression betrays nothing, and it confounds you.

There is certainly no hope for peace now, not when Aemond has just openly declared a war by killing the princess’ own son.

"I do not.. understand–" The words tumble out before you even fully realize you were speaking.

Aemond turns to you then, his expression betrays even less than his grandsire.

"His dragon provoked mine, there was not much I could do.” Aemond delivers the statement with such certainty and indifference, it sends a chill down your spine, destabilizing enough that you have to look elsewhere.

“My Prince, forgive me– As I understand it dragons do not attack others of their kind unless they feel threatened, much less one six times it's own size.” Maester Orwyle verbalizes your own thoughts exactly.

Aemond provoked the boy first.

“It does not matter. The bastard got what was coming to him.” Aemond snaps in return, you observe as Alicent rubs her own forearm, an effort to soothe herself. You notice, whilst the men around her remain oblivious.

The room is flooded with a sudden sense of trepidation and despair.

“The princess will want blood for this.” Orwyle states grimly.

“That she will. and when she comes for it we will be ready.” Otto finally speaks, he steps forward, bracing his hands firmly on the wood-carved table.

“We can no longer expect the princess or her lord husband to bend their knees willingly. They will attempt to take my grandson’s rightful seat by force. We must strengthen our defenses.” He bellows, glancing at every man in the room. 

Eventually Otto looks to you, but pays his own daughter no mind.

“I have the largest dragon.” Aemond remarks proudly, like the green boy that he is. 

Having a dragon does not make you invincible, lad. You would have warned him, if you had been alone. Afterall, he did listen to you.. most times.

You let out a quiet sigh. The young prince knows nothing of warfare, so naturally he is giddy at the prospect. 

His grandsire remains the only one with authority to openly address his statement, and his next words to Aemond are a risk. “Yes, and they are not to forget that.”

“We must first secure the castle, no one unauthorized goes in or out without my leave.”

“Lord Commander, double the amount of guards in the royal quarters. The king and queen's chambers especially.” Otto orders, his gaze now fixed on you.

With what men? You find yourself wondering.

More than half the kingsguard has since fled to join Rhaenyra's cause while your own men grow restless and uncooperative the longer your father took to declare his support for Aegon.

You don't dare utter your grievances out loud, simply nodding at the command.

“Very well, M'lord.”

Otto turns away from you to continue discussing future strategies with the rest of the council members. 

It all comes easily to him, as though he had been planning them for some time. As if this was all a part of a larger scheme. 

You foolishly mistook Otto's excitement for anxiety. This realization feels so macabre, you could laugh.

The men of the council continue to listen whether they want to or not, whilst you remain standing by the dowager queen. Alicent grows more uneasy by the minute as she listens to her father openly laying out strategies and tactics.

It is all happening so quickly.

Alicent fiddles with her seven pointed star necklace again before rubbing her neck anxiously. She goes to gnaw at her finger but stops herself. 

The queen is unraveling right before your eyes, and the sight makes you ache. 

Like a pot of steaming water just about to boil over; your lover's next move is sudden.

Alicent takes large strides towards the exit, the men of the council rise from their seats abruptly to see her off, and you fall in next to her dutifully.

“Mother–” Aemond calls out to her, but Alicent does not look back.

═══════════════════════════════════════════ 

Alicent doesn't allow herself to pause until she reaches her bedchambers, Ser Criston inclines his head at the sight of the queen, stepping aside to let her through.

“Return to your quarters, Cole, I will guard Her Grace.” You command, and Ser Criston nods without much reproach. 

Most likely eager for the opportunity to return to his bedchambers and resume his slumber.

You replace his spot by the door as he went on his way, soon the knight turns a corner and out of sight. The clanging of his armor grew faint, eventually dimming into nothing.

“Y/n.” Your name echoes through the walkway. 

It is Alicent calling for you before the door to her chambers gets the chance to shut fully. Her sweet voice, frail and weary with tears unshed.

You swiftly step inside at the invitation, habitually bolting the door behind you. As you turn, the dowager queen practically throws herself into your arms. It doesn't take you long to return her embrace, your chest constricts as you hear her sob against your shoulder.

“Oh, my love–” You coax, caressing her hair with a much needed tenderness, but you don't get to do it for long as Alicent soon breaks away from you to speak.

“Aemond, he came to me first– woke me to admit what he'd done.” She starts, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, only for more tears to fall.

“But it seemed as though he expected me to celebrate him for it. He looked so proud of himself.” Alicent recounts, her hand now shifts over her belly, as though actively suppressing the urge to be sick.

You watched as she began to pace the floors.

“The indignities of his childhood.. his want for revenge, it has blinded him–”

“It has blackened his heart, twisted him into someone I don't even recognize.” Alicent declares bitterly.

She gnaws at her cuticle again before turning to look at you. Your silence only makes her grow expectant, as though hoping you'll dispute her words. Perhaps even agree with them, but you find yourself incapable of doing either.

Aemond no longer appears the same boy you grew to care for. The boy you have trained and looked out for since he was not much taller than your knee.

A solemn fact, but one that is true.

Even so, you can hardly believe the young prince is capable of cold blooded murder– surely, it must have been an accident, a terrible lapse in judgment.

Dragons have never been so easily tamed, least of all the large and ancient beast Aemond commands.

Vhagar must have acted on her own. 

Yes, in the presence of the council Aemond has to pretend. He pretends so his dignity is spared.

-

Alicent mistakes your silence for agreement, frustration and helplessness quickly overwhelm her.

“What is to become of my sons, y/n? The rotten fruits of my womb.. They are both monsters.” Alicent sobs, placing the blame entirely on herself– a thing she does often and mercilessly.

Another unjust habit.

You feel inclined to disagree. It is not fair that Alicent bears the burden all on her own, it does no good to anyone for her to believe these things. 

You realize that your kindness will most likely not be of much use to her now– but you vow to try anyway. “Most men are, Your Grace.. You mustn't– you cannot blame yourself.”

You allow yourself a deep breath as Alicent meets your gaze; she is listening.

“We are a product of our parents, our mothers, that much is true. Still, we are our own person, we make our choices and we live with them.” You approach Alicent steadily, as though not to startle her.

“Aemond made a choice, my love.” You affirm, cupping her face with both hands, silently relishing at the feeling of her seeking out your embrace once more.

Alicent remains silent for a prolonged moment, she welcomes the feeling of your hand smoothing down her back.

“He should have never gone to Storm's End without an escort. Death and destruction awaits anyone who dares mount those feral beasts.” Alicent maintains her revulsion for dragons, now more than ever, vitriol laces her every word.

“This could have all been avoided.” She decides, forlorn. 

“Now that poor boy is dead– and Rhaenyra, she– I gave her my word, peace in the realm if she accepted my terms, and I have betrayed that.” Alicent hugs you tighter, and you lift her head off your shoulder calmly as to guide her face towards your own.

“Alicent, what has happened cannot be undone. I dread the consequences as much as you do, but no good can come from blaming yourself.” You render, still you decide to continue even as the older woman averts her gaze.

“There was no way to anticipate this. I am certain prince Aemond himself did not plan on meeting Lucerys with his dragon.”

“Sometimes things simply happen. For better or worse.” You finish, in truth, unsatisfied with yourself. 

Words are wind, there is only so much you can say in a situation as dire as this, in the face of impending war.

“It is not your fault. Do you hear me?” You insist, the pad of your thumb caressing Alicent's cheek as you catch a glimpse of her warm brown eyes.

At last, she hears your words and she accepts them. Alicent nods.

“Not my fault.” The dowager queen finally utters in return, uncharacteristically withdrawn and almost docile in your arms.

You continue to handle her carefully, as though she were made of glass. “That's right.” Relieved, you place a lingering kiss upon Alicent's forehead.

A welcomed stillness fills the air as you hold each other, in the quiet of the night, but as with most good things as of late– it is short lived.

A knock on the door startles you both, a familiar voice can be heard from the other side.

“Mother?” Aemond says as he attempts to enter, but the bolt you had placed on the handle prevents the door from budging.

Alicent escapes your touch, she threads her fingers through her auburn locks in visible distress. She makes the effort to step even further away from the door as Aemond knocks again.

“Tell him to leave me, please. I cannot bear to look at him just now.” Alicent pleads in a frantic whisper, and you nod, gesturing with your hand, at an attempt to remind her to calm herself.

As Alicent moves to her bed, you straighten out your doublet, approaching the door. Subsequently, you retract the long wooden panel barring it shut.

Aemond's features are twisted in visible confusion as your eyes meet. You school your own expression in turn, ignoring the way in which your shoulders tense at the sight of him. 

“The dowager queen is abed, my prince. She is not to be disturbed.” You explain with an intended air of indifference and Aemond simply grimaces. He stubbornly tries to peek into the room as you remain blocking his view; to no avail.

“I don't understand, why does my mother not wish to see me?” He asks, his growing frustration evident.

“She is abed, the hour is late.” You repeat, not unkindly, though your hand rests on the pommel of your sword on instinct.

Aemond searches your face, and soon his own expression twists abruptly, bristling when he finds nothing within your gaze that would work in his favor. 

The young prince just as quickly dons a look that fills you with a familiar sense of unease.

He turns on his heels, his cape flourishes as he storms through the dimly lit gallery, eventually disappearing into the shadows.

Aemond Targaryen left for Storm's End a brilliant and obliging boy, and he returned a Kinslayer.

[stormofdefiance]

True knowledge exists in knowing you know nothing || Dr. Ratio & Socrates

Okay, I legitimately laughed out loud writing that title, but listen. LISTEN.

Ratio's inspirations derive from many sources; from referencing Archimedes's brain-blast in the tub, to being doomed to have his head bonked by Newton's apple ad infinitum in his idle animation, to his ultimate line ('esse est percipi' / 'to be is to be perceived') a direct quote from Berkeley on Idealism - it's apparent that his design nods towards scholars across time periods rather than being a direct parallel to a singular academic.

Nevertheless, just for fun, I've been rotating Ratio and ancient greek philosophers around in my head and have had a great time chewing over how parallels Socrates in particular. I am in no way saying that Hoyo even thought about Socrates while they were designing Ratio, but I thought I'd share my thoughts. I think there are some worthwhile parallels to be drawn that touch on all aspects of Ratio's own philosophy regarding ignorance, the value of knowledge, and his deep appreciation of life. So, let's get into it.

Ratio is interested in humanity and curing 'ill minds with knowledge', that 'to turn a blind eye to the folly of others is not an etiquette, but a wicked worldly practice.' Ignorance is a disease - this is a concept that can be viewed through a Socratic lens. Socrates believed that that virtue and knowledge were impossible to separate from one another, and that virtue could be developed through acquiring knowledge and insight. If knowledge is virtue, then ignorance is vice. In Socrates's mind, no one would rationally choose to do something bad. People might choose to do bad things, but this is rooted in their own perception of the world - as in, someone would only choose to do something bad (for the world, or for themselves) because they believed (erroneously) that it was the right or good thing to do. To Socrates, the cure to this was knowledge: 'There are two kinds of disease of the soul, vice and ignorance.' & 'What does most harm in the world is not sinfulness but ignorance'.

