#or hopefully along the lines of that

[vroombeams]

overstimulation/dacryphilia for sargebon or markoscar!

"Alex, I can't."

Alex understands what it means to be a shark. To smell blood in the water. Can't just makes him hungrier for it; greedier, even though he's already been given so much. Taken it, really.

"What is it you Americans say," Alex says, snapping the lube bottle shut with one hand. "Mama didn't raise no quitter?"

He puts on that weird southern twang that always makes Logan either roll his eyes or laugh but this time he gets a pained moan instead. Fair enough, when Alex is working two fingers back into the wet heat of Logan's hole. Again.

He could lie and say he's not been paying that much attention. That he's not been counting how many orgasms that he's dragged out of Logan in the last... hour? Two? He likes to play it like he's cool about it all. In reality he's so laser-focused he's surprised the bedsheets haven't caught on fire.

"Alex," Logan says, again, choked. He's squirming and his legs keep trying to close around Alex's shoulders, but he's keeping his hands to himself. Five orgasms deep and he's still being good, letting Alex do his thing. He's easy for it.

Alex curls his fingers and Logan sobs. Like actually sobs, so deep from his chest that it sounds like it hurts. This is, regrettably, what Alex is here for.

He starts back in on it, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Logan's prostate. He can actually feel how tender it is, how sore Logan's insides must be. His hole, even, is pink and raw and puffy.

"Please," Logan says and Alex isn't looking at his asshole anymore. He's watching his face, flushed deep red, shiny with sweat. His eyes are screwed shut but Alex sees it when the crying starts. Tears forcing their way out to catch in his lashes and then slip down his temples.

Alex is only human, of course. His cock throbs where he's left himself completely untouched this whole time.

"Just one more," Alex says. He grinds absently against the mattress, fingers pressed insistently to Logan's prostate, thumb pressing up against his taint. He takes it all in; Logan's scarlet face, the tears on his cheeks. Logan's spent cock, still fat and wet and laying valiantly thick against his pelvis.

"I can't," Logan says, skipping over a whine and directly into a wail.

Alex reaches up and he wraps a hand around Logan's cock and Logan jerks like he's trying to get away.

When Alex thumbs over his tip Logan starts really crying. He's shaking all over, both arms slung over his face, stomach tight with how he's trying to curl in on himself. But his dick is leaking in Alex's hand. Pulsing against Alex's palm.

"You can," Alex tells him, soothing, encouraging. "I know you can."

And Logan sniffs and squirms and hiccoughs but he doesn't protest again. They both know he can do it. Alex'll drag it out of him. He always does.

send kink(s) and ship(s) and maybe i will write more hell things

[incorrectcanucks]

[Canucks players meeting up for the first time after Quinn won the Norris]

Elias Pettersson: Congrats by the way, Huggy! You deserved it more than anyone else for sure; you had a fantastic year.

Quinn Hughes: Thanks man :)

Elias Pettersson:

Brock Boeser: Your speech was great! I’m sure Josi and Makar felt really grateful to have been mentioned by name.

Quinn Hughes: I hope so!

Brock Boeser:

J.T. Miller: You didn’t feel like you were missing anyone though, did you?

Quinn Hughes:

Quinn Hughes: No?

J.T. Miller:

Filip Hronek: Tocchet, how does one request a new d-partner? I think mine hates me.

Quinn Hughes: …

[sponfawn]

MTH Meta - Sisterhood of the PPGs

For anon who asked for a post on the Girls' relationships, specifically wrt Buttercup not opening up to her sisters, Blossom not telling Buttercup about what happened with Brick, and why they never actually address their issues. Hope you like long posts.

Full disclosure, I am an only child and my friends who had siblings mostly had brothers or a large age gap with their sisters, so if anyone else has other thoughts, pls feel free to share!

Blossom and Buttercup are really interesting to me. In some ways they have extremely similar motivations, it's just that the methods and approaches they use are near opposites. Ive said in another post that they both try to prevent being objectified by dressing and acting in certain ways. But to go into this further, they both have quite a bit of internalized misogyny behind that. They are both very conscious of their reputations and take measures to maintain them, and they both have self-imposed ideas about what it means about them if they don't reinforce those roles/expectations. Those roles and reputations are very tied up in their identities. They are both proud ppl who like to keep their emotional lives quite private, and who see certain displays of emotion as shows of weakness. Where Blossom uses self control, rationality, and "maturity" to hide her vulnerability, Buttercup uses anger, violence, and occasionally humor.

