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nastasya--filippovna · 17 days ago

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So I finally finished Rivals

so here's my review followed by my episode-by-episode, PowerPoint presentation, Danny Motta style reaction (which no one asked for)

⚠️so massive spoilers heads-up⚠️

WHAT A WATCH! for the first time in, well, forever I did not binge the show immediately after it came out. I gave it time. Watched one episode each day and I think I liked the experience! I remembered a lot more stuff that I do when I binge things. But that's not what I'm here to talk about. Pfft let'g get into it huh!

So I read the book like ages ago when the show was first announced and though I remembered some stuff from the plot, I mostly let myself be shocked by it. Would I have watched it if David Tennant wasn't in it. Hmmmm? Probably not!

I mean this show....ugh... man there's no one word to describe it, is there! It's not all romp and pomp although it may seem like it. The strangest part is that for a show that's dealing with some really dark matter it (for some darn reason) refuses to take itself seriously (as @davidtennantgenderenvy wonderfully put it). I mean one minute we're dealing with woman rights, the other Matador Ole is playing while Rupert and Cameron stare each other like that.

I think it's unfair that the media constantly limited the premise of the show to its sexual aspects. The story is a clear socio-political critique of the power politics, sexual politics, and elite culture of the time and it's still quite reflective of the same things in our time too. In fact, the very fact that it disguises itself as a period piece makes it all the more applicable to our time. While watching the show I felt as if each character represents a different segment of the upper class; like Antonio Gramsci said the capitalist class is not a unified group. We have Rupert who represent the political elite, the ones that come from powerful families and then we have Declan who's the intellectual elite, Tony who's one of those new-money business elite people who will never really fit into this cult, Fred the technology millionaires, and Monica who represents that fading, waning part of old British aristocracy that was all about decorum and honour and values and virtue, something that is no longer valued in all the new kinds of elites that are springing up.

It's a very turbulent time. We're on the brisk of turning the world into the way we have it now, pulling it out of another era that is now fading away.

Rupert.... um man! Alex Hassell should be banned from playing this character because he injects more charisma in it that he deserves. I almost started liking him. And it's weird to me that his character development is fine, it's great it's wonderful, he goes from a careless heartless scoundrel to a nice caring person. The only problem I have here is what he did to Taggie in the beginning. How can someone ever possibly expect a woman to forgive a man for s3xual abuse or harassment. That's like major rizz-killer. But his friendship with Lizzie was one of the things I really liked. Made him seem so much more human.

Talking of Lizzie. My girl. My favourite character. Although if I'm being honest EVERY single woman in the show was impeccable. Every one of them ten thousand times more complicated than any male character. We need more women written by women. Sarah looks like a dumb blonde but she's not. She's just a woman who's trying to make something of her life in this male dominated world. Cameron Cook. Absolute goddess. She's powerful. She knows what she wants and how to get it. We just don't have enough ambitious women in media portrayed as "good". Ambitious women are always shown as bitches. And she's not passive in regard to her sexuality. It's her weapon and she uses it with her full agency. Monica, what can I even say about her. Perfectly embodies the crumbling grace of old aristocratic families. Beautiful performance, beyond words. Maud. Oh boy. I lowkey hated her for a bit but her last scene was so amazing.

Aaaaaaand Tony. Tell you what they should NOT let David Tennant play bad people. 'Cause he's gonna do it so good it will give you nightmares for ages. I love that he is always in command of the kind of response he wants to elicit from the audience in regard to his character especially when playing an antagonist. I mean if we compare them, Des makes you feel like you're gaping at the fucking abyss, Tom Kendrick is just awful and scary like a bad father, Kilgrave is (like the character's personality) the kind of performance where you want to hate this person bcs you know they're awful but something about them is sucking you in and you hate that feeling but you can't stop it somehow (cz that's what Kilgarve does!). For Tony he knew what he was doing. He knows how to turn on maximum rizz and then turn it off. He reels in the viewer, making them think oh this is the most charismatic human being I have ever seen (just like Tony does to other characters) and then he strikes when you're in deep.

Another interesting bit about this character was how (esp in eps 7 and 8) there's bits where you think that maybe he's not altogether bad, that maybe there's a bit of kindness and love hiding there somewhere. But then you realise there isn't. All that tenderness is deliberate. He does it on purpose because it draws people in. He cannot love because he doesn't have it in him. Everything is, for him, about social status and winning. He doesn't love his wife. He doesn't love Cameron. He just wants to have them because she feels like he didn't have the things he deserved at some point so now he's gotta have everything. Like he says "just let me have this one"; it's all about winning. Heard someone call him a cartoon villain. Nope guys he's very real. Also the only time you feel like he's being genuine is when he's being a sopping wet pathetic mess in the end.

And he's also very relatable to some extent. I get that what he goes through. His insecurities and whatever complex he has. I do. I go to a university with rich kids from filthy rich families. My parent's parents weren't rich. They just made their fortunes in the last generation and even though I get to be in the same circles as these rich pricks, I feel always (or they make me feel) left out. Like I'm an imposter. Like I could never really have any real class. And that itches a very particular itch in my brain.

As an afterthought, I think you can measure men's personalities and worthiness in terms of DT characters: On a scale of Alec Hardy to Tony Baddingham what kind of man are You!"🫵

On the whole it was a great show. Lovely music. Loved the introduction of each character and how it just lets you know what kind of person this guy/gal/person is! Wonderful cinematography and visuals. Gripping sub-plots. An what an ending! Perfect cliffhanger. And tbh I'd really like it if they left it here. To me a good story doesn't always need to be resolved. There's something to be said for those little ambiguities and uncertainties in life and all the thigs left unsaid. [and if someone is really anxious they can go read the book] Remarkable watch. ★★★★★ (5/5)

And now the reaction!

(Tap for full picture and better quality)

Anyways, here's some memes I made while watching Rivals

Episode 5 Live Reaction:

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fahye · 1 year ago

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book recs sept/oct 2023

THE SPEAR CUTS THROUGH WATER by simon jiminez -- I have no idea how to describe this. best book I've read in a year. absolutely gutting and beautiful and intricately put-together fantasy about two young men escorting an escaped god-empress on a pilgrimage to bring down an empire. but actually it's so much more intimate than that. please please please read this book, it deserves the world. yes it's gay.