To Ratio, 'If ignorance is an ailment, it is the duty of the scholars to weed it out and heal the universe'. He views his own ignorance as 'filth' that must be cleansed through methods such as reading. He also views knowledge as a method for humans to overcome their problems - 'Another day has passed. If your problem still hasn't been solved, is it possible the problem is you?' & 'You look distressed. Is something troubling you? if so, you can figure it out for yourself.' These statements sound harsh, but they also clue us into Ratio's philosophy - that through self-examination and improvement, one can overcome one's ailments.

Socrates was also known for being a trouble-maker, he was abrupt and tactless and did not care for someone's social standing nor decorum. He was also known for using what is now called the Socratic method, asking a series of questions that ultimately seek to show contradictions in the beliefs of those who posed them, and to move systematically towards a hypothesis free from contradiction. Socrates rarely made assertions himself - after all, he had no wisdom of his own. But he could interrogate others in order to expose their own foibles, much to the embarrassment and annoyance of those around him. He was once described as a 'gnat' chewing on the 'lazy horse of Athens', causing it to wake up and spring to life due to his persistent gnawing and prodding. Ratio also employs the Socratic method - 'I'm asking questions' - and also adopts sophist tactics such as playing devil's advocate and taking opposing sides (with both himself as seen a story quest, and with others as we see with his texts urging us to take up a side so he might debate us). Through questioning and interrogation, upsetting what we consider social convention and norms, we can dispel contradictions and thereby come closer to some form of truth.

To add to this - as highlighted in the replies below - Ratio’s skill ‘intellectual midwifery’ is a reference to the Socratic method. The idea being that Socrates helped those around him give birth to the knowledge that was already within them, rather than treating his students minds as empty vessels for him to fill with his own answers. Again this is beautifully echoed in Ratio - he doesn’t want to tell you how to live your life, he wants you to work out for yourself what it is you need, thus empowering oneself through self-examination and questioning.

Socrates did not believe in writing anything down. He believed that face-to-face communication was a far more effective way of communicating knowledge - which means, unfortunately, what we know of Socrates is primarily derived from secondary sources. Much of what we know about him today comes from Plato's dialogues, and Plato was known for liberally exercising artistic license.

Although Ratio is not dead, I find it interesting that his character story is told exclusively through secondary sources. To quote - '…There are no less than eight documentaries detailing his legendary exploits, and over a dozen memoirs about him. However, despite the plethora of commentaries, none of them seems to provide a compelling perspective.' It's as though there are no surviving fragments penned by Ratio's hand and all we have to go on is through the lenses of other people. This challenges us, perhaps, to try to think about our own interpretation of Ratio since secondary sources cannot be taken as a wholly unbiased account - and once again employing the Socratic method and empowering the reader to come to their own interpretation.

While Socrates left no writing behind, he was interested in spreading knowledge. Socrates spent most of his life in Athens, a city that was, during his lifetime (~470-399 BC), a hotpot of scholars, wisemen and philosophers. Athena, the Greek god of wisdom, was named after the city - her symbol the owl that is also appropriately perched on Ratio’s shoulder. Also in Athens at this time where the sophists. The sophists were a class of intellectuals who were known to teach courses in various subjects - but often for a high fee, and generally centred around the idea that persuasion and the use of knowledge as a tool was more important than wisdom or truth itself. There's some debate about whether Socrates could be characterised as a sophist himself, but, crucially, he is characterised as refusing to take payment for his teachings. He was born a plebeian (perhaps you might describe it as a mundane background.) He was known to dress in rags and go barefoot, speaking to and (often antagonising) people from all walks of life, preferring the marketplace as a center of debate than palaces or courtrooms. I can't help but think of the sophists as similar to the genius society (or at least Ratio's depiction of them in contrast to himself), cooped up in ivory towers and gatekeeping knowledge to the most privileged. He doubts if Herta's talent is always helpful to others, he compares Screwllum to a 'monarch'. Then again, the sophists may in fact be a bit of a parallel to the Intelligentsia Guild - from Ratio, 'when someone is willing to listen to knowledge that is being disseminated and circulated, a price is created'.

Socrates (or at least the Platonic depiction of Socrates) was at one time declared the wisest man in Athens by the Oracle of Delphi. Socrates balks at this assertion - how can he possibly be the wisest man in Athens when he in fact knows nothing at all? This was not a claim made of modesty - he truly believed that he had no wisdom, that he was unsure what 'wisdom' itself even was. Ultimately, Socrates concludes that the only way that the Oracle could be correct is that by actually acknowledging that he knows nothing he paradoxically is the wisest man in Athens. All wisdom, therefore, is rooted in wondering, with wondering only possible if one is open to admitting one's own ignorance.

What I love about all of this in relation to Ratio is that Ratio styles himself as a mundanite. The Intelligensia Guild advocates that 'all knowledge must be circulated like currency' and accepts 'all beings… who seek to learn'. Ratio has no time for the satisfied self-styling of intellectualism, he himself states that 'to speak knowledge, we must first make people realise their own folly.' No one is above criticism in this regard, even himself - again, to quote 'Whenever someone agrees with me, I feel like I must be wrong.' Again, I feel as though he would resonate with Socrates here: 'Smart people learn from everything and everyone, average people from their experiences, and stupid people already have all the answers'. With Aventurine, he is quick to mock his appearance as over-the-top and vapid - once again making it clear his distate for vanity and hollow displays of showiness (albeit he may have been acting for Sunday's sake here. Also, no comment about this coming from a man who runs around in a toga, lmao) Equally, with Aventurine, it is clear that Ratio is willing to learn from him - he apologises when he offends, he abhors his methodology and yet he still relies upon it and trusts in Aventurine's plan, he is drawn to him in some ways precisely because he is so different to himself. Aventurine (at least styles himself) as impulsive to Ratio's slow and steady methodology, Aventurine whose learning has been entirely self-made vs Ratio who has spent his life in classrooms, Ratio who scoffs at Aventurine's favourite games of chance yet adds slot machines to his simulated universe. And to Socrates, the experience of aporia – in all of its discomfort and disruption – is the very catalyst of wonder, and that wonder was not just the root of wisdom but also the way to live a good and happy life. There is something beautiful in this to me, and this extends to Ratio. Ratio fundamentally cares about life. For all his brashness, his lashing out against 'idiots', his harsh demeanour - he wants people to live good lives, he wants to contribute to the good of humanity - all people, even those he is annoyed by, he cares so profoundly and absolutely about life. The entire reason why he is obsessed with wisdom and learning is not to exalt or elevate himself, not as some kind of ritualistic expression of piety towards a deity, but it is instead an expression of devotion towards life itself. Ratio has a strict work out routine not so that he can show off his body, but because living healthily is living well and working out is a component of that. Even the way he fusses and worries about Aventurine, someone he is pointedly irritated by, reveals how deeply his care runs. So so much of his character is centered on caring for life, even if it is not immediately obvious.

Finally, I'd like to highlight some ways in which Ratio is not like Socrates. First of all, Socrates was repeatedly described as 'ugly' by fellow philosophers Plato and Xenophon - this is contrast to Ratio being repeatedly described as 'handsome'. This is an interesting subversion to me (albeit likely an indulgent one) as in both cases both men attempt to distance their physical appearance from the weight of their words. Ratio wears the bust for many reasons, but way to view it is that he is attempting to stop his appearance from bearing any influence in the subject of debate.

Socrates was also said to be blessed by a divine touch, and as we know, this is something that agonises Ratio as Nous has not yet turned THEIR gaze towards him.

Lastly, Ratio has - thankfully - not yet been ordered by the state to drink hemlock for all his trouble-making and blustering. Though perhaps he may someday be put on trial by the IPC if the theories that he is working alongside Aventurine to undermine the corporation are true - we will just have to wait and see.

Thanks for reading my little ramble. I'd be super interested in anyone's thoughts if they'd like to share, but regardless, I'll leave off on some of my favourite wee quotes from the Rat man:

'Even a life marked by failure is a life worth living - it is only in moments of solitude and despair, when help is absent, that fools grasp how to pick themselves up.'

'Do stay alive. I wish you the best of luck.'

[honeygr-ls]

The Shadows And The Light - Chapter 2

Ao3 - Honeygrls

The clinic lay in quiet stillness as Sevika sank into unconsciousness, her breaths becoming deep and measured under the soothing embrace of the anaesthetic. You took a moment to gaze at her, drawn in by her stillness. Each scar on her face told a story of battles and resilience, evoking a deep sense of sympathy within you. Her mechanical limb lay beside her, quietly whirring and humming, the gears turning with a gentle rhythm.

With a determined breath, you pushed aside any lingering thoughts and prepared to begin your work. Sevika wasn't your concern besides patching her up; as soon as you finished, she would be out of here and thrust back into the ruthless world that is Zaun.

But something gnawed at the back of your brain, perhaps a hint of curiosity…or even pity. You had seen many hardened souls before, all of them chewed up and spit out onto the streets of the Undercity, yet, something about Sevika was off, as if she carried a weight that felt…different.

Pushing your thoughts aside once again you focused back on the task at hand. The bullet was lodged quite well into her abdominal region, the jagged edges making it difficult to locate it. You delicately moved your tools inside of the wound, your skilled hands locating the bullet within seconds.

“Gotcha,” you murmured, your fingers deftly pulling out the bullet, its weight suddenly lighter as you dropped it onto the metal tray with a soft, metallic clink that echoed in the silence of the room. You took a deep, steadying breath, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling your lungs, and began the process of disinfecting the wound. As you threaded the needle through the delicate layers of her tissue, it glided effortlessly, the rhythm of your stitching providing a brief distraction from the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind.

You couldn’t shake off the memory of her words just before she lost consciousness. Why do you do this? The question replayed over and over in your head, tugging at the corners of your mind. It wasn't the first time someone had asked, and you were aware it wouldn’t be the last. The truth was that you didn't know why you did this. Yes, you wanted to help the people of the undercity—that part was genuine—but deeper beneath that facade lay a confusing mix of emotions. Perhaps it was a sense of obligation, the unspoken legacy of your mother who had devoted her life to this clinic, pouring every ounce of energy, love, and hope into it. Or maybe it served as a distraction, a way to channel your own feelings and unresolved struggles by focusing on others' problems instead.

As you finished cleaning the area around the freshly stitched wound, a low groan cut through the silence, pulling you back into the current moment.

“You're awake,” you remarked, stepping back just enough to give her some space, but not losing your watchful gaze.

