#my head is spinning but it's done

[pleasetakethis]

Desideratum

Written for the 2023 Holy Fuck Exchange. These ladies were fun!

Pairing: Hela/Sylvie Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2.7k Tags: Weapon Fucking, Horn kink, Grinding, Biting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent Summary: With the TVA getting closer and closer, Sylvie made a distracted mistake when she selected the next apocalypse and ended up face-to-face with Hela Odinsdottir during Ragnarok.

Sylvie refused to kneel. Hela compromised.

Read @ AO3

[fujii-draws]

[shootsun]

Don't walk on his flowers! There's a perfectly good path right there!

[jazzzzzzhands]

I saw Wally with the GIANT SPOON and i just couldn't help myself...

[zarvasace]

I might be able to go to a con in like two weeks, but now I have a conundrum...

I also have BotW Zelda and LBW Zelda finished, but I don't particularly want to wear those.

[decaffeinatedpartymuggoop]

Okay, we all know being a demigod is a shit position. Its scary and gets you killed in really nasty ways. But I feel like being a Big Three Kid has to be the shitiest position in all the shit positions.

Like, imagine being Thalia Grace. Your dad is king of the gods, lord of the skies. Led a war to get rid of a tyrant. And the only thing you get is his scorned wife AND brother, who both try to kill you (with one technically succeeding), a drunk of a mother, and brother who you thought was dead. Oh, wait, he’s not dead! No instead he was used as an offering to appease your dad’s wife and help fight in a war and prevent mass destruction.

Or maybe you can imagine being Percy. Son of the sea god, the stormbringer, the earthshaker. You get to live with a disgusting, abusive man for around 6 years. Who smells like literal shit. All because your scent as a demigod is too strong, BECAUSE of who your father is. You see things that you aren’t supposed to see and do things that people can’t do and go years thinking something is wrong with you. That your the problem. Then you get to the one place where you’re supposed to be save. But! Here is the kicker! You’re not! Your uncles hate you and you’ve been accused of stealing a symbol of power. A series of events that will kick off a war, and guess what. You’re a center point for it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.

Mhm, but then there’s Hazel. Daughter Pluto, god of the underworld and riches. But that doesn’t really change anything does it? She’s still living in 1930s America, in a red state. One where confederate flags still hang if you go deep enough into the city. She go to a school where the kids are supposed to be just like her! They still don’t like her tho. She’s got no idea who your father is, only that he left her with a parting gift. Only it’s not really a gift. Sure, she can pull rubies and diamonds from the earth, all worth millions. But anyone who’s ever gonna touch it will die. She lives with her mother, a woman gone so mad with greed it kills her. And Hazel, by the way. Laying dead Alaska, inhaling oil. But it doesn’t end there! She can’t have her mother suffering for eternity, can she? The answer is no. Hazel gets to spend the next 70 years in the Fields of Asphodel. It still doesn’t end! Because when she’s brought back to life, she gets to fight in a war against giants, her sad story seemingly never ending.

Nico’s a son of one of the Big Three, one of the most ancient and most powerful. But most people look at him as something bad, something not worth taking a second glance at. Something too look away from, mostly. He’s from the 30s, spent years in a magical time casino with only his sister at his side. She doesn’t stay for long though, she dies soon after they discover their heritage. And he doesn’t remember his mother much, a name without a face. A face without a name. He survived an attempted assassination at 2, though it wouldn’t be the only time his was life was threatened. He clings to his sister, even though she’s dead. He’s the son of the god of the underworld, is he not? There had to be a way, and there is. Only she won’t talk to him, she seems more concerned with communicating with the guy who got her killed instead. She chooses rebirth, and he decides to lay it to rest. She’s not coming back, and he has a war to fight in. (He gets stuck in a jar and forcibly outed a few years later, but that’s a lot to get into for now.)

