#presumably for an extended period of time

[theoutcastrogue]

A handful of people in Pompeii that were killed by the devastating eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 are not who experts thought they were, according to a team of researchers that recently collected DNA from the individuals’ remains. The team’s findings—published today in Current Biology—spotlight previous incorrect conclusions about relationships between the residents of Pompeii and reveals new insights about the demographics of the Ancient Roman port city. “We show that the large genetic diversity with significant influences from the Eastern Mediterranean was not only a phenomenon in the metropolis of Rome during Imperial times but extends to the much smaller city of Pompeii, which underscores the cosmopolitan and multi-ethnic nature of Roman society,” said Alissa Mittnik, an archaeogeneticist at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology and Harvard University, and co-author of the study [...] Demographically, the team found that five individuals in Pompeii weren’t so genetically associated with modern-day Italians and Imperial-period Etruscans as they were to groups from the eastern Mediterranean, the Levant, and North Africa—specifically North African Jewish populations. Pompeii was an important port in first-century Rome, so it’s not a huge surprise that it had representation from across the Mediterranean—but the genetic stories of the studied individuals verifies it. [...] “This study illustrates how unreliable narratives based on limited evidence can be, often reflecting the worldview of the researchers at the time.” One particularly famous set of remains revisited by the team is that of an adult with a golden bracelet and a child—the child being on the adult’s lap. Long interpreted as a mother and child, the remains actually belong to an unrelated male and a child.

"Unrelated." This gutted me, for some reason. Reminded me of Watchmen and what I think are some of the most memorable panels in the history of comics.

There's a catastrophe, a colossal explosion, a disaster that we know claims the lives of millions. We know it's happening, we know there's a "psychic shockwave" involved. And there's two people we've been casually following from the start of the story, ordinary people in the street, unlike all those costumed heroes running around. They're not very good and they're not very bad. They're just people. One is an old man running a news-stand, the other is a young kid who reads pirate comics. They don't like each other. They're rude to each other, generation gap and all. Two minutes ago they learned they share a name, and managed to share an almost kind word, and they're about to start fighting again. They're just people, right? And then the disaster happens. We don't see it yet. The blood and gore will be witnessed in the next issue. For now, the background fades to white, and we only see them.

They drop what they're holding, they hug, the old man puts his arms protectively around the young kid, and they fade. They fade into the shape of the Watchmen logo, ubiquitous throughout the comic, and then they fade out. White panel. There's nothing left. And off-panel, the Ozymandias quote.

Watchmen primarily aimed to evoke nuclear war, and the "psychic shockwave" clearly stands for the blast of a thermonuclear explosion. What makes the sequence gut-wrenching is the hug (so tender and so futile), the fade-to-white (a negative space so understated and so enormous), and the penultimate panel: an after-image frozen in time, declaring forever "once there were people here". Just like the plaster casts of Pompeii, just like the stones of Hiroshima.

Hiroshima, August 6th, 1945: the shadow of a person who was disintegrated at the moment of the blast. The steps and the wall were burned white, except the portion that was shielded by the person's body. (These steps were cut out and are now inside the Hiroshima Peace Park museum.) Photo by Yoshito Matsushige, whose films were confiscated and didn't get printed until the U.S. occupation ended in Japan in April 1952.

[gravitysoda]

i said it on twitter nd i'll say it here, i accept dadrius at this point cause. canon! but im still also going to headcanon that hunter visits the nocedas all the time and often stays in the human realm to visit luz and vee, and camila is like a second parent to him. and since he also has dell as a mentor now, i think they'd become like family as well, and by extent the other clawthornes. he also has willow's dads as in-laws, PLUS if darius and alador get married, he'd ALSO have the blights as family (which is hilarious btw)...basically what i'm saying is he has so many families. the reason flapjack's gravestone only had "h." as an engraving with no last name initial is because hunter deamonne noceda clawthorne blight park is just too ridiculously long and he couldn't decide on just one last name to put on there.

[theevilcactus]

So on one hand, there are two characters that I love who are both fun, stabby redheads of vaguely similar ages who died and then came back to life, who have *issues* regarding their sibling, and who are in dire need of therapy. And I think it would be really funny to write a fic where the two of them meet.

on the other hand, Ziggy Berman would fucking hate Jerome’s guts and I can’t think of any plausible reason for them to ever be in a room together.

[tanadrin]

medieval monks and accountants start using Italian millione ("one thousand" + augmentative suffix) to mean 10^6 by the 1200s; this spreads to other languages

Jehan Adam coins bymillion and trimillion to mean 10^12 and 10^18 in 1475

Nicolas Chuquet extends this scale up to nonyllion (10^54), with every step being another six orders of magnitude (million, byllion, tryllion, quadrillion, quyllion, sixlion, septyllion, ottylion, nonyllion) in 1484. Note that in this period, it was common to put the digit separator every six digits instead of every three.

Guillaume Budé refers to 10^9 as milliart in 1516, in a Latin text

But in 1549, Jacques Pelletier du Mans uses milliard to mean 10^12, citing Budé as a source

In the 1600s, people start putting digit separators every three digits. But some scientists and mathematicians define the numerical scale according to how digits are grouped, rather than the actual order of magnitude: thus, one billion becomes 10^9, one trillion becomes 10^12, etc, creating the short scale.

"Milliard" is eventually added to the long scale, meaning 10^9 (in keeping with Budé's usage); the first published example is from 1676

By 1729, the short-scale meaning of "billion" (10^9) has already crept into American usage

This is in keeping with French usage at the time: in 1762, the Académie Française dictionary cites billion as meaning 10^9.

By the early 19th century, France has almost completely converted to the short scale, and U.S. usage follows France; the long scale is referred to in some sources as "obsolete." But Britain is still using the long scale (and I assume Germany and most other European countries)

Over the course of the 20th century, the long scale begins to become more influential in France, presumably due to the influence of continental usage; while the short scale becomes more influential in Britain, presumably due to the influence of American English. Notably the SI system very specifically uses unique prefixes that are the same across languages, to prevent confusion!

In 1961, the French Government confirms that they're going to officially use the long scale from now on; in 1974, Britain officially switches over to the short scale, and many other English-speaking countries follow.

In 1975, the terms "short scale" and "long scale" are actually coined, by mathematician Geneviève Guitel.

One reason large number names could be so unstable for so long is, of course, that outside specialized usage they are rare, and were even more rare before modern science and large modern monetary amounts became commonplace points of discussion. Wikipedia says "milliard" wasn't common in German until 1923, when bank notes had to be overstamped during Weimar-era hyperinflation.

As it currently stands, English, Indonesian, Hebrew, Russian, Turkish, and most varieties of Arabic use the short scale; continental Europe and most varieties of Spanish outside Europe use the long scale. A few countries use both, usually in different languages, like South African English (short scale) and Afrikaans (long scale) or Canadian English (short scale) and Canadian French (long scale) . Puerto Rico uses the short scale in economic and technical usage, but the long scale in publications aimed at export.

Notably some languages use neither, having their own names for large numbers--South Asian languages have the Indian numbering system, and Bhutan, Cambodia, and various East Asian languages also have their own numbering systems. Greek, exceptionally, uses a native calque of the short scale rather than a borrowing.