“No shit,” she rasped, her voice thick and hoarse, a sharpness lingering in her tone. She glanced down at the careful work you had done, taking in the sight of her closed wound, and then met your eyes, weary but defiant. “You done prodding around?”

You rolled your eyes at her lack of gratitude, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface of your professional demeanor. The least she could do was acknowledge the effort you had put in, yet you restrained, biting back the retort that threatened to escape your lips.

You wet your lips before speaking, “Well, all I gotta do is put a wrap around it, and you'll be good to go.” You turned around, grabbing a fresh roll of bandages and ushering her to sit up slightly so you could wrap them around her torso.

“The stitches should hold as long as you refrain from any intense movement or lifting. Just take it easy okay? Also, you should change the wrap everyday to keep the area clean.”

She chuckled, swinging her legs off the table with a wince. “Guess I owe you won.”

“You guess?" You huffed incredulously, raising an eyebrow at her.

A weak smirk weaselled its way onto her face. “Don't push it doc.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside as she pushed off the table, her movements slow yet deliberate.

“Remember what I said, alright? Take it slow, I don't want those stitches bursting open and you bleeding out once again.” You warned, your voice softening despite yourself.

“Understood,” she replied with a playful glint in her eye. “You wouldn’t happen to have a shirt that fits me, would you? I’d rather not be parading around Zaun with my tits out, y’know?” A mischievous smirk danced on her lips as she locked her gaze onto yours. The unexpected boldness of her words caught you off guard, and a warm flush crept onto your cheeks as you took a moment to fully appreciate her appearance.

“Ah, right—sorry about that,” you stammered, feeling slightly flustered. “Give me just a second; I should have something in the back.” You quickly turned on your heel and hurried down the dimly lit corridor, your heart racing as you navigated through the cluttered space. The faint sounds of Zaun beyond the clinic’s walls only added to your urgency as you made your way to the laundry room.

Once inside, you rifled through the piles of clothes, searching for a shirt that would be large enough to fit her comfortably. The scent of detergent and the faint hum of machinery surrounded you, and after a brief search, you finally spotted a faded, oversized shirt hanging on a hook. Satisfied, you seized it and dashed back to the operating room.

Upon entering, you found Sevika still leaning casually against the table, her confidence radiating as she remained just as you had left her. The sight of her relaxed demeanour stirred a mix of admiration and nervousness within you, but you quickly focused, holding the shirt out with a slightly sheepish smile.

“This should fit?” you asked, your voice laced with a hint of playful uncertainty as you tossed the shirt toward her. She caught it effortlessly, a flicker of approval crossing her face as she slipped it on gently over her head. The fabric draped perfectly over her frame.

“Alright. Just know, if the stitches come undone, you know exactly where to find me,” you added, an awkward lopsided smile making its way onto your face.

She nodded at you, her expression a mix of gratitude and mischief, before turning to leave. As she paused at the door, a moment of stillness hung in the air. She cast a quick glance back at you, her eyes slowly roaming over your body, scrutinizing every detail. When her gaze finally met yours, a confident smirk danced across her lips—a silent challenge or perhaps an invitation.

With a light chuckle, she turned away, opening the door with a soft creak, the cool night air spilling into the room. As she stepped out, the darkness enveloped her, blending her silhouette into the shadows.

[revasserium]

college fencer!zoro headcanons; not nsfw but a bit risque below the cut, fem!reader, in the same universe as death before decaf, prev fic knowledge not required but helpful. enjoy ;)

college fencer!zoro who is just as shit at studying as you’d always expected, falls asleep in any class that doesn’t have to do with sports and food (though you were truly shocked at how many subjects your uni has that do involve either one or the other), but comes with you to every single one of robin’s academic decathlon contests, just because he knows its important to you.

college fencer!zoro who tugs off his shirt the first time you bury your face in his pillow to complain about the upcoming anatomy quiz, smirking when you blink up at him, cheeks dusting pink, a question in your eyes as he lets out a protracted sigh, glancing away with, “well — you’ve got a live model right here so���”

college fencer!zoro who realizes he’s bitten off way more than he can chew when you press him down onto the tiny twin bed, a trio of colored skin-safe markers in hand, your eyes glinting in the dull light of his feeble dorm lamp, tracing a delicate finger along each muscle group before reciting the name and function out loud and labeling the name on his bare skin; he tries not to think about the softness of your thighs as they straddle his waist, or the way the curve of your ass shifts just above where a gnawing tightness is gathering between his legs.

college fencer!zoro who spends the rest of the night forcing you to name the different muscle groups in your upper thigh while he traces them over with his tongue.

college fencer!zoro who glowers at anyone who tries to partner with you in practical applications, even when you roll your eyes and tell him that you’re supposed to be learning about how to treat a variety of body types — not just him; who pins you with a look and asks, completely seriously, who the fuck else you think you’ll be treating for the rest of your sports medicine career, who, when you ask him what he means, only cocks his head and says, “as if i’d let you touch anyone else.” before stalking away.

college fencer!zoro who never lets you out of his sight at frat parties, sticks close even if he’s drunk enough to laugh at someone else’s jokes, who makes a habit of grazing the tips of his fingers along the bend of your waist just to remind of you of his presence, who only grins when the rest of the fencing team teases about being secretly whipped, responding with, “yeah, and?” in such a casual tone that no one else dares to say anything else about it; who tells you that jealousy looks good on you whenever you pout at him talking to another girl, but will let you talk to other guys so long as you know you’ll feel it in the way he sinks his teeth into the skin of your neck later on that night.

college fencer!zoro who calls you when he’s five minutes late to your date, admitting that he’d gotten lost somehow on the campus that both of you have been frequenting for the past three years; who grumbles an apology when you finally find him clear across campus, in the entire opposite direction, and you’ve definitely missed your reservations, but still insists on going on a date anyways; who laces his fingers between yours and lets you pull him into a shop with pink walls and too many neon signs and the fruitiest cocktails he’s ever tasted, but who will still smile sweet and wide as you look over the menu with contented, eager eyes, because your happiness has always been more important to him than any missed reservation.

college fencer!zoro who, in the midnight dark, shifts to pull you into his chest and murmur into your hair, “stay with me…” to which you reply with a sleepy, “yeah… ‘m not going anywhere…” and him, “good. cause forever’s a long time and i don’t plan on spending it alone.”

[sorrowfulrosebud]

Not too sure if you're bored of these yet but have another ask.

Reader's work. Do they work at home or not? If they don't, what's the day like for hybrid Bakugou who's stuck home alone? If they do, how do they keep Baku busy every now and then while they work? Cause we all know sometimes we have to sadly get rid of distractions to get some work done, even if it's one ya want~

Finally in a writing mood!!!! Sorry for the wait my angel, thank you for your patience!!

For reader’s work, I imagine you to have a job in law (bc I do) since reader is so passionate about equality for hybrids. You spend a fair bit of time in the office, but you’re allowed to go home frequently enough to make sure Katsuki is okay.

It’s horrible leaving him by himself for long hours of the day. Your mornings usually consist of you hunting down your shoes since Katsuki hides them from you, and they often have bite marks from his mauling. You then have to encourage him to eat something before you go, because you know he’d probably nap too much or forget to eat out of anxiety rebelliousness.

Soooooo, what do you do with a pouty pup who gets anxious when you work? You give him as many toys as possible! Since living with you, you have given him so many toys that he is often spoiled for choice. Squeaky chickens, rope toys, balls, the whole works. He could spend many an hour chewing on them and gnawing holes in them.

Then of course, you have the TV. Katsuki didn’t understand it at first, barking and snarling viciously at the screen when he first settled in. But now he races to grab the remote before you can, chuffing victoriously when he clicks to a nature documentary. You can only roll your eyes playfully as he settles on the couch whilst you make his favourite breakfast of sausage and bacon butties.

He sits for hours watching the soothing waves of the ocean and its inhabitants, of lush rainforests and harsh deserts. You often hear him growl at the TV when smaller prey animals are on the screen, and you can practically feel his drool drip onto the couch. You serve him his breakfast with a gentle rub between the ears, then get ready and fight him for your shoes.

With a final goodbye kiss, your hybrid is left to his own devices. You taught him your phone number in case he needed it, but he much preferred when you called him. So he sits and waits for you to come back. He watches TV for a while, potters around the house and naps. For lunch he waits for your phone call, sitting in almost silence bar a few grunts or growls when you ask him questions. He’ll then potter to the fridge and heat up the food you left him.

You had been teaching him to cook. He was quite the natural, but he was still learning and you didn’t quite trust him to cook by himself just yet. He eats lunch, naps more and plays with his squeaky toy. If he’s lucky, FatGum video calls him with his best friend Kirishima. The two puppy-boys stare at each other as they communicate.

It was abysmal, the guilt that rotted in your tummy after leaving him alone for so long. That’s when you had the most amazing idea ever. So, you changed up your routine. Along your journey to work, you passed by FatGum’s farm.

Katsuki waited for you on the couch as you finished getting ready for work. You wandered into the living room, yet again tutting at the state of your backup shoes that Katsuki had mauled. He smirked indignantly. You shook your head.

“Kats, go get your shoes. You’re coming with me today, I have a surprise!” You told him, grabbing your jacket. Katsuki stared at you.

He would never admit the thump in his heart. Was he bad? Were you sick of him?? Were you getting rid of him?!

“Well, go on. I have to be at work soon, so hurry,” you ushered him gently. Katsuki swallowed as he stared at you. You caught on almost immediately as your gaze softened.

“I promise you Kats, it’s a really nice surprise. I’ve not lied to you before, have I? Go on, I’ll wait for you,” you promised him softly, rubbing his sandy ears.

Katsuki stood up shakily, walking to his room. He was sure you’re going to get rid of him. He prays that you would do good on your promise to love him forever. He slowly makes his way downstairs, you smiling at him gently as you held out his jacket. You fixed his collar for him, the silver tag with his name and address soothing his nerves.

You’d never get rid of him if you’re making him wear his collar.

Katsuki followed you to the car, sitting in front as he puts on his seatbelt. After doing the same, you pet his ears proudly.

“My good boy, such a good boy,” you coo. Katsuki’s tail swayed against his will, causing him to pout as you giggled. You drove the familiar way to work, but caused him to blink at the destination you stopped at.

FatGum’s farm.

You get out the car, opening his door and walked to the door. An excited series of barks akin to gunshots sounded off as a happy redhead bounced in the window. FatGum opened the door with a laugh as a streak of red bashed into Katsuki, sniffing and chuffing his best friend.

Katsuki couldn’t help his wagging tail as he sniffed his friend back, growling a little when he was caught smiling.

“I feel so bad leaving you alone during the day. So, whilst I’m at work, FatGum said you’re more than welcome to spend the day here! You’ll be helping him of course, with some work here and there but it won’t be difficult,” you explain happily.