Jason Grace is a pillar of New Rome, their golden boy, their American boy. He’s a son of Jupiter, a natural born leader. He’s been at camp for as long as he can remember, he wants to be praetor soon. He’s had a rocky start, but maybe he’ll be one of the lucky ones. Retire a veteran and live a long life with Reyna in New Rome. Only that never happened. He has no idea where he is, there’s a girl holding his hand, and she’s cute but it feels wrong. They get attacked and people come in and call him a Greek demigod, familiar, yes, but still wrong. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t put things into perspective the way it does for Piper and Leo. He’s goes to a quest to rescue Hera, the name sounds wrong. He nearly dies but at least he remembers who he is. He spends the next 6 months trying to get back home, even though he isn’t too sure on where or what home is. He gets there, eventually, but it doesn’t stop there. He’s dragged on quests and battles and fights in the war but at least he survives it, he’s still there. Apollo needs help, he and Piper give him aid. He gets dumped. He doesn’t get to he a veteran in New Rome. Not with Reyna, not with Piper, not with anybody. He doesn’t get kids or grandkids. No, he gets shot down, another demigod buried.

You could be any one of them, really. Pick your poison, but I guarantee you won’t like any of them. Spending years trying to find a place where you belong, where you feel safe. Only for it to never come.

Percy, who, if you really look at the books, isn’t really all that well liked until he’s at least 2 years into camp. Only to then be sidelined because the courages, brave, fearless daughter of Zeus is back from the dead. Nico, the son of one of the most feared and hated gods. Who has death written all over him, who excludes it so much animals can smell it and humans can sense it, who’s been ostracized and pushed off to the side since he was 10. Hazel, who was treated like disease as soon as she stepped foot on camp soil. Who’s gone her whole life looked as something that’s cursed, that will only bring misfortune, a bad omen.

Shit positions, all of them.

[randlemartin]

wish more people kind of acknowledged cheating/infidelity in fics. i know it sucks when your two guys are sucking and fucking to think about their wives back home but some of them were married or in long term relationships (with plans to marry) and it's interesting to think about what situations would make these characters cheat/how would they feel about it etc. wives/girlfriends divorcing/breaking up off screen is very easy and most of the time not done in an interesting way. sorry!

[flamingfoxninja]

Pinocchio loved his father. You have to remember that as I tell you what happened. It’s crucial that you remember. Because he truly loved his father. You can probably say the same thing about loving your family, your sister and brothers, and it would mean the same as myself loving my own mother and father. But the love that I had for my family paled in comparison to the love Pinocchio had for his, or the love that his father gave right back. Maybe paled isn’t the right word, but I don’t think there is any word close enough to describe the immense difference between them and everyone else. They were each other’s world, with all the stars and moon and magic that surrounded it. Which is strange if you thought about it, since Pinocchio wasn’t in the village for very long.

It was weird when I first met Pinocchio. We live in the little village of Amanti in the country of Marienne. It was a quiet classic sort of village. Not everything had magic or witches or monsters that you hear in the stories you know. Some places are just the background sets, the places that just travel through in order to get to the real plot. That was our village, quiet and unobtrusive, and we liked it like that. Boring compared to most, but it was peaceful and everyone was happy and friendly with everyone else. The children certainly knew the other children, and I prided myself with knowing everyone in town. As much as a child would know anyway. But the one person I knew very well was Pinocchio’s father. 

He was an old man, with polished circle glasses and silvery gray hair. Though looking back, he probably wasn’t older at fifty at most. I had a habit of assuming anyone with remotely graying hair as old or ancient, because only old or ancient people ever had magic to them. And Pinocchio’s father was the most magical person I had ever known to that point. He worked as a wood carver, always tinkering away at his shop making clocks and toys to sell. But my favorite things were the puppets he made. Little wooden marionettes. It would take him a while to carve them, putting in extra care to their body and shape, perfecting them in ways that I would never even think about. About twice a month he would take his marionettes into the square in the little portable stage he had, and put on a show for the children. We watched as he made the marionettes move and dance across the stage, telling stories of knightly princes and clever princesses. It was the most magical thing I had ever seen, watching him breathe life into those puppets. 