[egg-writes-whump]

A whumpee who (presumably after escaping whumper or just being missing for an extended period of time) gets home, greets everyone like they weren't ever gone, ignores their questions and just immediately goes to bed

[jonathanarcher]

I believe in immortal scully in the sense that scully doesn’t die. However I also believe in immortal mulder in the sense that every time he dies (and it happens fairly often), he just resurrects. RIP to everyone else but he’s different. presumably because he doesn’t know how to leave scully alone for any extended period of time

[prefer-to-be-vilified]

The Addams curse is just the far majority of the family being demi-sexual and insane.

It’s why that although they are a family of powerful witches no one has managed to break the curse. Because no curse was actually cast.

But the legend and subsequent ‘proof’ of its existence has lived on so they all believe it’s true. Most of these ace-spec bitches genuinely believing they’re immune until they fall in love and then they’re like “aha! the curse has struck again!”

Morticia figured this out not long after meeting Gomez’s extended family, but shit stirrer that her younger self was decided to keep that information to herself and played along for her own amusement.

Which has paid off ten fold as she now gets to watch her fiercely independent walking advertisement for the Addams curse of a daughter drive herself mad trying to break the curse after noticing that she’d developed *gasp* feelings for an overtly sensitive, brightly coloured werewolf girl with the personality of a rainbow.

“I’m not in love with Enid. The very idea is ridiculous. I just like looking at her and smelling her and holding her hand and sometimes I fantasise about dying in her warm embrace… But those are just symptoms of the curse, there is no other explanation. I should have taken the warnings more seriously.” - W.A.

Which then leads to six months worth of frequent conversation similar to the following that Morticia will never let go of,

Wednesday: Mother it pains me to say this but I need your help. The curse has me in it grasp and it’s killing me. I cannot focus on breaking the hold it has on me and our family because all I can think about is her… and the way my name sounds upon her sweet lips as if she’s calling me to my own doom.

Morticia, flipping through gothic wedding magazines and trying to think of ways to include pink without making half their family nauseous: Why don’t you take Enid out on a friendly excursion darling. Perhaps if you’re around her for an extended period of time the yearning will wain and you’ll be able to focus on your task more efficiently.

Wednesday: Good idea. I’ll take her for a walk through the cemetery.

Morticia: There are roses in the conservatory I’ve yet to chop the heads off you can bring to her. And don’t forget to tell her she looks pretty or your father will be very disappointed in you.

Wednesday: Obviously. I’m not an animal.

Morticia: And if you feel the need to kiss her I wouldn’t fight it. Who knows what will happen if you do.

Wednesday: Nothing good, I presume. It must be done. Thank you, mother. You’re advice has been satisfactory.

Morticia: Of course, darling. Have an miserable date with your beloved.

[cxsmiicc]

fucking florida - emily prentiss x reader

word count - 1950

warnings - smut, eating out, vibe, office sex, alcohol, mommy kink, begging

first em fic so sorry if it sucks

cr @storiesofsvu for the vegas line i read a dangerous game all in one sitting the other night and it was stuck in my brain

------

“Fucking Florida,” you muttered on the way to the coffee machine for your third cup of the night. It was already after twelve and the mountain of paperwork didn’t seem to be getting any smaller. You began the permanent battle to get the ancient machine running and picked out a mug, savouring every second away from the towering files and microscopic print. Almost immediately after the overwhelmingly strong scent whipped through the bullpen a certain unit chief emerged from her office, silver hair dragged back into a haphazard ponytail and top three buttons undone. To say you were obsessed with this woman would be an understatement. Yes, she was your boss and yes, she was majorly off limits, but there was no telling your body that. There was no helping the shiver that ran down your spine when she spoke, the goosebumps that revealed themselves whenever she brushed against you on the jet, the way every little hair on your body would stand on end when she singled you out. In short, you had it bad for Emily Prentiss, with no end in sight.

“Didn’t know anyone else was still here,” she drawled.

“Everyone sane went home hours ago.”

“And who can blame them, look at us. Relying on far too much caffeine just to get us through the paperwork.”

“When in Quantico,” you said with a small smile.

She laughed slightly, picking up the coffee pot and pouring two mugs, “It’s too late for your bad jokes.”

“You’ll have to excuse my lack of comedic genius, I'm exhausted and working on an empty stomach,” you replied, taking one of the mugs from her.

“What! Why?” She asked.

“I’m not a breakfast person to begin with and then with all the chaos this morning and the flight and the paperwork I just haven’t had the time to breathe.”

“I just ordered food, you’re having some of it.”

“Where did you order from this late?” 

She chuckled, “A lady never kisses and tells.”

God you wished she would kiss you. You simply raised an eyebrow and took a sip of your coffee in response.

“It’ll be delivered to my office soon, grab a file and come wait.”

“Exactly what I’ve been craving, yet more blindingly dull reports,” you deadpanned, already heading back to your desk to sweep the top folder into your waiting bag and follow Emily to her office.

Of course you had been in there before, but never so late and never for an extended period of time. It was different, strangely exhilarating, walking through that door and being directed to the low table in the corner, sitting on the carpet and working this closely to another person. The two of you typed in comfortable silence until a knock came and a sheepish college student walked in with a huge brown paper bag.

“Finally, thanks so much,” Emily said to the poor boy, handing him the cash.

“Quick, move the case notes. Just dump them under the table for now.” You did so, pulling them all into a rough pile and quite literally dumping them on the floor under the table. She wasted no time in delving into the enormous bag, pulling out a burger, two boxes of fries and the biggest soda you had ever seen in your life.

“Good job I was hungry,” she joked.

“Fries.” You reached over and snagged a box, grease seeping through the bottom and onto your fingers before you even opened it. “Oh my god that’s good,” you said around a mouthful.

“I have an idea..” She swerved around the table, snatching a fry on the way and walked right out of the room. A minute later she came back in, bottle in hand.

“Rossi’s finest I presume?”

“Only the best for you,” She finished with a devilish grin.

“Glasses?”

“On ne fait que commencer.” And she took a sip straight from the bottle.

Fucking French. You reached over and stole the whisky from her, upending it and barely blinking when the amber liquid hit your throat. 

“Someone has a tragic backstory just waiting to be unlocked.”

“The years of greasy food and crushing loneliness have numbed me to the mundane sensations of everyday life.” 

“Preaching to the choir honey.” She raised the burger to her mouth and took a bite, sighing in content as she did.

The two of you kept eating in not quite silence, the crunching of fries and occasional clinking of the bottle providing the nights soundtrack. Only once all the food had gone and you were both sufficiently tipsy did you come up for air.

“Remind me to tell you I'm starving more often, this is the best time I've had in this building to date.”

“Anything to make some half decent memories in this place, all the bad we see deserves a little alcohol and fast food every now and then.”

“I know something you could do to make this memory more than half decent,” you muttered.

“Oh? Now what, pray tell, could that be?” She feigned confusion and came to sit on your side of the table, resting her head in one hand and looking up at you through her lashes.

“Fuck it.” Both of you leaned in at the same time, lips crashing together and a breathless gasp escaping from you, her hands drifting to your waist and tugging you onto her lap. It was desperate and clumsy and everything you expected it to be, everything you needed it to be. Her tongue pried your lips apart as you explored each others mouths, too desperate for contact to bother with technique. You fumbled with her buttons and she smiled against your mouth, breaking the kiss to pull your shirt over your head and undo the few buttons of her own that you had been unable to access. Breathing hard, you pushed yourself off of her and sat on the table, legs wide and one hand splayed behind you for balance, admiring the view in front of you. Not every day the unit chief of the BAU was shirtless in front of you after all.

Reaching for your belt, she asked, “Can I?”

“God yes.”