Katsuki stared at you with wide eyes, Kiri clinging to him happily. He walked to you slowly, before resting his forehead against yours with a gentle bump. His carmine eyes were soft as they looked at you through blonde eyelashes. You felt his gratitude as you gave him a hug and bid him farewell, leaving him to play with his best friend.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SAUSAGE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, force feeding, nausea

Read after the cut

---

Will and Hannibal stay up late into the wind brushed night, communing on the merits of art, of cities far they yearn to see and to absorb into themselves like scent into a rag.

“And her?” asks Hannibal; this, kneeling behind a door, you hear, a question as to the enigma of fate.

“She’d come with us,” Will answers. “Wouldn’t she?”

For a beat Hannibal entertains a silence sopped with threat. In spite of his forgiveness you have, through strident disruption of his party, trespassed upon good taste; he has no reason to think you would not humiliate him in less private spaces, may even consider a further blunder cause to discommunicate you from the family.

“If she is well enough, she’ll accompany us on all our ventures,” he says, at last. “It would be a pity if she couldn’t enjoy the food and with it boundless new experiences.”

You wilt against the doorframe in relief. No matter how many countless promises as to your permanence in their company are made you’ll never trust their word.

“Will she always be like she is now?” asks Will.

“A little girl? Not always. In phases, and behind closed doors, she'll revert to that state, however. Does fatherhood weary you already, Will?”

Again you stiffen.

Will says, “The taste hasn’t soured just yet.”

“You find that the flavour doesn’t quite compliment the other features of the menu, then," Hannibal suggests.

“I’m developing my palate. She’s still bitter.”

“But not without occasional sweetness.”

“Could do with a little more.”

Hannibal produces a quiet laugh.

“You surprise me, Will. In spite of her stubbornness to admit it, I find that it’s clear she cares for you. Considering the circumstances and your previous hostility I’m satisfied with her progress in that regard. In others less so.”

“She asked you to stop sleeping with Alana,” Will says, flippantly. “That’s progress. And the other day she asked me if you love her.”

Your mouth wraps around a knuckle to restrain a cry of angered embarrassment.

“She craves desire even from those she loathes,” says Hannibal, with a dismissive air. “I must renew my attempts to woo her. Only then will she begin to love.”

As quietly as you’re able you rise from the floor and take the stairs on slippered feet, fleeing the horror that is to be romanced by a murderer, sex surely the alembic with which he’ll distil your loyalty to his reign.

*

The next day begins with another breakfast, carried out with the performatory illusion that nothing whatever has happened at all between you three, or beyond.

You scrutinise your egg and sausage, chewing at your inner lip until your fore teeth unbutton blood from within.

What is this Hannibal’s served to you? A morsel from a previous kill, minced and made into three cylinders for your morning plate— this you believe, suddenly and entirely.

What would it mean to bury the flesh of those other girls in the earth of you, to grow fat off their death, to thrive like a maggot in this warm house as they degrade? Their breasts, their flanks served up in spiced pieces like any dish— you’d come to crave them, you fear, think deliciously of their flavour even as your soul writhed within the filth and heathen animal you'd be.

For if Lecter is the Copycat he’s surely served human meat to you before. The Chesapeake Ripper had once murdered a man named Mortem Briggs, had hung him from a fir tree, his limbs spread through the pines; Briggs’ left breast had been taken, may well have been frozen and unthawed later to convert into any feast you've partaken of in captivity.

To have eaten it unknowingly— by the skin of your teeth you can cling to the fact that it was forced on you. But to gnaw on human flesh aware like a witch of Homeric origin would stir your brains insensible until you'd be as your keepers would have you: a cannibal's love, and a cannibal yourself, complicit in their malign.

Ridiculously you think of the calories, how rich in fat such meat would be. Like pork, you’d heard, somewhere, although Hannibal has the skill to disguise it as other animals.

Why does he kill? For the pleasure alone, or some other purpose? To test Will Graham, perhaps, or merely to discard the unworthy from his world; he is cruel and aesthetically driven enough.

If you—gauche, unpleasant, ignorant to the names of painters and intellects, verging on uninterested in such facts—cannot learn to accept the beast he is will he reverse his word and put you to his table?

A flare of dread dispatches your hunger, and you sway in your chair, groaning under your breath.

The men talk, oblivious to your battle.

“The cooling periods between the Lover’s kills are getting shorter,” says Will, wiping butter from his lip. “On average they last around three months, maybe one month minimum. They're starting to fall. There’s a direct correlation between those figures and our investigation. The Lover's following us as closely as we’re watching him.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “He’s frustrated by the notion that you and Jack may thwart his grand romance before it’s truly begun.”

“There’s certainly an anger in his recent activity. Sloppiness. He sees us as an obstacle, but he still doesn’t think we’ll close in before he achieves his life’s work.”

You notice a humour in Hannibal’s otherwise neutral expression, a creasing about the eye only one as close as a lover would see.

“You disagree with the killer's belief,” he comments.

Will shrugs.

“If he made a mistake this time then he’ll do it again. He left a partial boot print in Amy’s hallway. He was wearing Timberland boots that night; forensics picked that up right away. He wears a size 10: the typical American male. That fits the profile we have of him— average height and weight, maybe a little muscle from handiwork.

“He’s in his mid to late fifties, estimated from the age of his victims, which have risen every year since he started killing so that his targets continue to resemble his doll. He could be any working class guy in America."

“His mediocrity is as much a mask as the most elaborate disguise," says Hannibal. "His aberrant heart will reveal him."

You feel that both men are holding back from one another, a shift from the previous night.

“He’s somebody who isn’t as smart as he thinks he is,” says Will. “There was grass and dirt in the tread of his sole. We analysed it. The soil came from three separate locations. While that could have been picked up from general wear, the remote nature of those places suggests he’s been keeping his victims in different hiding spots each cycle to avoid detection.

“We’ve got officers looking into small buildings in those areas. There could be evidence that would close the case.”

“And other unknown victims,” says Hannibal.

Will nods.

“The Lover chooses troubled women. High school dropouts, runways, previous mental health patients. He might have abducted any number of Jane Does that just haven’t been reported missing.”

That they hold this conversation without a glance in your direction makes you feel less than invisible, a non-entity only summoned when the need for your existence arises. The space for a third party to cohabit with Will and Hannibal is slender, and you cannot fathom that you are so wanted, and yet as seemingly incorporeal as the air.

“Amy was a bad choice for the Lover,” says Will. “She was on her guard when she opened the door to him that night, almost as if she was anticipating some sort of negative attention. If Freddie Lounds is telling the truth and Amy did reach out over an article then she may have expected a visit. She just couldn’t have known who exactly it would come from.

“Amy’s tall, stronger than she looks. When the Lover struck she pulled him down with her into the house, bumping into a table in the hallway and smashing a lamp. From the damage it’s obvious that she nearly overpowered him before he knocked her unconscious.

“From there the Lover got her out of the house and into the back of a truck. The neighbours report having seen one in the area, though we don’t have a model, and nobody saw the driver’s face.

“The Lover was injured, under stress. Turned off. He dumped Amy in the shack where he planned to carry out her rape and murder sometime later that week, only that didn’t go to plan, either. He was interrupted.”

“The Person from Porlock,” says Hannibal, enigmatically. “An innocent wanderer, or an accomplice?”

“The Lover works alone,” says Will, bluntly. “He doesn’t want romantic competition. If he did accept any kind of help it would be like members of some fringe group tipping each other off out of goodwill.”

You watch, grimly fascinated as Hannibal collects dirtied cutlery and plates without the merest suggestion of alarm.

“You suspect the Copycat,” he says.

Rather than answer directly Will looks in your direction.

“Your patient needs your assistance, Dr Lecter,” he says, gesturing to the sausage you’re attempting to sneak under a napkin.

Hannibal turns, his face brightening with open interest.

“Breakfast is always a hurdle for you,” he says. “What is it this time, Little One?”

“I don’t want to eat meat anymore,” you say, at a frayed, childish pitch. “It’s cruel. I... care about animals.”

Will’s eyes—tools of blue mercury—analyse the climate of your answer.

Hannibal says, “While I admire your interest in vegetarianism, I can’t allow you to restrict your eating any longer. We must return to the old rules, I’m afraid. Will and I agree that's best.”

“I can’t eat this,” you insist. “I’ll throw up. I swear I will. I’ll make a mess.”

At this Hannibal appears to lose something of his sympathy, his stare gaining an iron edge.

Will says, “Couldn’t she have double helpings of everything else to make up for it?”

“It was you that suggested I should tighten her reigns, Will,” says Hannibal, coolly. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

With a taut patience he leans across the table to cut your sausages into fractions. You haven’t even touched them with your cutlery, not wanting the juice of fattening mortality to taint the remainder of your meal.

“She’s been through a lot lately,” says Will. “Is this really the hill you want to die on?”

“It’s a sensible hill. The food she will eat lessens by the day. If we remove such a significant category from her diet she’ll merely find excuses to deplete it further. She’ll suffer from a lack of nutrients that supplements will not fully replace.”

It is not an argument, exactly, but you sense a challenge between them, nevertheless, the testing of loyalties.

“A lot of people are vegan and vegetarian and they’re just fine,” you pipe up, nervously. “Tell him, Will.”

“I’m not clued-in on the statistics,” he says, holding up his hands. “But if this is what you really want, maybe we can figure something out further down the line.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal, with a near imperceptible relief. “I’m not unwilling to compromise. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve served a vegetarian at my table. But at the present you’ll eat what I deign acceptable for you. I hope that you can understand, my darling.”

You stare at him, astonished that he can be so cruel and still, with cloying sympathy, claim to care and to adore you. In a book long ago you’d read of diseases passed from human flesh to its eaters that drove them mad; you’d think him such a sufferer were he not so controlled, nor so sane.

“You know why I can’t eat it,” you whisper. “You know. Dad, please.”

“Know what, Little One?” asks Hannibal, casually.

He's quite aware that you don’t dare speak before his friend of such secrets as even he has not admitted aloud. 

Trapped by your fear of Hannibal’s wrath should you do so, you only mutter, “You hunt your own meat. I don’t want something you killed.”

Will says your name sharply, and you realise you’ve made a mistake in directing anything even remotely resembling an insult in Hannibal’s direction. Yet in the younger man’s tone there is also an interest in the undercurrent of secrecy at this table of whose scent he’s caught.

“What would it matter who slaughtered the meat?” Will asks. “You’ve never taken an interest before. Why now?”

You glance down at the tablecloth in helpless silence

“It’s as I feared,” says Hannibal; so much for wooing, you think. “She’s set against me.”

“I’m not!” you snap. “If he was the butcher I’d feel just the same way.”

This said with a glance at Will, who folds his arms, disapproving.