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO by jessica dettmann -- an aussie romcom tailored specifically to me, someone who imprinted on the kenneth branagh much ado about nothing movie. very meta and genre aware, lively and touching, a heap of fun.

LOOKING GLASS SOUND by catriona ward -- also very meta! it's uhhh about a bisexual disaster teen's coming-of-age summer, and also about the decades-later fight over who gets to control the narrative of that summer. and hauntings. and serial killers. every single one of ward's books is its own unique thing and a wonder to behold.

THE NOBLEMAN'S GUIDE TO SEDUCING A SCOUNDREL by kj charles -- if i haven't made you read any kjc books by now then what are we doing here. I don't know how she keeps getting better and better and better. this one is another slippery liar/stubbornly goodhearted but bad-tempered lord pairing. I adored every word.

NOT HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS by jodi mcalister (ARC) -- 3rd book in her series set on a bachelor-like tv show, and my hands-down favourite. friends to lovers but also make it schemer 4 schemer!! I would die for this ruthless tv villain and her sleep deprived gremlin producer and their intense, searing, incredible romance entirely free of conventional moral compasses.

THE HOLLOW PLACES by t. kingfisher -- how are her books both so hilarious and so wildly, skin-crawlingly unsettling?? I think it's because of how relatable the protagonist is. I would react EXACTLY like kara if I found an eerie alternate dimension nexus made of willow trees in the walls of my uncle's weird museum. superb and very readable horror.

THE GILDED CROWN by marianne gordon (ARC) -- fantasy with a sapphic romance between a death-witch and the assassinated princess she was hired to raise from the dead. yes you're right that DOES sound amazing. the writing is assured and smooth and propulsive; if you like stories with a heightened mythic/fairytale feel, you'll love this.

#book recs

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yaekiss · 1 year ago

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#Mailroom Open!　─ Hello Qi! I hope I am able to get this letter in before the cutoff 😖 May I send a love letter to yan!Jing Yuan, and have him address a Foxian!reader w gn nicknames?

\\\______\\\\________\\\

To my dearest Scoundrel,

You are quite the terrible influence my dear general, are you aware of this? How am I supposed to resolve this trade agreement with our fellow Xianzhou flagships in a timely manner, when you have more or less conditioned me to take naps during most hours of the day?

Truly despicable of you really. And on top of that, your "parting gifts" you left on me are still very tender; very distracting from my work. Efficiency and diligence, I fear will be strangers to me during this trip.

Regardless, I hope you are doing well and are not causing to much trouble for the commission during my absence. (Please try to not stress Fu Xian too much, I don't need further distractions from her blowing up my phone because of your shenanigans.) Maybe if you are on your best behavior, I might even give you a reward. Perhaps even something of your choosing if you are especially well behaved~.

Before I sign off and leave you to return to my work, I have sealed a gift for you. Consider it...my own unique "parting gift" to you until I return to you. Which I know in our vast lifespans will be over before you know it my beloved.

-Sincerely, your sleepy vixen

(Enclosed in a small red and gold box, is a simple blue collar with golden accents and filigree with a note that says "wear it until I come back ;)" )

꩜ Letter Content: Dom! GN! Reader x Yan! Sub! Jing Yuan, no gendered terms for reader, Jing Yuan calls you "my tranquility", unhealthy obsessive relationship from Jing Yuan, lightly implied drugging, mentions of reader topping and edging Jing Yuan, quick mention of biting and blood, lmk if I missed out anything ! ꩜ Delivery Notes: You have quite the roster of guards at the door of your hotel room huh? Looks like nothing's going to slip past them if they were chosen by Jing Yuan himself! ꩜ Wanna write a love letter yourself? Check out it out here!

As you return to your temporary quarters after sitting through a particularly arduous trade meeting, you’re alerted by your guards assigned to you (by none other than Jing Yuan) about a suspicious delivery left for you while you were away.

Inspecting the box, a laugh escapes you when you catch the ink paw prints of a lion stamped haphazardly on both sides of it. After explaining that this was a personal delivery from the Xianzhou Luofu’s Dozing General, it seemed to dissolve any remaining apprehension your guards had and they handed the box over to you. Thanking them for dutifully carrying out their work, you step into your room.

Your room is spacious, ridiculously so. Why would one person need such a massive room for themselves? It’s the kind that only a general could manage to procure. The open sliding window leads to a balcony that showcases the bustling lively environment of the streets below and a cool evening breeze fills the room. Settling down on the edge of the bed, you set the box in your lap.

Upon opening up your delivery, it seems that Jing Yuan had prepared a pair of gifts in return for you. The first of two is an intricate small glass spray bottle set within a satin-lined box. The small tag tied around it says, “Some of the fragrance that I often use. For you to spray on your pillows when you sleep. :3”

Spritzing a fine mist onto your wrist, the scent of your lover wafts from the area; not too strong such that it’s unpleasant for your keen sense of smell, nor too faint that it’s hard for you to pick up. The fragrance is soothing and familiar, a thoughtful gift that will no doubt improve the quality of your sleep, as evident from the yawn it draws out from you.

The second gift you retrieve from the box is a soft sleep mask in your favourite colour. Sliding it over your eyes, you find that the fabric is smooth against your skin and the mask manages to completely block out all light, fully blacking out everything. The elastic strap isn’t overly tight but secure enough that it ensures that the mask doesn’t slip off too easily. Perfect for tossing and turning.

Finally, laid at the bottom of the box, is the reply from Jing Yuan, concealed in an elegant envelope. The quality is top-notch and flawless, and it’s sealed securely. Running your hand over the envelope, you feel the crest of the Cloud Knights embossed lightly on the surface. You break the seal and remove the letter contained within.

His handwriting is steady and dignified, each and every brushstroke on the page graceful. At the end of his letter, is his own name seal, stamped in red ink. Jing Yuan’s reply reads:

“For my dreamlike haven,

My apologies, it seems that Mimi got its paws on the box while I was out of my office and left a couple of paw prints on the sides. Sigh, you should’ve seen how much ink I had to clean off the surfaces, truly troublesome. Perhaps it knew that the box was meant for you and wished to leave something for you as well, haha!

I have to admit, Mimi is not the only one missing you, my tranquility. I find myself looking over to my side to ask for your wise input on things, only to realise that you’re away. Fu Xuan laughs at me whenever I do this. :(

It's just not the same to take afternoon naps without you by my side. Nothing is as comforting as your warmth in my arms, or for me to jokingly complain about the tips of your furry ears tickling my nose when we cuddle together. My slumbers are no longer restful when I can’t spend them with you, my tranquility.