She made quick work of both the belt and your jeans, tossing them aside before slowly pulling your underwear all the way down and dropping it, slipping both hands between your thighs and slowly separating them. Lowering her face, she met your eyes and slowly kissed a teasing path from your inner thigh to your clit, stopping just before she made contact. You let out a whimper, already soaked for her.

“Desperate, are we?”

“Less talk more tongue,” You demanded.

Luckily for you, she obliged, wasting no time in wrapping her lips around your clit and sucking hard, dragging a savage groan from the base of your throat. Loosening her hold on your clit, she focused her attention lower down, flicking her tongue briefly in and out before delivering a broad lick to your cunt, finally setting for alternating between the two motions whenever your moans peaked in volume. Bringing her hands into the mix, she drew slow circles around your clit, successfully driving you to the edge as your breathing became faster and faster, the only coherent word coming from your lips being her name over and over in an increasingly high pitch. Her relentless pace never slowed, even as you finally came with a breathy gasp, fucking you through your high.

Dropping back down onto her heels, she smiled at you before reaching behind her back and unclasping her bra, throwing the purple fabric to the corner before grabbing you by the thighs and pulling you back into her lap for another searing kiss, easily parting your lips this time and taking full advantage of your post-orgasmic confusion. The haze clearing somewhat, you became aware enough to dive your hands downwards and play with her chest, flicking her nipples between your fingers and relishing in the soft whimpers falling into your mouth. It was you that pulled away this time, taking one of her breasts into your mouth and swirling your tongue around, eliciting a delicious moan from Emily. You bit down, hard enough to leave a mark, and she let out a squeal of pleasure, pushing you to do more.

Switching your focus to the other side, you repeated the movements, teeth pressing into her soft skin as your tongue worked overtime. Just as she released a particularly loud moan, your fingers forced their way into her waistband and found her clit, jerking it back and forth to the same pace your other hand was setting on the side of her chest not currently in your mouth. She was a mess, to put it nicely, grinding on your hand in a desperate attempt to get herself there. Feeling just how wet she was, you decided to forego any teasing and simply go faster, push her harder, anything to get her over that edge. Twisting your wrist for better access, you pushed both your fingers and tongue to the same brutal speed, stirring raw sounds from the woman above you as she peaked, ruining her formerly perfect suit trousers once and for all. 

Wordlessly, she pushed you off again and crossed to the desk, rummaging in a drawer until she came up with a small silver key. Bending down to where you couldn’t see, she fitted the key in the lock of her bottom drawer and yanked it open, retrieving something without bothering to close the drawer behind her as she walked back towards you, hands behind her back so as not to reveal what she had. The second she was close enough you stood and grabbed her trousers by either hip, meeting her eyes as you removed them. 

“So what is it that you keep locked away in that desk of yours?” You asked.

In response, she smirked and lifted up a bubblegum pink vibrator.

“Let’s see just how many more we can get out of you tonight sweetheart.”

She flipped you around and forced you onto the desk, pushing your legs apart as you whimpered in anticipation. Laughing at your eagerness, she pushed the toy into you, flicking at your clit as she turned it on at the lowest setting and you let out a groan. 

You glared at her. “More.”

“Manners, or mommy won’t do a single thing more. Besides, I bet you look so pretty begging for it.”

Breath hitching at her words, you felt the vibrator slip as you grew wetter, reaching to push it back in only for Emily to grab your wrist. 

“Please…” You muttered.

“I know you can do better than that baby, now come on, tell me what you want.”

“Please mommy please turn it up I need more god just please.”

“Since you asked so nicely…” She trailed off, pausing for a second before pushing the vibrator deeper into you and setting it to max, pulling a guttural gasp from the recesses of your throat.

“That's it princess, let me hear you.”

You held nothing back, letting her tear sounds from you that you didn’t even know you were capable of making for hours until you were both spent, collapsed on the office floor as the first threads of sunlight came through the blinds.

“Fuck Em it’s getting light outside.”

“Shit.”

The room was a blur of motion as both of you hunted for your clothes, her sighing when she saw the state of her trousers and rummaging through her go bag for a fresher pair. 

“Anyone finds out about this and we’re both royally fucked, capisce?”

You beamed at her. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

[melrosing]

What actually is the evidence for Tyrion Targaryen? I’ve seen the bits about Joanna from A World of Ice and Fire but don’t know if there is more? What is the bit in GRRM’s blog post?

I can’t remember if I did an answer for this before but in any case I can’t find it so summary below

THE JOANNA SIDE OF THINGS

Joanna spent her youth at court as a lady in waiting to Rhaella, and Aerys always had a thing for her. Rhaella ultimately dismisses Joanna from court, saying she wouldn’t have Aerys making a whore of one of her ladies, but it’s unclear whether whatever was taking place between them was consensual or not/how far it was taken. Joanna marries Tywin around this time, Aerys gropes her during the bedding ceremony, then presumably they don’t see each other for a few years, in which time the twins are born.

After that they meet again maybe twice on record: once for an extended period when Aerys moves the court to Casterly Rock having named Tywin hand, one year after the twins are born. Then again at court in KL when the twins are six, which is the time Aerys makes a derogatory comment about Joanna’s breasts. And….. this is around a year before Tyrion is born.

So as far as the Joanna stuff goes… if Tyrion is indeed Aerys’ son biologically, it’s unclear what kind of relationship his parents had. There are three possibilities:

The relationship was always nonconsensual, and Joanna has always loved Tywin (or it’s possible even that she never loved either of them idk)

The relationship was initially consensual but later it was not: maybe Joanna loved Aerys in her youth but then fell in love w Tywin instead, and Aerys forced himself on her in the latter years

They were in love the whole time but there were abusive and/or toxic elements to the relationship, with Aerys humiliating Joanna at court before/after they slept together in KL in 272AC.

I kind of tend towards 3. I don’t think Aerys and Joanna were star crossed lovers, it’s obvious he has publicly humiliated her a number of times and that a big part of her appeal is that she ‘belongs’ to Tywin, and Aerys wants what Tywin has, and relishes the opportunity to humiliate him more than anything. There’s definitely some humiliation by proxy shit going on here. Joanna is sometimes the middle man between Tywin and Aerys, and maybe Tywin is sometimes the middle man between Aerys and Joanna.

And the reason I think it’s 3 is specifically bc of how Tywin himself is written. Tywin is fucking deluded, and everything he thinks is gold is shit. If the thing he prized the most (his romance w Joanna) was the biggest lie of them all, that would be some kind of poetry.

Then it’s a matter of whether Tywin knew. And I think he did? Tywin almost never talks about Joanna, except to accuse Tyrion of killing her. And whilst this is quite an emotive thing to say, the way he says it has a level of remove - it’s another in the list of Tyrion’s sins. As for how his grief for Joanna looks from the outside, we’re told that 1) whatever joy he had in him was gone and 2) he tells Jaime at the age of about 8 (I.e. maybe a year after Joanna’s death) that love is worthless.

This could be bc he’s a wife guy and misses her terribly in his usual deeply dysfunctional way. But my suspicion is that Tywin despises Joanna for the affair, but cannot tell anyone about it. No one can know that this grand romance of his was tarnished, and that he was a cuckold. So everyone assumes his coldness is his grief from the outside, but we don’t know that. And it’s possible the sheer hatred he feels for Tyrion has to do with not only having to raise the child of this affair, but that that child, being disabled, leaves him to suffer a fresh ‘humiliation’ that he has to claim as his own.