“This is starting to feel a little personal. I can’t let you act out like this. You know that, right?”

“I’m not acting out!"

“You’re being argumentative,” says Hannibal. “If you cannot eat then you must be assisted to do so. Will, if you’d be so kind...”

You watch a look of incredulous realisation pass across Will’s face.

“You want me to feed her?”

“Yes. I’ve done it myself many times. Your turn to carry out the role, I think.”

Will turns you a sidelong glance.

“You don’t need me to do that, do you?”

There’s no declining the meal; Hannibal will force the point till you are full, no matter the method. Yet if Will holds the fork then it is at least his choice for you to gain weight from the unknown dead, another imposition of many.

So you nod, an infant not yet canny enough to brook the use of any adult tongue.

Will laughs, a guise for his discomfort.

“That isn’t the answer I expected from you.”

“It’s a good thing that she’s asked for help,” says Hannibal, kissing the top of your head as he walks by to take the empty plates to be washed. “We mustn’t discourage her growth.”

Picking up your fork, Will holds it awkwardly aloft. In his grey suit and checkered shirt he appears very much a young father with the care of a pouting stepchild foisted upon him. The bustling inconvenience of the early hour, the brimming stormcloud of the Lover's case: Will has neither the time nor interest in the role to truly engage.

Still, you are wounded by the sense of casual rejection: he wouldn't pause his world for the worship of you as he would for Hannibal.

“Fine,” Will says. “Open up.”

As he tips the fork you imagine a gobbet of minced labia rolling upon your tongue, a strip of shoulder meat, a plush cut of cheek.

Your hand goes up to your greasy lips at once.

“No spitting,” says Will, and the firmness of his voice grounds you in your nausea. “I’m supposed to be meeting Jack in half an hour. Can’t exactly do that with your breakfast all over me.”

If Will is offering up a person to you then surely he does not know it, or he would not seat himself so readily to his own meal. Yet by now he is wilfully ignorant of the reality before him, a little boy covering his eyes against the atrocities he finds a friend capable of.

Suddenly you feel imperious, advanced, cleverer than Will in that you’re unclouded by the love of Dr Lecter.

You eat almost to spite him, then, so that when he learns what he has done he might grovel for your forgiveness. That he will think of this morning, of the Chesapeake Ripper’s trail of death, and shudder that he had gorged so hungrily on those for whom he sought justice.

“You know I can’t do this every time, right?” asks Will, misinterpreting your obedience. “This might be more fun for you, but you’ve got to learn to do this on your own.”

“Yeah,” you say, sweetly, having done away with the last lump of ambiguous sausage. “I know, Daddy.”

You kneel up on your seat and lean in to kiss him, but Will turns his head away, likely thinking of the pleasure you’d had him taste in your last caress.

“Mean,” you say, but he only scoffs before he, too, leaves the table.

*

In the afternoon Will returns to the house from his work unexpectedly, white as a cave etching, his balance precarious.

“Go to bed,” says Hannibal firmly as he puts a hand to Will’s brow to take his temperature. “You’re pushing yourself too hard with this case. You need rest.”

Thinking of the night of Will’s seizure— the night Hannibal suggested that food may well be its trigger—you gain a new suspicion. You wait an hour before slipping into Will’s room, taking advantage of your older captor writing a new piece of music in absorbed concentration to do so.

You look at the sleeping young man, so pampered and petted by the doctor as to have been tucked in under luxurious sheets, and feel a white wing of jealousy beat across your vision.

Yanking back the coverlet you climb into bed and crawl atop Will to shake him rudely awake, too intent on the confrontation to look to the dangers of it.

His eyes start open, and one of his large hands wraps around your mouth to stop you screaming out at the look in them, a blue-bladed killing rage.

“Again?” he says, lowering his arm. “What did I tell you? You shouldn’t wake me up like that. The dreams I’ve been having, the blackouts, the seizures— it’s not safe. You could get hurt.”

You feel the thud of Will’s crazed heart beneath you, like the pendulum of the devil’s clock at work.

“I want to talk to you,” you say. “You’ll always take Hannibal’s side over mine, even when you know he’s just being petty for the fun of it. Why? You’ll do anything he says. If he decided to kill me and serve me up to one of his stupid party guests I swear you’d help him!”

Will screws his eyes shut and opens them again, attempting to rally his cognition from the peat of slumber.

“You think Hannibal’s the Copycat,” he says, softly. “So this is what’s been going on with you.”

You pause, aware that you must be careful what you divulge from here. Certainly nothing Hannibal has suggested to you in confidence is safe.

“Don’t you think he could be the Copycat?” you ask. “It makes sense, right?”

Will sits up slightly against his pillows, his hands going to your hips almost by instinct to prevent you from slipping.

“Careful,” he says. “You know that I need proof for an allegation like that.”

“But if you doubt him even a little bit then why are you here?” you cry, in exasperation. “Why are you with him? How can you say you give a damn about the murders? What’s with you?”

You punch at Will’s shoulder for emphasis, and he looks at your balled hand with such amazement that he doesn’t immediately respond, merely tolerating the blow.

“You’re obsessed with each other,” you hiss. “Why don’t you both just kill me, eat me like he made us eat Savannah—”

“Stop it.”

There is authority in Will’s voice, now, cold confidence you’ve seen only in flashes, and always before some shameless feat of violence upon you. You cease fighting at once, wary of provoking him into lashing you as he would have done in your early days together.

“You’re going to let me work and navigate this situation in my own time without throwing a tantrum,” says Will, through his teeth. “And if you still think I’d stand by and let Hannibal kill you then I don’t know what to say to you. You belong to both of us. You’re mine, too, Little One.”

You don’t let yourself fold to that statement, give in to butterflies and flattery in the romantic language of possession.

“I know what I see,” you say. “The only reason you don’t want to believe Hannibal’s the Copycat is because you’d be hurt that he didn’t let you in on all his dirty little secrets right away. And if he’s caught then you’ll be all alone with your thoughts.”

Will’s hand returns to your lips again, pressing down until you’re forced to huff through your nose for breath.

“How is it you think you have everything about me all figured out?” says Will. “You’re no psychiatrist. You just throw guesswork at the wall to see which theory sticks. Aren’t you afraid of what'll happen if one does?”

With a hysterical jolt you see that you comprehend this man the least of your fathers, cannot when he knows not from one minute to the next who he is or what he truly wants.

The agent of order set on catching a murderer, the diabolical, petulant abuser, as aroused by your pain as by your whimpering ecstasy— are they at civil war, or are they the same entity in co-existing halves?

Chilled, you attempt to clamber away again only for Will to haul you back to him, settling your thighs on either side of his stirring groin.

“Um,” you say, in bashful affront. “What are you doing? I didn’t come here so that you could—"

"Don't give me that," says Will. "You woke me up by climbing on top of me. Seems like a pointed decision."

You gulp at the verge of him under you, at the olfactory concoction of masculinity, hot skin, hair oil, sick breath, and cologne.

"I wanted to strangle you, Dad,” you say. “Don't make this something it's not."

Will smirks, a harsh, pitying look.

"What do you gain from lying to yourself? You flirt with me at any opportunity you get. And when I touch you I know exactly what you feel. Don’t forget what I heard out of your mouth when Hannibal asked you about me. You said I was handsome.”

You recall that moment, your breathy little ‘yes’, and wriggle in humiliation.

“I was high.”

“But you meant it,” says Will. “Still mean it now.”

He’s merely trying to grasp his dignity back, you tell yourself, wearing his ability to empathise like the garb of some sneering god. Yet as he moves you against the quill of his instinct he brushes up the skirt of your dress to unveil miles of cold-pebbled skin, the deltoid of silk at your labia made black by your response to him.

“It helps you to say no,” he says— his voice is husky, coaxing now, almost kind. “To fight back the way you never could, all those years ago. So let me help you.”

You shake your head.

"Why not?"

You want to say, "it's wrong" but both of you are aware of that. Only Will strains at the possibility that this indulgence will save you, and half-heartedly, at that.

You say, "Let me go downstairs already."

Will touches a finger to your philtrum.

"Shh. Do you want Dr Lecter to come up here and join us?"

"Do you?" you return.

In the mid dark Will smiles nastily.

"While I appreciate my time with Hannibal, solo dining has its own appeal. And I’m in the mood for that."

He kisses you, a display of dominance flailing amidst uncertainty, and you find him more pitiable than ever, groping at you as though expecting you to return his passion. For it is his will—his, and Hannibal’s—for you to convert to the religion of violence.

You let Will touch you only so that you must tolerate him alone, barricading yourself against the whimpers that agitate your throat as he uses the wet of your betrayer cunt to please you.

You behold his face in its innocence, like a doe run from a thicket. His hunter's eyes.

He thrills and ignites you, invokes an obsessive desire to glimpse how deeply his attraction to evil goes. There is a mine of it in Will, the plenty that has him wrapping your underwear about his fingers to tighten the seam at your clitoris, that gathers the diamond strand of slick and smears it across your sulking tongue.

He kisses you to share in it, holding your rudely shoving hands from him by the wrists.

"How do you like it?" he says, with a crafty grin. "You ought to think twice before you act like such a wiseass."

Will’s left hand opens the damp buttonhole of his boxers and brings out his cock, stroking it as you wrestle in obstinate controversion to what he means to demonstrate.

Your blood is up, as frenzied by this struggle as by your dreams of death.

He's talking to you, touching you not as a father, nor as the cajoled colleague of Dr Lecter, but only as himself, and that frightens you, for without the layers of acting and the unsaid you are alone here with a man.

The Man lifts you at the waist, and as his erection intrudes that unwilling territory you squeak, and are silenced by his palm upon your mouth once more.

Guilty, guilty, the chant of a jury as Will grinds you atop him. Though he lies under you he is far from lazy, his right hand quick between your bodies.

You bat at his wrist. He shakes his head.

"You deny yourself every good thing life throws your way," he says. "And I know that this feels good. I've had enough practice to know how you look—how you behave—when it does. I can hear it."

Wetness in the curtained gloom, the sound of teeth in a tangerine.

You can't bear that he holds your attraction to him so easily over your head, the knowledge that had you met him elsewhere you would have hoped he'd fuck you like this.

With hands bunched in Will’s t-shirt you come, his hand quieting your whines as he holds you down to the root of his cock.

He's fed you in two ways, now; how could you ever say he does not care for you? This question you see in his cynical eyes, in the cycle of his pelvis into you. This conjugal act is just one brick in the cathedral of a burgeoning fascination between you.

In that moment you truly believe that Hannibal's blade in you would contort the older man into something like Will's enemy. That you cannot die with him beside you is both shield and weapon, not some curse you must bemoan.

“I need you,” you say, aloud, and Will chuckles huskily, the sound washing like foam through your loins.

