#more reformed now than when I met him but ye…

[bububalloon]

Life is being in love with a fictional character (Raoul) to the point you bark at everyone online for loving Erik (well hopefully I didn’t really but I was truly obsessed) then falling in love in real life, coming back to the phandom years later and seeing the tallllll dark mysterious Erik depictions call to you because they remind you of the man you fell in love with….

Life is funny yeah.

[katnisspeetaprim]

How Did You end Up Here?

Platonic!Alastor/Reader

Summary: Alastor couldn't quite understand how someone like you ended up in Hell,so naturally he wanted find out. (I tried my best with this one. Sorry if it's bad!) Requests open!

Warnings: implied fem reader, platonic relationship, mentions of abusive relationship, mentions of murder.

Word Count: 1450 Hazbin M.list

You hadn’t been in Hell long, but you were already getting used to your new home. Safe to say you were doing better than when you first arrived anyway.

Charlie had found you on your first day, cowering in an alley way. You’d be forever grateful to her for helping you that day, and introducing you to her hotel reform programme.

That’s how you met the radio demon, Alastor.

He was intrigued by you the second Charlie marched you through the front door. He stood back and observed as the hyperactive princess excitedly introduced you to everyone.

Alastor didn’t miss the way you curled in on yourself with a blush when everyone gathered round to greet you. You clearly didn’t like being centre of attention. He decided to step out of the shadows to introduce himself.

‘Oh Y/N this is Alastor! The hotel wouldn’t be possible without him!’

‘Oh you give me too much credit! But Y/N dear, charmed to meet you!’ You were taken aback by the strange man in front of you. His voice was off and the way he was grinning down at you was... unnerving.

‘Ummm nice to meet you.’ You looked away and played with your fingers nervously. ‘I’m new to Hell.’

‘Well I can see that my dear.’ He shrugged nonchalantly, before leaning down closer to you with a glint in his eye. ‘You seem very timid for a sinner I must say.’

You didn’t know if he was trying to taunt you or  if he was just stating a fact, because he was right after all.

‘Uh yeah, I guess...’ You trailed off with a nervous chuckle, not really wanting to get into your situation right now.

Sensing the change in atmosphere, Charlie quickly pushed her way between the two of you, stating that her and Vaggie were going to show you round. You sighed in relief, happy to follow the two women if it meant you were out of the spot light.

All the other residents went back to what they were doing before your arrival, all except Alastor that is.

He stared after you with slightly narrowed eyes. This could be interesting.

Over the next few weeks, you’d gotten used to the eccentric bunch of misfits that inhabited the hotel, even becoming friends with them, Alastor included.

The radio demon really wasn’t as scary as you first thought, he was arguably the person you had gotten closest to in the short time. You’d always been fascinated by old media when you were alive, so when you found out he was a radio hot back in the day, you couldn’t help but be curious.

Alastor was thrilled to have someone take an interest in his work and wasted no time taking you on a tour of his studio, something that the other residents couldn’t quite believe happened.

‘My dear you seem to be adjusting to Hell splendidly!’ Alastor approached you as you sat in the lounge, nursing a cup of tea.

‘Oh hi Alastor! Yeah, definitely not as scary as my first day.’ You smiled at him as you placed the cup down on the saucer.

‘Yes, much less like a shaking leaf now I must say.’ You laughed lightly and pushed some stray hair behind your ear.

‘Yeah well, all of you here helped with that.’ You smiled fondly, so grateful to your new friends.

Alastor knew your guard was down. Now would be a great opportunity to learn more about your story.

‘I couldn’t help but notice you’ve yet to leave the hotel alone, could that be something to do with how you ended up in Hell? If I may be so bold to ask.’ Alastor just asked you point blank, the signature grin never leaving his face.

Your own smile fell slightly at his question and you looked round uncomfortably, trying desperately to avoid eye contact, and making sure nobody was around to over hear.

Alastor was still grinning down at you, patiently waiting for your response.

‘Umm... Can we go somewhere private to talk?’ You wanted to finally open up to someone about your death, but that didn’t mean you wanted everyone to know all at once. Hopefully it would do you some good to get everything off your chest.

‘Why certainly! Follow me dear.’

Alastor locked the door behind him and gestured for you to sit down on his furniture. As you looked round his room, you couldn’t help but notice that it was oddly normal. For someone as vivid as Alastor, you’d expected more personality to be in this room. Though, he does spend most of his time in his radio tower.

Aslastor sat opposite you and crossed his legs, placing the cane he was never seen without by his side.

‘I’m all ears my little doe.’ Alastor prodded for you to start talking.

‘well uh-‘ You picked at some loose thread at the hem of your skirt, still somewhat unsure of yourself. ‘I killed my boyfriend.’ You burst out suddenly, just wanting to get it out.

Alastor was a little taken back by your sudden confession, having been prepared to do some prodding before you finally said it but he quickly composed himself.

‘My that is surprising. I never would have pegged you as a killer.’ He shrugged his shoulders, before his eyes darkened and his smirk got somehow wider. ‘I should know.’

You shrunk back a little in your seat, unnerved by his sudden dark turn. You weren’t sure why you were so surprised honestly, he had to be in Hell for a reason. You made a mental note to bring it up to him at a later date.

‘It’s not what you think!’ You quickly jumped back in. ‘He was an abusive asshole .. And I just couldn’t take it anymore...’ You looked down with sad eyes. There was a beat of silence before Alastor spoke up.

'Murder will get you a one way ticket to Hell, even if the scum did deserve it.’ He stated as a matter of fact. Alastor was a bad person, that wasn’t up for debate, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t call someone out for being evil.

You smiled a little at his words. It felt good to be validated.

‘But if that sad excuse of a man is dead, then how did you die?’ Alastor wondered out loud, knowing he hadn’t gotten the full story just yet. You scoffed before answering.

‘One of his guys just so happened to come by after I did it. I don’t remember how he did it, but yeah.’

‘Hmm.’ Alastor was digesting all the information you’d just dropped on him. It all made sense now, how someone like you ended up in Hell. Before Alastor could respond, you spoke up again.

‘I guess my ex will be here somewhere too... That’s why I haven’t been out alone since I got here.’ It took a long time for you to leave the hotel for the first time with Charlie, terrified that you would run into him. Charlie never pushed you for an answer as to why you were so scared, but she made sure you knew you would always be safe around her.

‘What an interesting development.’ Alastor smirked to himself, deep in thought again. You stared at him again, still confused.

‘Alastor?’ Your voice seemed to pull him from his thoughts.

‘Oh don’t mind me dear, just thinking things over.’ He spoke with a surprisingly cheery tone to his voice as he waved you off. You nodded with a sigh, knowing you wouldn’t get any information out of him.

‘Thank you for listening to me Alastor, it really means a lot.’ You gave him a real smile. Probably the first time you’d really smiled since your arrival. It really did feel good to finally get everything off your chest.

‘Don’t mention it! But I would like to know everything about this coward.’

That request definitely caught you off guard. Your brows furrowed as you thought it over.

‘Why?’ You cringed at how meek your voice sounded once again.

‘Nothing to worry about dear, just information for future reference!’

It only took a matter of hours for Alastor to track down the bastard. You’d given him quite detailed information about him and what his personality was like.

Plus Alastor had many connections all over Pentagram City, so finding the man was child’s play honestly.

Alastor had finally cornered the man in a dead end alley way. He was shaking with fear, tears running down his face as he looked up at Alastor looking down on him.

‘Now my pathetic fellow, just how should I deal with you?’

[melancholicbutterflies]

You Don’t Own Me

Summary: You’re tired of Elvis always telling you what you can and cannot do as his wife. You decide to pushback. He puts you in your place.

Warnings: underage, smut, dubious consent, bdsm themes (dd/lg), cursing, yandere!Elvis themes, breeding kink, 18+ (cannot stress this enough!) 

Word Count: 4,046

It was a decision you would come to regret, but you were young and naive, and dreaming of a better life. 

You met him at your high school. Elvis, up and coming rock ‘n roll sensation, had just returned from two years in the service and had successfully reformed his bad boy image in the eyes of parents everywhere. As such, he was permitted in venues since objected to (and the ones of teenage girls’ wet dreams). 

Elvis the Pelvis was coming to your school, and students and teachers alike were all abuzz. Growing up in a very Christian family, you weren’t allowed to watch his performances, and knew only what you heard from friends of less strict upbringings, and the odd radio programming when you snuck into the teacher’s lounge. 

Nothing could prepare you for what he looked like up close. Thick, dark hair that was somewhat cartoonish framed a devilishly handsome, tanned face with high cheekbones, sultry eyes, and a snarling smile that beckoned you. And he was tall, taller than any of the boys in class (although they were much younger, you had to concede). Still, he looked dapper in his suit, his well-loved acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, devil hips cocked to one side. 

He was a stunner, all right, and you were as good as gone. 

You watched as he gave each and every person his undivided attention, all smiles and bashful head ducks. You wouldn’t have pegged him for humble, couldn’t imagine him being so with the amount of talent and charm and good looks he’d been endowed with, but he surpassed your every expectation. He was here to teach some scripture, and at some point he wove in some music, too. His voice was like a siren’s, no business singing such innocently devout lyrics. 

At the end everyone clapped, and he went to signing autographs; the line took up the whole classroom and wrapped around the hallway as other students from classes that broke out joined in. 

When it was your turn, he started, “who should I make it out to?” Pen poised, eyes tired as he lifted them to look at you with a waning smile, and he stopped. Nearly dropped the pad of paper then and there as he stared at you. You stared back, entranced, and found you were the first to break eye contact. “Well, it’s Y/N.” 

“Y/N, huh” he snapped out of his reverie, eyes alight with... something, as he licked his lips. “What a pretty name for a pretty gal,” he scribbled something on the pad of paper, barely legible, but finished with a heart. His next words you couldn’t predict in your most wondrous of fantasies: 

“Say, you wouldn’t wanna grab a burger and shake with me one o’ these days, would ya? Or am I gettin’ ahead of myself?” 

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, in shock. He laughed, hair flopping as his head tossed back. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

You nodded vigorously, finally finding your words, albeit breathily. “Yes!” 

“It’s a date,” he said lowly, gaze now stuck on your lips. 

It was nothing short of sweet. You avoided your coworkers interested looks as you sat down with Elvis, who’d held your purse as you slid in the booth opposite. You were hungry and he vocalized he liked a girl who ate and set down a tip that was more than you made in a shift. Ice cream followed, a nice walk in the park, and he drove you home, politely not commenting on the sort of neighborhood you lived in. “I had a nice time,” he said in the low light of the fading sun, leaning in real close. “I did, too.” You said it as you looked down in your lap until he picked your chin up, forcing your gaze to his. You thought he looked sinful for someone so religious. 

“Good, because I really wanna kiss you, Y/N.”

You stopped him with a hand at his clavicle. “I can’t.” Looking backward, he saw a figure by the window, felt your sudden nervousness. It was about more than just want, and thankfully he understood. “Sure, baby, I get it. You’re unspoiled, aren’t you?” His eyes implored you. 

Reticently, you nodded, not fully understanding his meaning but knowing enough. 

It should have concerned you how happy he looked at that. 