I’ve also always found Jaime’s dream of Joanna very strange in that it tells us a lot about how insecure Tywin was, and how Joanna knew that - but nothing about how she herself felt about him. She's a very ambiguous character, and have only the most fleeting glimpses of her as a person apart from Tywin. How do we know she ever loved him as much as he loved her?? I've said before I think it's notable she never told him about what the twins had been doing, and her plot to send one of them to Dorne. She was clearly a woman with thoughts and plans quite separate from her husband's, that she let him in on only as she saw fit. There is a tangible distance in there somewhere, it's just hard to say how great that distance might be with what we have so far.

And finally, when Tywin's last words are literally 'you are no son of mine' - was he like. telling the truth? lol?

THE DRAGON SIDE OF THINGS

So obviously this also goes way beyond just the possibility of an affair between Aerys and Joanna - Tyrion is also tied up with a lot of dragon imagery, as well as bits of foreshadowing etc. First off, his interest and affinity with dragons is established several times over:

Tyrion had a morbid fascination with dragons. TYRION II, AGOT

"When I was your age, I used to dream of having a dragon of my own [...] Oh, yes. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he's seated on a dragon's back [...] I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister." TYRION II AGOT

When he was still a lonely child in the depths of Casterly Rock, he oft rode dragons through the nights, pretending he was some lost Targaryen princeling, or a Valyrian dragonlord soaring high o'er fields and mountains. Once, when his uncles asked him what gift he wanted for his nameday, he begged them for a dragon. "It wouldn't need to be a big one. It could be little, like I am." His uncle Gerion thought that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, but his uncle Tygett said, "The last dragon died a century ago, lad." That had seemed so monstrously unfair that the boy had cried himself to sleep that night. TYRION II, ADWD

And there's a fair bit of foreshadowing in these passages alone, e.g. in the second passage, Tyrion is talking to Jon, ALSO a secret Targ, and in the third imagines himself 'some lost Targaryen princeling', which he may well fuckin be. sort of.

There's also this passage that has always stood out to me.

[Tyrion:] "What do you see in those flames?" "Dragons," Moqorro said [...] "Dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. And you. A small man with a big shadow, snarling in the midst of all." TYRION VIII, ADWD

Like oh, right. So what's Tyrion doing amidst all those dragons lol. well, I think it's going to be a whole lot more obvious in hindsight; this is very Melisandre searching the flames and seeing 'only snow' - Moqorro has seen something but no one knows enough to take its meaning.

Then there's the fact that we basically know there will be two dragonriders joining Dany, because 'the dragon has three heads'. One of them is obviously Jon, but who is the other? It's not going to be Aegon/Young Griff, because ya boy's a Blackfyre. It's going to be Tyrion. There are imo three main characters in ASOIAF, and they are Jon, Dany and Tyrion, and it's what connects them that's the twist. They're also distinct in that their mothers all died giving birth to them, and each comes from what I think are functionally the three main houses - Targaryen, Stark, and Lannister. Dany is Targaryen-Targaryen, Jon is Stark-Targaryen, Tyrion is Lannister-Targaryen. There's a weird little rhyme to it.

So having established that Tyrion is one of the three heads, I'm referring back to GRRM's recent blog post. There's not a whole lot that's new here, except that I think it comes close to affirming that whatever affinity it is that Valyrians have with dragons, it's in the blood.

I did once prefer the idea that hypothetically, a dragonrider could be anyone (e.g. Nettles), because it seemed kind of just idk. dull that the Valyrians hold all the power here, and kind of romantic that a dragonrider could be almost anyone.

However, I have changed my mind lol. Thinking about it now, it's like.... if indeed the dragons are products of bloodmagic etc, as Septon Barth's GRRM-endorsed theory goes, there is something weird and manmade about them, and indeed about whatever connection the Valyrians have with them. It's not a natural feature of the Valyrians that they just get along great with dragons, it's an affinity intentionally created by their ancestors to grant them access to the power a dragon represents. This isn't an equal relationship between man and beast - man messed with something here. That is why the Valyrians can connect with dragons, and the whole 'blood mages were doing freaky experiments to create a connection for the use of dragonfire' is a fair bit less romantic than 'Valyrians and dragons are one and the same'. There's a deep cynicism in it.

That said, I don't think that means that the dragons can't be used as a force for good. They can and will be. It's more that, taking control of any creature that powerful has consequence, and what are the limits of that blood connection etc.

ALL that to say, if Tyrion's going to ride a dragon he needs Valyrian blood. It can't be enough that Viserion/Rhaegal just think his one liners are killer.

and finally no Tyrion Targ post complete without mentioning that his hair is paler than Jaime and Cersei's and he has one dark eye that who knows could be a deep purple??

WHY DON'T I LIKE TYRION TARG THEORY

Because I like Lannisters lol and I think for all that's interesting about the above, the messy relationships between Tywin and Tyrion and Cersei and Jaime are a whole lot more engaging for me, and I feel like it's some kind of cop out if the one son Tywin never wanted wasn't really his anyway, proper yer a wizard tyrion. It's just. why mess w a good thing, you know. but as i've said before, if it happens i'll just go to therapy and talk it out. i will live. whereas if jaime and cersei were secret targs i WILL jump out a window

[eldritch-spouse]

Now I want something. I want admin to spank Morell.

I know a regular piglet wouldn't even make him flinch BUT ADMIN, Admin is enhanced with Krulu's strength. So Admin could make Morell moan for sure.

[Fem reader.]

TW: Dubious consent to no consent; Abusive spanking; Blood; Humiliation; Physical and mental abuse.

You're not sure why your Lord approved of this idea so readily.

You wouldn't even call it a proper punishment plan for Morell's latest minor infraction, it was more of a vaguely intrusive thought that surfaced in your mind. To bend the large, proud monster over your knee and have him lose some of that attitude.

Krulu immediately gave you the greenlight to do it, with some manner of glee even, somewhere between genuine anticipation and humor.

You've come to learn your higher seems to sometimes prefer humiliating punishments over the physically painful ones. It leaves a much bigger imprint on the soul than the marring of flesh, he tells you.

Who are you to question his absolute wisdom?

Besides, it'd be lying to say that you aren't looking forward to Morell's reaction. For as rowdy and assertive as he can be with his coworkers, the chef has always had immense respect for you, being one of the first to pipe down and get in line with new directives or goals. It's something you admire in him.

So, surely, he's not going to flip out now is he?

The kitchen is quiet. Sterilized even. You had the bobbles take care of it before leaving. Part of you considered doing this in the warehouse, in front of the pigs he'll have to look in the eyes when the time to slaughter them comes. But that's already too much sadism for a slap on the wrist measure, isn't it?

No. You'll do it in the kitchen, a much more intimate environment.

Sitting on one of the restaurant chairs you dragged inside, you're roughly in the center of the large room itself, next to the main chopping block, legs crossed. Sharpened eyes study the previous work of the bobbles under Morell's hold. His training is efficient, you'll give him that.

It's taking him a while to come back in. Fact of the matter is he's not even in this floor, most likely. That's part of the problem, how often he's leaving the restaurant for extended periods of time. A frown slowly graces your features, nails tapping rhythmically on the iron legs of the chair. Tsk tsk.

You're considering additional punishment methods for his extended work post abandonment when the telltale squeak of boots on tiles hits your ears. He's in a hurry.

The kitchen doors blast open, Morell puffs with physical exertion and looks scratched in several areas, bits of... Gravel? Rock? Cling to his arms and apron, which he dusts off rapidly, opening his mouth to presumably start barking orders at his team of workers, except- He finally gathers enough wit to notice his actual surroundings.