The things I would do to have you next to me again. Are the marks and scratches I left on you still visible, my tranquility? Judging by how the ones you left on me are fading, I assume my parting gifts left on you are doing the same. Would you let me mark you up again, and won’t you extend the same generosity to me too? I yearn for your searing touch, my tranquility, for your fangs to pierce my skin and bring forth the vivid red beneath. Whenever I close my eyes, the only thing I can see is you, as if you linger in my every thought and dream.

Speaking of dreams, it seems that lately, my dreams have taken quite a raunchy turn. The starring role for all of them is obviously, you, my tranquility. You’d have me pliant and satisfying your every whim. In one, you had me bent over my office desk, fucking me hard as I rocked back against you. In another, you were edging me mercilessly, over and over again, until I could do nothing but beg helplessly for my release. That look you had in your eyes still sends a shiver down my spine. I’m hoping that soon, you can help turn these dreams of mine into reality.

Additionally, thank you for the collar, my tranquility. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a charming little bell at the front of it, I think you’d find it quite endearing. (And perhaps deserving of a reward? :3)

Do take care of yourself, or else I might just have to come and do it myself, haha. I’ll try to be on my best behaviour but no promises! I miss you dearly, my tranquility, come back to me soon.

Your rascal of a general,

- Jing Yuan -

P.S. Remember to use the fragrance on your pillows and the sleep mask!”

Rising from your seat on the bed, you pack everything back into the box before stepping into the shower to… cool off after reading Jing Yuan’s letter. In the bathroom, you find yourself relaxing as the water patters on your skin. Your ears flicker slightly whenever they pick up noise from beyond the locked door. A shout from the busy streets below, a soft sigh and the tinkle of a bell, the water splashing onto the floor around you.

Whilst clothing yourself, you lift your wrist to your nose and sigh when the scent of Jing Yuan has expectedly, (begrudgingly), been washed off. However, when you return to your bed, the scent of him still lingers, one that wasn’t here before.

Your heightened foxian senses can just about make out where it’s concentrated the most, and it points towards your pillow. It’s saturated with the smell of him, to a disconcerting degree. Lifting it up, you’re greeted with the sight of the usual red ribbon he has tied around his hair.

The world falls silent around you.

He was in your room.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

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tinydefector · 7 months ago

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tipping for Drinks

Swerve x Human Reader

Warnings: smut, oral Male receiving, public sex. Getting caught, Drink play?

Word count: 2k

Hehehe, another piece for the Energy drink AU and who is best for it, but the resident bar keep.

Request and ask open, read pinned post

Swerve Masterlist

________________________

Small human hands sneak out from under Swerve’s bar. Slapping his aft before quickly retreating. A laugh comes from on the shelfs when the shock washes across his face plate. Swerve gives a theatrical start, jumping back as if physically surprised by the mischievous slap. He glances behind himself, trying vainly to see over his own shoulder plating.

"Why you little ankle-biter! I'll have you know this fine frame is meant for admiring, not manhandling." His vocalizer produces an exaggerated huff of indignation, but even as he speaks his optic ridges are rising high on his forehead in bemusement.

Reaching into the shelves, he draws out the human's figure wriggling with mirth. "Aha! Caught you at last, you scamp." But there is no reprimand in his tone - only affection. "And just what brings you skulking about down here, eh? Up to no good as usual, I'd wager."

One digit comes up to gently boop their nose. "Well, run along then. Some of us have an establishment to keep in working order." humming with warmth in his voice. This curious little organic has stolen a place in his metal heart.

They laugh while looking up at him. "Wanted to drop by and see my favourite bartender" they hum while pressing a kiss to his nose ridge.

Swerve smiles softly at them in a charming response. "Awww, and I'm always glad for your company, you swift little scoundrel." He turns his head just slightly, pressing the edge of his nasal ridge gently against their kiss in a show of gentle affection. He moves to press a kiss of his own to their nose.

"But you know the rules - no fraternising with the clientele while I'm on the clock." His tone is light, teasing and radiating fondness. Bringing the human up closer, he gives them another quick kiss. "Off you go then, I'll find you after my shift. Maybe we can share some of that high-grade and vintage Moscato I've been saving just for you"

With immense care, he sets them down on the bartop. "Now scat! Shoo! I've patrons to attend to." But his chuckling gives away his lack of real reprimand. They whine softly and pout at the bot. "But Swerve it's so boring, please can I stay I promise I'll stay out if sight"

Swerve gives a long-suffering sigh, his engines puttering gently in a mimicry of a human equivalent. "Oh no, don't give me that look. You know I can't say no to those big optics of yours." A quick scan reassures him that his patrons are occupied for the moment, and half of them don't really care that Swerve had his lover there, it was only Ultra Magnus who didn't want the Humans in the bar. Leaning in conspiratorially, he lowers his vocalizer. "Alright, you can stay. But!" He holds up an admonishing finger. "No more troublemaking, you hear? And stay out of sight. can't have the bigwig Magnus at my intake cause you snuck in here”

His field sparks with amusement. "Now scurry along, find a nice cosy spot under the bar. I'll bring you a little something” With care, he lifts the human once more and deposits them safely out of sight. "You stay put now. I've got customers to tend to!" And with a last playful wink, he straightens and returns to his duties, but inside his spark continues to glow with the joy this unexpected companion has brought.

They hum contently sitting there watching swerve as the minibot continues serving customers. Swerve gets back to work, though one optic always seems to stray back to the little glimpse he can catch of his tiny companion settled snugly below. His movements take on a bit more vigour and flair as he mixes and serves, field pulsing with good cheer. They softly chat with each other when the bar is unoccupied. His jokes and banter flow freely for the patrons and his little lover, putting them at ease.

Throughout it all he keeps a careful sensor filtered below, ensuring his little stowaway remains safe and content. A few choice treats find their way discreetly under the bar as rewards for good behaviour. His spark swells with affection as they thank me before sitting back.

It's not until small hands are hooking into his hip plating, pulling him closer that he looks down to see them looking up at him with a smile. They press a finger to their lips in a 'shhh' motion. Swerve gives a start as small hands find unexpected purchase on his plating. Glancing down, intakes hitches at the adoring smile and conspiratorial motion from his hidden companion.