I think I will start with Buttercup, because I was a lot like her for many years, and I think I understand her better than Blossom.

Buttercup has built her very public reputation on being the "toughest" of the Girls since they were 5 (really since they were created). Since they were kids, she has teased Bubbles for being openly emotional and sensitive. And I think for many people, especially kids, when you have a reputation for something it can be very difficult to step outside of those expectations. It can be easier if one has a change of environment where people don't have preconceptions of who you are or what you're like. But Buttercup has never had that luxury, because as a public figure who has only ever lived in Townsville, everyone knows who she is and they all have certain expectations of what she's like.

This is also true of Blossom and Bubbles, but I think at least in Bubbles' case her expectations are a bit less restraining. At least emotionally. People tend to underestimate her, but she is comfortable with putting them in their place when she feels it's needed (see the face she made that actually scared Brick when she visited the Boys' apartment for the first time). Her reputation is being cute and "the joy and the laughter" of the Girls, and while that can also be restrictive in theory, we don't really see that holding her back from getting mad or upset.

Brene Brown has a theory on shame (through a v binary gender lens but I think it's applicable here). For most (cishet) men, she uses a metaphor of a box. Inside the box are behaviors/etc that a person considers acceptable in terms of masculinity, and behaviors outside of the box tend to elicit shame because they do not adhere to the perceived "rules" of masculinity and thus show "weakness". Obviously Buttercup is not a cishet man, and I'm not sure that I would go so far as to say she experiences shame outside that box. But her reputation and internalized misogyny act similarly, as a box outside of which certain behaviors are "weak" and seen as embarrassing. We can see this when she tells Butch to act like she didn't cry, when she thinks about how stupid it was for her to get a dress with Mitch, when she is at the kitchen store and hopes that no one she knows sees her there. She has a set of self-imposed "rules" about what she "shouldn't" show to other people that ends up restricting her a lot in terms of her ability to be vulnerable with others. With Mitch, she was able to break some of those "rules" because he knew her in a way she thought her sisters and others didn't, and because he reinforced her private (albeit limited) vulnerability with approval and affection.

Buttercup communicates more through actions than words. It may partly be just a natural preference but for some ppl it's because verbal communication can feel more vulnerable or difficult, because it is so specific and straightforward, if that makes sense. In the og show, Buttercup even has trouble with the vulnerability of just saying sorry. Angry confrontations and physical fights are her forte. Otherwise emotional confrontations? Not so much. We see this with Mitch and the guys in the earlier chapters, and even with Butch when she feels like a moment is too intimate and distances herself.

She has a sort of fear of other people perceiving her vulnerability to begin with, and i think in some ways that aversion may be even stronger or more deep seated with her sisters. If her experience was anything like mine, showing signs of mildly uncharacteristic softness may have been met with teasing or may have been brought up later at inopportune moments. We know that Bubbles teases her, and while idt Bubbles would do so if she thought Buttercup was genuinely hurt and vulnerable (though she didn't pull punches around Buttercup's breakup on their first day of the winter semester), small jabs like that over the years can go a long way to reinforcing some behaviors and discouraging certain others. There's also the fact that sometimes the people who have known you intimately your whole life can be the hardest to break behavioral patterns with. Our brains create these sort of well-worn paths with thought and behavioral patterns we use often, and those are the paths we automatically take. And if those paths have been reinforced for your whole life, it's especially hard to break out of. It's definitely possible, but one has to work hard for it.

All of this is to say - there are over a decade of precedents that likely reinforced Buttercup's struggles with verbal communication and vulnerability, and a lot of it is tied up with her sense of self and others' expectations. Teens in general also tend to be less than amazing at communication especially if they haven't had therapy. At the moment, there are more reasons than not why Buttercup doesn't confide in or bring up her complicated relationship with her sisters and the ways she feels hurt by them. As frank and unfiltered as she can be on the surface, she is very avoidant and cagey about her internal experiences when it doesn't directly involve anger.