Squinting, frowning, then finally spotting you. There's a short, vapid blink before he reacts.

" M- Admin, miss! " The shroom greets, nodding respectably before quickly closing the doors behind his large figure.

The monster looks aggravated, guilty. He obviously knows you'd never like seeing him deviating during work hours. You're willing to bet he's gulping behind that thick pink scarf. Morell scratches at his forearm and impulsively keeps dusting himself off, waiting. " Can I get'cha anythin' ta eat? "

" Morell. " You smile, sarcasm all but dripping off your words. " Pleasure seeing you here, for once. "

The mushrooms monster's hands rise immediately in a sort of placation attempt almost unbecoming of his large stature. " Ah know- I know it looks bad, miss, but it ain't like ah'm leavin' the floor ta screw 'round- "

" Did I ask for excuses? " You cut in.

Morell pipes down instantly. " No ma'am, ah'm sorry. "

And this is why he stands out to you. His obedience to authority figures. Morell has always been the kind of monster man who doesn't just bend for others at a whim. He's a stubborn bull of a guy, and all that's missing are the horns to furnish him. When with his coworkers, the shroom is rough and brutish, shooting them down the moment they attempt to mess with him, getting loud, in their faces, threatening them whenever they think they know better. When you first hired the chef, you wee already counting on having to use a sterner hand to keep him in line, and yet, since the very first day, he's regarded you with a courtesy and level of respect that's almost strikingly out of character compared to other sides of him.

Krulu shared this initial wonder too, finding it amusing that the shroom adapted extremely quickly to the roles he should play before you and your Lord. He knows better than to oppose you, sides with you, is very cooperative and available. Commendable qualities.

" I've always liked that about you. "

" ... Beg pardon? "

" How polite you are, without even having to be taught better. " Something you can't say for all.

In spite of the flattery, the chef doesn't relax. " Thank you, ma'am. "

Funnily enough, his accent sometimes takes a backseat in these moments too. Maybe because he's trying to speak like you? You could pick him apart all day, honestly.

" I don't want your apologies, I want you to know your punishment. "

He looks like he wants to desperately say something. Explain the situation, say that he's not at fault, that it can't be helped. You have an inkling of an idea of what might be wrong, more gargoyle shenanigans. Morell looks into your challenging hues and nods, bitterly swallowing any words. Fear flashes briefly in that dark canvas of a face.

It's not often he misbehaves enough to warrant punishments. The most he tends to get is a slap on the wrist for playing too much with the slaughter piglets.

" Of course, ma'am... "

Good boy.

" You're having issues dealing with the gargoyles again. "

Morell nods, hands over his chest and fingers tapping his elbows, the subject very quickly drawing a furious grimace from him.

" They're breaking in and taking meats, finished orders, body parts, sometimes even bobbles. "

Another nod.

" I would be angry too. But you know what I wouldn't do, Morell? Take it upon myself to go out there and hunt them down, when there's already someone who can do that, employed in these very grounds. "

The tapping turns into a tight grip.

" Why not come to Belo about this? A power such as him, who has wings to pursue them with flight, who holds a weapon capable of obliterating them with little effort, whose job is precisely to maintain order here. "

" Buh-! "

" Hush. " Your warning is heeded. " Don't step outside your role, Morell. Perhaps you have the strength to take one or two down, but your effectiveness lies here, in the restaurant. That- " You motion past the kitchen doors. " Does not concern you. "

He sighs quietly, rolling his shoulders. " You're right, ma'am. "

" Good. I'm glad we could get on the same page. " You grin, uncrossing your legs and patting a stocking clad thigh. " Now, for your punishment this time, I want you to bend over my knees. "

Oh. This is precious.

At first, the cook makes a face like he's certain he didn't really hear right, giving himself a few seconds to see if he can decipher what you really must have said. And then, slowly, it starts to sink in, the realization isn't the only thing that sinks however, that expression falling into a somber and wide-eyed look, questioning you. Wounded even.

And hat's how you know it's going to be effective.

" Ah... Come again? "

Oh, the hopelessness.

" You heard me, Morell. " There's no doubt he did.

Another few stunted seconds pass where he seems to be mourning his dignity, presumably. Your eyes glint with cruel anticipation.

" ... Do I hav'ta, miss? "

So polite. Adorable, even. He's smart enough to understand he doesn't really have a choice, somewhere between bargaining and pleading.

Suffocating the urge to giggle and kick your legs, you offer Morell an almost mocking solemn nod, as if it pained you too to be doing this. An open palm claps gently in your thigh, hurrying him.

The chef's face scrunches again, and if the skin directly under his cap weren't so dark, you would probably be able to spot the stress creases forming on his forehead. He shuts his eyes and takes a silent deep breath, reaching back to undo his apron. Morell takes his sweet time getting ready, and because he's been obedient thus far, you allow him those precious moments of peace. The desperation is such so that he even takes the time to fold his dirtied butcher's apron.

Finally, wearing only pants and boots, the monster stands before you, defeated before you've laid but a single finger upon him. Brilliant work.

" Knee. " You insist.

Slightly luminescent eyes scroll from his own massive figure to your much smaller one. " Ma'am... Ain't it gonna hurt? "

He knows better. He's seen better. The force and resilience bestowed upon you by your Lord knows hardly a limit. Morell could throw himself onto you, where as a normal human's bones would creak and shatter, you'd merely wonder how to best castigate him.

" I don't stutter, Morell. "

Boy, does that get him moving.

Somewhat awkwardly, the cook sinks to his knees. If his peculiar skin allowed it, you know he'd be covered in goosebumps when he angles himself across your legs. A tremor wracks his body, though you're quick to lower a hand on his broad back, encouraging the shroom to let his weight settle on your thighs.

A few seconds pass in that stillness. That delicious silence, the walls dripping anticipation and Morell radiating a level of mortification that has the spectator behind your eyes grinning with glee.

And then, as if gouging the right moment to lunge, you yank his pants and underwear down. The way Morell jumps could almost be compared to a frightened cat's leap, a tremor followed by this choked noise of embarrassment that all his coworkers would surely mock him over for eternity. The chef's rump perfectly fits his worked physique, yet there's an unmistakable softness there, an appealing shape, something Santi has openly admired before- To his own detriment, as such was quickly followed by a wooden spoon to the top of his head.

It's a nice ass, you'll admit. Shame he doesn't let anyone touch it.

Snickering at his panic, you soothingly rub a hand over his backside, feeling the give of his bizarre anatomy. Shroom monsters don't have the same type of skeletal structure humans do, their bodies are spongier in nature, yet by no means does that mean they're less sturdy. Humming peacefully, you take the time to squeeze over the spots that cover his blue hide, fondling the grown monster currently surrendered to you in thought.

Your forearm begins to sprout blackened veins, lovingly possessive growths that curl over your limb and encompass it, appropriate it. In a matter of seconds, Lord Krulu has transformed your hand into one of his, dark and deftly long fingers furnished with the claws of an apex predator. You raise it in the air with nothing but pride and adoration.

And oh, if Morell had any hope that your spankings would be tame, then it'd be a compliment to call him a fool.

Because when that same hand crashes down, the muted force of your god thunders across his entire body.

And he squeals.

Nicely done.

Both of you freeze. Your hand doesn't sting minimally, but the imprint immediately left on Morell's asscheek is a testament to the level of strength that was so effortlessly doled out.

No one moves for a second, the shock of that bizarre bleat being processed. You'd never guess a sizable monster like Morell could make such a noise, like a confused animal in pain.