His field flushes with warmth and surprise, but also fond tenderness. "Now now, none of that while I'm on the job," he whispers, but makes no move to dislodge their gentle grip.

One hand comes to rest gently atop theirs. "Be patient, my little scamp. The shift’s over soon." His plating shifts subtlety underneath their touch.

"Swerve please" they call out, hands gripping into the ridges of plating. Hand running down the interface plating. "I'll be good i promise, won't make a peak" they state.

Swerve lets out a soft groan at the insistent plea, their grip is deliciously distracting. His optics dart around furtively making nothing amiss in the bar, no one seemed to play much attention to what was going up on the other side of the bar.

Against his better judgement, he allows small servos to grasp his plating, pulling him closer. "Oh alright, you win," he mutters, hardly daring to believe his own words. Carefully he manoeuvres to peer below once more, spark pulsing wildly at the adoring face so close to his own. One digit comes to caress their cheek so gently. "But you must be very, very quiet," he cautions in a hushed tone. "Can you do that for me, sweet thing?" Giving an eager nod to his lover, he shifts position.

Plating stretches wide to accept eager human hands, interface panel peeling back just enough. His fans kick on at the first delicate stroke of their hands against the braided cables the soft optic fibres glow under their hands. The mixed feeling of the different metals, textures and light shapes is so enticing to them, throaty gasp swallowed down. Pleasure sings through his circuits even as charges build, looking to find release.

Swerves optics dart around furtively, putting on a smile and wave whenever a patron catches his gaze. But his true focus remains fixed below. Their secret tryst continues in hushed whispers and trembling plating, fear, adrenaline and excitement mingling into one.

Their hands are quick to wrap around him, Lips kissing up his length, run their hands up and down before their lips wrap around the tip, the metal is warm and rather pliable, a soft remnant of a taste lingers against their tongue. Eyes flicking up to watch Swerve slightly shocked at the sweetness and nostalgia taste.

Swerve bites back a choked cry as hot, wet perfection engulfs his node. His plating puffs out, armour flaring at the sheer overwhelm of sensation of such a warm and wet mouth. Only vorns of experience poker faces keep his practised grin glued in place as he pours another round of high grade for Rodimus who chats away as he takes drinks over to his seat.

Through it all his optics remain locked with those gazing forward. He cycles hard in an effort to reign in his vocalizer, mute whimpers and gasps behind tightly clenched dental plating are hidden behind the bustle of the bar. Pleasure spirals through circuits already worn thin by work and want. He could feel himself tipping over the edge.

But he holds on, prolonging for as long as he physically could. Only when he feels the tingle his overload building up does he dare speak once more in a guttural murmur. "So good for me. My sweet, so perfect.". Swerve freezes in place, drink hovering halfway to a patron's outstretched hand.

His plating flares and rattles as They take him deeper, one of their hands slowly moving down to press against his valve. Soft hum vibrates through their chest as they bob their head, Swerve's free servo slowly guiding when he wasn't serving drinks. Their talented fingers find hidden sensor clusters. A high keen tears from his vocalizer before he can throttle it, frame sagging against the bar for desperately needed support. His half-glazed optics plead for forgiveness from startled customers.

"Apologies, folks...seems this engex went straight to my helm!" The chuckle is strained, concealing is lost cause. But his companion's touch shows no signs of stopping, intensifying instead into a delicate rhythm that winds him higher with each pass. His free servo grasps at the bar edge, his Field screams in desperation even as hips tilt into their gifted pleasure,

so close now, so very close…

Their fingers continue thrusting in and out as they suck harder, taking more of him into their mouth trying to force him into overload Daring digits stroke sensor clusters in just the right rhythm to break him, peeling back layer after layer of static-laced pleasure until he cannot stand it any longer. They eagerly continued trying to make the mini bot release, chasing that sweet taste that lingers against the metal and fibre optic lines. Swerve trembles violently as coiling heat builds to an unbearable crescendo. His attempts to warn or plead dissolve into a continuous whine that grows louder by the moment.

With a final frantic buck of his hips, overload tears through his systems in an explosion of euphoria. His field blazes with ecstasy as transfluid surges from his spike in thick pulses, being swallowed down greedily by his little lover. Bliss leaves him utterly limp, sagging heavily against the bar top. Coolant pours from his seams, vents heaving to shake off the last tremors wracking his frame.

they pull away to look up at Swerve,their lips are back on his spike in an instant, lapping up the reminder of his transfluid. They hadn't expected it to taste so nice, but each lap had them eagerly moving to Swerve's valve, drinking in as much of him as they physically can.

Only then does he dare online dimmed optics, peering down at his cherished partner in a haze of carnal bliss and deep affection. A shaking servo gently strokes their hair.

Swerve moans softly as each stray drop of transfluid is diligently lapped away. Their enthusiasm sends aftershocks tingling through already sensitive nodes, dragging out the last line of ecstasy.

"A-as wonderful as that feels, sweet thing, please I'm going to make a scene." Reluctantly he seals his panels once more. "What say you we close up early, hm? Find a more private locale for continuing our fun." He whispers, optics frantically looking around before he pulls them out of hiding. “Alright Bars closed! Skids can you close up for me!” he calls out over his shoulder, plating quickly making his way out of the bar.

"You taste really good" they state looking up at his optics again. It took a little but it finally clicked in their brain. He tasted like the V raspberry lemonade. They sit against his chassis as he quickly moves though the ship, they are stunned over the discovery. "Why does it taste like raspberry lemonade?" They ask quietly. Swerve cocks his head, regarding their confusion with gentle curiosity. "Does it now? Heh, strange. I never thought to analyse the taste. Not really something Cybertronians drink sweetspark"

It's not until much later Swerve gets a message from Rodimus teasing him.

-Quite the show you put on.

Swerve sputters and cycles his optics in disbelief as Rodimus' message on his HUD. his servo rest lightly over his sleeping partner's body.

- it's not what it looked like!

His plating puffs out in a rattle of embarrassment and mild indignation, that of all bots who caught him it was the one more likely to gossip.

-Relax, mini-bot. Just giving you a hard time. Gotta respect that level of multitasking! You did, so… what was it like?