Blossom, interestingly enough, has a LOT of the same issues with public perception, identity, and vulnerability. Going back to Brene Brown, she uses a metaphor of a web to describe cishet women's experiences, where there are many things that one has to juggle perfectly that intersect with various roles in one's identity (eg one's roles as a parent, spouse, employee, daughter, friend, etc). Perceived shortfalls in any of these areas can trigger shame associated with one or more of the various roles one has tied to their identity. That's not worded the best, but I digress. Again I don't necessarily think it goes as far as shame for Blossom but it's certainly connected to guilt for her. Incidentally, the way to combat shame according to Brene Brown? Honest vulnerability, which fosters connection to others.

Blossom holds herself to a standard above everyone else, including her sisters, because she has inhabited the "leader" role since she was created. She takes a lot of pride in that role, and strives to live up to it, including with regards to shows of emotion. She is very concerned with appearances (I don't mean this in a judgy way) in the sense that she is always thinking about how others perceive her, how she can be a good role model, how she needs to have restraint and self control, how she "shouldn't" slip up or make mistakes because she's not human, she's "better". And this is a role and an identity she has held for so long that she doesn't really know who she is without Townsville to protect (see her specific anxiety about college visits and her future outside of Townsville).

So while it says that Bubbles and Blossom are closer in general because they shared more interests growing up, after Brick rejected her, I don't think she wanted anyone to see her crying. I don't think it was just Buttercup she didn't want seeing, but Bubbles happened to walk in while she was crying. She was trying to muffle her sobs with her pillow, was trying to calm down before anyone came up, but Bubbles found her when she couldn't deny that she was still actively trying to stifle her sobs. I think letting Bubbles comfort her was already a big step for Blossom in terms of emotional vulnerability, but it was made a little bit easier by the fact that it was Bubbles who isn't ashamed to cry and talks openly about her feelings.

When Buttercup saw her at school, she had already kind of calmed down from crying and was getting ready to go home. She was also at school, a setting where she is always "on" and doesn't allow herself to be vulnerable, so she was inclined to deny that something was really wrong - it was embarrassing to her. Buttercup coming into the room added more tension to an already raw situation in which Blossom's pride was hurt - both in terms of being rejected and in terms of being so emotional about it when she's supposed to be "mature". I think Buttercup wanted to spring into action, to know what was going on so she could try to fix or help in her own way, which resulted in her concern and then frustration, but Blossom was already making a big step telling Bubbles. I think the fact that Buttercup also sees crying as a sort of "weakness" affected Blossom's willingness to share with Buttercup. Blossom herself sees her control over her emotions as a virtue, so being so emotional also seems like a "weakness" to her. The last thing she wants on top of heartbreak is to come off weak, because as much as Buttercup and Bubbles are her sisters, she is their leader. Bubbles is closer to her and doesn't attach that meaning to emotion or crying, making it easier to show that vulnerability with her. There's also the fact that Blossom may have thought that as protective and impulsive as Buttercup is, she might've made a big deal out of it with Brick for hurting Blossom. And that would be yet another humiliation, albeit fully unintentional.

As for why they haven't addressed the elephant shoved in the back of the proverbial room, I think there's a couple reasons. In Bubbles' words, Buttercup lets things build up until they explode. It's hard to have a productive talk about deep seated, years old issues when everyone's emotions are already really heightened. And that seems to be the only time it comes up at least from Buttercup's end. Bubbles is by far the most emotionally intelligent and communicative one, but she doesn't like arguments or emotional conflicts so I don't think she's very inclined to bring things up that could start them if she can avoid it. We sort of see this with Will when she defuses his anger by calling herself a "bad girlfriend" and doesn't address a lot of the things that make her unhappy in their relationship until their breakup. Blossom seems to come from the perspective that if someone has an issue, they should bring it up in a mature way without becoming very emotional or defensive (or aggressive). That it is their responsibility and they only have themselves to blame if they don't (see her conversation with Bubbles after their first monster fight). And in general I do think that is a fairly decent communication policy - ppl can't read minds. But it's not a realistic way to improve Blossom and Buttercup's relationship specifically imo.