The grin that crawls up your cheeks is sickening.

" What was that, Mori? Did one of your pigs escape? "

He's panting, quietly, but not subtly enough to miss.

" ... No. "

" No? "

" N-No miss. "

You snicker. " Alright, must have been my imagination. "

A tune is hummed serenely when your hand rises off his already overheated flesh, and the way the chef sucks in a desperate lungful of air is as riveting as it gets. But like Hell you'll give him the privilege of certainty, lowering said palm again with a deceitful gentleness, petting him, resting.

The next whack has spittle flying past grit teeth. He muffles part of the humiliating noise, at the cost of drooling on himself like a beast. Morell shivers atop you like a stuttering car engine. Krulu laughs.

" Honestly, I'm almost sad to be bruising a rump this pretty, Morell... " You muse, watching his cerulean hue steadily bleed into navy bruises that muddle his naturally glowing spots. " But it does make for an interesting sight. "

He stays quiet, and, in retaliation, you let that very same hand wander a little. Krulu's features recede to allow your human softness to brush over his skin, moving between the chef's legs. Instantly, there's a sudden tension in his entire body, more so than when he feared the spanking, and although you only teasingly feather over his asshole, Morell squirms in endless discomfort as if you had stuck pins and needles on him. Pressure against his perineum rips a grunt out of him, though reaching past the butcher's balls reveals the expected, he's entirely limp.

Something easily fixed.

" Part your legs a little. "

The shroom monster gulps, voice only a tad hoarse. " Admin, miss... "

Be it with the sharpest claws or bluntest nails, most men don't enjoy having their family jewels crushed. " Part. Your. Legs. "

He does, arms flexing in suffering until you relent. You don't need to warn him not to make you repeat yourself again. His reward is a much softer grasp around his manhood. And, with no pain to distract him, it's easy to get Morell to twitch in response, even if his fear is still palpable.

You stroke him until he hardens in your hand, something easy to achieve considering this sick fuck loves making his terrified little piggies worship his cock before he guts them into a dish. There's nothing like a human's touch to many of the workers here, and he's no exception. You can't help lick your lips when he starts silently rocking the slightest amount into your motions, soft sighs leaving his slowly relaxing form. Goading him further into this state of mindless pleasure, you offer him slightly faster friction, until he's properly bucking into your hand, ruffling groans of enjoyment.

He could never have spotted the spare arm sprouting from your back, could never see its dark length extend in the air-

Before it slammed down with enough force to rattle the skeleton out of anyone.

" HHHRK- "

You laugh, loud and jovial, this childish cackle ringing through the kitchen at your Master's impatient and cruel swat. Poor little Morell jolts and groans openly, the growing wave of pleasure interrupted and now intermingled with shock. His confused mind struggles to process the difference between pleasure and pain, lumping both together in a way that has him throbbing.

He seems to still at his own body's response.

Perfection.

You don't cease pumping his cock when the third arm lifts again, forcing the chef to experience both extremes of sensation when he's spanked again. He spasms uselessly, you bet his eyes are bulging by now.

Time to force him to think.

Whack

" What area of The Clergy's Eye have you been assigned to? "

" Tha- Kitchen! " He struggles, huffing.

Whack

" Where shall you stay when working then? "

More confused twitching in your hand. " Kh- Kitchen! "

SMACK

" Are you going to leave it again to do things that don't concern your station? "

" NnNO! "

The pace of your hand quickens, yet so does the your Master's rightful penance. Morell's bruised, indigo-tinted behind starts blooming into shades of abused purple. Tattoos of Krulu's divine hand furnish it nicely. You have no doubt this monster will sleep on his stomach for the following week.

Thwack thwack THWACK

" Will I have to do this again, Morell? "

He sobs, a real ugly sob that he quickly tries to suck back in, making you swiftly lean down to spot... Ah, the first few tears falling on the tiles. Good.

" No- No please- " And yet he still leaks precum like a faucet. What's going through that head right now?

Pleasure, pain, fear, regret, shame that reaches the skies.

Your Lord generously offers.

" You learn fast, I'm sure I won't have to discipline you again, right? "

The chef shakes like a leaf, yet there's no denying he's close to orgasm. His legs flex from more than just pain now. " Y- Yes, ma'am! "

CRACK

" Though I'd say you're enjoying it if I didn't know better. "

He makes a sound somewhere between a whine and a blubbered wail. " No- 'M not, please- " It's the most pathetic thing you've ever heard coming from him.

" Mhm, okay then, I believe you. "

The next set of unrelenting spanks makes even you cringe, Krulu's force jostling not just the fully grown monster but yourself as well. It's actually a little exciting to witness. Spots where Krulu's claws intentionally caught onto the tender flesh turn into depraved welts, droplets of blood flying out with each merciless motion, spraying the snow-tiled ground and even yourself.

Morell screams, wails, shrieks like his arms are getting ripped out their sockets. It's a symphony of panicking pain that hardly lets him breathe in between each tormenting snap and quick pump. He makes the mistake of sucking too much air into his lungs at a time, then starts coughing and hiccupping hopelessly.

The moment your Lord halts is when your fervent motions take the stage, and Morell, tortured, oversensitive and disoriented, lasts less than five seconds before throbbing hard and shooting ropes all over your fingers. You pump his cock throughout the entire orgasm, milking it, making a mess that you then wipe on the inside of his thigh, letting his cum-soaked length rest.

Another pause stretches for a long few moments where everyone is winding down. And, as adrenaline seeps out the mushroom monster's pores, he breaks.

Totally limp upon you, Morell attempts to fruitlessly hide his face behind broad arms while his sniffling and gasping escalates into the most defeated, utterly humiliated sobbing there is. He struggles with breathing properly, scratching his own throat as tears splatter steadily on the ground, keening whines bubbling out of the still shaking man. In his despair, he tries to huddle closer to you, tries to fold himself into a ball even with your legs in the way.

You don't know if it's your Lord's enjoyment or your own, but the view sends a pulse of arousal straight up your cunt, cheeks heating.

" There there... " You murmur, rubbing a comparatively cool hand around the edges of his punished skin. The way he tenses and tries to push his sobbing behind a tightened jaw is adorable. " It's all over now. "

The trembling doesn't stop, but the butcher manages to quiet his own wailing within a few minutes. Tears still drip onto the ground.

A few taps get him to move off your legs, but Morell quickly finds out changing positions is torturous, sharp burning stings eliciting choked grunts and heaves from the monster. He settles, embarrassingly, for laying almost on his stomach, prostrated before you on the ground.

Grinning, so wet you can feel your panties soaking, you push the chair away and sit on the ground next to the recovering monster, pulling his face onto your lap and petting that large cap of his.

Morell chokes, clinging onto your clothes. You didn't think he'd break this hard, but it's a lovely reaction.

" 'M sorry... 'M-... Sorry... "

And, as you study his sorry state, you can't help but smile warmly. Bruised ass darker than night, blood still spilling, half-hard cum-coated dick out, arms and face wet with tears, grasping onto you for dear life...

You wouldn't mind doing this more often.

[todaysdocument]

Draft Report [on Tuskegee Syphilis Study]

Record Group 442: Records of the Centers for Disease Control and PreventionSeries: Tuskegee Syphilis Study Administrative Records

-1- 10-8-49.

