#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?’

[whysoblue2]

Random word babble you can ignore about Shamura and Kallamar, but it's kind of fun to imagine the years when Shamura was still mostly a war god but they were also a new older brother to Kallamar and how that likely manifested at first.

Gods in general are pretty known for their selfishness, so I always end up imagining Shamura being a bit overprotective with Kallamar for a little bit and especially very possessive over Kallamar in general for longer while also being both more tending/loving and more aggressive in their actions to and about Kallamar because they're still, ya know, learning to chillax.

Which ends up with Kallamar being very confused in general and even more scared but also, at least a little bit, relieved and happy to finally have a safe space in Shamura. I can also definitely see Kallamar seeing Shamura as a sibling first before Shamura saw him as a little brother, but those feelings hit Shamura HARD in the gut, they weren't prepared at all. And it's just nice to think about

Oh, you make a lot of good points and I can see it! 

And sorry for the incoming wall of text, have a suffering Kall for your journey, friend!

When I wrote the chapter about Kall, I hinted at how their relationship worked in those years they were alone. 

To me, Shamura never really wanted to be a big sibling when he met Kall. They spared him out of pity and convenience because this squidling still had some power to unlock that they could exploit in their grand scheme of killing deities to reform a new pantheon.

So why was Kall always scared and insanely good with weapons? (yeah he was definitely the hardest fight for me, like 10 times harder than Shamura so I don't know if this is common or I just sucked, but it's part of my hc now). 

The first years they were together, it was hell for Kall! Shamura was brutal in their teachings and didn't care to be gentle or compassionate, even less empathic, all things that Kall is. 

So they taught him to fight, to kill and to go against his natural calling for healing by unlocking the power to harm with sickness. They did that through violence, through "tough love" cause ffs, god of war and all that. 

In my head, the scar on Kall's left eye is Shamura's doing, a mark they left to remind him who is in charge and that they could kill him any moment they wanted.

Things started to change slowly over the years. Kall was the one who "taught" Shamura love, and yes, I am 100% with you on the protective and possessive attitude. Kall became a precious ally, good at his powers, older, and an object of attention.

Kall indeed saw Shamura as a bigger sibling first to try and give meaning to that twisted Stockholm syndrome he was experiencing. He would love his jailer because he thought he could change them and make them better, heal them while being terrified of them.

The relationship evolved eventually, but I can see Shamura not letting Kall out of their sight, killing suitors or friends and imagining them as spies or assassins that could harm his precious little brother. 

You know "I do it for you, I love you and I want to keep you always safe"

Then Kall started to be more independent and they probably hated that, but they needed him for god-killing so they had to let him go and do his thing. 

When things got more chill, Shamura really loved Kall as much as Kall loved them, but I imagine that underneath the care and niceness that they showed to the other siblings, the feeling toward Kall would still be unconsciously toxic and possessive.

SO conclusions: I feel their relationship is unique compared to the other siblings. Kall has seen the very worst of Shamura and lived with them during that time. That gotta hurt, that is trauma. And that's why our favourite squid is scared all the time.

Thanks for the ask, I love rambling!

[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?”

[mzannthropy]

Anne of the Island Book Club Chapter 28

A good one today!

Not only have I titled a post on my photography blog after this chapter, I have also quoted Anne and Marilla's exchange about June in the said blog post. It is indeed a pretty month, saying this as someone who has been doing photography for 13 years. Anyway.

Aunt Atossa croaks; as was to be expected, nobody shed any tears. Mrs Lynde says "The Elisha Wrights are thankful to be rid of her"--Mrs Elisha Wright was one of those women who visited Anne the day before her departure for Redmond to tell her college will be bad for her. I wonder if this was just a woman who turned bitter from having to have such an unpleasant person as Aunt Atossa? Mrs Lynde is a better person than me bc I would not have pitied Aunt Atossa. She chose to be like that, stupid name or not.

Davy is so funny. "Milty said his mother said Aunt Atossa would be sure to rise up in her coffin and say sarcastic things to the folks that come to see her buried. But Marilla said she didn’t." Did he believe it would happen? He'd certainly want to know.

I like people to have a little nonsense about them.

A good line from Anne! You've got have a bit of a nonsense, sometimes. Reminds of when Matthew told Anne to keep some romance, when she swore off it after her Elaine incident.

The fact that in her childhood Diana wanted to marry a bad man so that she could reform him makes me laugh in view of our current times' 'I can fix him' meme. I have zero opinion on Fred Wright owing to his zero characterisation. I don't think he ever had a line of dialogue... did he?