We don't really see Blossom asking Buttercup what's going on either, and we know that Buttercup isn't one to volunteer information about what's going on with her. Tho it's very possible that Blossom has tried to ask in the past but has given up after Buttercup rejected those attempts. I think Buttercup also tends to get more defensive with Blossom in apprehension of criticism. Blossom is more critical of her than Bubbles, which doesn't necessarily inspire her to confide in her if she was ever inclined to do so. In fact, most of their interactions throughout the fic involve competitiveness/rivalry, teasing, and/or scolding. Mostly scolding (if only cuz Buttercup doesn't care about cussing or behaving "properly" in more official settings).

Putting two kids/teens with a high aversion to vulnerability and opposite strategies of addressing issues in the same household tends to lead to conflict that doesn't get fully addressed/resolved without intervention. At least in my experience.

As a tangential addendum, I do find it really interesting that Blossom confided in Bubbles yet not the Professor, and that Buttercup confided in the Professor yet not her sisters. And I think that is also at least partly a function of the roles and reputations they take on. Blossom is the competent leader who is supposed to be ok. She doesn't want to worry the Professor. She might even feel like it might disappoint him for her to be so shaken over something "trivial" and a rowdyruff boy to boot (I don't think he would be but I digress). Buttercup also doesn't want the Professor to know about how Butch ripped her shirt off because he was tired and she didn't want to worry him, but that was a source of anger rather than sadness. In contrast, she was kind of in shock when she got back home after the breakup with Mitch and the initial rage. She only broke down after the Professor asked if she was ok and it kind of shook her out of her numbness. But I think there's also a sort of vulnerability she specifically allows with the Professor in private, though this is more of a headcanon. My only "evidence" for this is that scene in the show where he kisses each of the girls goodnight and Buttercup scowls until he kisses her on the head, eliciting an adorable but brief smile before scowling again. And in the first chapter he indulges her request to drop them off further down the block away from Mitch, and she kisses him on the cheek and says "I love you with all my heart", and idk I just think she has an especially soft spot in her heart for him. Like in the deep, secret recesses of her heart she's a covert Dad's girl?

[bookinit02]

ran into my first student using chatgpt and honestly i was gonna be mad until i thought harder about Why he was using chatgpt and i was like well. that part of the assignment was kind of useless bullshit anyway so yk what that’s on me. consider it gone.

[roomwithanopenfire]

Six Sentence Sunday

Happy Sunday!! Thanks for the tags @blackberrysummerblog @facewithoutheart @shrekgogurt @rimeswithpurple @thewholelemon unsexy line break to ward against the tag curse @monbons and @cutestkilla!! I love seeing what everyone's working on <3

Summer is underway for me! I've started working evenings and weekends at my local library again and I missed this job. Today I had to hunt down twelve books that had the wrong shelf location, very exciting stuff. And I've finally finished organizing all the children's book bins, which had been in disarray ever since I left for the school year.

Been writing and editing this week!! Here's a snippet from my COBB fic. (Context? What's that?)

“What the—?” she slides her laptop away and leans closer to me, beckoning me with a finger. “Where’d you get that? What the fuck happened?” I don’t move any closer. “What do you think? Figure it out yourself.” “Figure it out yourthelf,” Fiona mocks—the asshole and she darts out to grab my arm, pulling me in closer. “Let me look at it.” I shake her hand off of me—still too on edge for that. And I keep my mouth resolutely shut. “Say ‘Ahhh’” she says, tapping my jaw. “Fuck off.”

more under the cut because i have yet to learn brevity

And I've been steadily working on editing more and more chapters of Proof of Life! I actually love editing, is that normal? How do you all feel about editing? There's no full snippet I can give without ruining the Impact this chapter will hopefully have, but here's four lines of dialogue said to Baz:

“No food, no water, nothing but blood, huh?”

“No, I don’t regret it. I would make that choice again and again.”

“No offence, Basil, that is the most stupid thing I’ve heard.”

“That’s not because you’re a vampire, that’s because you were freaking out."

And two lines of dialogue said to Simon:

“You’re not allowed to be right, it makes you insufferable.”