Pretty soon he showed up everywhere. At the local diner, your ballet lessons, even one late night you were out walking your dog, Marnie. You could have sworn you saw a car at the end of the street, eyes watching under darkness. It was unnerving, it was exciting; you hadn’t experienced the weight of someone’s entire attention on you before now.

If you were less naive, you might have questioned why a grown man who had plenty else to do was expending so much effort getting to know you. It all became clear one day when he took you out to dinner, not just at any restaurant, but the fanciest one in town, followed by a romantic moon-lit walk at the beach and kneeled before you in the sand asking you to marry him. 

You said yes, of course, and he looked like the happiest man alive as he wrapped you up in a breathtaking kiss. You two couldn’t wait to get to his hotel, and made love right then and there, the sounds of the ocean waves lapping in the distance. 

He wanted to marry at once, and only a few days later you were at the courthouse exchanging vows. None of your friends could come (they were all in school), and only a few of his came, including his father, who hadn’t exactly looked favorably on you, but knew his son couldn’t be reasoned with once he set his mind to something. The colonel scowled in the corner, smoking his pipe up a storm. Your mom and dad wanted nothing to do with the whole affair and had all too happily washed their hands of you, signing paperwork to allow you to wed before your eighteenth birthday. 

When it was time to say, ‘I do’, you did so enthusiastically, and a beautiful smile broke out on his handsome face. He pulled you in, thumbing your bridal veil, and kissed you like a man possessed. You were forever changed in that moment. 

Mrs. Elvis Presley. It was like a dream come true.

And for a while, it was. 

Elvis was attentive, doting, a true joy to be around. He took care of everything for you. You wanted for nothing. You were happy, happier than you ever thought possible in your short and, up till now, wretched life. Elvis changed everything for you, and you were eternally grateful. 

But, like all dreams, there came a time when reality set in. The bubble burst. Oh, boy, did it ever. 

It started with little things, at first. 

Before he’d met you, you worked at a diner waiting tables. Now that you were married, he claimed there was no reason to keep waitressing. “Waste of time,” he remarked, “’sides, who’d wanna keep on their feet like that all day long when you don’t have’ta? Nuh-uh, didn’t think so. You’ll put in your notice tomorrah’.” 

You thought to object, but he had a point. It was enjoyable enough to you, sure, passed the time all right, and gave you some pocket change to buy things for yourself that your parents never would. But now with Elvis occupying your days, and making just about a hundred times what you ever did after a full day’s work just sitting around, what was the point? Your coworkers, as nice as they were, were hardly reason enough. 

So you promptly shut your mouth and smiled, giving him a big hug, and that was that. 

Then it was your hair: 

“Oh, doll,” he crooned one night after a heavy bout of lovemaking, running his meaty paw through your thick, wavy hair. “Wouldn’t you look good with straightened hair?” 

You turned to him in mild surprise, still blissed out. “You never said a thing about my hair before. Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, ‘course I do, baby. I just thought you might like to keep up with the fashion is all. All them girls have their hair straight these days.” 

“I guess that’s true.” You admitted. “And, say, maybe you ‘oughta darken it while you’re at it. Might be nice to have us match, you know.” You touched a hand to your hair, furrowing your brows as he leaned in to nuzzle your neck, applying light, sweet kisses there. It was awfully distracting, your hand falling limp on the bed as you gasped. 

“Promise me you’ll think ‘bout it, at least...” He murmured low between kisses that went ever lower. “Oh, sure.” 

“Good girl,” he growled, and he said something about “...have Jer make an appointment at that salon o’ Sandy’s.” And he proceeded to eat you out. 

As time went on, that charming, subtle needling to shift your behaviors in his favor turned meaner:

Once before a press conference, he stopped you in the hallway, seizing your arm. “Hey, what’s wrong—” you winced as he twisted it around harshly in an effort to inspect your hand. “Quit it, E, that hurts.” 

“What is this?” He looked at you angrily, disappointed, even. 

“What is what?” You didn’t see anything other than your ring, which was where it should be, on your ring finger without anything out of the ordinary. When you saw where his eyes were directed, you realized he meant your nail polish. 

“So it’s a little chipped. Who cares?”

“Who cares?” He seethed. “I care, and if you had any sense in ya you would too! Everything you do reflects on me, little girl, so when you look like a cheap hussy, you make me look bad. Make ‘em think I can’t take care of my baby. Get it?” 

He wasn’t shouting, he wasn’t even raising his voice, but the venom dripping from his quiet wrath was so much worse. 

Tears built at the corner of your eyes and you ducked your head, turning on your heel to run back toward the bedroom before he caught you by the arm again. You thought he’d apologize, say he overreacted. He didn’t. Instead he said: “Dry those eyes, girl, and put on a smile. I don’t care if it ain’t real, but I won’t have ya embarrassin’ me.” 

It only snowballed from there.

Your whole wardrobe was thrown out, and a new one replaced to match with Elvis’. You didn’t finish school, didn’t do ballet anymore. You still cooked and baked now and then, but only on special occasions. Mary did all the real cooking in the house, and she already knew what Elvis liked and she did it well. Drinking, although technically not even legal, was forbidden (“a lady shouldn’t drink, you’ll get sloppy and less chivalrous men than myself’ll take advantage. Don’t want that, do ya?”)

Want to go to the movie with some friends? Think again. Boys weren’t allowed anywhere in your vicinity: he barely let Red, trusted bodyguard of the Memphis Mafia, guard you. He said he didn’t like his wandering eye one time. Personally, you thought he was delusional, but didn’t bother arguing since you hadn’t exactly taken a liking to the man. 

Your friends were more acquaintances now, and when you saw them, you didn’t know what to say. They’d moved on, had new friends or new boyfriends. They felt you abandoned them (you did, although not intentionally). You never felt more alone in your life, and yet you were never alone; Elvis made sure of that, always having someone stay behind to watch you when he couldn’t.

Eventually it was the summer, your first summer as a married couple in fact, and you were invited to your cousin’s wedding. It was her high school sweetheart; they got the bug from you and wanted to get hitched as soon as they graduated high school. You were hellbent on making it to that wedding, come hell or high water. Elvis, as your husband, was of course also invited and expected as your plus one. They were renting out a small venue in Nashville, and the bride-to-be wanted you as her bridesmaid if not the maid-of-honor (a role you suspected in the back of your mind would have easily been yours pre-Elvis, but post-Elvis you was less reliable, and you couldn’t fault her for making that decision). 

Elvis’ first reaction to it surprised you. After all, he’d hardly wanted you to leave his side and had grown increasingly controlling. So when he said, “Sure, hunny,” you almost questioned if you’d imagined it.

You were ecstatic. “Oh, thank you, Elvis. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Each word of gratitude was punctured by a kiss all over his face and any other bare patch of skin you could reach. He laughed that booming laugh of his and pulled you in to give you a proper one. “Well, if that’s the way you were gonna thank me I ‘oughta have more o’ your friends get married!” 

This was Fall. Now that it was summertime, and the wedding weekend was upon you, he put his foot down. 

“No,” he said simply, not even sparing you a glance as he casually strummed his acoustic guitar, legs spread apart on the couch. Your mouth nearly fell to the floor, and you felt a distinct ringing in your ears, your heartbeat speeding up. Blinking, you saw a few of his Mafia crew milling about, pretending they’d gone deaf and blind as your temper rose. 

“What?” You screeched. 

You did. 

You almost forgot what it sounded like, your defiance. It was spectacular, and you thought you had never felt so angry in your life. 

And you had a right to, damn it. You did everything this man said and more. You dyed your hair black, you straightened it to his liking, you always had a fresh paint of nails, you wore the dresses he picked out for you, even the ones with the ruffles that you couldn’t stand, and wanted to make you tear your eyes out of your sockets. You stopped working because he said so (although that was not entirely something worth fighting). But you left school, and you stopped talking to your friends for months until they stopped trying so hard and all you had was him and his damn Mafia. The girlfriends and wives didn’t even hardly talk to you. You were too young and there was very little in common. 

You think you spewed all this out to him in your rage, not thinking it even made sense, but you wanted him to feel what he put you through, and being his wasn’t enough if you didn’t have a life outside of his wants and desires. 

Finally, chest heaving, out of words to say in your tirade, you saw him through blurry, teary eyes. He’d frozen, shoulders hunched, body tensed for a fight. He looked around the room, but he needn’t — his Mafia was nowhere to be seen now. His eyes cut to you, dark and stormy, as he rose to his full height and strode towards your panting figure. 

It was a sight to behold, your husband so angry. He’d been cross with you — lord knew he’d been annoyed on many an occasion — but enraged was new. It felt like the point of no return. Like he’d really hurt you this time, all those words about never laying a hand on a woman falling by the wayside.

“Now, Elvis, hold on now—”

“Long past time for that, baby. You been backsassin’ me and I won’t stand for it.”

Your eyes cut to the side, seeing a crack in the doorway.

“Don’t you even think about it, lil’ girl.” Elvis growled. You yelped as he took you in his arms, forcefully tugging you to the couch where he fell back against it, the momentum leaving you to fall across his lap in a rather unlady-like manner. 

“Elvis, please, I’m sorry,” you began, attempting in vain to rise from the precarious position he had you in. His arm only tightened its hold around your waist much like a boa constrictor around its prey. “Should’a thought ‘a that before you went off like that. Now, sit tight and take your punishment.” 

He hit you, then. He actually did it. But it wasn’t across your face or strangling your neck like you’d heard some women claiming of their husbands. He’d pulled up your dress so that it hung your belly and pulled down your lace underwear so that you were bare-bottomed and smacked your butt with his open palm, rings and all. 

You gasped first, shocked that it had happened, and that it felt like it did; the contrast of his warm skin and the cold metal rings was a contrast you hadn’t known you needed. Then as one became two, and two became three, and four and five, and so on... you’d lost track, a strange feeling built up in your lower abdomen that felt familiar yet also foreign. 

Were you... enjoying this absurd, perverted version of punishment?  Surely you weren’t getting turned on by your husband beating you like an errant child? 

And yet... you couldn’t deny the flare of hot want flowing through you, and you certainly couldn’t deny the wet stickiness that started collecting in your bared cunt. You had to bite your lip from making your desire audible; you were angry, aghast that your husband would go to such lengths for simply voicing your very legitimate frustrations to him. 

When a slap fell slightly lower, just catching the bottom of your pussy lips, you couldn’t contain your excitement. A moan slipped past your lips. 

Elvis froze, cock hardening in his pants some.

Your eyes widened, cursing yourself internally. The last thing you wanted was for the bastard to know some part of you was enjoying yourself. You wouldn’t look at him, burying your head in the side of his thigh, even as you felt that hot and searing gaze of his on you. You were humiliated, something you hadn’t thought possible after what he’d already done. 

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice deeper, thick with lust. “Seems my baby likes this more than she should.” 

“Please, Elvis, let me go,” you begged.” You’ve had your fun, being humiliated like this is punishment enough.” 

He laughed, barrel chest vibrating against you. “Oh, hunny, I ain’t nearly done with you. In fact,” he circled your ass with his palm, your slick wetting his fingers now. “The fun’s just begun.” 

“What—” You interjected, only to cry out loudly (or perhaps moan, it was some contrived version of the two), as he promptly pushed his fingers deep into your crevice, the warm, wet walls hugging his long digits with gusto. 