Swerve groans, visor dimming. As he pinches his nasal ridge

“Primus I'm never gonna live this down..” he grumbles to himself.

-Rodimus some things are private!

#transformers #transformers x human #transformers idw #transformers x reader #transformers lost light #transformers swerve #tf idw #idw #idw swerve #mtmte swerve #swerve x reader #swerve idw #swerve transformers #valveplug #EnergydrinkAU

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miffy-junot · 15 days ago

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Reviewing British Caricatures of Junot

One would think that, if you were going to mock Junot for his physical appearance, it would be easy to mock the features he actually had that were considered ugly by the standards of the time (scars, moles, downturned eyes, big nose) - but nah, this caricature has invented a strange version of Junot who is snub-nosed, balding in his thirties, and still dressing in the style of the 1790s! (....this will unfortunately prove to be a common theme in caricatures of him.)

5/10 - inaccurate, made him look old and ugly, BUT I like the way they drew his body, he looks like a cute chibi :3

Slightly more accurate in terms of appearance BUT!!!! HOW DARE THEY MANACLE HIM AND MAKE HIM A SPECTRAL FIGURE WARNING NAPOLEON, THAT'S NOT VERY NICE!!!!!!

2/10 - his face looks silly but I don't like the situation he's in, poor boy

Back to the really weird-looking depictions - STOP THAT!!!! LEAVE HIM ALONE!!!!!!! He needs his exorbitant amounts of loot for, uh, *checks notes* ... leading his pretty princess lifestyle!!!

(however this caricature is wishful thinking - although the Brits did convince Junot to leave some stuff behind, he took most of his loot back to France)

1/10 - don't hold him like that!!! stop forcing him to vomit his yummy snacks!!! let him steal stuff to fund his pretty princess lifestyle!!!!

The curse of inaccurate aging ugly Junot strikes again... and this time he has switched hair colours with his wife! (Junot had light brown/red hair, Laure had black hair; in this caricature it's reversed).

The moustache is atrocious, it must be removed by force. Remove the panicked expression from Junot's face, and it's a lovely domestic scene!

8/10 - despite the horrific uglification of Junot in this one, I think it's cute, I wonder if him and Laure ever did try on each other's clothes :3

STOP BEING MEAN TO HIM!!!!!! And preferably stop giving him a hairstyle he hadn't worn since the early 1790s and a uniform he hadn't worn since 1800. I mean, come on, the hussar scoundrel archetype is right there and you don't use it?

But what's even worse is that THEY STOLE HIS BEAUTIFUL THIGHS!!!!!! Look how skinny he is!!!!!! WHERE DID HIS MEATY THIGHS GO???!!!!!

0/10 - horrific display of cruelty to Junots, he should be sitting on Wellington's lap and smooching him

They made him ugly again :((((

But this one is actually quite cute! Look at him, he's smiling!!! He's proud of himself!!! He has his treasure!!!! He's got good posture!!! Awww my baby boy

7/10 - happy juju!!!

Now aside from the distasteful uglification, I love this one. He looks like a supervillain. He's powerful, he's prosperous, he's living his best life, he's got twinks kneeling before him.... iconic. This is what real Junot was like. And just look at this thigh boots!!!!!!! sexy af ngl

10/10 - he's in his hot villain era okay

8 - an honourable mention

This is not a depiction of Junot, but it's somehow the best caricature about him!

The full caricature is making fun of the British government, and here is the politician Lord Yarmouth, complaining about "Fanny Anny" (his wife, Maria Emilia Fagniani) going over to "Juno" (how many British sources spelled Junot at the time). And it's true! The Yarmouths marriage was unhappy and so, after the birth of their last child in 1805, they separated and Maria moved to Paris where she spent the rest of her life. And guess who she had a relationship with while in Paris... the local manwhore General Junot ;)

This is my favourite Junot-related caricature because it taught me something new about him and is the only one that comes close to commenting on his personal life. 11/10

#jean andoche junot #napoleonic shitpost #napoleonic era #napoleonic

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dee-daa · 2 months ago

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i hate this man, i will only refer to him in mean terms. he's a scoundrel, a rascal, and often even a piece of shit. he's my favourite <33

#deembles #who made me a princess #suddenly became a princess one day #wmmap #sbapod #wmmap lucas #sbapod lucas #is it weird that i had/have a crush on him? not in his kid-form ofc #but we see him “grow up” so is it grooming-adjacent??#i was an adult when i first read the manhwa so yeah...#but i also love lucathy way too much lol

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philliam-writes · 2 years ago

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you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert

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footprintsinthesxnd · 8 months ago

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Knock ‘em Down

Two edits of my favourite boys in one week. No I’m not overly obsessing about, it’s a coincidence.

Tags: @georgieluz @docroesmorphine @major-mads @violetdaze25 @bcofl0ve @precious-little-scoundrel @blurredcolour @artlover8992 @b00ks1ut @xxluckystrike @hockeyboysarehot @groovin2beats @kmc1989 @ginabaker1666 @hesbuckcompton-baby @blueberry-ovaries

#masters of the air #gale cleven #john egan #buck cleven #bucky egan #two bucks #mota #motaedit

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susandsnell · 6 months ago

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hey coco! hope ur having a good day! was wondering if u’d like to talk about why u like and what u find compelling with atton/exile? do u have a particular route or headcanon underwhich u prefer them or is it more of an overarching meta appreciation?

Hi, friend!

Thanks so much for the well-wishes. My day's kind of ehh due to continued Issues but the weather's nice and I'm feeling a little calmer. Hope your day is good!

Thank you so much for sending me this and enabling me shamelessly. I've been ride-or-die for Atton/Exile (which is M/F if you played the Jedi Exile as female, which I did and which is 'canon' but let's not talk about the latter lest we kick the hornet's nest) since summer 2011, which is almost 13 years now? Wild. Literally half my life. Anyhow, my reasons/headcanons have changed and evolved just as I've done a lot of growing up since the time I was first obsessed, but I'll do my best to synthesize/organize my thoughts! (Assume all the Restored Content is canon). More under the cut because 'synthesis' is still essay-length for me, God help me.