Now I'm coming to one of the lines in this book that have stayed with me ever since I read it for the first time.

I wouldn’t want to marry anybody who was wicked, but I think I’d like it if he could be wicked and wouldn’t.

You have to have a dark side so that nobody will mess with you. At the beginning of The Count of Monte Cristo, Edmond Dantes is a young man, naive and idealistic and you want to shout at him: "watch out for the snakes!" So yes, one should marry a good man, but one who could be wicked if circumstances arose.

Reading this chapter today, it occurred to me that Avonleans would find out about Anne refusing Gilbert eventually. At Redmond, people had to know, bc everybody would have noticed their relationship had changed. (Especially after she met Roy and he started to hang out with Christine.) And this would easily travel to Avonlea. Sure, Gilbert has spent two summer holidays in a row in Kingsport, but he would have been home for Christmas of Junior year and everyone would have noticed he is not visiting Green Gables anymore. It doesn't take a Miss Marple to guess. I mean, the narrative tells us that Moody Spurgeon's mum spread the news that Anne had a new beau, so logically, Gilbert is not her 'beau' any longer.

Also like. Okay. Anne told Miss Lavendar that Gilbert wanted to be more than friends but she didn't. But Marilla had to hear it from the local gossip...? Was Anne afraid to confide in her adoptive mother?

Lol at Mrs Rachel losing her faith in the Providence.

I can't say I relate to Anne's feelings about Diana getting married (I've never really had close friends and I moved to another country at the age of 22 so didn't go through the seeing your peers get married and start families thing anyway) but like Anne, I can imagine it. I've been listening to the book The Let Them Theory by Mel Robbins, who also touches on friendships. It's completely normal for childhood friends drift apart once they reach young adulthood and it's nothing personal. It's just life. And it's really the theme of this instalment of Anne series.

Btw I find it interesting that Mrs Barry insisted that Diana won't marry until she is 21. We're not given the reason why, but it worked for Diana and Fred bc in that time, they got to know each other well.

[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.

[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.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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.  

[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.

[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.”

[realm-sweet-realm]

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.

[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.

[lowlylux]

Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me

Chapter Two | The Savior (Devil In Disguise)

Ship: ZhongChiLuc

Rating: M

Word Count: 2.9k

Description:

“You are mine until I determine the contract is complete,” the man says, forcing him to nod in response. “Your name is Tartaglia forevermore.” Tartaglia’s brows furrow at such a statement, but he does not object. How can he? “Do you understand?”

And suddenly, Tartaglia remembers one thing, a simple fact that makes him bow his head and refuse to look the man in the eyes. It does not stop him from talking though, as that is not what the man wants.

“Yes, Lord Pantalone.”

ao3 link

“Again.”

Tartaglia huffs in response, destroying the dummy effortlessly.  He sends a glare toward Pantalone but does not dare to speak, instead readying himself to try again.  He feels the power practically threatening to erupt from his fingertips as he lifts his hand, the dummy reforming only to be destroyed once more.

“Again.”

Tartaglia feels like he is going insane, repeating the same motions over and over, every moment he does so melding into the next.  Perhaps that is Pantalone’s goal, to make him slowly go insane so he cannot dictate what is reality and what is not.  However, that goal has already proved to be met as Tartaglia is unable to determine how long he has existed.

The days have for too long connected with each other, the passage of time slowing as the never rising sun taunts him.  It stays unbearably hot, the weather never changing.  If it were not for the fact that he knows time has passed, Tartaglia wonders if he would even know if time passed at all.

“I said,” Tartaglia feels the invisible leash being pulled, causing him to helplessly fall onto his knees, forced to stare up at Pantalone, “again.”

Tartaglia blinks, mind reeling as he attempts to find some sort of reasoning behind his lack of action.  “I believe I’ve grown tired…perhaps I would be of use if I were given a few hours as a break?”

“A break?” Pantalone asks, his eyes glinting.  He grabs Tartaglia’s face harshly, nails elongating in a way that makes sure they pierce Tartaglia’s skin.  “Why would I allow that?”

“I’ll grow boring if I just repeat the same actions over and over.”

“And we wouldn’t want you to be boring, now would we?” Pantalone asks as if he is not the main driving force in such a mentality.  He clicks his tongue, releasing Tartaglia from his suffocating grip.  “Two hours, understood?”