Alabama Untreated Syphilis Study

[handwritten] "Progression of Abnormalities over 16 yrs"? [/handwritten]

This paper is the fourth of a series of studies of untreated acquired syphilis in the male Negro in Macon County, Alabama. Previous papers [checkmark with "Ref" handwritten above] have health with ["^ (1)" handwritten] the [crossed out] extend of morbidity [/crossed out] ["various abnormalities found" handwritten above] in untreated syphilitics [crossed out] in comparison with [/crossed out] ["and" handwritten above] nonsyphilitic controls, ["at the time of the initial examination" handwritten above] the life expectancy of the respective groups ["after 10 yrs observation." handwritten to the right of the typewritten line] ["^ (2)" handwritten] the natural history of syphilis, uninfluenced by treatment, with special attention to [crossed out] its [/crossed out] ["the" handwritten above] effect ["^of the disease" handwritten above] on the cardiovascular system ["-after 5 yrs observation and" handwritten above]. The present study is a[crossed out "n"] ["^report made after 16 years observation and is an" handwritten above]attempt to estimate the ["- increment of abnormalities" handwritten below] [crossed out] progressive disability [/crossed out] among untreated syphilitics and nonsyphilitic controls ["-recurring during that 16 yr. period" handwritten below] [crossed out] during 16 years of observation. [/crossed out]

How are these different? [handwritten at right side with "HaK" circled below]

The original study population selected during ( the winter [crossed out] seasons [/crossed out] ["months" handwritten above] of) 1931-32 and 1932-33 consisted of 410 syphilitics and 201 ["^controls presumably" handwritten above] nonsyphilitic [crossed out] controls [/crossed out], all of [crossed out] which [/crossed out] ["whom ?" handwritten above] were 25 years of age or ["^older" handwritten above] [illegible text crossed out]. [crossed out] The individuals were carefully selected.[/crossed out] The presence or absence of syphilitic infection was based on personal history, physical examination, and serologic tests on the blood. [crossed out] Before the present far reaching aims of the study were actually set up, 179 [/crossed out] Of the syphilitic group ["^179" handwritten above] were given some treatment for their infection during the

What was the study pop. selected for??? [handwritten at the right with "HaK" circled below]

To be referenced a specific page in this paper. [handwritten at the right, signed "KHZ" below]-2-

period of this first examination. Most of these individuals were among the younger age groups, and were given amounts of treatment varying from 1 to 15 shots of neoarsephenamine. ["-These have been dropped from consideration in the present paper" handwritten above] A second complete physical examination was made of the majority of the group in 1938-39. [crossed out] However, no strenuous effort was made to locate those who received treatment, and consequently a large number of them lapsed from observation. [/crossed out] Since 1939, there has been an annual visit to Macon County by a physician for the purpose of obtaining specimens of blood for serologic examination. In the fall of 1948 a third physical examination was performed on the individuals who could be located at that time, [crossed out] again with no particular emphasis on those who had received some treatment. [/crossed out]

An important phase of the study has been the performance of autopsies on the individuals who have died. Through 1948, [crossed out] 163 [/crossed out] ["140" handwritten above] of the number included in the original population have died, and of these [crossed out] 111 [/crossed out] ["98" handwritten above] have been autopsied. Of those on whom [crossed out] have not been autopsied [/crossed out] ["autopsies have not been performed," handwritten above] proof of death has been established by death certificate or by information furnished by relatives or friends of the deceased. Because of the relatively non-migratory nature of the group, it is reasonably certain that there have been no other deaths than the [crossed out] 163 [/crossed out] ["140" handwritten above] recorded. No analysis of autopsy data will be attempted in this report; a detailed account of this

[short-honey-badger]

Peppermint Tea 4

Goodness this has been so fun to write! I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

Mihawk let's out a lil attitude!

@writingmysanity @kenkenmaaa @foggyturtleknightangel @browneyedhufflepuff @djbumblebee @goth-mami-writer

Mihawk leaves the next morning. After dinner, you'd fluffed out some bedding and parked the warlord on your couch. It was large enough to fit him comfortably, though he did have to contend with an over eager Hank. He woke before you, lips curling at the sound of your soft snores when he slipped into your bedroom.

You wake when he cards one warm hand through your hair, eyes fluttering open to the delightful sight of Mihawk once more. However, you see that his coat is on and his boots cover his feet, so you know that he must be leaving. It saddens you, but you still smile in joy at seeing him. You reach for him, and Hawkeye gives in with a roll of his eyes.

His knee settles on the bed to leverage him as he leans over you, warm hand going from your hair to cradle your cheek. He leans in and kisses you, a simple press of his lips to your own. A hum catches in his throat when you tilt your head and purse your lips against his own, kissing him back even in your inexperience. He thinks of you going to bed last night, staying up, and reading the romance books you thought he didn't catch you taking back to your room. Mihawk is curious as to how far you'll let him push.

Dracule pulls away enough to speak, “Open your mouth for me, sweet thing,” he orders, and you shudder In his hold even as you do as you're told.

“Good girl,” he breathes and then seals his lips against your own once more, tugging and lapping at your swollen lips. Dracule's facial hair scrapes across your sensitive skin, and you whimper when you feel the heat of his tongue lick into your mouth. The kiss is like nothing you've ever experienced before. Nothing all the stories in the world could prepare you for.

Mihawk seems to be able to know when you need to stop, for he pulls away to gaze down at you with a smug smirk as you struggle to catch your breath, “That's not fair,” you grumble and fall back into the bed with a huff.

Dracule rolls his eyes at you again and leans down to kiss your cheek, “You'll get there, Darling,” he teases and then pulls away fully to stand tall, “However, I must go. There are things that I must attend to,” his mind casts off to Gloom Island, and the trouble that the pink haired menace causes every time he is gone for an extended period of time.

You sigh dramatically and roll out of the bed, “Yeah, alright. I'll walk you to your ship.”

Hawkeye follows you out of the bedroom, and Hank meets the two of you at the door. The big dog whines for pets, and you crouch to give him some before opening the door. Hank bounds put, and the two of you follow the excited hound outside to wallow in the grass and do his business. You leave your best friend to do what he does best and follow Dracule through the forest that surrounds your home until you arrive at the shore.

“That's your ship?” You demand, tone dropping in doubt and surprise. You look at him, brow cocked in disbelief, “It's tiny!”

Mihawk sneers at you, “My ship has served me well for decades, little girl. You shouldn't presume such things until you know what they are capable of,” it's the first time that he had gotten even the slightest bit ill with you, but this is his ship, his home away from the castle.

The change in attitude has you shrinking in on yourself a bit, and snow builds up around your feet. You feel guilty, but you hadn't been making fun of his boat! You promise.

Before you can make a fool of yourself even more, a warm hand cups the back of your neck, and you are pulled forward to thud against Mihawk's chest. He kisses the top of your head and wraps an arm around your waist

“That was uncalled for, dear one,” Dracule murmurs softly. He had seen the way you had flinched away from him, the temperature falling, and the uncertainty that had pooled in your eyes. He must remember that you knew little about him, didn't even know that he was a warlord, someone to be feared by all least the government sick him after them. He dearly wanted to keep it that way, and snapping at her for something so small was not the way to keep you close to him.

“I'm sorry. I wasn't picking fun,” Your voice is muffled, but Mihawk still hears your sad little explanation. It makes him feel a little guilty for snapping at you.

“I should have known,” He assures you quietly, and an idea comes to mind, “Would you like a book on ships and seafaring?” He had noticed a couple of similar tomes lying about your cottage, but many of your books were water damaged, making it difficult for you to get through them.