He hissed, “oh, baby girl, that vice of yours just about does my head in. I need to be inside you now.” He started fumbling with his slacks, the belt coming undone in record time as he pulled his rock-hard cock out of his boxers. He gave it a good tug, grimacing at the action. The tip was red and weeping, practically twitching with need. 

“C’mere,” he said, positioning you where he wanted you like a doll. “On all fours, that’s right, just like that hunny.” Your knees met the carpeted floor, hair falling around you like a curtain as your head bent. You know he could go deep like this, but usually you had sex facing one another. He could piss you off to no end, but sex was always a sacred thing between you two. This felt cold, unfeeling. Fucking was what it was; he could care less to see you, he only wanted to possess you. You felt cheap, a plaything — and yet your cunt continued to thud with need. 

“Jesus, you’re a pretty sight,” he rubbed his cock over your pussy lips, grab at your ass, take another smack of it and delighting in the jiggle of it. “Please, Elvis, just...” You pleaded, and he cut a look at you. “Don’t think you’re much in the position to be makin’ any sorta demands, doll.” 

You hung your head, sighing, waiting for him to get his fill. “Oh, hell,” he said, “you’re lucky I can’t hardly wait anymore either.” And with that he pushed into you, causing a surprised yelp to leave your throat. Pulling on your hair, causing your back to arch towards him, he set a punishing, brutal pace, one that hard you seeing stars. In this position, he could hit your g-spot dead on, and hit it he did. 

“Oh, godddd,” you groaned, scraping a hand back to hold onto his arm holding onto you. He huffed a laugh that turned strangled toward the end. “Not God, darlin’, but close.” 

You would have snorted at the cheesy line if you weren’t full of his cock. 

“Nothin’ to say?” He taunted. “That’s a real shame. To think you just needed some good dick to quiet down. Bet you ain’t never had one good as me.” 

It wasn’t a statement, he expected an answer, but you were too far gone in the blissed-out feeling to recognize it.

Smacking your sore ass harshly, he repeated his words. “Ain’t you? Say it, or I swear to God I’ll stop right now and won’t let you come.” 

“Yes, E, yes! You’re the best I’ve had,” you cried as the building sensation waned. “That ain’t my name, try again.” 

“Daddy,” you whispered, feeling some shame about it. You always felt weird about calling him that even though your relationship with you father had never been close, but he demanded you refer to him in that way. 

“Daddy what?”

“Daddy you’re the best I’ve ever had,” you admitted. He smiled; really, you would have said anything to have him keep fucking you the way he was.

“That’s right,” he pet your head, slipping his cock back into your tight hole as your eyes rolled back in your head. “You’re my good girl when you’re like this, almost forgotten you was bad earlier. Throwin’ a temper tantrum back there after all I done for you. Ungrateful. And for what? Some weddin’ you felt you needed to go to?” He tutted you, each word punctured by a punishing stab at your cervix; the pain intermingled with pleasure to create a heady concoction leaving you at a loss of words. Intelligible ones, anyhow. 

“Ye-ah...” you moaned. 

“What was that?” Elvis goaded, pinching your swinging titties between his hands. 

“A-agree, I w-was bein’ bad.” 

“Right. ‘Cause the only person you should be worryin’ about is me. Your husband.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Hmm,” he hummed deeply. “Need you just as much, more than ‘em. Can’t have you halfway ‘cross the state if somethin’ came up.” 

He soothed your head, running his fingers through your dampening hair. “Need my yittle baby by my side, and she needs her daddy,” he cooed in the baby-talk language he loved so much. 

You nodded, more so due to the buildup in your pelvic region. He groaned, feeling the tighening in his balls as your walls started fluttering around him. 

“Shit, hunny, you got me ready to burst. You gon’ take it? Take all my lovin’?” 

“Yes, Daddy! I’ll take it all.” 

“Gonna fill you up,” he mumbled, hips moving erratically now. “Fill you up with my babies ‘till your big and swollen with my seed. Shi-itt—!” 

You cried out at the sensation of his warmth shooting into you, triggering your orgasm. 

“Agh!” He yelled, falling over you, hips slowly still moving as if to fuck more into you. You collapsed on the floor, and he was right behind you. You two laid on the floor in the fading light that spilled through the French windows. 

Turning so that he was looking at you, he pulled your face to his in a deep, slow kiss. “You gonna let Daddy take care of you?” 

You hesitated, knowing what he wanted of you. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll make the call tonight.” 

He grinned, looking every bit the angel and devil as he hovered over you. “Good girl.” 

[rosesradio]

Piper’s Magic Shoes 🪄

prompt from @kazperthegh0st

word count: 766

When Jason heard laughter coming from the Aphrodite cabin, he couldn’t be sure what to expect. Even though Piper had been working on reforms, the source of the Aphrodite camper’s amusement could be any unfortunate soul that wore the “wrong” outfit that day.

Although the last thing Jason needed was to be made fun of, he also knew Piper and Leo were in there. Bracing himself, he knocked on the door.

The door shakily opened, and Jason was greeted by Leo, wobbling uncertainly as he donned—Jason looked down—high heels. Not just any high heels; these were black, sleek, and at least six inches tall.

At this height, despite the wobbling, Jason had to look up to meet Leo’s eyes.

Oh.

“Hey, Jason!” Leo greeted, his smile wide and infectious. “Check these out—magic shoes! Piper got them from her mom.”

Jason stepped into the cabin and shut the door behind him. He glanced over at Piper curiously, and she added: “I’d complain, but they change into literally any shoe and fit perfectly. It’s…surprisingly practical, considering the sender.”

“Any shoe,” Jason echoed, furrowing his brows at the heels. “I’m surprised you’re not going for boots, then, Leo.”

Leo shrugged. “I have boots, I was just testing these out. Besides, it’s pretty cool, me being taller than you for a change, see?” His brows furrowed in concentration for a moment, and the heels grew an additional inch.

“You’re gonna fall on your face, Leo,” Piper pointed out helpfully.

Leo waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, ye of little confi—“ at that moment, he wobbled a little too far to the right and slipped, letting out a yelp as he started to fall.

His battle reflexes kicking in, Jason swooped in and caught Leo, his heart pounding up into his throat at how close Leo was to the ground.

“Whoa,” Leo breathed out a laugh, though his eyes lit up with genuine astonishment as he grasped Jason’s biceps. “That was so quick, thank you…but at least take me to dinner before you start dippin’ me like this, Grace.”

“Oh, uh…uh-huh…” Jason muttered, helping Leo to a stand, though he couldn’t help but look into Leo’s eyes. It was easier to see the dark outline and short wings across his eyelids when Leo lowered the safety hazard that was the heels to a comfortable two inches. “You…” Jason had never had such a hard time with words before. “Your eyes…they look different…”

Leo scratched the back of his neck, glancing towards the window to avoid Jason’s gaze. That didn’t help the matter; when the sun hit his eyes just right, they lit up a perfect dark amber.

“It’s, uh…eyeliner,” Leo shrugged, clearly trying to play nonchalant as he crossed his arms. He met his eyes again, unable to hide his slight worry. “Piper did it for me—wouldn’t let me play with the shoes unless I let her do something. Um…what do you think…?”

Jason could tell the fragility of the moment. Leo was often insecure, and Jason had no problem reassuring him. But he had to do it quick instead of ogling at him like a fish out of water.

“It’s,” Jason managed, his heart pounding, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Pretty. Really pretty…it makes the color…it’s cool…” he concluded cohesively, looking over at Piper.

Jason had never confirmed her suspicions about his crush on Leo, but based on the look he gave her now, he was essentially waving a giant white flag. Based on the smug look she shot right back at him, his signal was received loud and clear.

“You know, Leo,” Piper spoke up. “You should keep the eyeliner on for the movie tonight. It’s too bad I agreed to share a blanket with Annabeth, though…I guess that means you two are on your own…?”

Leo hummed in thought before nodding. “Guess so. So, you’ll be at the amphitheater at seven?” He asked Jason.

Jason nodded. Then, with more adrenaline than he’d ever had for a flight attempt, he replied. “Guess it’s a date, then.”

His heart felt as if it had been jolted by lightning conducted in his own hands.

Leo, to Jason’s great relief, beamed at that—and was Jason seeing things, or did some color rise in his cheeks? “Guess it’s a date, Superman. See you then.”

“Cool,” Jason’s voice was an octave higher than he was used to, though he was smiling all the same. With that, he turned and started out of the cabin. Nothing could wipe the dreamy smile off of Jason’s face, not even when he hit the doorway on the way out.

[teecupangel]

I had an idea for an Altaïr that accepted Al Mualim’s teachings and became his true successor after he dies, basically keeping Masyaf the same after his death with the apple. What would happen if a reincarnated Desmond just appeared in Masyaf one day? I was thinking of Altdes but like super Yandere Altaïr

You wanna make it all the more morally questionable?

Altaïr finished what Al Mualim failed to do.

He managed to use the Apple to control everyone in Masyaf.

When Desmond is transported into the past, Altaïr had already gotten to Saladin and is slowly getting the men King Richard trusts the most under his command.

Desmond was reborn as a nobody in this land… is what he would like to say.

Unfortunately…

Or maybe fortunately?

He was reborn as Jalāl al-Dīn Ḥasan III, the only son of imam of Alamut.

Meaning he’s 22 years old younger than Altaïr…

He was kept in the harem as a child and it was hard to run away from an entire castle filled with Assassins who knew their little prince liked to run away.

He had only met Altaïr once when he was growing up, being able to take peek even after his father ordered him to stay in his room while the mentor of Masyaf was visiting.

He had been sixteen years old.

And Altaïr looked just as handsome as he remembered.

Their eyes met and there was something in his eyes that made Desmond feel… something.

Something both enticing and… dangerous.

One of the Assassins saw him and escorted him back to his room before his father found out.

The following day, his father asked for him and he had been worried that he learned of Desmond sneaking in last night.

Instead, he ordered Desmond to show Altaïr around Alamut which he agreed easily to.

Altaïr’s stay in Alamut was short and Desmond savored every moment of it. He was a bit different from Desmond’s image of him.

More open in his curiosity of Alamut and…

Of Desmond himself.

He knew that Altaïr already had two sons by now.

But Altaïr laughed when Desmond asked about his wife.

He didn’t have a wife.

Desmond thought he was joking.

So Altaïr explained…

His sons’ mother was not married to him. She did him a ‘favor’. In exchange, he ‘assisted’ her in taking over the Templar Order. It’’s because of their ‘trade’ that Altaïr was able to secure an alliance with the newly reformed Templar Order.

Something was wrong.

Desmond has no idea why the timeline was this skewered. He sure as hell knew it wasn’t him.

It couldn’t be him.

He had been too young when Altaïr became a mentor to do anything even when he wanted to.

So he had to find out what happened to change the ‘past’ this much.

And the fact that he knew that there was something between them, something simmering under the surface with each graze of the back of their hands, of each brief touch on the arm, the shoulder, and back…

There was something between them that Desmond knew he was powerless to stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

So he asked his father if he could stay in Masyaf for a while, be some kind liaison or something.

He had been surprised when his father said yes.

He should have questioned it.

Instead…

He was just glad that he could stay with Altaïr longer.

.

[Why are you bringing that child?]

“Jealous?”

[You do not need that child.]

“He’s not a child, is he? He doesn’t feel like one.”

[He knows nothing.]