Once, I was lucky enough to be taken by my mother to get a new clock. I must have been six or seven at the time, and saw him working on the head of a puppet as we walked in. My mother had wanted to ask about the prices or some other adult things, but I was louder and must have asked him a hundred questions about who the new marionette was and how they were made. It must have exasperated my mother but he took it in stride. He gave the warmest smile as he gently explained to me how the parts are made, how the strings are attached, and how he was able to make them so realistically. His eyes never stopped twinkling as I kept up my questions. I think it made him happy, knowing I took an interest. But then I asked why he was careful in carving the puppets. He paused, like he knew the answer immediately but couldn’t find the right words to express it. And when he spoke there was a twinge of sadness. He said, “Because I am not just creating a body, I am creating a life. And you must always take responsibility.” I was confused by his answer, but my mother had jumped in and took control of the conversation to the clocks he had available. They did their business and me and my mother went home. I saw the same sadness in Pinocchio’s father as we did. And though I knew that my mother was very much annoyed at me inside, she looked different as we left. It was the first time I saw the look of pity on someone. When we got home she took me aside and explained to me how adults can be lonely too sometimes. Sometimes, not everyone can find their True Love like in the stories. Or how sometimes, even after finding your True Love, you may still not get a Happily Ever After. It was pretty world-shattering to learn when you’re six, but she had told me how proud she was for making him happy while in the shop. Because Lonely People can still be happy too. I had made a promise to try and keep Pinocchio’s father happy for as long as I could. Even if it wasn’t as long as I had thought. 

And then life went on. The sun rose and set. The Baker baked and the Farmer farmed and I grew up. I still played with my friends and got into mischief that all children do. But I made sure every week to visit Pinocchio’s father to make sure he was happy. Sometimes I would give him gifts, small flowers or fruits I had on hand. Or sometimes I would give him good names for his newest marionettes, like Mr. Bisket or Madame Pearl-head. It would always make him laugh, and that made me feel good, knowing I was keeping my promise. 

But one day when I was nine, he disappeared. No one knew where he went, but a few people saw him acting strangely the day before. He was frantic, running all over searching for something. Then the next morning, he locked his shop and just left. No note, no word to where he was going. He was just gone. For weeks rumors sparked around the village, going from him losing a valuable wood carving to him chasing after a True Love, or just lost his mind and wandered away forever. They were almost as varied and colorful as the marionettes he used in his shows. Those same marionettes that hung lifelessly in the back of his shop. 

Then, a few months later, he came back. It was an astonishment really. No one had actually seen him return, much less expected it. Everyone thought he was dead. Or if he was alive would never actually be seen again. And yet, there he stood, opening his shop more joyously than before. His arrival was unannounced, but word spread fast and soon everyone came out to welcome him back. And we all saw that he didn’t come back alone. Standing next to him with twinkling eyes and a wide grin was a little boy, who he introduced as his son Pinocchio. 

When I first met Pinocchio, I wasn’t sure if I liked him or not. He was…new. Too new in my opinion. His rosewood skin was polished. It didn’t have any scuffs or bruises that you would see on the other children. He had the straightest teeth I had ever seen, like white-painted fence posts.  And sometimes when he moved, there was an odd stiffness to him that he wouldn’t shake off. He wasn’t inflexible exactly, but when he stretched it was like he was making sure that he was still able to move. Gently rolling his joints over and over until he was satisfied they were in order. It reminded me of oiling the hinge of a door. But more than that, I didn’t like the feeling of being replaced. Pinocchio was like the missing puzzle piece that completed his father, bringing him so much happiness and love that one only read about. It hurt seeing that. For years it was my duty to make Pinocchio’s father happy. But now Pinocchio came in and effortlessly took my spot, even if it wasn’t my place to begin with. 

I didn’t know how to process that feeling, so it started to come out as mistrust and anger. It wasn’t exactly mean, but it definitely wasn’t nice. I think his father caught on how I was feeling pretty quick, at least much faster than me. Pinocchio wasn’t in the store when I went to visit again a week later. It was just his father, who smiled brightly when I came in. I had missed our weekly visits while he was away, and I liked to think that he did too. When I entered he had me sit on his chair and said that he had a very important task for me. Pinocchio was new to the village, and he was afraid that Pinocchio might get lonely. He asked if I could show Pinocchio around the village and introduce him to the other children so he could play and make friends. I wanted to scream. I felt so sick. This was how our relationship ended, not with Pinocchio replacing me for his father, but with Pinocchio replacing me for everyone else in town. It was really silly looking back on it, but those feelings were so strong and genuine that I wasn’t sure if I could contain it all. But Pinocchio’s father looked so delighted at the idea of Pinocchio making friends. So I begrudgingly went along, agreeing to take Pinocchio to our games. I was making him happy, so I’d put up with whatever weirdness Pinocchio had. 