“Why would you want a vampire to come back?”

Feel free to guess who's talking (there's no repeats) but when I say these are the only lines I could share, I mean it, anything else would have been way too much. Next time I'll have to switch it up and do a process post or something (even though I'm pretty sure my editing process is boring).

Tags and Hellos!

@run-for-chamo-miles @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @raenestee @artsyunderstudy @onepintobean

@prettygoododds @noblecorgi @hushed-chorus @angelsfalling16 @brendughh

@hertragedyconnoisseur @drowninginships @supercutedinosaurs @fiend-for-culture @beastmonstertitan

@valeffelees @ileadacharmedlife @arthurkko @rbkzz @skeedelvee

@bookish-bogwitch @alexalexinii @brilla-brilla-estrellita

[transformersvn]

Hey do you have any knockout x Megatron relationship headcanons because their very interesting

Oh, so, so many (mostly dependant on the situation I've wrangled them into this time).

I like the idea that Knock Out is a night owl and as late to rise as he can manage, whereas Megatron has a touch of insomnia (at least, in as much as Cybertronians have a human-like sleep schedule) and that can lead to odd conversations happening at unreasonable hours.

I want them to encourage each other's worst behaviours while finding comfort and security in the ways they don't have to be nasty to each other. A certain amount of rough edges is to be expected (and looked on with less suspicion than a perfectly polite person) and their particular brands of unpleasantness don't bother the other hugely.

I'm very attached to the idea that Knock Out is a self-taught medic and Megatron likes that. Megatron likes competence and while Knock Out isn't always successful, he's got a fairly good track record and (possibly more importantly) doesn't usually screw up in spectacular ways. Conversely, Megatron learning how easy it can be to meet the demands Knock Out actually wants is fun.

I also think it would be hilarious if Megatron was the younger one out of the pair. TFP!Megatron being one of the youngest Cybertonians in the show is something I desperately want to write but haven't found a good enough plot to hang it on yet. Let Knock Out try an "age before beauty" line only to have it blow up in his face XD

Knock Out has a taste for expensive fuels (he claims its a race car thing) and it's fun to picture him trying to ply Megatron with different flavours, but Megatron has a very fuel is fuel is fuel attitude.

(I'm trying to come up with more specific relationshipy things, but I'm the type of writer who doesn't know what any specifics are going to be until I write them, so a lot of character interaction moments are up in the air until I get them down -.-).

[samantha-and-nellie]

wait sorry why is the gazebo bad?

hi anon! i have several reasons why i dislike the gazebo, but if it’s a product that you like, please don’t let my opinions affect that!

that being said, my main gripe is that there’s no reason to have given this to samantha. she already had a big ticket item that was relevant to her stories (the ice cream parlor) and, unless there’s some gazebo that pops up in the beforever versions of her stories that i’m not aware of, they literally could’ve stuck this product in the modern line and it would’ve fit in perfectly. beforever was such a mess in general, and this item kinda epitomizes all the problems with that line for me.

also, most of the big furniture items fall into this trap so this isn’t really a problem, but the proportions are just so off it’s comical:

lovely! a child-sized gazebo. sure hope there aren’t any adults in those stories who’d like to use it

[javelinbk]

The Life of Riley

Modern AU based on @pie-of-flames's @beatleskinkmeme prompt

John is a terrible driver, but a broke one, so he lets his aunt get him a job as a chauffeur. His first passenger is Paul, the wealthy son of a successful businessman, whose father wants him to follow in his footsteps. It soon becomes clear that neither men are happy with their current situation in life.

Chapter 1 - Haven’t had a dream in a long time

Chapter 2 - The luck I’ve had could make a good man turn bad

Chapter 3 - I find I spend my time waiting on your call

Chapter 4 - Who’s gonna pay attention to your dreams?

Chapter 5 - You take my pride and throw it up against the wall

Chapter 6 - Why pamper life’s complexity when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat?

Chapter 7 - Who needs a lover that can’t be a friend?

Chapter 8 - Is that the way we stand?

Chapter 9 - Turned over a new leaf and then tore right through it

Chapter 10 - Is my timing that flawed?