“No one does. Only we know how this past must become to pave way to a better future. Is he not part of your Calculations?”

[He is inconsequential.]

“Then it doesn’t matter if I have him then if that’s true.”

[…]

“He sounds a lot like you. But he’s more… not innocent. No. That’s not the right word… ‘mortal’.”

[Altaïr, do not forget your pact with me.]

“I prefer to call it our vows but what do I know? I am but the first of your many, aren’t I? But he… he’s mine and mine alone.”

[Do not let him distract you.]

“When have I ever failed you? I know what he is. I can see it in his glow. He’s like you… he is you, isn’t he?”

[…]

“Is he my reward for being your loyal puppet king, my dear Reader? Or is he an anomaly I can do as I please?”

[… do as you wish but do not forget who you belong to, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.]

“I belong to you but you do not belong to me. But he… Desmond. He will be mine.”

Altaïr stared at the Apple on his table.

The Apple glowed dimly.

[Fine. Do as you wish.]

“I will.” Altaïr tapped the Apple, letting it roll an inch away from him, “Relax, my dear Reader. Aren’t you curious?”

“Who decided to place your human self here in our fixed past?”

[kandisheek]

Cap-Ironman Rec Week 2024

Time Travel Tuesday: July 23rd

Prompt: Rec all those great fanworks where Tony or Steve (or Tony and Steve) travel to the past or the future or to an alternate past or future and discover unexpected realities and new truths!

I absolutely love this trope! And we are truly blessed in this fandom to have so many fantastic authors tackling it. Here is a very small selection of my favorite time-travel / timey-wimey-shenanigan fics:

-- And Has Time Enough by wanttobeatree

Tony asks if they have met. It's a matter of perspective. (A Time Traveller's Wife AU.)

-- Double Time by Sineala

Cassino, Italy, December 1943. Special Agent Tony Stark, former Marvels adventurer, is sent to investigate a Cosmic Cube found by the Invaders -- and it's the perfect opportunity for him to rekindle his secret romance with Steve Rogers. But when Hydra attempts to steal the Cube, an inadvertent wish for help leads to the appearance of a Tony from the future of another world: Director Stark of SHIELD. This Tony is a man with a lot on his mind. He refuses to tell them anything about the future, but he seems to know much more than he should about Captain America. And something's happened that's clearly killing him inside, but he's not talking. When Director Stark's failed attempt to return home leads to the unexpected appearance of another visitor from his universe, all the lies come undone. Now there are two wars to fight, and the second one could ruin all of them.

-- A Shadow Hanging Over Our Fate by CaptainDean13

The Avengers get sent back in time to WWII where they run into the Howling Commandos... complete with Bucky and Steve. Little hard to explain that away, especially when you are trying to keep some major secrets. Secrets like how you ended up in the future and why the hell Bucky is now a scary (reformed) assassin with a metal arm, not to mention that you married your friend's son.

MORE RECS BELOW THE CUT:

-- The Good or Bad Thing by petreparkour

“It’s the metal suit,” Thor informed Steve, his normally-booming voice tinny over the SHIELD comms. “What did Stark call it—Iron Man?” “But he’s down here,” Steve protested as the Hulk roared in Stark’s face, startling him into waking with a shout. “How could—” “It’s damaged,” Thor reported. “But it looks different. More advanced. And he—ah. He’s carrying you, Captain.” “Please tell me nobody kissed me,” Stark breathed out, and then Stark’s voice suddenly came over the comms, but the man lying next to him hadn’t moved.  “Guys, come on, you’re killing me here. What is it, 2012? God, I hate time travel. First, I'm fighting Thanos. Now, I have to deal with my past self and Thor's bad haircut? Oh my God, Cap, yes I hacked their comms, they’re my comms.” Steve nearly opened his mouth to protest that he hadn’t said anything when he realized that this replica of Tony Stark wasn’t speaking to him.

-- Calls Me Home by steve-capsicle-rogers (adorable_lab_rat)

Tony can't help but notice the far away look on Steve's face. The visible pain and loss. It wasn't right and giving Steve back everything he'd lost was the right choice. The right thing. And honestly Tony didn't do the right thing near enough.

-- A Hundred Times, Once by FestiveFerret, SirSapling

The shrill tone of his SHIELD beeper pulls Steve out of sleep and into battle. He fights robots, he fights Tony's shameless advances, he fights the exhaustion that threatens to take over him, drown him. And then the next morning, he wakes and does it again. Exactly the same. And again. And again. And again.

-- hunters seeking solid ground by laramara

In the wake of the battle with Thanos, Steve feels unmoored in a way he hasn’t since before he ate shawarma with a group of virtual strangers and thought maybe, maybe he could one day find a place here. Steve returns the stones, and has a few unexpected interactions and makes some decisions along the way.

-- The Butterfly Effect by itsallAvengers

While fighting with Loki, Steve Rogers from 2012 hears the two simple words: "Bucky's alive." And the whole universe ripples with the aftershocks.

[hurtspideyparker]

How do you feel about Peter being forgotten by everyone in NWH?

SO MANY THINGS.

Peter chooses to be forgotten twice; once when he asks Doctor Strange to erase everyone's memories, and again in that coffee shop when he walks away from Ned and MJ.

The first time is a necessary sacrifice - the world was collapsing around the identity of Peter Parker. As a hero, he had no choice but to save the planet.

The second? Peter, to his core, puts responsibility above all else. He is selfless, and every consequence he plays a role in is met with the heavy hand of guilt. The second time he chooses to be forgotten it isn't necessary. He saw they had a second chance at a safe, normal life, and didn't want to take that from them again. He thinks so little of himself (as a protector, as a friend, as a person), that he believes they'd be safer and happier without him.

Him being forgotten is a graduation. He finally understands the gravity of being a hero, and he is ready to take it on completely. No more mentors guiding his abilities, no Tony keeping him safe, no May teaching him about responsibility. No guy in the chair, no Stark tech or Avengers or sorcerers.

So with the death of Peter Parker, comes the fulfillment of Spider-Man.

I feel like it couldn't have gone any other way. As much as Peter deserves everything good in the world he is too kind to ever put himself first. Tony Stark made the ultimate sacrifice right before his eyes. He was raised by May who died for the cause of reform and second-chances, who put herself at risk for complete strangers. It was only a matter of time till he followed in their footsteps.

But it hurts so. bad. The kid genius studying under Tony Stark and headed for MIT, his education reduced to a GED. Peter has faced so much loss and grief, he needs a support system now more than ever. He's always leaned on others for comfort and guidance, so to see so much of who he is taken from him when he's forgotten is such a slap in the face.

So I think it was the perfect choice for Spider-Man and the most painful end of Peter Parker. Yes my chest aches thinking about it yes I loved it no I don't think Peter should have left that coffee shop. He under values himself and denies the reality that Peter made people's lives better too, not just Spider-Man.

[dawn-moths]

I loved your noe fic so can I request #6 with noe please <3

i’ve honestly been wanting to write for noe again for a long time now so when i saw this i was like “yes!!” haha (i’ll get back to the wip i started for him someday)

prompt: moulding perfectly into each other's arms

character: noe archiviste (the case study of vanitas)

words: 671

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Growing up, you’d heard all kinds of rumors about the beings known as vampires.

“They’re blinded by their bloodlust,” you’d been told, “Even someone you might consider your closest friend would lose control and kill you if they were turned.”

“They’re terrible, vicious monsters,” went another. “They could never be regarded as anything close to human.”

You’d heard people talk about their red eyes, alluring but deadly, and their razor sharp fangs, glistening with the remnants of glossy crimson after they’d sucked a victim dry. Some people even thought they could shapeshift, recounting horrifying tales of bones bending and snapping and reforming to turn them into some revolting beast when they needed to feed.

You knew all of this was false, just the shameful result of the general public’s ignorance and fear of something they didn’t understand.

But you’d be lying if you hadn’t believed at least some of the stereotypes before you’d met Noe though. It had been quite interesting to learn what was fact and what was fiction the more comfortable you two had gotten around each other, but the one thing you’d been most surprised to find out, for whatever reason, was that, contrary to popular belief, vampires did not run cold.

In fact, when your skin was pressed against Noe’s or even when you two were simply cuddling up together fully clothed, he was so warm you sometimes worried he was running a fever and just didn’t know it yet.

Sometimes in the middle of midsummer nights, you’d wake up to find you’d kicked half the covers from you and even then, if you were still secured in his arms, you might have to carefully shimmy away from his grasp for just long enough for your body temperature to cool down a bit.

Noe usually slept shirtless, though he swore he wasn’t nearly as affected by his own body heat as you were— sometimes even seemed to wake up with a chill if you ended up stealing the sheets back once you’d fallen back asleep on the other side of the bed— and when the weather turned as warm as it had been as of late, he felt kind of guilty.

Because all he wanted to do at the end of the day was wrap his arms around you, savor the way your body fit perfectly against his, and drift off into a dreamless sleep, knowing he’d wake with you safe and sound in his comforting embrace right where he’d left you. Even if that meant, selfishly, that you’d end up a little warmer than you were comfortable with.

But you didn’t mind, because one of your favorite things about Noe was that he gave the best hugs in the world! He’d hold you for as long as you wanted if you were having a rough time and needed some comfort, but would also snuggle you close to him just for the sake of having you there, your back pressed against his chest or both of you lying face to face, limbs loosely entangled as your breathing fell in sync.

So, yes, while Noe’s eyes did sometimes take on a ruby hue when it came time for him to feed and more than once you’d gotten a glimpse of those pronounced canine fangs catching in the silvery moonlight, you knew he was the furthest thing there was from a vicious monster or a revolting beast.

Because you never felt more safe or more loved than when you felt his long arms draped around you, keeping you close where you’d both be lulled by each other’s scents, hearts beating as one and not a care in the world as you dozed off under the blanket of his natural warmth.

You just hoped that, one day, everyone else would come to understand and maybe even love vampires in the same way that you did, but for now, you were at least glad to enjoy the presence and protection of the one you were lucky enough to call your very own.

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send me a number from this prompt list + one of the characters i write for and I’ll write a short lil something for you 💕

[writer-or-whatever]

On The Ground

Wrote a little Harry/Draco pre-relationship piece for prompt #2 (Rival) on my 100 prompts list. Read under the cut or on AO3

Summary: After two years of being rivals in the professional quidditch league, Harry and Draco are both selected for the English National Quidditch Team for the next Quidditch World Cup. They’ve now got to learn to get along.

Rating: T | Word Count: 1.3k | Fluff & Humor

Harry was being ridiculous. He knew this. They were on the same team and there were bigger things at stake than his own pride. But, Merlin, he still could not stand Malfoy. 

Yes, okay, he’d mellowed out a little since the war. And maybe he grew into his obnoxiously blonde hair and his sharp features. And he’s a reformed and productive member of society now or whatever. 

Doesn’t matter. They’re still rivals, Harry reminds himself, repeating it like a mantra in his head as he exits the locker room and heads out to the pitch. 

He wasn’t the last one out of the locker room, but only barely. So when his eyes adjusted to the bright sun, he’s met with twelve of the other players, both starting and reserve, for this year’s English National Quidditch Team. And off to the left side, talking to one of the beaters, is Malfoy. The red and blue of the National Team jersey suits him better than the bright orange Chudley Cannons uniform that Harry’s grown accustomed to seeing him in over the last two seasons. Not that Harry is taken in by the way the blue brings out his eyes or anything. 