Tartaglia’s heart soars at such a statement, the light of freedom growing ever so closer.  It is not much, but two hours is a lifetime when it comes to his reality.  In the months…maybe years Tartaglia has spent here, he has never been able to truly explore.  Being the attack dog of Pantalone has its advantages, but sometimes he feels as if the disadvantages outweigh them.

But Pantalone wants him to be safe…at least he claims he does.  Maybe he only wants an easy way to win most fights, but Tartaglia cannot find himself to care.  If he were to ignore Pantalone, he would lose everything.  So, he will always stay with him.

Tartaglia cannot hide his glee as he leaves the room he has been kept in for who knows how long.  Winding corridors turn him around almost instantly as he walks around aimlessly.  He is sure there is a world beyond these walls, but considering he has rarely found himself venturing further than the door of his room, this is truly the expedition of his life.

He finds a window and Tartaglia finds himself absolutely transfixed.  The world outside is captivating, a red tinge to everything.  It is something he has yet to see, and he would willingly shatter this window and leap outside.  Yes, it is a massive drop that would result in his death and would completely infuriate Pantalone, but it is certainly a tantalizing idea.

The fresh air on his face, pushing his hair as he hurles toward the ground.  It would be absolutely magnificent, even if it would be short-lived.

“I would implore you to be careful.”

Tartaglia jumps, whipping toward the voice in shock.  He does not recognize the figure, a woman with kind eyes and hair, an almost pure white.  But, she looks trustworthy, something he can say many of the demons he has interacted with lack.

“I’m still separated by glass.”

“That shatters so easily…”

“Is that a threat, miss…?” he trails off, eyeing the strange woman in pure captivation.  He is fully aware of the fact that she must be someone, she gives off enough energy to put Pantalone to shame.

She does not answer however, instead deciding to stand right next to him, staring out the window as well.  Tartaglia visibly stiffens, looking at her from the side of his peripheral vision.  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The Demonic Realm,” she says, letting out a breath as she puts a hand on the window.  “It has grown so much since I first got here.”

“It is indeed beautiful,” Tartaglia says carefully, vaguely aware that it must be the right answer.  He sees as the unknown woman visibly preens at the small bit of praise he decided to grace her home.  Tartaglia is suddenly aware of the small fact that he may be in the presence of a demon much older than he thought, and it suddenly worries him.  He steps away, messing with his hands awkwardly.  “I’m sorry for bothering you…”

He turns to scurry away but a strangely tight grip stops him from moving far.  He pauses, allowing the woman to speak even if he knows that such an action has very little to do with his actual personal choices.  “Why would you leave?”

“I fear I may have overstayed my welcome with you, ma’am.”

“Of course not,” she says, pulling him towards her so that he once again meets her at the window.  “I quite enjoy meeting new faces.  How long ago did you first arrive?”

“I’m not sure ma'am.”

“What a shame…” she mutters, shaking her head.  “The Demonic Realm grows weary for everyone when the passage of time is taken from them.”

“I feel as if it would be easier if I could venture outside.”

The woman pauses, causing Tartaglia to wonder if he said the wrong thing.  He sees her clench a fist, perfectly manicured nails pressing into the skin of her palm.  “I was unaware of any demon not allowed outside.”

“Lord Pantalone thought it would be best to get through my training first.” Tartaglia says, still overly careful with his words.  But, Pantalone told him it was normal, so it is not as if he were saying something the strange woman is not aware of.  “Although, I do wonder how long it will be until my training completes.”

“It has been a while then?”

“I’m sure he will allow me out in the future,” Tartaglia says quickly, oddly feeling as if he needs to protect the demon.  “He views me as a way to get his missions done quicker, with less effort from him.”

“And less blood on his own hands.”

“Which is ironic considering the fact that he is a demon, he should welcome it.”  Tartaglia jokes, immediately wiping his smile from his face when he realizes how much he spoke out of turn.  “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have-“

“No, don’t stop on my account,” the woman says, her eyes glinting in visible amusement.  “It is good to know what is happening around me.  I’m afraid I do not stay as informed as I should be.”

“It isn’t your job to know every little detail that happens.”

She smiles, as if she knows something he does not.  But, she nods in acceptance, taking in his words.  “I’m afraid it always feels as if I need to be aware of everything.  A rather large flaw of mine that I must work on eventually.”

“It’s not a flaw if you actually care.”

He sees the corners of her mouth visibly twitch as he talks, making his heart soar as he realizes that he must have said the right thing.  “I’m sure you're right.  Thank you, Tartaglia.  I did so enjoy this conversation.”