Chapter 11 - But to lose you would cut like a knife

Chapter 12 - Heaven knows I'm miserable now

Chapter 13 - Come on baby, we better make a start

[sniperdadmaccready]

Top 5 Ralph moments from various scenes in my fic:

Bonus Arcade and Mick being unimpressed with Ralph's Nonsense:

[yuesya]

I didn't quite understand why Nanami would receive marriage proposals due to his relationship with Shiki, can you explain it to me?

Off the top of my head, there are a few points that immediately come to mind:

-Nanami and Shiki are related by blood. It's a known fact in this 'verse that various powers and abilities are inherited through blood. Shiki has a powerful cursed eyes and a cursed technique. Ergo, adding Nanami's blood to the gene pool can only be a good thing! It also helps that Nanami is a decent sorcerer.

-On the surface, Nanami's cursed technique is similar to the ability granted by Shiki's cursed eyes. Bonus points for Nanami having 'good genes' and his children inheriting powerful abilities.

-Shiki loves Nanami. If Nanami marries into a sorcery clan, then there's an additional connection to Shiki through Nanami. A powerful sorcerer without any attachments -or with attachments that aren't strong enough- is a dangerous sorcerer.

-Nanami is a sorcerer who's not from any clan or prominent lineage. Fresh blood. Inbreeding is something that's to be avoided.

[roboticonography]

✨Just power couple things✨

Based on this post by @skeletonsinboth.

[queenlucythevaliant]

Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

*

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

*

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

*

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”   

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

*

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”  

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night. 

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

*

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

*

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.  

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.” 

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs. 

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her. 

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes.  “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.” 

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.” 

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun. 

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud. 

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too. 

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in. 

*

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke. 

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes. 

[chibishortdeath]

General Simon brainrot sketch page :3, as per usual, explanations under a cut. Apologies if my posts tend to be kinda huge and difficult to scroll past, I try to do the cuts to make sure they do the least inconvenience to anyone! (>-< ;)

Just the whole page in full ft. My thumb lol

Expression practice! Simon is feeling the weight of his situation rn alas :(. I’ve always imagined him being panicked the whole game; the overarching entire game timer really gives a pretty good feeling of dread imo. The two doodles at the bottom were attempts at multiple ideas I’ve seen floating around about the curse, but they’re kinda bad in execution looking at them no tbh. But the first one is based on the idea that the curse gives some vampire traits like sharp teeth and would probably lead to proper vampirism if he were to die from it. The second was general attempt at like skull practice and comparing facial features to skull structure, but oh my god the page kept smudging and I tried making it look ok with some random blood on there but it just made it look even sillier 💀.

These next two are based on two random like liminal space images I ran into on Pinterest and I drew them mostly because I suck at backgrounds and idk Simon’s Quest itself is like Castlevania: Liminal Space Edition a lot of the time, so it fits X,,,,D. The first one I really liked the composition of the path on the far side contrasted to the trees. Imagine the water is the purple cursed swamp :3. Hopefully Simon has laurels just standin around in there.

This second liminal space for Simon to be in was this neat nighttime photo of a graveyard! Trees are HARD TO DRAW, especially just in pencil and a solid black background. There’s blood on the ground and stuff cause he was just fighting some monsters, probably those two headed lizard guys. It’s the awkward stillness after clearing out an area of enemies.

The pose for this one is based on the LOL~lots of laugh Miku figure lmao 💀💀💀

Simon is very fun to put in exaggerated poses! Especially cause you have to exaggerate them more to get the same ratio of pose to negative space because muscles and armor. I had no idea how to make metal belt armor thingies sit in a like legs up floating sort of pose like this so they kinda bend a little weird but eh he looks cute otherwise. The other doodles present are one that says “brainrot” which is kinda making fun of my own dedication to an NES character 💀 and also cause haha rot like the curse. Also, teeny tiny Simon with a heart!!! :3

Yippie! Simon posing again! I think the first pose was inspired by this like random old anime style angel figure??? Idk I think she was just an original character figure and the pose was pretty different, I just used the reference mostly for the arm position. Anyway, he’s vibin, just sitting curled up and momentarily comfy. Alas, the horrors persist in the second doodle that was an attempt at showing how the curse kinda deteriorates him but he just kinda ended up having a scarily snatched waist and it looks more stylized than like sick. Also the armor kinda bends around him in a way that makes it look like it shrunk with him which is so dumb lmaooooo (XwX). I’ll have to revisit the concept eventually idk, just look at his face for this one XD. Hahaha tiny doodle based on Larval Rin on the left there, nothing to see here—

The main doodle is just Simon looking into the distance bewildered and holding the whip, standard stuff. There’s also a side profile doodle and an attempt at drawing crying again cause I was getting kinda rusty at both of those things.