Harry is mercifully brought out of his not-at-all-creepy staring by an arm being slung over his shoulders. 

“Come on, Potter. Can’t keep the rest of the team waiting,” Ginny said, grinning and almost vibrating in place with excitement. Making England’s National Team had been Ginny’s childhood dream, and even two seasons of professional quidditch hadn’t dulled her excitement. 

“Right,” Harry agreed, letting her pull him along behind her. 

Upon their arrival, the coach smiled and whistled a shrill sound that jolted everyone to attention. “Right! Okay! Welcome to day one. I want everybody in the air. We’re doing drills until I’m satisfied and then it’s skirmish time.” He whistled again and then they were off. 

Drills were easy. He felt himself relax and start to focus in, paying Malfoy no more mind than any of their other teammates. At least, until they were split up for the first practice match. 

“Alright. We’re going to start with startings versus reserves. We’re going to gradually mix up our combinations as we go. I need all of you flying seamlessly together in any formation, especially if France plays as dirty as they did in the last cup. Except you, keepers and seekers. Some rivalries live to see another day,” Their coach said, giving Malfoy and Harry a look. Their quidditch feud was legendary. It’s at least half of the post-match wireless commentary every time they’ve played in the last two years. “But only on the pitch. I need you two to at least pretend to like each other on the ground,” he continued seriously.

 Harry and Malfoy both gave him a nod and then they were off. 

The practice match was brutal. The starting players were evenly matched with the reserves and everyone played like they were out for blood—Malfoy especially. He played a lot more offensively as a professional seeker than he ever did in school, and, while Harry was used to it after two seasons of fierce competition, he was playing particularly viciously today. Malfoy was as physical of a player as he could possibly be without getting penalized. He jostled Harry when they happened to be flying side by side. He chased the snitch into, around, and even under the other players or pretended to—a feint that caused Harry to very nearly crash headlong into Oliver Wood, who was the starting keeper, in his pursuit of Malfoy. He was, all told, an absolute menace on a broom. 

His strategy did have its merits though, as Malfoy managed to catch the snitch—jostling Harry hard to the left and wrapping his fingers around the ball the second Harry’s were out of the way—ending their three hour practice game. 

Despite Malfoy catching the snitch, the reserve team lost the match by 20 points, a point which their coach commented on—loudly and at length—to both Harry and Malfoy. By the time they were done for the day, Harry’s ears were ringing with the refrain to ‘pay attention to the damn score before you catch the snitch.’

He and Malfoy were the last ones to the locker room. When Harry finally stepped out of his very long shower, everyone else was already gone except for Malfoy, who stood in front of his locker with just a towel around his waist. Harry’s locker was on the opposite side of the aisle, so thankfully he could pull his own clothes out and dress without looking at Malfoy. 

He had no reason to shy away from Malfoy. They hadn’t been truly antagonistic over anything but Quidditch in several years. Harry didn’t exactly like him, but he’d grown out of the horrible kid he’d known at school. And it wasn’t like Malfoy was the first fit bloke that Harry had shared a locker room with since he figured out he was gay. There was absolutely no reason for him to be this nervous around him, wanting to sneak glances at the other man while simultaneously wanting to be looking elsewhere at all times. Harry was twitchy and awkward as he pulled on his jeans, t-shirt, and trainers, resolutely not turning around to where he could hear Malfoy doing the same. Once he was dressed, he shouldered his bag and started toward the door, forcing himself not to look over at Malfoy on his way out. 

He was out of the locker and almost to the floo when a voice stopped him. 

“Potter! Hold on a second!” Malfoy called as he jogged to catch up with him. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry said, though it lacked venom. 

“Come get a drink with me,” Malfoy said as he stopped next to Harry. He was still a little damp, and some of his long hair was still wet and clinging to his neck. Not that Harry was looking or anything. 

“Er-,” Harry said as his brain short-circuited. “I thought about maybe grabbing some dinner with Ginny.” He definitely had not been. He was going to go home, get enough take-away to make the team’s nutritionist a little bit crazy, and watch The Weakest Link on the charmed television that he bought recently. 

“Planning on crashing your ex’s date with her girlfriend are you?” Malfoy said with a laugh. 

Harry blushed as he remembered that Luna and Ginny were going to a fancy celebration dinner. Ginny had gushed to him the day before about how Luna had arranged a portkey to Paris for dinner and a fancy night out. “How did you know about that?” 

“I helped Luna plan it,” Malfoy said with a bright smile. 

“Right.” Harry had forgotten that Malfoy and Luna were friends. They’d gotten close after the war ended. Harry just happened to miss every pub outing or game night hosted by Luna where Malfoy had been invited too. He’d been busy is all. 

“Right. So. Drinks?” 

“Won’t it be weird?” Harry blurted out, unable to think up a reasonable reason to say no.

Malfoy shrugged, though he was still smiling. “Maybe. But you heard what coach said—you have to at least pretend to like me while we’re on the ground. So come get a drink with me and practice.” 

Harry bit his lip lightly as he looked at Malfoy, who looked earnest enough. It didn’t sound like a horrible way to spend the evening and Malfoy had a point—they were teammates now. 

“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy said after a moment of silence from Harry. “It’s just a drink. I don’t bite.” 

“Of course not, Malfoy.” 

“Alright then. You, me, drinks at the 3 Broomsticks.” 

“Yeah, alright, Malfoy,” Harry agreed with a smirk. “But you’re buying the first round.” 

“Fine,” Malfoy replied with a smirk of his own.  

[yougetoneshot]

Rebirth

Abigail (2024)

One Shot for now with potential to become something more.

Summary: Abigail being nearly drained by Adam has unexpected consequences as he begins reconstituting. Lazar sees the regeneration as an opportunity.

Characters: Lazar, Abigail, and Adam Barrett/Frank. 2 new characters.

Warnings: Gore and torture

Lazar stood over his daughter and looked at the carnage around him with an indiscernible expression. The walls were covered in blood with shards of glass and broken handrails scattered along the sanguine stained floor. He could sense the lingering presence of another vampire in the room as his eyes landed on specific pieces of viscera on the tile.

“I did warn you turning Lambert was a bad idea.” He finally spoke, calm but critical.

“It was the only way to get Barrett here. I knew Lambert would turn him but I didn’t think he’d be so strong..” Abigail’s voice was hushed as she hung her head in shame. She wanted her father’s attention but not like this- not as a failure.

“Did he do that to you?” Lazar pointed to the still healing bite marks on Abigail’s neck.

“Yes.” She hid the mark with her hand. “But I got him.”

“Not quite.” Lazar’s eyes drifted over to a spot behind Abigail and her gaze followed. A mass of bloody flesh was regenerating into a functioning hand. Abigail looked back to her father in confusion.

“What is happening?”

“Your blood is special. You are my direct descendent which makes you the second most powerful vampire on Earth.” Lazar looked down at her. “And you let him take that blood.”

“I underestimated him. I admit that. But I can handle this.” Abigail tried to appeal to Lazar but he shook his head.

“No, I will be taking over from here. I very much want to meet the man that nearly killed you.” Lazar remained expressionless as he stood over the reforming body of Adam Barrett.

Abigail looked up at her father with knitted brows, unsure if his expression was one of admiration or anger. Lazar was always unreadable even to those closest to him. She hoped he was angry. At least that would mean he still cared. “What are you going to do?”

“Rip him apart.”

—

Adam Barrett inhaled sharply as his eyes opened to see the familiar ceiling of the mansion he’d been trying to escape for the past 24 hours. He struggled to remember anything more than the need to get out of that house until his eyes landed on her- Abigail. A flood of memories rushed back as he scrambled to sit up. His hand reached out to the ground to push himself up and that’s when he felt it- his insides not quite fully formed sliding down his also not completely regenerated torso. His eyes looked down to watch them trying to spill out the open cavity in his stomach as he covered the opening with his other partially formed hand. Waves of pain paralyzed him as he became a spectator to the violent healing process. This wasn’t what he had expected from being a vampire- the pain was unbearable. He could feel every single restitching of his organs, bones, and flesh as his body reconstituted. Every second was pure agony that he finally was able to express once his vocal cords finished reforming. A horrified scream escaped his lips followed by a string of raspy curses.

“This is the man who almost took you from me?” Lazar looked down at his daughter and she frowned angrily.

“He just got lucky!” She whined and stomped her foot irritably.

Adam finally peeled his eyes away from the horror of watching his body repair itself only to be met with an even more horrifying image- Lazar looking at him with an intensity that he knew did not mean anything good.

“I can explain-“ Adam coughed up blood and howled again in pain.

“There’s no need.” Lazar knelt down by Adam and took his almost fully healed left arm into his hands. Adam looked at Lazar and shook his head pleadingly. Lazar smiled a wicked toothy grin before snapping and twisting the arm off Adam’s body. New waves of pain hit him as his voice cracked while pleading desperately.

“I can be useful to you!” He struggled to get the words out through the pain. Adam looked over to Abigail and bit back his pride as the words spilled out of him through gritted teeth. “Please. I’ll do anything you want.”

“Then die.” She hissed.

“Abigail-“ Adam felt Lazar’s hand grab his throat and lift him off the ground and into the air. His organs rolled around inside his body struggling to find their place as he was tossed across the room into a pillar. He felt a few ribs snap and wheezed painfully.

The doors to the manor opened as Lazar and Abigail turned to see Mina standing in the doorway. “Lazar, Victor called. The latest subject didn’t survive. He needs a new one.”

Lazar looked to Adam on the floor before over at his daughter who shook her head. “Not him.”

“He’s strong.” Lazar countered.

“So am I-“

“No!” His voice lowered to a growl that filled the room and caused all the lights to flicker for a moment. Abigail winced and looked down as her father took a breath to calm himself. “When the procedure has been perfected then you will be first in line. Until then, we use subjects that are disposable.”

“And what if it is successful? He doesn’t deserve it!”

“But you do. When it’s ready.” Lazar cupped his daughter’s face gently. “You look tired. Let’s go home.” He moved to put his hand on her shoulder and escort her towards the door. As he passed by Mina he gestured to Adam trying to crawl away on his side, his left arm and leg still not reformed enough to help him move away. “Take him to Victor.”

[greatandquestionablecontent]

A little scribble in which an undead person thinks about their favorite ghost

Unreality, nonexplicit discussions of death and corpses, dreamy nonsense, gay if you’re looking for it

Ilya: the ghost, he/him

Delta: the one who dies and comes back repeatedly, #camebackwrong, they/them

Also mentioned: Andromeda, Moriine & Daishin are alive people. That’s all that matters here.

~

Andromeda had always been there when Delta came back, but it was Ilya who they found in that space between. Not always. Sometimes it was instantaneous, going from a dying body back to an undying body, with no gap. But sometimes there was a space of nothingness, and sometimes the undying dragged on and on, and Delta could retreat back into that nothingness while their body reformed. It was in that space that Ilya was most powerful and present, and in that space that Delta was less real than ever.

Without Ilya, it was empty and empty and empty and then there were hours (or they felt like hours) of simply Alone and Dark, interspersed with fleeting visions and passing ghosts, a sense of presence or a passing possession. Sometimes the ghosts would speak to Delta, and rarely they understood. Delta would find themself dreaming twice removed deaths, a spectator to a hazy mirage twisted and half forgotten in the space between ghost and Delta, lost in translation.