Embarrassingly, it actually didn’t take very long for us to become friends. For all of my worry and aggression when we had first met, he was just a normal kid. When I introduced him to the rest of the children, he got along with everyone so well. I wanted to be mad at him, that this was proof he was replacing me. But I wasn’t. I actually got along with him too. And I liked him a lot. We played every day after that, any chance we got. Tag, exploring, marbles, you name it. Pinocchio was one of the gang, he fit in so well it was like he was tailor made. There was a charm to him you know, where he would be so genuine that you couldn’t help but admire. When he laughed at your jokes, you knew he actually thought you were funny. If you got hurt, you could tell he was actually worried about you, not like most kids where you only worry if you would get in trouble. He really did care. 

Most importantly, he was honest. He was the most truthful kid I had ever known. If you want to get an opinion on something, you go to Pinocchio. He would always tell you what he thought, but he was never mean about it, or sugarcoat it. Just stated it as fact. And he would always find something he liked about whatever you showed, even if it was actually terrible. Of course, we would still get into trouble. He wouldn’t shy away from regular child mischief. But he always owned up to it, and accepted whatever punishment he was given. The first few times this happened, we had left him behind to take all the blame. No one wanted to get caught right? But he never called out anyone else. He wouldn’t lie about it, he just wouldn’t say anything to get anyone else in trouble. It must have rubbed off on the rest of us because eventually we all stayed to take in our share of the blame. He was good like that. He was my best friend. 

You need to understand, you have to understand just how honest he was. I’d never met anyone more truthful than Pinocchio. It wasn’t just a quirk or, or his personality, or even a pledge or anything superficial like that. It was a part of his core, his entire being. When he spoke the truth, there was a great comfort to it that just weighed on you to know that this was how the world worked. It was his own magic. So when I heard him tell his first lie, it killed me almost as much as it killed him. Almost. 

It was late that night, all of the children in town were out on the streets. All the adults were asleep, peacefully unaware that we snuck out of our beds for a bit of mischief and fun. It was a bright full moon, giving us enough light to play and dance under its gaze. I don’t think I had as much fun before as I had that night. At least, before she walked in. 

She was beautiful as she walked into the village square. Her face illuminated in moonlight with eyes twinkling like stars. Her dress was a void black, frayed and marked in intricate designs that covered her body. It was frayed, but it trailed behind her like an evening gown. Billowed might actually be the better word. She was so graceful it felt like the wind had summoned her, breezing through our simple lives without a care in the world. We all stopped our games just to watch as she walked closer. By the time she reached the square, everyone surrounded her. She was so beautiful. Like the night itself had taken form. She leaned on her staff and addressed all of us. She said she had a game for us to play, and seemingly out of the night air itself she pulled out a magnificent ball. It was as white as the purest snow, covered in the softest silk. It was wondrous and magnificent and promised to be the most fun for anyone to play with it. I wanted that ball so badly. We all cheered in excitement to play with that magnificent white ball. 

Soothing our excitement, she explained the rules. She will ask us a question and if we answer truthfully, we will get a turn. We all nodded, agreed to the rules. Eager to please and to take our turn. She started with my neighbor from down the street. “What is the name of your father?” she asked sweetly. Smiling, my neighbor answered, “My daddy’s name is Nico.”

A scream rang out. It was thick and ragged, coming from deep in the village. We all turned towards the sound, confusion on our faces. But the woman called to us, focusing our attention on her and her game once more. She walked up to a little girl next. “What of your father’s name?” she asked. “Robert,” the poor girl answered. Another anguished scream pierced the night. The woman moved down the row, one by one, asking each child the name of their fathers. And with every answer a painful scream. All of us cried. The children at the beginning of the line cried for the deaths of their fathers. While those at the end cried for what was to come. I myself wept so achingly because that ball still called out to me and I knew in my heart I would kill my father to play with it. Even as the night air choked on death. Even as I saw the ball writhe and squirm in the woman’s hand. Hatred burned inside me as I stared at that horribly beautiful woman who still wore that gentle smile. But I could not turn away. The ball had already claimed me, as it waited to eat my father’s name. 