First off, I tended to play the Jedi Exile as light-sided and Revan as dark sided; I find the narrative of both games to be the most meaningful with these choices. This post basically puts into words why Revan works better as a Dark Sider, but the Exile, to me, as Revan's foil and mirror, works inversely best as a light sider. The game seems to want you to play her light-sided given how Kreia's best stuff/approval lies in that path. KOTOR II is one of the darkest entries to the Star Wars universe by far, but with a light sided exile, it's a story about how moving through life with an unyielding belief in love and justice for others in your heart will ignite that light in the people around you, and repair a broken world/galaxy.

Enter Atton.

KOTOR II is great in that you technically have such a wide range of shipping dynamics/options, and exactly none of them are functional, largely because it's one of the Star Wars media entries with the most harrowingly realistic depictions of war and its psychological impact on the people it touches. Atton Rand happened to be my favourite of all the love interests at the time because of his voice and his snarky meta-jokes (I was a Daria fanatic almost 2 decades too late, what do you want). Nowadays, I love him because his character basically took the Star Wars expanded universe requirement for Han Solo expys and went off the rails with it, making his 'scoundrel' archetype half-his charming and humorous personality, half-a facade to cover severe and quite realistically portrayed war PTSD as well as his actions as Jaq, the torture-happy mercenary. It's "what if the self-serving charming rogue during wartime archetype was brought to its logical conclusion" and I am here for it.

So first you have the parallels and contrasts - both committed atrocities during the Mandalorian wars, but while Atton was loyal to Revan after their fall and never faced justice for his wrongdoings, the (light-sided) Exile turned from Revan and still was scapegoated by the Council. Atton is a character mired in his own bitterness and cynicism, and you have the option to choose to play the Exile as a character driven solely by her morals, even when she'll suffer unconscionably for them, and it is through this unflinching clinging to her morals that she gains the idealism necessary to survive everything she goes through. Atton once sought to rip freewill away from his victims; the Exile unconsciously, slowly saps it through the cipher.

As a young teen, I admittedly was starry-eyed over the 'sheltered good girl manipulated and hurt by so many meets sexy bad boy recovering from his own past and they protect each other as a power couple' archetyping, but it does go a lot deeper than that. Their dialogue options have easy, natural, sexy chemistry that draws you in, but I do think my appreciation goes deeper. This isn't a simple 'fixing the bad boy' because of the narrative device of the Force cipher meaning you quite literally have "I can fix him" and "I can make him worse" as your game mechanics, lol. You get your surface-level fun of their interactions between the proper, well-mannered Jedi and the flirtatious rapscallion, but you also have two people who, for the reasons I outlined above, fundamentally understand each other after harrowing lifetimes spent alone in their pain and trauma.

I'd go so far as to say Atton is the best-placed of anyone to understand the Exile; the Sion ship is compelling and squee-worthy to any Phantom fangirl worth her salt (as I was), but she's everything he couldn't be or fathom, Visas may have felt closer to the pain the Exile did over Malachor V but her worst actions were committed under duress as a captive of Darth Nihilus and not of her own volition (so I argue she's a lot more morally innocent than Atton or the Exile), Mical/The Disciple is the innocence and warmth of the Exile's upbringing untouched by how the Mando wars reforged her and while Brianna/The Handmaiden is excellent as a potential parallel for specifically the Exile's abuse at the hands of the Jedi (Atris in particular), she's still similarly sheltered to Mical. Bao-Dur was with the Exile during the war but the game didn't develop him enough and understands that aspect of her, but they canonically per the dialogue emotionally distanced themselves given the circumstances, and Mira the Bounty Hunter is cool sister-zoned, but I suspect her family being victim to Malachor V would drive a wedge no matter how much forgiveness the game preaches.

Meanwhile, Atton knows and/or loves not pieces of the Exile, but as she is; the battered and betrayed veteran with a lifetime of wrongdoing to atone for that he recognizes in himself, and the naive Jedi she was before that the charming flirt in him likes to tease. And although his backstory is a revelation, and a harrowing one to the Exile, who sees what she might have become had she stayed with Revan, this is what their relationship is; seeing someone in their totality, and loving and honouring the worst with the best. Despite knowing what the Exile's done, Atton values her enough to still care about how she views him that he begs Kreia not to tell her the truth about his past. The two are instantly drawn to each other on Peragus, not just out of necessity but genuine, instinctive protectiveness, attraction, and a deeper sense (be it Force-Assisted or not) of understanding. Atton refers to it in his death scene (if you count that) as love at first sight, and while there was probably initial infatuation, I think there was just such an instant magnetism that grew and grew between them through shared experience. "Don't give up on me now, dammit!" and "You want her, you get through me." come to mind. Atton is the only party member that asks her to train him in the Force, whereas she has to prompt and convince the others into their awakening. He's deeply scarred by his experiences with the Force, not to mention it's actively dangerous to train as a Jedi due to the Exchange, but he's willing to face that for the Exile - he tells her that part of why he wants to train as a Jedi is to be better able to protect and fight for her. One of the first things he does is teach her to play Pazaak in her head to prevent from psychic attacks through the Force/harm through Kreia's force bond - the exact weapon he wielded against others. The tragedy of any Jedi Exile ship is the constant insecurity created by the force-wound/cipher; how much of anyone's choice to follow in their footsteps or love them is their own free will? What power dynamics, unspoken or obvious, arise from it? But Atton's fierce independence and selfishness almost serves as the clearest answer to this. He willingly reawakens himself to the Force to connect with her, to be better able to fight for her. He chose her, a thousand times over, and whatever role the Force Wound plays, he accepts her influence out of admiration for that steadfast-to-a-fault morality I talked about before.

This isn't some corny gender essentialist "she is his redemption" nonsense either, although redemption is a major theme of a light-sided KOTOR 2; by training Atton and others as a Jedi, the Exile is actively doing the work to heal the galaxy she helped to break. By protecting and teaching and bonding with the Exile, Atton is regaining his own humanity through recognizing hers, over and over, the way he failed to recognize those of his victims. They're together in this, in their recovery, in how they've experienced all extremes of morality. Love, in this story, isn't about fixing someone or breaking them, it's about meeting them where they are and walking alongside them, hopefully to someplace better than where you were when you both met. Is it any wonder that he's the one she walks away with in the end? (As if he'd let her walk alone ever again.)

With all this being said, and to address your question, while the route/headcanon preferences I prefer for Atton/Exile create, I think, the richest narrative with what's there, I've definitely got an overarching meta appreciation for them too. I spent my teen years eagerly eating up every possible iteration of them as a couple, and much of what I described above can hold true in a different aspect if people prefer to play them dark-sided, if people hold the tragic dying in your arms ending as canon, and so forth. They're compelling any way you slice them.