Ilya was different, of course. Only Ilya could take Delta from un-nothing into another plane of unreality so solid Delta came to believe it was its own reality. There was the world of the living, the void of the dead, and then there was Ilya.

The previous Delta had never believed in any religion; they knew that now not from memory but with an ingrained certainty, because they also knew that this was closer than they’d ever been to believing in something the way people talked about gods.

None of the other ghosts manifested so solidly, to sit on the floor beside Delta’s corpse and talk for hours.

The other ghosts shared their deaths in kaleidoscopic cloudy memories, chaotically interspersed with memories of their lived. Ilya brought Delta to the day he died, and Delta walked through it again and again, until they knew it as well as they knew their own waking world. That old castle and the flames and the screams, the bodies and the crumbling stone and the magic and flesh… It became Delta’s home, too. Delta lay inside Ilya’s body as it burned.

But Ilya would also take Delta to his life. Delta met his family, saw Andromeda herself through Ilya’s eyes so long ago, even Moriine and Daishin, and many others with blurry faces who had died alongside Ilya, or before him, or since.

They’d walk together through a vast library, blurred at the edges, with books that Delta couldn’t touch or read, but with beautiful golden spires of sun reaching up to the skylights. That was Ilya’s favorite place, always empty of any other souls or remembered persons, vague and idealized. They’d lay together on a rug that had never existed in front of a warm fireplace and stare up into stars that made no sense indoors.

“Do you do it on purpose?” Delta asked once, when they were both in the waking world again, and conversations were linear things that had words and sequences. “The way I could choose to draw a picture, and decide to add something that isn’t real? Or is it more like dreaming, and I just come along?”

“I hadn’t thought about the difference before,” Ilya said, and vanished. He was prone to doing that.

Several days later, as Delta was falling asleep, Ilya’s voice was there in the empty room. “It used to be just like dreaming,” he said. “And then I learned to chose certain themes of dreams, and throw them at people. But now, it’s more like a fully lucid dream. I can influence parts of it.”

“I’ve never lucid dreamed.”

“You know what it means, though.”

“Yes. In theory.”

“So, to answer your question, I didn’t decide to add the stars to the library ceiling, that just happened, the way dreams happen. I didn’t question it, and neither did you. But if you had questioned it, I could have made them go away. I’ve never tried manifesting stars for you, just the way I would draw a picture, just because you want to see stars. But perhaps I’ll try some day.”

And then Ilya was gone again, though he hadn’t really been there to begin with, but somehow Delta knew when the room felt empty again. And then they had the space and privacy to linger on thoughts and feelings that they didn’t need the ghost to know. Not that they really understood those thoughts and feelings either.

It just meant laying there thinking, he said he wants to manifest the stars for me. He said he wants to manifest the stars for me. For me. If I wanted, because I asked, for me, the stars, in his world, in his mindscape, just for me, for me.

It was a warm, floaty feeling. It felt like the library. Safe and bright and idealized and private and impossible.

And then would come some deep seated dread Delta couldn’t understand. The kind that came whenever they had unacceptable thoughts which could never ever be glimpsed by anyone else, which had to be carefully tucked away lest they wander into reality.

[inacatastrophicmind]

Suptober, day 14: All for You

"Where are we going?" Cas asked, looking at the road with a frown.

They were in the Impala, supposedly driving back to the bunker after going to Lebanon. Cas was fond of a little cafe that had around twenty different types of coffee and another twenty types of extremely sweet concoctions. Depending on the day, Cas ordered coffee or any of those ready to turn you into a diabetic beverages. Today, he had decided to pick one of the latest; he had developed a sweet tooth since becoming human, and Dean had to remind him that he shouldn't consume so much sugar, to which Cas had promised to do as long as Dean was mindful of his own diet as well. It was bizarre that both of them had to take care of their health now, that their end wasn't going to be in a hunt.

"I've gotta show you something," Dean simply answered, hoping that his nervousness didn't show on his voice. He tried to breathe calmly, smelling the chocolate and honey from Cas' drink.

Cas arched his eyebrow, clearly puzzled and intrigued by Dean's laconic answer. "What something?"

Dean turned his face to meet Cas' eyes and he gave him a smile. "It's a surprise"

He looked back at the road after a moment, smirking at Cas' confusion; he only hoped Cas liked the surprise. His heart was beating faster and faster as they drove to the surprise.

"You seem nervous," Cas said after a beat.

"I'm not nervous," Dean lied.

"Yes you are. You're gripping the wheel too tightly and your shoulders are tense."

Dean arched his brow and looked at Cas who took a sip of his hot drink. Their eyes met and Dean cursed mentally; Cas knew him too damn well.

"Okay, fine, I'm a bit nervous," Dean admitted, almost groaning.

"You seem more than a bit nervous," Cas replied.

"Cas-"

But Dean's words died as Cas placed his hand on Dean's. His hand was warmer than usual, something caused by holding his drink during all the drive. His thumb caressed Dean's freckled skin, and Dean looked at those beautiful blue eyes, finding concern in them.

"Are you alright, Dean?"

Dean couldn't help but melt at the worry. He moved his hand, until their fingers laced, and then he brought Cas' knuckles to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss.

"Yeah," Dean reassured. "Just nervous about how you're gonna react to the surprise, that's all."

Cas studied him for a moment and when he saw Dean was being honest, he simply nodded and gave Dean's hand a comforting squeeze.

After a couple of minutes, they arrived to the surprise. From the corner of his eye, Dean could see Cas frowning at the house in front of them. Dean stopped the car and turned to look at Cas.

"I know it looks almost abandoned, and that it needs a lot of work, but with some hard work and dedication, we could turn it into an awesome house. Plus, it's in a fucking great place; the woods are beautiful, and there's a lake nearby, plus there's a huge backyard that could be all for you, to have your own garden" Dean started to say, fumbling over his words. He rubbed his hands on his jeans, trying to calm his anxiety. Cas' intense gaze was focused now entirely on Dean. "The owner inherited it and she wants to get rid of it as soon as possible, so it's quite cheap. Yeah, we'd still have to spend a lot of money in reforming it, but it's still a good deal for a house. So, what do you think about making a home here?"

Cas opened his mouth and stared at Dean first before he looked at the house for a moment and then he looked back at Dean, but he didn't say a word, which was not good; Cas was never speechless.

"It's okay if you don't like the house," Dean said, feeling embarrassed. "We can look for something better, if you'd like. But I still wanna build a proper home with you, you know. I would build a house from scratch if that's what you want and-"

But Dean was interrupted by a passionate kiss. It took him a moment to reciprocate it. Cas almost threw himself at Dean, who had to get his arms around Cas to avoid hitting his back against the Impala's door.

When Cas pulled away, his eyes were glassy and his smile was huge.

"I think this house is perfect and that I will love building a home with you here, Dean," Cas said.

Relief immediately took over Dean and he relaxed. "Yeah?"

"Of course."

"Awesome," Dean said before kissing Cas lovingly. He also had his eyes glassy. "I'm warning you; it's gonna take a lot of hard work to reform the house."

"I don't mind. I like the idea of building a home in the metaphorical and literal sense with you, beloved."

Dean grinned and kissed him. "C'mon, let me show you around."

[youllallriseintheink]

Accretion, chapter 5

Accretion is a story that follows the rise and fall of Galactic Boss Cyrus and the fate of Team Galactic and the lives of those affected by it after its reformation under Saturn.

This is gonna be a sad one. I hope you all enjoy it.

---

The stars were, well, mediocre that night. There was only so much stargazing one could accomplish from the roof of the Veilstone building. And yet, Cyrus had spent a good deal of time there, sketching constellations when he was unable to sleep. It was peaceful- Veilstone might have been big enough to produce light pollution, but there was very little noise at night.

As Cyrus was connecting the stars on Orion’s Belt, a little orange spark entered his periphery and waved at him with its lightning bolt arm. A rotom. Cyrus attempted to wave it away. It was an immense coincidence that he'd come upon the same elusive species of Pokémon twice in his life, but since the world was to be destroyed in six weeks, he wasn't interested in submitting a new subject for study or introducing a new member to his team. It was useless to him and he wanted to be left alone.

The little rotom dodged his hand, grabbed onto his sleeve, and started pulling it back.

"What are you-"

It grabbed onto Cyrus' pokétch and looked him in the eyes as though desperate to communicate.

"Are you my rotom? From the abandoned garage?"

The rotom nodded.

Cyrus wasn't sure what to think. After all these years... After it had abandoned him when he needed it... "Do you... wish to possess my pokétch?" he asked.

The rotom nodded again. Cyrus got up and went back down the elevator that led to his quarters, the Pokémon following close behind. He pulled out his toolkit from one of his drawers along with the one rotom motor he'd never thrown away- the one from his now long-discarded toy robot.

"Screwdriver," Cyrus ordered the spark. Sure enough, it threw him the tool, just as it had way back then. Forty minutes and many alterations later, the brick-sized motor was ready to be attached to the pokétch, and the rotom successfully entered it.

"Why did you leave?" Cyrus asked the rotom, which was now levitating before him as the watch.

I never meant to leave! A trainer found me. He put me to sleep with one of his Pokémon's moves. By the time I woke up, I was in Snowpoint. I couldn’t get back. Trust me, I tried! I missed home. I missed you! Came the text on the device.

"I see. And why did you come back?"

Because I want to be friends again! The spark seemed to grow worried. If you do.

It took a moment for Cyrus to process that. His best friend had come home. He carefully reached out to the possessed watch and, once he determined that it was safe to touch, held it in his hands. "Yes, I suppose we could," he said.

The little face on the edge of the pokétch smiled brightly. Oh boy! We're going to have so much fun together! You've gotten a lot better at engineering, too! I'm not making static noises anymore, bzzt! Oh, there's one, but hey, nothing's perfect! So, what have you been up to, buddy?

And with that one question, Cyrus' heart sank. His rotom would be horrified by what he'd become. "I'm an engineer," he lied.

And you were okay without me?

"Yes. You leaving forced me to find my strength. After you left, I disposed of the idea of friendship entirely. I learned not to want or need anyone's company or approval, and my life was smoother for it.”

For some reason, the rotom’s smile flipped into a frown. Of course- it didn’t understand because it was an incomplete soul like all the rest. He'd have to lie about his story more than he originally thought.

"To get away from my family, I graduated a year early on scholarships and went to Canalave University. There, I met someone who was kind and accepting and treated me well. I began to wonder if there were other people like him and opened myself up to others as an experiment. There were others like him, and I came to have the friends and support I'd allowed myself to want when you were in my life. I received my degree, worked as an engineer for a few years, had an idea for an invention, received some funding from one of the only members of my family who was nice to me, and the rest is history."

That seemed to make Rotom happy. It smiled and bounced around as much as the short cord allowed it to. Text started appearing on the screen, and Cyrus had to gently hold it still to read it.

Wow! That sounds like just what you wanted way back then! I guess life really turned out for you, huh? I was sort of the same. Since I was forced to live away from home, I had to find my courage, too! The trainer released me pretty quickly, but I still got to meet so many new people and Pokémon and see so many places! It was great, bzzt! But now that I’m here, you’ll take me to the old garage sometimes, right?