"I know,” says Will, and he kisses you as he comes.

You kiss him back, and he cradles you against him, the anger gone out of you both like a wind dropped at sea.

“If Hannibal is the Copycat and the Ripper,” says Will, at length, “haven’t you thought about what would happen to you if he’s caught?”

“You’d take me home,” you say. “Right?”

Will shakes his head.

“I’d never send you back there while Leland Frost still has access to you.”

You wonder why Will hasn’t reported him and guess that he’s waiting on your word.

“But you’d keep me here with Hannibal,” you say.

“And with me.”

Sitting up again, you say, “Take me to your house, then. I’ll live with you and all your dogs. I’ll take care of them while you’re at work. I’ll do whatever you want. I could be your girlfriend for real.”

Will gives a short exhale.

“That can’t happen.”

Stung, you ask, “Is it because you don’t think I’m adult enough? Because you’re ashamed of me?”

“No,” says Will. “Of course not.”

“Then it’s because you can’t do it without him,” you snipe, getting down from the bed. “Or you just don’t want to do it without him. You want this to work so badly that not even the idea of him being a cannibal really bothers you.”

“That’s enough,” says Will, turning away. “Go to your room. I’m tired, One.”

You linger to stare at him, disturbed by your own revelations.

While Will might be your strongest chance of escape, he’s apprentice to the lord of this household, and can be influenced to follow Hannibal into his own Nyx. You must devise a second plan, one without any exterior aid required to run.

Open doors are there for you yet: you must believe this or perish, a star put out like a cigar, light gone into dust.

“Okay, Daddy,” you say, at last. “I’ll go. But you really should go get a brain scan or something. What’s making you sick isn’t just gonna go away. And watch what you eat, too. It’s making you worse.”

You dart from the room, shutting the door upon Will’s bewildered beginning of a question.

[gallusrostromegalus]

So I have noticed something very interesting. Gin is buttering up aizen to feed him to the god machine as some premuim petrol. BUT ALSO many powerful souls that die DON't get fed to the god machine. They go to hell because they are powerfull enough that their removal from the world harms the god machine more than feeding them helps it. So my question is, whats up with that?

there's a couple parts to this:

Powerful souls that go to hell because they're powerful ARE STILL feeding The Life Machine- All that power they're off-gassing in Hell is still going into The Life machine- Hell exists more or less as a ringer to squeeze spiritual energy out of souls before sending them back into the cycle to grow again.

It harms The Life machine more to consume a powerful soul in totality because then The Life Machine doesn't get to use that *particualrly good* soul to generate energy it needs again, and again, and again- So someone like Yamamoto is going to go around about a zillion more times, if things go well.

Problem is, things are NOT going well right now- the wheel is jammed and not giving the Life Machine nearly the energy it needs, so it needs an emergency calorie dump while Tech Support works out how to unjam the wheel, which may, technically, involve stopping and starting it again.

The final thing is a matter of scale. if we think of souls in terms of calories: >Regular animal/plant soul: One Cheez-it. Not a lot individually, but they add up. >Regular Human Soul: One Chicken Nugget/celery and peanut butter. it's technically a snack, but it's not satisfying on it's own. >Average Shingami, Quincy footsoldier or lesser hollow Soul: Fast-food meal. About as much food at most people really need in a day. >Captain-class Shinigami or Espada-class Hollows or Sternritter: Giant Meal At Grandma's House that leaves you passed out on the couch and the leftovers she sends you home with that feed you for a week. >Aizen, once he fuses with the hollow inside the Hogyoku and achieves his Final Form: Actually eating every last crumb of every last dish at the Family Reunion thanksgiving with four grandmas cooking: Two turkeys, A Standing Rib Roast, A Ham, six kinds of soup, two salads, four types of baked vegetables, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, baked potatoes, potatoes au gratin, popovers, busicuits, rolls and bread, an actual ocean of gravy- and then there's dessert: Apple pie, pumkin pie, pecan pie, cherry pie, chocolate cake, cookies, early christmas cookies, avalanches of whipped cream. And ofc- cider and beer and hot chocolate and coffee and soda and fuck it just drink a whole gallon of milk while you're at it. More food than any human should consume in a whole year, let alone one sitting.

So you can see why Aizen is getting pulled out of the cycle for special treatment. He's gonna be there for The Life Machine to gnaw on for most of the series. And even then, after suffering the most direct and intimate contact anyone can get with what passes for god, The Life Machine may yet choose to send his empty, heavily chewed husk back for another turn because that why waste the seed of a good crop like?

[endwersed]

Writer's Wrapped

Tagged by the wonderful @hellameyers 🩷

Favorite story you've worked on this year:

I've genuinely loved all of them, but I think I'd have to say the poets are right. 200k is the longest thing I've ever written by far, and this was the first ABO fic I've written in more than a decade - I'd almost forgotten how fun it can be! Plus I'm a sucker for angst, and this one was angsty as hell.

Favorite Character You've Written this year:

Derek is my favourite character from the show overall, but I generally find Stiles more fun to write. His voice comes a little more naturally to me, and I really enjoy writing his snarky dialogue.

Favorite Scene You've Worked on this Year:

I actually think I gave a different answer to this question before, but now I'd say the kitchen scene between Stiles & Derek from chapter 12 of the poets are right. It marked the glimmer of reunion hope on the horizon for them (finally!!) and it was nice to finally be able to write them as optimistic after so, so many chapters of angst lol.

Favorite Piece of Inspiration you've used this year:

Unless I'm basing the fic on a film/show/song etc. the ideas tend to just... come to me when I'm daydreaming. However - all fucked up is (very loosely) based on bad idea right? by Olivia Rodrigo, so let's say that!

Favorite Line or Lines you've written:

From you don't see me, because I just absolutely love getting to describe how insanely beautiful Stiles is <3

Stiles leans back onto his haunches, running slightly shaky fingers through his already wild hair. His cheeks are flushed pink, so contrastingly obvious against his usually pale skin, and his brown eyes are wide, blinking their worry upward. He chews down on his bottom lip, the skin beginning to crumble between the gnawing of his teeth.

A thought flashes, unbidden, into Derek’s mind. A thought that – wow, guys must go absolutely fucking feral for Stiles, when he sucks them off.

Staring down at him, at the delicate angles of his face, at the jutting bone of his collar slipping out from his loose shirt, at the slender length of his fingers still resting against Derek’s thighs, Derek thinks that he looks... he looks like he was fucking made for this, somehow. Like he was created for this earth, for the sole purpose of being on his knees, with those big doe eyes and that soft pink mouth.

Guys – guys who aren’t straight, guys not like Derek, obviously – they must just fucking eat him up.

Written piece or Accomplishment you're most proud of:

I'd say the poets are right, really just because of how damn long it is 😅 I guess I just didn't think myself capable! And I'm very proud of myself for getting all the way through it tbh.

No pressure tags! @dear-massacre @demonicfaerie @lucky-bishop @renmackree @seaweed-water & anyone else who wants to join in 😊

[wombywoo]

Thank you for all your answers! I can't explain how excited I am about this story of yours. I want to gnaw on your brain. 😅 Hope that doesn't sound too weird.

Marc is one fucked up guy. They need to arrest him because that's so damn bad. Seriously, how did Quinn get away from him? Why do I get the feeling that Quinn didn't fully get away from him?? Is he going to make a surprise villain appearance? D=

I think Danny and Vincent should team up and stab Marc. <3

Please tell me Quinn doesn't pull the same choking RACK stuff with Vincent. I can't imagine Vincent would be happy with Quinn pushing himself like that, even if he's feeling low.

I know a psych eval would bench Quinn forever, and that wouldn't be good for him, but boy does that boy need some better coping mechanisms. A couple of therapists. A lot of hugs. Just, all the love.

I'm glad Vincent cares about Quinn so much, but I'm also excited for the potential drama as he tries to get Quinn realise he cares about him. It sounds like Quinn is going to make it as difficult as possible for Vincent before melting into his arms.

I'd love to know more about Vincent's complicated feelings, especially about the evil vampires, and Quinn's visions. I just love hearing all your speculations and lore domes, no matter how drama or trauma filled they may be. <3

Please by all means continue munching my brain, it's very motivating !!!!

Marc is the worst for sure. And his ass needs to be incarcerated stat, but unfortunately he's rich and powerful, sooooo... dot dot dot Quinn had 'broken up' with him a few times, but there was always a something pulling him back, so maybe he's still feeling that tether.... (don't worry, Marc will have his comeuppance eventually, I am just building sweet sweet tension)

I would not be opposed to Vince and Danny giving him a stab or two 🤔..

(And he will make an appearance btw; his company is funding the task force, hehehe.....)

As for Quinn and his, uhh. not great habits in the bedroom, that's also something that may come up as a point of drama. I can see him trying to push Vincent into being rough with him, even taking it too far when he's feeling particularly..not great. Predictably, Vincent will not be a fan of this, hence the ✨drama✨ I do think they can eventually develop some healthier bdsm-type stuff for Quinn, but for now--he's not got the best history with sexual risk-taking, and he's probably going to steer towards something that's not very safe or sane 😬

asdfgh honestly at this point, I'm not even sure if there's therapy strong enough to help him 😭 Which is why it's crucial that he has Vincent now, and more importantly--FIG, who is perhaps the best thing he has for feeling good and happy in his life 🥺🙏 hugs are also appreciated

There will definitely be a lot of future drama, in fact, I keep chewing over potential scenes and rubbing my hands together like a totally normal not-insane villain...

Vincent is *very* concerned about Quinn's visions, moreso than Quinn himself. He's got sooo many questions and very little answers. And his ties to certain evil vampires in the past might start becoming relevant again, so that's always fun to revisit....

I have a loooot more stuff I've been contemplating, so I will share accordingly, or perhaps get off my ass and actually write this damn thing 😤 Please standby <3

[majoliish]

Bitey reader!!

Bringing my writing on this blog into existence with a little series carried over from my main.

Basically, it’s the characters reacting to being bitten by a reader who bites/chews/gnaws/whatever as a sign of affection (can be read as platonic or romantic). 

Gender neutral reader (referred to as ‘you’) x the main cast (separately)

Lucifer - He does not take being bitten very well. His immediate response is to bop you on the head and scold you as if you’re a misbehaving dog. He’s had his fair share of his brothers attempting to bite or prod at him in some way or other and learned long ago that it’s better to put a firm stop to it right away and not let up. Though, if you happen to be close with him, he’ll eventually catch on to your reasoning, and he may just turn a blind eye to you chewing on his clothing or accessories when the two of you are alone.

Mammon - Puts up a huge fuss at first, grumbling and groaning and yelping dramatically, even if you didn’t bite him that hard. He’ll cradle whatever part of him you decided to nip at and give you the most pathetic, betrayed look that he can manage. He’ll pout and pull away whenever you approach him after that, putting up this whole charade as if he hated it, but really he’ll stand close to you and pretend not to notice as you approach, it’s like he’s trying to bait you into biting him once again. 