Simon Belmont but if he was 2000s anime lol. A fun little style experiment, I might keep this as like another secondary art style. There’s also some doodles of a hanged man skeleton, the eyes of Vlad, a skeleton hand, and a couple little chibi Simon’s of various expressions.

More 2000s anime Simon, but in a more silly way like the art style change for joke sections. One is him just goofily holding up Dracula’s head, but it’s contrasted immediately with a more gritty usual art style doodle of him with harsh shading lol. Get you a man who can do both I guess 💀

I gotta practice more on backgrounds and composition and stuff, probably also get some curse effects consistent augh. Lately I’ve been on and off working on random things or just staring into space tired, getting back to using social media is hard and an exhausting uphill battle unfortunately (_ _ ;). Sometimes I feel like I should probably split these up into multiple posts to make things more visible and to put more focus on specific drawings, but idk I don’t really want to, it just feels weird to me breaking up a doodle page like that, if that makes sense??? Eh idk.

[sableeira]

got a job offer ahhhhhhhhhhhh

[doedipus]

a large amount of time I've been spending on -untitled undefined scope original fiction project- since the last time I posted about it has been trying to develop the protagonist concept I came up with last summer or whatever into like, a character that would feel real and era appropriate.

it's fun research to do. naturally a lot of the details I assigned to her are things that I already think are cool, so it's been a lot of fun trying to trace her traits back through the relatively recent past, getting reminded of how much things have changed, or where the gaps in my intuition are, and then doing a flurry of reading to get a sense for exactly how someone like her and the people around her could have happened and what her life was probably like leading up to her present day. hopefully this results in some good good verisimilitude.

[general-cyno]

Despite how wildly Elendira was changed as a character in tristamp she's just. so fascinating to me both bc of her existence as a whole (a human/plant hybrid of sorts that Nai, despite his hatred for humans, for some reason has allowed to exist) and the idea of her being an honest, childish reflection of Nai himself.

There is absolutely no way that Elendira's disdain for humans isn't something she learned from him. And when you compare their expressions and behavior - they are just so painfully similar. From the way their emotions shift so quickly from one to another to how they show so clearly on their faces/bodies,

And how the only way to somewhat (poorly) mask themselves is to physically shift away and hide - which they both do in front of Vash specifically.

On that note, Elendira's reaction to physical pain is very interesting to me too in how it contrasts with Nai's. Whereas she throws a tantrum and cries out about how much it hurts, physical pain does very little for Nai (outwardly, that is) as shown in eps 3 and 12. Even as Vash tries to shoot down his blades or as Nai burns himself alive along the fire of Vash's angel arm, it is the emotional aspect (Vash's rejection) which actually hurts him. It can be heard in his voice or seen in his face and still, he tries to hide that too behind a smile or laugh that always seems awfully close to crying or sobbing.

Ig what I'm trying to point at is Elendira - as a metaphorical and literal reflection of him, since she's implied to be a clone, kinda - being able to voice and act out all the reactions to pain, physical and emotional, that Nai usually doesn't allow himself to show.

Extra interesting to me that she immediately labels Vash a traitor and cries harder when she mentions Nai and how Vash doesn't know.

I think a more literal tl of this bit is something along the lines of "it's your fault that lord Knives -", regardless... what is it that Vash doesn't know or that he's at fault for? Is she echoing Nai's pain, his loneliness? Why does she feel it so deeply?

And did Vash realize? What she is and where she comes from, or why she exists? Is that why he looked so sad at the sight of her? Did he see part of his brother in her too? Did Nai as a kid ever cry like that?