"Of course,” Cyrus lied. What was he going to do with it? Have one of his subordinates release it far away from here? That seemed more humane than letting it realize what he was and what would become of the world.

Super!!! Now can you show me around your facility? It looked really big from outside!

“Yes,” Cyrus replied, scooping up the motor. He supposed this was perfect- he needed time to plan, after all.

“What’s that?” the rotom asked before they’d left the room, gesturing toward a shape hanging from a rack in the corner.

“That is...” a Pokémon he’d manipulated into evolving in order to use its strength. The only reason it was in his quarters was that it was now too attached to him to live apart without compromising its usefulness. “My pet crobat. You will be introduced to him in the morning.”

The whole tour was like that. Rotom wanted to know about everything. Thankfully, lying was second nature to Cyrus. Bombs became computer batteries. Pokémon held for experimentation in vats of green fluid became Pokémon they were trying to heal.

As the tour wore on, Cyrus reflected on his lies. The best lies were mostly truth, but his lie about his life... it sounded almost as though it could have happened. In another life, could he have been an inventor, surrounded by friends and still in contact with the few family members who'd treated him well? If he'd allowed it, would he have met more people like Saturn and seen his desire to end the world fade away? And then he wouldn't have to come up with a way to get rid of the little spark he held in his hands.

What's in there? Rotom asked, gesturing towards a door.

Cyrus stopped dead before the door. "That is..." the door to the grunts' dormitories. How many adoring grunts were in there? One hundred and fifty-three, if Cyrus was remembering correctly. And that wasn't counting the four commanders, or the numerous scientists at his disposal who had joined for funding and lack of academic red tape but who were all somewhere in the process of coming to believe in his ideals.

"I'm adored, rotom," Cyrus said, voice steely. "I'm loved, just as I wanted back then." He was useful to them. He was on a path to release the world from its pain, and even if they didn't fully understand his vision, his usefulness had made him more powerful and loved than he ever could have hoped to be otherwise.

Yes, everything he'd done- ruining his friendship with Saturn, lying to several dozen people, blowing up three lakes, torturing three Pokémon, locking himself into this lifestyle by becoming a wanted man- it hadn't been for nothing. If he'd gone down the path he'd described to rotom, allowed himself to be weak, then not only would he have suffered rejection from everyone he tried to befriend as had always been the case, he probably would have crawled back to his family and spent his life hurting others in attempt to gain love and contentment or in frustration from the lack of it. And then the universe would still have no hope for salvation. Both he and the world should be glad for the choices he'd made, and if his circumstances had led to this, he should be glad for them, too.

Cyrus felt the rotom tugging on his vest, pulling him out of his train of thought. Its screen contained several messages.

That's great! So, what's in there?

Did you hear something?

Bzzt, Yoo hoo, you okay, buddy?

What's going on?

"You may see in there in the morning. Come. I have something for you."

Yay! A surprise!

Cyrus knew now what he must do. He took Rotom to a supply closet and allowed it to select a pokéball for itself. It was only right since they were now trainer and Pokémon, he said.

Say, did you get to go on your Pokémon journey? it asked. It was more sedate now, the late night finally getting to it.

"No."

Good. That way we can go together.

"Yes. It will be perfect. Now return. Settle in," Cyrus ordered. The sleepy rotom left the watch and entered the fast ball it had chosen.

Cyrus took the ball and headed straight for Charon's quarters. Charon was always looking for new experimental subjects to extract money and glory from, and Cyrus needed his rotom kept apart from him. It was that simple. He knocked on Charon's door, and Charon answered it after a minute, looking like he'd just dragged himself out of bed. Most likely he had.

"This had better be important," Charon grumbled. "Master Cyrus," he tacked on for the sake of decorum.

"I have a new experimental subject for you. Its name is rotom," Cyrus explained. He felt the rotom bouncing around the pokéball in attempt to escape. He tightened his grip. "It is of utmost importance that you keep it comfortable. It is a new species of Pokémon, so there will be plenty of research to be done without breach of ethics. If I find out that you have gone against this, you will be terminated. And Charon?"

"Yes, sir?"

Cyrus fought to keep the tremble out of his voice. It was a good thing that rotom had come back now and not years ago, when changing his path would have easier and his willpower was less refined. "Keep it out of my sight."

The pokéball exchanged hands and Cyrus left, intent on finding some work to busy himself with until dawn. Six weeks and this would all be over. And then he would finally be at peace.

---

“Systems online,” Saturn said, pressing a button on the rather impressive control panel in the Galactic Base. The drones following the mission of the Spear Pillar came online. The giant screens that covered most of the far wall of the command center showed Cyrus as he walked through the caves of Mount Coronet with Mars and Jupiter at his side and a hand-selected fleet of grunts following behind him. Surrounding the main screens were several smaller ones showing the images from different drones. Saturn pushed a button and the large screens' image changed to show a helicopter manned by four grunts and carrying the containment chamber of the red chain. He pushed it again and it showed the outside of the Galactic Base. Saturn cycled through a few different drones before settling on the one trailing Cyrus. After that, he could sit back and wait, watching the screens and listening to the sound of twenty-odd grunts tapping away at drone control panels.

Everything was in place. The voice locks to the secret tunnels had been turned off so that a fleet of grunts, armed to the teeth with Pokémon and weapons, could flood through them in the event of a break-in. Another fleet was waiting on their second helicopter, ready for a command to give the Coronet team some backup. As Cyrus had prepared to ascend to godhood that day, Saturn had planned to be his safety net no matter what might arise.

And yet, Saturn couldn’t bring himself to relax. He felt nauseous. He’d known all along what this day would bring, but it was only days ago that it had truly sunken in: he was about to die, and the thought of what came next terrified him.

The past few weeks, Cyrus had been ready to snap at anyone who inconvenienced him. It was the worst bout of irritability Saturn had ever seen in him. Saturn had said something along the lines of “hey, at least the Spear Pillar mission is only a while away,” to try and ease him, and what he’d said back had chilled Saturn.

“Yes. Finally, all of it will end. All of it will be over.”

“...And the new world will begin?” Saturn had replied.

"Yes," Cyrus had said, sounding as though that was an afterthought to him.

That’s when it had hit Saturn: this was the man who would reform the universe. This hate-filled man, who hated humanity, hated the world, had precious few things he felt positively about, and was more inclined to destroy than create. What was perfection to him? What would be left after he destroyed everything he loathed? It was almost a comfort that Saturn, if he weren't a part of that perfect world, wouldn't be forced to see what the universe was about to become.

Saturn closed his eyes- an act that was only mildly irresponsible since there were so many grunts watching the drones- and thought back.

It was the Canalave University campus, the winter break before Cyrus had disappeared. A gentle snow was falling. Betty, who was floating by his side, levitated a long wool scarf and, using her telekinesis, wrapped it around herself from her neck to the tip of her tail.

“I can’t believe you bought Betty a present,” Saturn said. It was a good one, too- abras were too cold-sensitive to be out in this weather unclothed and too weirdly shaped to buy snow clothes off the rack for, so this would be the first winter she could follow them around outside.

“I had a theory it would work. I wanted to test it,” Cyrus explained, taking care to look uninterested. He actually looked his age back then- cheeks less hollow, eyes less baggy, generally more alive.

They were on their way to the Canalave Christmas festival. It had become an annual tradition of theirs since Saturn didn't want to see his family more than necessary and Cyrus wanted no contact at all with his. As they walked, Cyrus made what might have been a reach for Saturn's hand, but pulled back at the last second. "So... your romantic interest, the person you wanted to impress with your project..." Cyrus began, looking forward. "It was me, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Saturn replied, looking over to Cyrus and wondering what he would do with the information.

"I see," Cyrus said, making another reach for Saturn's hand and then stopping himself.

The poor idiot’s at war with himself, thought Saturn. Without thinking, Saturn took Cyrus by the shoulders and kissed him on the lips. Cyrus reciprocated. He held Saturn close and ran a hand through his hair. What am I doing? He's not capable of a relationship. Maybe I just wanted to see what would happen. The two separated, and Cyrus was looking at him like he was the most beautiful person in the world.

Eyes open. Cyrus was on the Spear Pillar, watching mirthlessly as the Gods of time and space were dragged through portals by tight, burning chains. Behind him, two preteens stormed through, throwing out their Pokémon with intent to interfere. Cyrus looked back at them for a moment, but once Mars and Jupiter initiated battle with them, he turned back to his work. They were an annoyance. A possible obstacle to his destruction. Nothing more. Why had Saturn spent the last six years helping to put the universe into those twisted hands?

Saturn knew the answer. Back in Canalave, he’d often considered talking to Cyrus about his toxic beliefs, and after Cyrus had revealed his plan, Saturn had the same thought anyone would have: to run, call the police, and cut ties. But he’d wanted to see what would happen if he let Cyrus do his thing without interference. He was impressed and curious. And even now, even as guilt-ridden as he was, Saturn knew that he wouldn’t have been the first to try and stop Cyrus and presumably wouldn't have been the first to try and help him, nor was it really his responsibility to. Saturn had plenty of reasons for shame. He had followed a hundred immoral orders to earn himself this front-row seat to the apocalypse. But Cyrus' choices were his alone, and this was probably inevitable.

A multi-coloured shroud erupted from the two Gods. The images in the video feed from every drone dimmed as it covered the sky region-wide. Even in the windowless control room, the air seemed to darken. Cheers erupted in the control room, followed by rapt, reverent silence.

In one of the video feeds, Saturn noticed a squadron of international police officers running for the Veilstone building. He pushed some buttons, opening the tunnels to their secret openings and sending the reserve grunts an alert message. They flooded in through the secret exits and began combat with the now-outnumbered police officers. It seemed as though the problem was handled. Saturn returned his attention to the feed of the Spear Pillar. The lake trio had appeared, but it seemed that they were helpless to stop Cyrus.

“Excuse me,” Saturn said, turning to leave the room. The highest-ranked grunt in the room wordlessly took his place. Saturn wasn't sure what he'd do in these last moments. Maybe he'd call his family. Contact with them had been minimal in the past years as more and more of his life had to be hidden from them, but right now he just wanted contact with someone who wasn't celebrating the end of the world.

Just as Saturn had walked the length of the room and was about to leave, one of the grunts called out, "Saturn, sir, what do we do!?" Saturn turned. A shadow the shape of a centipede and the size of a building had appeared on the Spear Pillar. There was no protocol for this.

The shadow dove on top of Cyrus and disappeared into the floor below, dragging him down with it.

[deuterosapiens]

So I started reading Chuck Palahniuk's novel Fight Club on something of a whim. Yes it was a book before a movie. Yes, I stopped Under the Whispering Door to read it (which I will pick back up now that Fight Club is over; it will not languish on the shelf of unfinished books like so, so many other things).

Like many a person, I've seen the film a fair number of times. It's one of those highly quotable films that makes up about thirteen percent of all film references that aren't Mean Girls (quick aside: how well do these two films specifically compare? There's probably some interesting parallels for another time, though that's not important). Unlike many a person, my first experience with Chuck Palahniuk's writing was the short-story "Guts," which is fairly unpleasant for the squeamish, rather than this. It felt like the logical place to start with his novelist work. I've got Choke ordered as a potential follow-up (Sam Rockwell makes all movies better).