Leviathan - Is initially super confused and embarrassed. Loudly announces to anyone and everyone around you both that he’s currently being bitten and isn’t sure what to do or how to react. But for some reason, he won’t just directly pull away. He kind of lightly scolds you, as if to keep up appearances, but you may find that he keeps glancing shyly over at you every now and then after you stop, or placing himself subtly between you and anyone else you may be prone to chewing on.

Satan - Not at all impressed (at first, anyways). He draws back sharply and scolds you harshly, asking a slew of questions as to why you would ever even consider doing such a thing, what you’re hoping to gain from it, why you’re attacking him, of all demons. He acts kind of aloof and snooty about it, making a careful point to move away from you if he’s worried you might start biting him once again. Though, if he manages to get to the bottom of the mystery and figure out you’re doing it out of affection, he may just allow you to have a little nibble.

Asmodeus - He absolutely takes it as some kind of flirting and plays right along, purring at you all coyly, batting his eyelashes and twirling his hair. Though if you bite down too hard, or for too long, he immediately begins to scold you for ‘daring to mar his gorgeous skin with unsightly bite marks’. However, he has no qualms about biting you back if the opportunity arises, sinking his teeth in and marking you up.

Beelzebub - No real tangible reaction overall. His brain just kind of goes ‘ah yes, this is what we’re doing now.’ and he’ll bite you back with little to no hesitation. This is well within his purview and it actually kind of delights him that you’re speaking his language. Not many of his brothers are really open to his more nontraditional displays of affection so he’s pretty excited that he has someone who shares some of his quirks. Be careful though, if he’s snacky, he may end up biting you back quite a bit harder than intended. 

Belphegor - He just sort of … accepts it. Having Beelzebub as a brother means he’s been used as what is essentially a living chew toy for long enough to be entirely desensitised to it. He’ll have an initial moment of confusion when he realises it’s you and not Beel who is biting him, but he just lets out a defeated sort of sigh and ruffles your hair while just letting you do what you like (so long as you don’t bite too hard). 

Diavolo - Finds it super amusing, chalks it up to some strange human tradition and laughs it off. He thinks it’s really cute and endearing, and though he may find it a little odd, it’s not entirely unheard of for lower-ranked demons to communicate through biting and scratching, so why wouldn’t humans? He may tentatively ask if it’s polite in human culture for the party receiving the bite to bite back, because the behaviours of other species are something he takes a keen interest in.

Barbatos - A little bit confused at first, and will take some time to try and puzzle out the reasons behind why you may be doing such a thing. His initial conclusion is that you must be hungry, and suddenly he’s offering you food. He’s learned enough over the years to know that perhaps this isn’t quite a common behaviour exhibited by humans, but he’s too polite to actively discourage it.

Luke - Gets super offended at first, flinches away and gives you the biggest watery-eyed betrayed look. He’ll inform you (quite loudly) that that hurt and he doesn’t appreciate being bitten even one bit! Though he has his own share of non-traditional ways of showing his affection, he struggles to understand when others do too. He’ll cross his arms and kind of hunch in on himself when you approach if your attempts to bite him become a recurring interaction between you both.

Simeon - He’s just… politely confused, for the most part. He may ask a few questions or gently shake you off, but he won’t outright stop you. He finds it kind of amusing, and it’s the kind of quirk he finds a little bit fascinating. He kind of asks around, trying to figure out the answers as to why you’re biting him, so soon it becomes a pretty well known fact that you seem to just like biting others for some unknown reason.

Solomon - It doesn’t really throw him off in any major way - he’s met a lot of different entities, from all walks of life. So long as you’re not some kind of vampire, werewolf, or other creature whose bites might affect him negatively over the long term, he’ll just let you do whatever you like. He catches on to it being affectionate very quickly, and sort of grins smugly to himself about the fact that you seem to like him enough to display it as openly as this.

Please don't repost, steal, copy or otherwise plagiarise my writing! I do not consent for my works to be translated and posted elsewhere, or used to teach bots!

[katz-chow]

deranged reader my beloved, my daughter, me. back again in the spools of my brain.

warnings: exactly what the title is. fem! reader, pwp, blood, gore, manipulation (?), toxic reader (?), reverse harem w/ soap & ghost eventually the others, pnv, fingering, overstim (fem)

🏷️ | @warenai @reese-is-right

part 1

you came from a normal life before joining the military. your parents love you and so does your younger brother, he's a pain in the ass but aren't all siblings? cookie cutter houses lines the suburban streets, grasses cut, and christmas decorations find themselves on the houses as soon as december hits, no sooner to avoid hoa fines.

It's actually silly how you turned out this way, a small malicious brain in a body of a well cared for girl. in many ways it was like taming a wild animal; your nails were manicured on the regular, hair neat and put together, strands never where you hadn't meant for it to be, and your uniform was pristine, never stained, never wrinkled. on the outside, you truly where just the sweetest young lady that was meant to sing christmas carols at nursing homes and gain pinches on your cheeks as tips.

but you can't fully tame a wild animal though. in many cases, tigers eat their owners, monkeys maul them, and raccoons abandon home after trashing it. you, were simple. you don't bare your teeth to your owners or unsheathe your claws, you pin them. you pin them in a way that artists pin beetles and butterflies, perfect and spayed out for display and enjoyment.

and that's what you did to the 141. you made them yours. it came easy, natural- almost instinctive. everyone wants to be liked, right? so what if you're extra, extra good at that? you're just charming!

it started with soap. he was an easy target knowing how friendly he is. after finding out he's a demolitions expert, you stepped in asking him rather complex questions on the molecular composition of the explosives he found himself building. and he gladly explained it to you, not having a lot of people who know chemistry on such a level outside of an academic space.

the two of you spend lunches together relating his chemistry knowledge to your biology knowledge as an ex-medic. together you were Biochemistry, what a bunch of nerdy POS'.

quickly that lead to more chemistry in the comfort of your bed as well, having the two of you wrapped up in the sheets as he fucked you hard and fast, his name spilling out of your lips like an echo in the void that is your thoughts.

his dick rammed into, your ankles on his shoulders and his grip on the back of your knees as he bends you in half.

after that night, it became many more. soap was now just johnny. the two of you shared loving glances and plenty of playful touches, a slap on each other's ass when the other passed by, a ruffle of hair, and arms wrapped around the other's waist, cheek to the muscle of their back.

ghost, observant as ever, found this quite aggravating as he thought you were his to hold. while you and johnny fumbled with carbons and phosphorus, ghost had picked up more paperwork than normal, training more recruits than he normally would, just to go and ask you for help. which, being the nice person you were, happily agreed to help him empty his plate.

silence filled the air besides the occasional sound of paper shifting and being flipped, or tossed to the side. some pens scribbling on the paper and against the hardness of the wood also found its way into the comfortable silence and the absence of words. ghost's eyes dashed up to look at you, chewing on the flesh of your lip as you focus on the paperwork that he had asked for your help on. he sees the blankness of your face, how nothing else seems to move or show any signs of emotion besides the gnawing of your teeth.

he quirked an eyebrow at this, how unusual you are...how fascinating. almost as if in a trance, a stupor, a daze as your aura pulls him onto his feet and over to you. he hovers over you, only your wooden desk in between.

"you and soap..." he started and as quickly as the daze came, it left him to fumble for the right words. you look up at him, the same bored expression on your face before you wide your eyes just a tiny bit in surprise and realization.

your head tilts to the side, deciding on letting him grumble with his own choked words. and he, in fear of such situation, opted to shut his mouth and walk back to his desk, picking up from what he left off.

a giggle escapes your mouth, "you can ask him." you say playfully, going back to your own sentence to write and finish up.

the two of them were a pair, always have been- and easy to hook both with the same, sweet bait of your kindness. sooner or later, you got what you wanted, two playful dogs that tend to your every need, whether to pick up some food for you, run to your room to get a file you forgot, knock someone's teeth out for your collection, or to pull orgasm after orgasm out of you until you’re a panting mess. that last one was your favorite.

you sat in simon's lap, knee bent with your leg thrown over it, spreading and keeping your thighs from closing. johnny's fingers thrust into your sweet heat as your sharp nails continue to dig into the back of simon's hand, holding onto the flesh of your waist tightly. behind you, you could feel simon's dick twitched as more of your slick dribble down onto his own trousers. his hot breathe against your ear grounded you just a bit as johnny's thumb grazed over your swollen clit. "that's it lovie...one more for us yeah?" johnny snickers from his place, crouched right in front of your pussy, all wet and puffy from the many orgasms that the two of them have taken from you. you whined as he continue to tease you, fingers languidly pulling in and out of your cunt as his thumb swipes over the top edge of your bud. you cry out. even his feather-light touches on your wet clit draws you closer to the edge until your mind goes numb, your pleasure boiling over the edge once again. your body convulses as simon's grasp on you tighten. "good girl, come on now. i kent you could do it..." johnny praises as his fingers pumps in and out of you quicker, pulling every last drop of your pleasure into his palm.

now two of them were playful with you, you were theirs and they knew how to share. their sweet little play thing that was always too good to them, so obedient.

simon now wishes that you were as obedient in the field as you were in bed as he sweeps through the building in search of you. he curses to himself for letting you slip past his field of vision and his attention, going off on your own with a simple "be right back".

he believed it but that was almost an hour ago, and this building is not big. however, the concrete walls and fluorescent lights rendered this place a labyrinth. rifle in his hand, held close and alert, he quickly tip toes up the stairs, observing the twisting quiet hallways, its greenish lights making him feel sick.

he continued on, careful in the thickness of the silence, making his heart thunder and his steps heavy, like forcing through gelatinous air. a wail rung through the concrete walls, not yours, but a shriek of agony, the only sound being made in the longest minutes in his life.

he jogged on, gun tight in his grip, ready to shoot the poor bastard that stood in between his darling and him.

your voice got louder as he got closer, he turned the corner, meeting you and a man in an empty room, door swung open. the man knelt on your feet in front of you. crimson pipes and frayed pieces of his bicep dripped down thick, molten blood onto a pile of rumble from the collapsed wall. simon froze, his own blood flowed thunderously in his ears as he felt his chest shook.

your face showed the same picture as it did when he made you take over his paperwork all those weeks ago. a plain, empty, broken face stared back down at the man on his knees. he mumbles something in russian quickly, petrified in his spot as you held the saw onto the top of his head. his pleas faded into nothing as his voice grew raw from overuse. a simple, broken, "please" breathed out of his exhausted lungs.

simon saw the way his unsteady back raised as he took a quick breath and how it shakily exited his body. blood continued to drip from his exposed bone and muscle. the man's body swayed, weakened from the lack of such plasma flowing through him. a man on the brink of death didn't scare simon, he has been where you are now. he has seen death like an old friend from school, bumping into it every so often.

the dread that filled his body and weighed on his shoulders was your reaction- or lack thereof. you didn't care about his pleas, or how the light in his dull eyes extinguished from tight-lining in between life and death. you didn't care that his arm was discarded behind you. you didn't care about the severed arm, laying in a dark pool, drenched in blackness, just a foot away from your backside. you didn't care.

the man's hand grabs onto your leg, begging, pleading for mercy, even as death was eager to take him. simon sees his breathing becoming staggered, shallow, knowing death is standing over your shoulder, staring on, waiting for you to make the final blow, to end his life.

but you don't. a satiated hum of approval rumbled out of your throat as you dug the jagged blade of the hand saw into his skull. the man pulled from the well of his energy, enough to let out a sluggish, hoarse sob. he bent over more, trying to escape the digging of the steel into his scalp, failing.

you pull back the blade, making you cut deeper and the man choked on his anguished cries. satisfied, you yanked the blade out, leaving the man to hiccup one last plea as you kicked him off your leg. he falls to the ground on his side, his chest rising ever so slightly. you step over him, throwing the saw to the other side of the room, it's weight hits the concrete with a 'thump'. simon doesn't speak, and neither do you. he walks behind you, rifle still drawn. and you know why.