The woman turns, beginning to walk away.  But Tartaglia’s voice is faster than his brain as he talks before thinking.  “What happened to your back?”

On her back is the base of what looks like wings.  He can almost imagine the vast limbs, the wings overtaking the entire room.  But now, it is just jagged bones poking out as if they were sawed off hastily.  

The woman turns with an expression on her face that makes Tartaglia’s skin crawl.  She frowns, narrowing her eyes.  “What’s wrong with my back?”

Tartaglia pales, mind racing as he attempts to figure out exactly what she wants him to say.  “Nothing, I’m sorry.”

She nods, accepting that answer as she fully walks away, the sound of her steps slowly fading until she disappears into the darkness.  Tartaglia sighs, leaning on a wall as he thinks about the previous conversation, still unsure over who he just talked to.  But he jerks forward as his thoughts all circle back to one simple thing;

He never told her his name.

ˆ••ˆ

“You’re to stay close, am I understood?”

Tarataglia nods solemnly, closely following Pantalone in the demon market.  Honestly, he should be happy.  This is what he wanted after all, the ability to explore the world around him.  It is rather insane that he has yet to get to know his own realm, but he just assumes every demon’s master does the same thing.

Pantalone makes his way towards a stall lined with strange symbols, although the man running it does seem normal either.  He looks normal enough, like an old grandfather waiting to discuss the latest sport with wide eyed toddlers.  But that apparent softness does not reach his eyes.

Even though this demon is shorter than Tartaglia, he feels as if the man is looking down on him.  Tartaglia decides to hide himself more to avoid the critical gaze of the strange man.

“The Tsaritsa grows restless, you know.”

“And that is why you’re working on that spell,” Pantalone says calmly, barely visibly affected by him.  “Any news on our search?”

“The number of witches are dwindling I’m afraid,” the old man says, shaking his head.  “And thus, the number of those that attach themselves with demons are as well.  I fear the plan may be impossible.”

“Mortals are selfish, seeking our help for the smallest things,” Pantalone says callously.  Tartaglia does not know why, but a small bit of him hates such a sentiment, feeling the ever so small urge to defend those who seek the assistance of demons.  But he can’t.  “There has to be one that is willing to give us a bit more.”

“If you want to start your own search without me, be my guest.”

“Maybe I should.  Are you losing your touch, Pulcinella?”

“Remember that I have far more reach than you,” Pulcinella says with narrowed eyes.  “I can guarantee that your money will dry up far sooner than the wrath of my followers.”

“We’d just have to see.”  Pantalone leans down, smiling at the man.  “But I wonder how the Tsaritsa will feel when she realizes that it is not just me who is failing her.  Will she allow this act you put on to continue?  Will she strip you of your self perceived power?”

Pulcinella narrows his eyes even further before chuckling to himself, shaking his head.  “It is always wonderful seeing you.”

“I share the same sentiment.”

“Now,” Pulcinella says, grabbing a book from underneath his desk and slamming it down.  “In this generation I’m afraid there are no candidates that will be able to perform what we need, but the book says-“

“How many years?”

Pulcinella sighs, shaking his head.  “A hundred at least.”

“The Tsaritsa will not be pleased.”

“She wasn’t,” Pulcinella says with a grimace.  “But even she agrees it is better we wait for the right witch to come along.  If the Angelic Realm were to learn of our plans, it could lead to disaster.”

“Those feathered freaks are far too full of themselves to notice us in their shadows until we finally slit their throats.”

Pulcinella narrows his eyes at Tartaglia.  “He should not be here.”

“He cannot be on his own.”

“He should learn rather quickly then,” Pulcinella says.

Pantalone observes Tartaglia for an uncomfortably long amount of time, causing him to shift his stance in fear that the higher demon will somehow paralyze him onto the ground he stands on.  But, the moment fades, and the higher-ranking demon sighs.  “Do not cause any issues for me Tartaglia, am I understood?”

Tartaglia drops his gaze, staring at the ground intently.  “Yes sir.”

“Go.”

And Tartaglia does not waste a second to allow for a retraction.  He scurries away like a hurt puppy with his tail between his legs.  But, as he quickly realizes, a market is of no use to him when he has no money.  Vendors call out, attempting to grab his attention as he mindlessly walks around, buying time.

Perhaps he should have asked for a bit of money?  No, Pantalone would have laughed in his face at such an idea.  He can just walk around, that would be fine with him.  But he pauses, seeing a familiar face.