All the discourse and discussion of what it's really about has all been had and I'm afraid I can't really add anything interesting to the discussion. Is it social satire? Is it a critique of toxic masculinity, anarchy, the destruction of the hetero-male image? What's it stand for, what's it believe in? What ideas does it promote?

The reading I found the most interesting here, which is the one I found the most relatable or relevant to me, given my own personal drama, however, was that it's a perfectly good critique of toxic escapism. I'm fairly certainly this was not exactly what Palahniuk had in mind when it was written.

Consider this: a person becomes bored with their life and runs off with a fantastic stranger to a new world. No one on earth would bat an eye to that description applying to basically every piece of escapist fiction ever written. And yet, if you boil it down to the essential elements, removing the fat, this is an adequate description of the events of Fight Club's first act.

The fantasy becomes worse and it takes a destructive toll. What was initially a medicine has become an addiction, and, like all addictions, eventually the fantasy isn't enough. Fight club is no longer enough and so Tyler kickstarts Project Mayhem. I consider this an important point as the novel makes it extraordinarily clear that Tyler Durden isn't starting Project Mayhem for social reform, but because his friend, the unnamed Narrator (I think the sequel calls him Sebastian, but I obviously haven't read Fight Club 2 yet; yes there's a sequel; it's a graphic novel as opposed to the original which is a novel that's quite graphic, but not a graphic novel; where was I again?), is no longer having his escapist needs met through the fights.

Project Mayhem grows out of control and the Narrator realizes, too late, none of this is okay. It's then that he realizes the tomato in the mirror, that Tyler is a dissociative self created to cope with just being actually bored as hell of living. Okay, technically he created Tyler because he was interested in Marla Singer (sort of, the part of him that was interested in her became Tyler, it's a bit murky, the details, but that's not strictly important).

So, in-universe, everything that happens is the literal exact result of an actual fantasy going too far.

What I find best about this reading though is how it plays with the ending. A brief note: the film ending, with the explosions set to the Pixies' "Where is my Mind?," doesn't happen; instead the explosives fail, and the Narrator is left recovering in a hospital after having shot his face-out (where Project Mayhem members await eagerly his recovery and the recovery of the Tyler Durden persona).

You have someone who has ran away to some other world as a means of escaping their own problems, who learns that this fantasy is causing them more harm than good, who then takes action to recover themselves and return to the real world. Still, there will always be that possible thread, the lingering will, desire, to leave reality behind again and succumb to the fantasy.

I think a lot of us, who used books or games or movies or what have you to ignore our day-to-day routine problems, can relate to that. To finally wanting to confront the problem you've avoided head-on, and feeling that tug, a little pull in your mind, something drawing you back to the distraction. The easy-way, always available if you want it.

Perhaps I did have something to say about Fight Club the novel after all. I know I broke the rules (the first rule of fight club: you do not talk about fight club; the second rule of fight club: you do not talk about fight club), but perhaps that's the point. The delusion by itself is no fun; madness spread to others (folie à deux) is a riot.

Perhaps that's why we need a Marla, a tether to ground us (even if painfully), when the fantasy can no longer be differentiated from reality.

[riddle-me-ri]

k hear me out we NEED the directors cut for taking care of Jervis through his depression

It has already been a huuuge experiment with his character but maybe theres still smth left to say u know👀👉🏻👈🏻

HNNGGG *vibrating with elated joy* IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED ANON when I saw this ask game I was HOPING someone would ask about Love and Suds! Because I HAVE A LOT TO DISCUSS HNNGGG

Because of that there's a read more tab lmao

I'm so sorry I know its a lot but just please bear with me because I HAVE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS I need to express lol.

So Jervis is incredibly interesting to me lmao.

I've been in and out of the Batman/Rogue fandom going on about six years. I've always wanted to like Jervis (I loved Alice in Wonderland as a child shush I still do plus mind control?? Hell yeah) but given his controversy and everyone just sweeping him under the rug, aside from BTAS and Arkhamverse, I felt like I was slowly getting a grasp on him but never quite got there.

Now fast forward after a year and a half out of the fandom and thwarting myself back in I am here and I've met a couple genuine Jervis fans for like years, fans, shout out to @march-harrigan and @jervis-tetch-my-beloved and when I read their work and thoughts I was like...Okay so it's not just me that thinks this...it was very affirming to see others got the same read on him.

Because I say this with 0 hesitation, Jervis can be a tricky mad lad to write for. I mean extremely (Jon moreso for me lately, stoicism isn't my strong suit but I'm working on it) difficult.

A lot of people have a bad habit of infantilizing him or making him out to be weaker than he is. Yes he's a wee mad lad with a penchant for rhymes, hats, and tea.

But he's also a murderer, kidnapper, manipulator, and a neuroscientist...he's one of the smartest bastards in the room but because he acts playful, and whimsical people misjudge and underestimate him

Also, Jervis has shown the capability of remorse (again varying iterations but he does seem the usual suspect to feel any sort of guilt whenever he's finally lucid) because of that, I felt a compulsion to do something DC writers are fucking terrified to do....actually give a rogue hope. They tried to reform Eddie but that didn't last (mostly cause of his own compulsions that were never properly addressed...poor baby..)

Now I know for many, a lot of these characters are BEYOND redeemable, Jervis included (y'know kidnapping, murder, mind control...yeah) and they're not inherently good people, but some rogues were once before...

And I truly do think if Jervis had a positive consistent in his life that was able to make reality a Wonderland, he wouldn't need the fantasy, he wouldn't need the delusion.

That's where the idea for Love and Suds came from.

I've written for Jervis a couple times before Love and Suds and when I tell you I had to stop myself from literally doing a character deep dive for a smut prompted request...I had to reel back A BUNCH. I would be almost 1k words in and remember oohhh they're supposed to be fucking goddamnit and have to edit the shit out of it.

So I knew I had to do something just to prevent it from happening again. Slowly but surely the plot came to me, but I was hesitant. Again, I didn't want to infantilize him, but I did want the reader to take care of him. Hence why a lot of the time in the story Jervis is scoffing at himself because he's in reality and he's ultra aware of what's going on but like he's also selfish and isn't going to pass up a chance to finally be clean.

Which is something else I hope I made clear was that Jervis was very much in reality during the entirety of the story whilst in his depression...hence why he wasn't rhyming, he wasn't absolutely appalled by the state of his home (scattered saucers, dirty tea cups everyone some broken after being thrown at the wall, hats with broken seams and holes in them, things I didn't really get a chance to describe). I'm sure you've figured that out but just wanted to confirm it.

It's one of those fics I hold near and dear to my heart.

Because one it was one of those fics I had going around in my head that I finally put onto paper and it was exactly how I envisioned it (its only happened with two other stories)

And two... I didn't realize how much it was wanted/needed? I knew since it wasn't a request from anyone it wasn't going to be everyone's fancy...but like the amount of feedback I got exclaiming that this is exactly what they want to see for Jervis? This is how they see him? Like I didn't realize that was something that people were looking for!

As far as if there's anything more to the story...when I tell you I have thought of sequel ideas for Love and Suds I have thought about it immensely...

I have a couple scenarios were Jervis returns the favor to Reader, one where Jervis comes to properly court the reader but overhears a heated argument with Reader defending Jervis to Batman, like the possibilities are ENDLESS but I also don't want to like...ruin it either you know? Too many may spoil it or make it bad?

But yeah...so sorry this is so long lmao if you guys do want more content regarding the set up of Love and Suds let me know! I may still write a couple connected drabbles here and there for a comfort project for myself but it's also good to know if you guys would be into it too! If tumblr could let us all have polls I'd put it in a poll but nooooo

Thanks for reading all of this lmao and thank you for asking anon I am so glad to get this all off my chest lmao

[skyloftsword]

In Defense of Tears of the Kingdom's Story

Hi, I just wanted to put this out because while there is a lot of valid criticisms about the story (even if I disagree with most of them personally), I've seen a bunch of people act like it isn't a sequel to BotW at all or barely feels connected. There are also other aspects that I want to talk about in here as well, but that's the big one I want to address because too many people seem to have missed the plethora of BotW references. If you still dislike the story after this though, that's totally fine, opinions are opinions. Anyways, spoilers of course.

Ok here's the elephant in the room, yes, Tears of the Kingdom is DEFINITELY a sequel to Breath of the Wild. The intro segment makes this very clear that Breath of the Wild had to have happened in order for this game to happen. Zelda talks about how after the Calamity, the castle went into neglect, which over time caused gloom to appear all over Hyrule. The Calamity caused Rauru's seal on Ganondorf to become extremely weakened only to finally fail when Link and Zelda see Rauru's hand and Ganondorf.

Not to mention the people remembering Link, yeah a lot of people forgot who Link was, but like do you think those people have any braincells? Bolson is tricky but to be fair, to him Link is just a customer. As for Link not being recognized by those that Zelda met in person, I don't think they'd care about a knight of the princess more than the princess who suffered for 100 years especially since he's always behind her. This even works for those who had side quests considering that most of the ones in BotW were really just small things. But the people who SHOULD remember Link DO remember him and even more remember him as well.

Also the Divine Beasts are mentioned several times, we just don't know where they went... However we can infer that the Sheikah have the ability to snap them in and out of existence thanks to Maz Koshia's arena in BotW's DLC. I highly doubt they'd want those things around anymore especially since they started breaking down in the True Ending of BotW. As for Guardians, they've been scrapped and used for stuff like Towers. The Shrines and Towers destroyed by Hudson's company. There are also things like Mipha Court, Kohga and the Character Profiles that prove BotW happened.

Now onto the timeline placement. At the end of one of the three timelines post-dragonbreak, all of the events from BotW and TotK, INCLUDING the Zonai coming down and the Imprisoning War, take place after the original Hyrule fell or got destroyed by the dragonbreak. Society starts to reform with all the races that are in BotW/TotK, eventually the Zonai come down and live peacefully with everyone, something happens to most of the Zonai, possibly warring with Ganondorf already, Rauru and Sonia then come together and form the new Hyrule Kingdom. They call it Hyrule and not New Hyrule because that sounds dumb probably. Then the events of the Dragon Tears happen, then like 100k years pass where the intro of Tears of the Kingdom happens, which is around 4-6 years after the end of Breath of the Wild. The events of Tears of the Kingdom happen and then the ending, which I will explain next.

The ending of Tears of the Kingdom is NOT a Deus Ex Machina, it is explained entirely in game. I highly doubt the Zonai ever tried to do an amplified Recall on a draconified person. So basically, according to the 6th memory/4th Dragon Tear, other stone users/Sages can amplify a stone's power even more by lending their power. Sonia and Rauru lent Link their power to boost his Recall to bring Zelda back, restore Link's body back to normal and to return Rauru's arm to him.

Update 1: Okay so people are saying this is an alternate timeline created by Zelda going back in time. This literally would contradict so much its insane how anyone could think of this incompetent idea. Zelda going back in time was FATE. She was always destined to go back in time in an endless cycle. There is no start, Zelda being the Sage of Time means she is out of time's restrictions. The murals that were blocked off at the beginning of the game prove this by showing Zelda becoming a dragon. The Light Dragon was always there in BotW above the sky barrier, which we've seen the dragons go through in that game.

Anyways I'll add more to this post later if I can think of anything else I want to address.