Pinocchio stood next to me. His presence gave me some comfort, as little as it was, but he confused me as well because he did not cry. He looked pensive. His brows furrowed in deep thought. I wasn’t the only one who noticed as the woman approached. She turned her head slightly as she looked at us. Pinocchio looked uneasy while I sobbed. It felt like I was crying for the both of us, and that was important somehow. If I was the one crying, then Pinocchio wouldn’t be distracted with his own tears. That my tears allowed Pinocchio to think, give him time to take action and do…something. Honestly I was so racked with despair that I had to cling onto something otherwise I would go mad. So I cried for Pinocchio as much as me, and the woman saw. I think that’s why she asked him a different question, what his own name was. And Pinocchio answered truthfully. “My name is Pinocchio”. She smiled, then asked him, “And what is your father’s name?” 

Pinocchio looked uncomfortable, hesitated in his unease, then answered.

“Daniel”.

I couldn’t breathe. I was so terrified but I think this was the moment that broke me. I couldn’t breathe as I watched Pinocchio lie. Lie in the face of evil or god or whatever being it was that demanded the truth. He lied. I didn’t know how it was possible. I didn’t think that he was even able to lie. He never lies. But he loved his father. He loved his father more than himself and the moon and stars. His words lied but his love was genuine, and I wept knowing I could never have a love as profound as that. 

In my grief I had failed to notice the lack of a scream. But the woman didn’t. She frowned, then snarled. And with a wave of her staff Pinocchio fell to the ground dead. It happened so fast I didn’t even realize. Just watched his body go limp and loose and sprawled out below. I think it was my mind trying to process what happened, but it reminded me of one of his father’s puppets. As if the puppeteer that was holding him up suddenly cut the strings from his body. When I realized he was dead, I just had another reason to cry. And while I was next to be asked a question and kill my father, my tears were shed solely for my friend and his bravery. 

Then a miracle happened. Before the woman had a chance to turn away, Pinocchio’s body started to glow. It was a rich and vibrant blue, light and airy like the day sky. It rivaled the sun as it cut through the night, and blazed out of my friend. 

I’ve learned much about magic since then. Not just tricks and wizardry that most people have, but raw magical powers only possessed by the most powerful of arcane creatures. Fairies are one of them. Fairy magic is ancient. You cannot escape a fairy boon or curse. It will stay on you for all eternity and then some. But fairies know this also, and that is why when they lay their spells they are just as cunning as they are powerful. To avoid the brunt of the spell, they would use their own magic to shift the spell in a new direction. Weaving the magic to a new purpose. Changing a spell of death to eternal sleep for example. A fairy cannot completely alter the spell, and they definitely cannot remove another fairy's magic. If they do, then they will face a magical backlash of unimaginable power. 

When that woman used her magic to kill Pinocchio, she had disrupted the fairy spell that was placed on him. I don’t know how or when he had met a fairy, or what he did to receive their boon, but he had one. And it was powerful. And when that boon was destroyed, all that was left was unrestrained raw magic. The brilliant blue light came forth from Pinocchio’s body pulsing fanatically until everything was covered in its light. I couldn’t look away as magic enveloped everyone. Distantly I heard the scream of that wretched woman. I was scared, I was sobbing, and it felt like I would see nothing else but that blue light. 

Then suddenly, it was gone. The magic had vanished, leaving us still standing in the square. The woman and her staff and her horrible ball, they were gone. The night was gone too, an early morning sun gently rising in the sky. If I had not wept so harshly before I would have cried in relief seeing the sun again. The adults had come out of our homes and rushed towards us, embracing us in their own relief for what had transpired. I could have willingly drowned in my mother’s hug, fiercely clinging onto her as she gripped me. But the grief still stayed. Because Pinocchio’s body was gone too. 