[askror]

To Surge and Lanolin- What are both your ideas of a perfect date?

While Lanolin was morosely contemplating that local fair at Riverside that she would never get to take Surge to, Surge reacted to this question with a quick : "Of course I'd...." And then she stopped. What the hell do you mean "of course, you'd?" You've never been on a date, stupid! Her mind began to run at high speed in a panic as she realized she not only had no idea what the answer to the question was but also that she had never even thought about it. It had been such a beginning and ending thing; literally the span of a day.

"....Coffee....Shop...?"

A very vulnerable side of her began to nip and gnaw at the back of her brain as her thoughts turned, "...No. That's stupid. I'd probably start eating the little cups of creamer like I did at Sadie's and get hit with a broom again." A pause. "You know what? Fine. I'll tell you. And if you tell anybody, I'll knock your freakin' teeth out: Her house. We could just hang out at her place."

"Yeah, that sounds stupid, or boring or whatever, but I..." She chewed her lip, reticent to go further. But in for a penny, in for a pound. "...I want to see where, or how, a normal person lives. Okay? I never, uh... Got that. Or if I did, I don't remember it. I just want to be alone with her for awhile. Sort things out, and just... Be with her, and-Ugh. This is stupid"

The problem was she didn't know what she wanted. And like so many times before, the chance to find out had been stolen from her when it felt like it mattered most. Sometimes it felt like a pipe dream, all of it. Sometimes it still did. That was a deep fear she'd had, one of the deepest ever since she'd woken up in Sol: that there would no sweet and tidy little home waiting for her at the end of this, or even open arms waiting to meet her. Just a woman who had moved on.

A very old but familiar self-loathing took over, of a sort she didn't want to let sit and sink in. She got to her feet and decided to go for what could be counted for a walk, and maybe bug Rings.

[abarbaricyalp]

hey!! <3 Too Sweet for the wip game if you’re still doing it because i still remember you mentioning you were working on it (haven’t stopped thinking about it since)

I can't remember what I said when I first started talking about it, so apologies if this a repeat! WIP Game

Too Sweet is based on the Hozier song, obvi! It's told from Bucky's point of view as he watches Sam date, and recover, from a variety of partners who should be ideal for him, but just don't work out for one reason or another--usually related to what Sam was attracted to about them in the first place. Someone kind and gentle can't handle the Captain America danger. Someone in his running group is too focused growing better for themselves. Someone who knows/works with him as Cap only treats him as Cap, etc etc. And Bucky silently pines and aches (and hates all of these people for leaving Sam) because he thinks Sam is too good for him/he's too bad for Sam. It's supposed to be a 5+1 but I dunno how many more fake partners I have in me lmao

.

"Don't sulk. And stop chewing on your nails," Rhodey said, appearing in the chair beside Bucky with a frankly uncanny quiet.

Bucky looked away from where his gaze was drilling into Sam and the man he was dancing with. "I'm older than you," Bucky pointed out. "You can't order me around."

"I outrank you too," Rhodey pointed out with a small smirk. 

"You and most of the army. Tweety outranks me." He nodded off towards Joaquin, who was not watching Sam the way he normally did. Instead, he was three people deep into an animated story and an adoring crowd.

"It's not going to last," Rhodey continued. He usually had some remark about how Joaquin was a 'good kid' or something, but clearly he had a mission today.

Bucky took in a steadying breath as he dragged his eyes away from Sam again. "Have you met Winston? Even I like him. He was practically gift-wrap-made for Sam. Sam's crazy about him."

"Sam likes him," Rhodey accepted. "And they're pretty cute. But it's not going to last," he repeated. 

"Why do you say that?"

Since beginning to spend more time with Sam--and following him around like a shadow when he could--he'd learned that Sam and Rhodey had become close friends, despite all of the bullshit that tried to get between them. Rhodey was the kind of noble that Bucky thought only existed in fairytales, so it made sense him and Sam found camaraderie in each other. There was some super-secret Air Force bond that Sam wouldn't tell Bucky about, too. Bucky liked Rhodey. He thought he was level-headed and no-nonsense, which Bucky was appreciating more as he realized how rare it was nowadays. 

Still, Rhodey could be nosy when it came to Sam. Could be as bad as all the old folks down in Louisiana, who were the reason Sam was slow dancing and laughing with Winston now. Bucky always had a suspicious side-eye ready when Rhodey brought up Sam in a less than professional context.

Like talking about his relationship not lasting.

Bucky gnawed on his cuticle again and watched Sam get spun around in a dizzying turn combo. He watched him catch himself on Winston's chest and hide his laugh against Winston's shoulder.

"Because I saw the way Winston reacted to Sam getting home last weekend."

Bucky bit down on the side of his finger too hard and tasted copper instantly. "He came all the way to DC to see Sam?"

Rhodey shrugged. "Sure, but he was freaking out about it. We were a day late, comms were out of the question. Winston was losing it."

Bucky shot him a strangled sort of look. "You're complaining that he's a concerned partner?"

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Sam wasn't even hurt. Imagine how he's gonna react the first time Sam winds up in a hospital or a fall is caught in HD and plays on the news for a week straight."

"I get pissed off about things like that," Bucky pointed out.

"But you stick through it. I'm just saying, a lot of soldiers lose partners who can't handle the danger of the job. Imagine dating a superhero."

Bucky couldn't imagine it. Being best friends with one was exhausting enough and he was one himself. All of the people who kept his bed warm were hardly interested in his long-term wellbeing. It's not something he thought about often.

"Sam's always alright," he said. "He's the last guy someone would have to worry about. He's smart out there."

Rhodey leveled him with a skeptical look. "Isn't there a 'Days since last self sacrifice' countdown on your fridge?"

[torveiglyart]

Story time! ('Cause I have so many wips and so much schoolwork that the art is just not happening)

Less of a story time and more of a confession honestly. I guess it's a weird story? That I want to see if people relate to or can answer questions about?

When I was younger I was a biter. Like completely chewed through pacifiers kind of biter. And while the pacifiers left eventually, the biting did not.

Okay just to be clear I did NOT bite my siblings. Only EVER in retaliation and never to break skin. Idk why I felt the need to clarify that but 🤷‍♀️.

Anyways~

Because I wanted to constantly chew on things, when it came to bath times I would chew on my towels. But not just like in a gnawing way. I would let water soak into the towel corner, then bite down and suck the water out. My parents would get on me for doing that, often pulling the towel away all together.

Obviously I don't do that anymore, as I probably wouldn't be talking about it if I did, but it does make me question a few things.

None of my siblings did this, so why did I? Is this a common thing or am I the only one? Is this a sign or neurodivergence?

While I don't bite things anymore I still clench my teeth a lot (I say while doing so), and bite my lip pretty often. Are there ways to negate these habits? They're not the best to have...

Anyways, hope you all enjoyed random rant monday and please use a reblog or comment if you have answers and/or solutions!

[sketchytea]

Hi I'm back.

1) I know Endras uses He/they, but is there a pronoun you want me (or anyone) to stick to?

2) The Shadow Dragon origin story is pretty vague. Do you have any headcanons around the job that Endras was working that got the Venatori heat brought down on the Shadows enough for him to skip town with Varric?

3) Speaking of origins, do you use the built in "military orphan baby" background the Shadows gives Rook? I didn't even know that was part of the background until my second playthrough, so my Rook has a WILDLY different upbringing 😅

hello and welcome back!!! i have been travelling so this did not get answered sooner, but i've thoroughly enjoyed chewing on these questions. enclosed below are my long-ass answers

i know endras uses he/they, but is there a pronoun you want me (or anyone) to stick to?

not really! i use he/they pretty interchangeably for them. thank you for asking :>

do you have any headcanons around the job that endras was working that got the venatori heat brought down on the shadows enough for him to skip town with varric?

i think i saw someone float the idea that varric was the visiting dignitary that rook mercar was guarding lmao. i like it a lot and have incorporated it into my own canon (edit: on second thought that was canon all along i think. nice job past me). the base story doesn't really clarify what ‘investigating’ a slavery ring meant, especially when it took place in tevinter lol. given the rest of the details, my current idea is that it was a venatori one specifically, and that the investigation was primarily meant to gather information for the sake of a bigger operation, then rescue any slaves they came across before going back in later.

i hc rook believed that following the original plan, the mission would ‘fail’ because: either wherever they were supposed to be looking wasn’t deep enough and it seemed apparent that they were sure to return empty-handed, or because of something more dramatic, like catching wind of plans to move the slaves elsewhere (or worse, kill/sacrifice them) before they'd have time to get more shadows on the job.

rest of my hcs involve the series of events lol. would that i could draw it all. naturally, lots of venatori were killed, but there were also too many that weren't that saw his face. probably involved something like triggering explosions and dropping chandeliers, etc. hence the ‘wanton destruction of property’ charge.

speaking of origins, do you use the built in "military orphan baby" background the shadows gives rook?

yes i did, LOL. i was so astounded when further details of that came up in conversation. even more so when the codex mentioning legatus mercar came up. i personally really like working within the boundaries of canon, so that was a morsel that i was gnawing giggling kicking my feet over for days.

for endras, i hc charon mercar already had an older daughter of his own, but had recently lost a new child when he'd found endras on the battlefield (though endras doesn't know that). they have a difficult relationship but do care for each other. i have drawing plans for this.

this has been a deep point of discussion on the shadow dragon community lol. if you're interested in other mercar backstory takes i recommend taking a look (or not! lol no pressure)