#kotor 2 #atton rand #jedi exile #atton x exile #kotor ii #i hope this made sense sdnfsnfsd #god help me i'm back on my bullshit

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llamagoddessofficial · 2 years ago

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Thank you @kertneyk for this absolutely fabulous commission!! @aka-indulgence's rattlesnake bounty hunter Sans is one of my favourite characters. He's a fiend- but he's also a delight to write~

---

Sweeping and cleaning the saloon took a lot less time than you expected. You supposed that the first winter frost had done you a favour, freezing the ground so well- there was less mud and dust coating the floor because less was being kicked up. Everyone had been much less rowdy tonight, far too tired from trying to stave off the cold; most folks just wanted a warm seat and a beer.

Your pa gave you a pat on the shoulder, and took over for you for the night. In the winter, he liked to keep the saloon open all night; he said that when he was young, few things had been more comforting to him than the lights of an open tavern after a long hard winter workday. There was also the unspoken fact that both of you knew a few of the men curled up in their seats weren’t just passed out from drunkenness... many didn’t have enough money for a bed. They had the coin for cheap drinks, and little else. The saloon was the only place they could stay the night where they knew they wouldn’t be cold.

You wrapped your shawl around your shoulders, making sure to close the door quickly behind you. No need to worry about the locks tonight- also no need to worry about walking home. You quickly made your way back toward the house, the full moon showing you your way, cold but bright.

... But you didn’t go through your front door. You went around the back. Light trickled out from under the guest room door, it was no doubt lovely and warm in there.

... Were you happy Goldenfang was lodging with you, taking up your guest room? No, damn him, you weren’t. The scoundrel made your life hard enough, and now he was constantly within shouting distance of you. But he’d been in your little, middle-of-nowhere town for months now, refusing to leave, and him staying with you was the better alternative because you were sure the poor old innkeeper would’ve dropped dead from stress if Goldenfang spent another night in his establishment. Sans was all too keen to take up residence with you instead, when you offered.

True to his name, he seemed to have a never ending hole of money that he’d been using to rent the space out. Hunting outlaws was nothing if not lucrative, and although he was a menace, he certainly had the coin to make it worthwhile. The money was helpful- stars know money was hard to come by, this close to nowhere.

Unfortunately though, his proximity had made you grow to... TOLERATE his company. You’d never admit it to him, his already-sizeable ego would grow so big it’d make his head fall right off his broad shoulders.

You knocked, gently. “... Sans? It’s me.”

You knew he’d heard you, because there was a gentle rattling sound behind the door that quickly subsided again. You had to grit your teeth together to stop yourself from feeling a little swell of softness in your chest. Sans’ tail only rattled when he was angry, or excited, and sometimes when he saw you for the first time in a while he’d rattle like he couldn’t help himself. Your pa said it was like a dog’s tail wagging at the sight of its master.

... Again, were it anyone else, it would’ve been sweet. But because it was him you refused to acknowledge it.

“Y’know, bargirl, I saw Goldenfang in town a year back when he caught Sammy Sparrow and bought him in. I ain’t never seen him let someone talk to him the way you talk to him. Yer aware that if anyone else spoke to him like that, they’d be a stain on the floor, right?”

He was an incorrigible flirt and a big, shit-faced bully. You wouldn’t let yourself be swayed into feeling anything soft for a violent gunslinger.

... Sans opened the door.

It always caught you off guard, how massive he was. Barrel chested and built like an ox. His frame filled most of the doorway, blocking out the light; the moon brightened his silhouette significantly, glancing off his golden tooth, but your gaze was always drawn up to his red hot eyelights. So small, yet so red, the colour piercing through any gloom no matter how thick.

... He looked tired, though. His sockets were sloped and shadowed, he was missing his signature hat and jacket, only wearing an old button up linen shirt. When he looked down and saw you, his face brightened a bit, huge crimson tail shifting out of sight in excitement.

“awwh.” He got some of his signature sharp grin back. But his voice was gruff, husky, like he’d just woken up, and he had pronounced eye bags. “ya came to check up on me? i’m flattered. you missin’ me, pretty thing?”

You wouldn’t admit he was right. You had been worried. Sans never missed a day when you were at the saloon, if he was kicked out (usually after several strikes from your broom) he’d just wait outside the bar entrance for you to finish, a cigarette between his teeth.

... You folded your arms, glaring up at him, totally unimpressed.

His sockets lidded. Another tiny rattle, that died out again. He was feeling pretty rattly tonight. “i love it when ya look at me like that, doll.”

“Like I wanna cut you tail to snout, and make somethin useful outta your skin, like a bedroll or a cute purse?”

“damn right i’d make a cute purse.” He drawled. You weren’t expecting that to come out of his mouth; you weren’t fast enough to disguise your smile. He noticed, the smug fuck. You quickly covered it up with a nose-wrinkled sneer.

“Whatever.” You moved forward, ready to walk into his room to talk.

... He leaned to the side, putting his arm up on the door frame. Body blocking you.

“u-uh... heheh...” He was trying to look casual. “you can’t...”

...

The glare you shot him must’ve been something else, because he visibly shrank back. Like hell you were gonna let him tell you what to do.

“You got a woman in there with you?”

He blinked, then quickly got indignant, brows creasing; “what? no. what do you take me for, darlin’? you really think i’d skip out of spendin’ time with you to fool around with some other dame?”

You paid him no mind, easily ducking under his arm and coming out of the cold. To be fair, he was being honest, there was no one else in there... but the room looked a mess, the bed was just a big collection of blankets and-

- the door closed behind you. You felt something big push against your chest, and suddenly you were up against the wall, pinned like a butterfly in a frame. You let out a quick, shallow gasp; it was his hand. Sans was holding you against the wall with just his palm, sharp phalanges splayed to stop the clawed ends from tearing your clothes.

“H-hey!” Your tiny hands came up to fight at his massive skeletal one. No luck; the fact that he clearly wasn’t expending much effort to keep you down was salt in the wound.

“doll.” He crooned. “i’m serious. now ain’t a good time.”

You were slightly concerned that the only emotion that rose to prominence was hot embarrassment at being so easily and effortlessly restrained. You weren’t afraid at all, despite being pinned against a wall while alone in a room with a violent bounty hunter who’d made his interest in you abundantly clear.