The village has changed since then. It isn’t as overt as you might expect. The people are friendly enough with one another, we still have a sense of a small town comradely. We don’t go out at night. But considering the monsters that would normally lurk in the darkness, that’s just good practice. And we don’t shy away from the odd traveler that enters. They are still welcomed for their business. But really, only for their business. We don’t allow them to stay for long. But sometimes they stay long enough to realize that we never say our names. Not to each other and certainly not to outsiders. Names are a very powerful thing you know, but they aren’t needed in daily life. The Baker is The Baker after all, so we get by just fine. The only names that we say are the names of the dead. And Pinocchio’s. 

We’ve never recovered his body. It had disappeared along with the other wicked things from that terrible night. As well as his father. When some villagers tried to give him the news of his son’s death, they weren’t able to find him. His woodcarver’s shop is still closed, with marionettes hanging in dust and darkness. The villagers say Pinocchio’s name because he had died. And I know he did. But I also know that magic is a wondrous thing, and miracles can be repeated. Pinocchio’s father didn’t die that night. Pinocchio did in his stead. So I will wait for Pinocchio’s father to return once again, with Pinocchio standing at his side. Someone should greet them back properly. After all, his name isn’t Daniel.

[quailxcrossing]

never be a stem student

[eebie]

you wish you could go out with your buddies to smash toilet bowls with your piss and their piss alone like a firetruck hose

[quietwingsinthesky]

you ever just think about. “You are diseased, albeit a disease of our own making. No more.” you ever just. oh, they made him and they discarded him. it’s never going to be quiet again for him, and that’s just collateral. they let the sound rot through his whole life, his whole timeline. because that’s the kind of easy sacrifice you can make when you want to save yourself above everything else, one that doesn’t ask anything of you. you dig open a child’s mind and you bury your survival inside him and when he follows the noise back home, when he does exactly what you groomed him for, you call him ruined for it. that’s. you ever just think about that.

[bathtub4rats]

I’ve never been to a Waffle House, but if I find myself eating there in the future I know I will be thinking about them the entire time

[outofthiisworld]

💜 Ophelia | Wishlist

✦ Show her new places and new things! Ophelia is still rather new to Earth, so there are plenty of first experiences she’s yet to discover— your muse could be the pseudo-tour guide!

✦ Peekaboo, The Playful Phantomime: Peekaboo is a new, budding hero. If your muse is a hero, you should let her tag along and show her the ropes!  ✦ Gullible Ghost: If your muse doesn’t have the best intentions and is willing to put in some serious work … well, having an eldritch horror who craves companionship around your finger is nothing to sneeze at. Even if it is a dangerous game to play.

✦ Her past as a devourer of the stars (ie. an intergalactic superweapon) is revealed one way or another. Or perhaps your muse knows of GHOST-713 before they knew Ophelia? Regardless: there are consequences.

✦ Something something B.atman & C.atwoman vibes. You know? You know. <-(I am a simple woman) <-<-(this does not need to be gendered) <-<-<-(it’s the vibes)

✦ Experiment Solidarity. Be it for better or for worse, Ophelia feels kinship towards those who are just pawns forced into their roles or were used as nothing more than playthings. Fellow labrats get bonus points! <-Anyway, they should have a heart-to-heart about it (and perhaps make each other worse— IIII mean better. Yeah.)

✦ Eldritch Entities: The above, but instead of being fellow experiments, being fellow [REDACTED UNKNOWNS]. Ophelia is a host to a parasitic, cosmic mimic that feasts on stars— but she’s more akin to an egg before it hatches. Not quite fully eldritch yet but something will inevitably awaken beneath the surface ... maybe your muse can tell?

✦ There's a hole-in-the-wall, speakeasy where Ophelia performs at. Meander on in and you might catch a show. 🎤🎶

✦ Ophelia protects your muse— by any means necessary. For a less brutal display, Peekaboo is here to make sure you're safe too! (or perhaps ... Peekaboo needs to tap into her inner self to make sure you make it home alive)

[relentlessgrief]

[bredforloyalty]

the white persian that keeps showing up in our garden is in really really bad shape. i can't stop sobbing

[itsagrimm]

i have a uni deadline breathing down my neck which means that of course my home is spotless, i picked up 10 new hobbies and my days consisted of guiltily sitting at the desk all day.