She smiles at him, nodding.  It’s as if she is beckoning him, and he is not one to refuse the only demon that has been kind to him.  “It’s you.”  Tartaglia smiles, greeting the woman.

“Has Pantalone finally allowed you to go out then?” She asks kindly, gesturing for him to follow her as she walks around the market.  And he does, gladly.  “If so, that is amazing.  I have been meaning to speak with him about the matter.”

“Please don’t,” Tartaglia says in a panicked manner.  His eyes widen, noticing how informal he is acting, but he shakes his head and attempts to continue on past his embarrassment.  “I do not wish to get him angry with me, I apologize.”

She smiles softly, but nods nonetheless.  “How have you been?  It has been a few decades at least since we last saw each other.”

“Has it been that long already?”  Tartaglia asks, bowing his head almost immediately.  “I thank you for remembering me then.”

“How could I not?”  She lifts her hand, proceeding to ruffle his hair with a smile.  “You are simply adorable.  Young and perfectly moldable.  Pantalone is rather fortunate he found you.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

Her smile drops for a second, causing Tartaglia to become confused.  He assumed that their conversation had been going well so why does she look so annoyed?  Was it something he said?  Had she finally grown tired of him?

His questions cease when a blur rushes past him, taking the coin purse the woman was holding in one quick movement.  He does not think before he moves, the blur solidifying and showing him a figure.  It is like the world around him slows as he moves.  Energy forms around his hand, a blade revealing itself.

He leaps, grabbing the other demon and pushing him onto the ground.  Tartaglia holds the blade toward the demon’s throat.  He takes a deep breath, a considerably less amount than the one in his arms, who is staring at him with wide eyes.  The blade gleams in the low light provided by the realm, black droplets falling from the offender’s neck.

“It is rude to interrupt a conversation you know,” Tartaglia mutters, awaiting the coin purse.  The demon drops it almost immediately, crying out apologies that go to deaf ears.  When he finds the demon is properly embarrassed, he lets go.

The coward scurries off immediately.

Tartaglia takes a deep breath, grabbing the purse so that he can hand it to the woman he has befriended.  She takes it, a curious look on her expression before it darkens.  Tartaglia would be confused if a hand did not immediately grip his face, turning him toward the person.

Pantalone is glaring at him, tightening his grip on Tartaglia’s face.  “I told you to keep quiet.”

“My lord-“

“One order.  It was a singular order!”  Pantalone says, attempting to avoid making a scene but failing miserably.  “I mean, I knew you were-“  Someone audibly clears their throat, causing him to snap out of it.  He looks up, his expression immediately going pale.  He drops Tartaglia, drops everything really.  He goes to one knee, lowering his head.  “Tsaritsa!”

Tartaglia pauses, looking at his acquaintance in confusion, certain elements clicking into place rather slowly.  “Tsaritsa?”

She smiles warmly at him, nodding.  “I wondered how long it would take for you to realize.”  But her expression is not extended toward Pantalone whatsoever.  “I am appalled over how you treat your subordinates Pantalone.”

“Tsaritsa, you must understand that he-“

“He stepped in to assist me without knowing my identity, yet you punish him,” she says with narrowed eyes.  “It sounds almost disrespectful.  Wouldn’t you agree, Tartaglia?” She stares at him, and Tartaglia suddenly feels as if he were in front of something dangerous.  As if he were staring in the eyes of a predator, awaiting for the second he makes a mistake.

“I believe he is stressed…please, he meant no harm.”

The Tsaritsa nods, taking in his answer for a moment, pondering it.  “I’m keeping him.”

“Tsaritsa?” Pantalone says, his voice cracking.  “Tartaglia is-“

“Interesting, and a perfect fit for a Harbinger position.”

Tartaglia is just standing there, completely confused as staring at both of them as he becomes acutely aware of the crowd staring at this.  But he cannot bring himself to interrupt.

“I thought that the role of second was reserved for-“

“Who said anything about second?” She asks, putting a hand on Tartaglia’s shoulder, pulling him towards her.  “I have been pondering about creating a new rank.  And Tartaglia would fit perfectly as the eleventh, do you not agree?”

“You know best, Tsaritsa.”

“Of course I do,” the Tsaritsa says with a smile that does not reach her eyes.  “And we do not grab the face of our comrades, do we?”

Pantalone opens his mouth to say something, but immediately stops himself.  He sends a look toward Tartaglia that the aforementioned demon cannot decipher.  “Of course not.”

Tartaglia must say, he does not understand what just happened.

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