You looked up at him. You’d been alone with him enough, by this point. Sans was a devil of a snake... but one thing you knew for absolute certain about him, was that he’d never hurt you.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “... Okay. Alright. I’ll admit it.”

He paused.

“Sans... I’m worried.” Your voice was uncharacteristically gentle considering the history of your conversations with him. “What’s wrong with you?”

For once, he seemed off guard. His smile slipped. “... huh?”

“You’re acting off.” You tilted your head a little, imploring, softening despite his hand still squashing you against the wall. “You’ve always got a temper on you, but recently, it’s gotten outta hand. I mean... I had to kick you out because you shot that man in the arm for literally just touchin’ me. And when I came outta the saloon, you weren’t waitin’ in your spot. Is somethin’ wrong? Are you feelin okay?”

You still remembered the look on his face, when the drunk idiot had touched you.

Under the shadows created by the brim of his hat, one crimson eyelight was visible, glaring out, burning a hole into the man. The rage in Sans’ stare burnt hotter and redder than the barrel of any fired gun. A constant, grating sound filled the saloon- the sound of his rattle, shaking quickly and furiously.

... Sans had been in a foul mood. Fouler than usual. It had been that way for several days- though his gentleness and playfulness with you hadn’t changed, something in the way he interacted with outlaws had been shifting. Darkening. His temper had thinned, he didn’t seem quite so boisterous or gleeful. He’d stopped taunting, and started just going for the kill.

...

His eyelights darted away. It was strange, seeing such a massive and feared man seem... well. Nervous. You had to remind yourself every now and then that this was Goldenfang, the legendary bounty hunter.

His voice was low, a cautious thrum. “... you can’t say nothin’ to nobody.”

“Course.”

...

“... have ya heard of ‘wintering’?”

Your brow creased. He took that as a no.

“it’s somethin’ us naga do when it gets cold.” He took his hand off your chest, but one phalange kept absentmindedly playing with the neck of your shawl. “leftover instincts, from back when we were wild. winter’s a dangerous time fer snakes so our heads go a bit loony.”

“Loony? What happens?” His tail brushed up against the back of your legs, you were used to him doing that, he had a thing for surrounding you with his body.

“we get tired, mostly.” That explained why he looked so sleepy. “end up sleepin a bunch more, our bodies wanna hibernate. but we also get angrier, an’ scarier, since only the strong would survive the cold. we’re more defensive of what we think is ours.”

Your eyes narrowed. “... So you think I’m yours?”

He grinned, warmly, the expression making your heart flutter without your consent. Carmine dusted his cheekbones and he removed his hand. “well. i certainly like thinkin’ about it that way, doll.”

You rolled your eyes, but less out of genuine upset, and more just playfully. More of his tail wound around you.

“i thought i’d just... stay here and sleep, ‘stead of followin’ you to the saloon.” He said, gaze resting on your neck. “my mood’s been gettin’ worse.”

“Keepin’ out of trouble? Ain’t like you at all.”

Sans chuckled.

...

“... i don’t regret shootin’ that rat fer touchin’ you.” He said, simply. His eyelights hardened, for a moment, a glimpse of the monster everyone feared. But they softened again before they returned to your face. “... but i don’t like scarin’ you. i’m just gonna get more an’ more possessive an cranky. better i’m cranky in here, without a gun in my hand, huh?”

...

What was going on? He was so different. He was usually so much more... lecherous. So much more Goldenfang. Is this what wintering did? You’d already warmed up to this brute much more than you’d ever admit, and you’d warmed up to his worst side. Right now, there was something so oddly sweet about him. Maybe it was the tiredness, making him soft, or maybe you were just more attached to Sans than you were ready to admit.

“... How’re you feeling?”

“i wanna nap.” He made a face, tone suddenly grouchy. “an’ i got a headache like a cow hoofed me in the skull.”

That made you giggle a bit. He was delighted to get that reaction. He only usually got a laugh that open when he’d coaxed you into sharing some drinks with him.

“... Well.” You righted your shawl. “Thank you for telling me why you’re actin’ so weird. I should head to my room, if you wanna sleep.”

...

“hey, doll.” More of his tail started sliding around you. Your lower legs were now completely covered. “i... do you think you...”

...

“You ain’t subtle.” You teased. “You want me to stay?”

“my head’s all over the place right now. it’s real cold, i hate bein’ cold. i can feel it in my bones. it’d... be real nice, havin’ somebody warm nearby.”

...

... If you went to your room, you’d have to start up the fire. You’d be cold for quite a while until the wood caught, and you’d be even colder as you waited for the heat to actually fill the room. It was nice and warm in Sans’ room already, he’d clearly had the fire going for a while... and even though you were used to it, you didn’t like sleeping alone.

... Also, you felt bad about leaving him on his own, when he was like this. It felt like caring for him when he was drunk- it was okay to be softer than usual, because he wasn’t in the right mind. He couldn’t help it if he was wintering.

...

“... Sure, alright. I can stay. But no funny st-”

You weren’t able to finish your sentence, Sans’ tail suddenly squeezed you in excitement, lifting you clean off the floor; you had time to let out a surprised yelp, but not enough time to process Sans scooping you into his giant arms. The air was immediately filled with the sound of his tail rattling. He wasted no time in carrying you over to the mess of blankets and pillows he had turned his bed into- he all but crashed into the mattress, drawing you up and into his chest, his massive tail looping over you like a heavy scaly blanket.

He pressed his face into your hair, giving you one more squeeze before easing- he had a huge grin on his face, jagged teeth pulled into an almost goofy smile, and he was making a delighted hissing sound you’d never heard him make before.

“... Damn.” You said, looking up at him, slightly breathless from surprise. “You’re secretly a total softie, ain’tcha?”

His breath ruffled your hair, he looked faux-offended. “secretly? i got no secrets from you, doll.”

You were surprisingly comfy in his arms, despite how his size completely swamped yours. “I’m gonna tell everyone that Goldenfang is real cuddly when it gets cold.”

He let out a low, drawling laugh. You could feel it through his ribcage.

“c’mon darlin. i got a reputation to uphold.”

... You didn’t expect the sound of his rattling tail to be so soothing.

#commissions #a big ol' snek wants some big ol' cuddles

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