You jerk back to look up at him, excitement pooling in your eyes, “Really?” It's been decades since someone had gotten you a gift. The thought of Dracule being the one to be the first makes your stomach do flips.

Your disbelief has his lips curling in a soft smile, “Yes, really, Darling. Would you like more than one?” He questions, and by the way your face lights up, he knows the answer already.

“Ah, no, thank you. I don't want you to have to go through too much trouble for me,” you deny to his amusement. The warlord rolls his eyes, hand tightening on the back of your neck in admonishment.

“None of that, I want you to be honest with me, dear,” Mihawk orders. His thumb ghosts back and forth along the side of your neck, calming you from any nerves that want to rise up at his request.

Dracule watches as you come to a decision, cheeks pinking cutely as your eyes flick away from his, “Can I have three?” You finally ask. He huffs at your stubbornness.

“Fine. I will bring you three,” Mihawk agrees, though he is already thinking about other things that he could get you. He could finally put his Berri to good use.

Hank barking at a nearby crab brings the two of your back to reality. Mihawk sighs and drags you in for one last kiss before he steps back. He needed to leave now before he ended up staying far longer than he intended. He pats Hank's shaggy head when the dog lopes up to him.

“I'll be back, Darling,” he assures you, and you nod, hands wringing in uncertainty as your friend boards his ship. You watch from the shore as he pulls up his anchor and loosens his sails to catch the wind.

“Be safe!” You call before he can get too far away, and Mihawk raises a single arm to let you know that he heard your farewell. You watch him sail away from your little island with a heavy heart, but it fights with the joy of knowing that Mihawk will be back. Soon, he is little but a speck on the horizon, and you turn away to go back to your cottage, Hank bouncing around your feet.

[dear-satan]

wife

Leon S. Kennedy x fem!Reader warning: fluff, Leon's alcoholism era.. that's all .-. note: I am downright in love with soft content with Leon.. I really need him in my life!

You closed the car door with a rather loud bang. You were angry… No, actually you were furious and you didn't even try to hide it. The clock on your phone showed two o'clock in the morning and you, instead of rolling from one side to the other in your warm bed, were just standing in some car park outside a dingy club. You didn't come here involuntarily, god forbid. If you could have, you would have trashed the place like in some superhero movie. However, you couldn't. Or at least not now, with him still inside.

Ignoring the bawdy comments from the youngsters standing in front of the entrance, you opened the door. Loud music immediately reached your ears and your nose twisted from the excessive scent of tobacco and vodka wafting through the air. "I swear to god. As soon as I find him, I'll kill him like a dog." you muttered to yourself in thought as you plunged deeper into the premises. You squeezed between the dancing people saying every now and then requests to move which they reluctantly complied with. With every passing second, as the neon lights robbed you of your ability to see, you cursed yourself and your good heart. You might as well have ignored the message and the incoming call by hiding your phone under your pillow. But no, you were too good a person to ignore it. Which is exactly what you regretted at these types of moments.

You finally reached the section where the tables were and almost immediately noticed Leon sitting in the company of presumably drunken colleagues from his job, about which you knew absolutely nothing. In fact, you knew really little about Leon himself and your relationship with him was…. Quite complicated. You had only known each other for a short period of time, over a year, and yet during this time you had become something that was difficult to define. You were supposed to be friends, really good friends who could rely on each other even in the worst moments, but there was no shortage of flirting, dirty jokes or nice nicknames such as "darling" "sunshine". However, Leon in your humble little opinion was a really handsome man and somewhere, deep in your mind there was a desire to bond with him. The vision of spending the rest of your life with him really brought a smile to your lips but you were afraid to do anything more to clear up this fucked up arrangement between you. That's why you stood in front of him with your hands gripping your hips.

"Leon Scott Kennedy." your serious tone broke through the loud music drawing the attention of his colleagues as well as Leon himself, who smiled drunkenly, though really sweetly, at the sight of you.

"Honey! How good that you're here already." he spread out his arms as if he wanted you to throw yourself into his arms with the intention of hugging him…. Unfortunately, in his plan he didn't take into account the table that separated you. "That's the Y/N I was talking about, my wife."

Wife.

"Come on, Kennedy. That's enough." You rolled your eyes coming closer "Let's go." you commanded extending your hand towards him. You really didn't feel like pushing your way through guys even more drunk than Leon himself.

You were surprised at how easy it was for him to rise up and grab your hand like a small child. You squeezed it tightly and directed your steps in the direction from which you had come. The people who before had been reluctant to seat you this time pulled themselves apart, wanting to make it easier for you to guide the drunken Leon towards the exit.

"You're my guardian angel," he muttered as you opened the door letting him out first. He greedily took in the fresh, rather cool air into his lungs feeling no small amount of relief. After all, his nose had been irritated by the smell of cigarettes and alcohol for several hours so taking a drag on something else was a real pleasure for him.

"It's not your wife anymore?" without waiting for him you started for your car, opening it with the remote control you kept in your jacket pocket. You opened the passenger side door for him waiting for him to get inside rather clumsily. You closed the door behind him and then took the driver's seat yourself letting out the air with a swish. "Last time."

"Excuse me?"

"That's the last time I'm picking you up like the mother of a spoilt kid Leon." you sent him a look that few have experienced "I understand, hard work. I don't interfere but for fuck's sake…. Don't call me out every time you're unable to walk home alone. I'm not your guardian angel and even less so, a wife to be at your every shitty request, Kennedy." You watched his blue irises darken and his expression momentarily become serious. His one eyebrow was much higher than the other. This time it was he who sent you a serious look that dominated that of yours.

"Do you think I'm playing with you?" he asked suddenly, and his low tone sent a shiver down your spine.

"Yes, that's what I thin…" you were prevented from finishing by his warm lips mussing yours. For the first few seconds your lips were motionless. You were simply shocked by his sudden move towards you which, to be honest, you really liked. You returned the kiss at the last moment and your hand tangled in his dark strands of hair, drawing him closer…. As far as it was still possible.

This pleasure lasted a minute, well maybe two. When your lips pulled away from each other, a thin thread of saliva still connected your lips, making you blush slightly. After all, Leon was drunk and this bold gesture was caused solely by the percentages bubbling through his veins.

"Lee.?"

"You're the most wonderful woman I've met in my entire shitty life." he grasped your hitherto laid on the steering wheel hand in his. He slowly began to roll circles on top of it causing your heart to palpitate. "And like I said in the bar. You are my wife. The most gorgeous and beautiful one I could ever dream of." With his words, all your previous anger passed into oblivion.

"Silly you…" you smiled lightly capturing his cheek with your other hand "You are drunk…. Besides, how can I be your wife when we're not even together…. We don't even have rings!" you laughed, realising how stupid that sounded. However, as if on cue, Leon reached into his pocket and put a silver ring on your heart finger and then took out a chain from under his shirt, on which hung the same ring, only slightly larger than the one on your finger. At this sight your eyes opened wider and your breath stopped in your lungs. "You're kidding…" You literally couldn't believe your eyes.

"No." he smiled and placed a gentle kiss on your hand "I've never been so serious, love. And I assure you I'll tell you the same thing tomorrow."

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (26) Manipulate

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 26)

Summary: Rosie finds an unmarked box in her wardrobe. When John scolds himself for lacking as a parent, Rosie sets things straight.

Twenty-Six Years Old

Six months after my return to London, I was moving out again. The internship at the ministry of justice paid surprisingly well. I couldn’t help but think that a certain uncle had been using his manipulation skills again… In addition to my wage, the generous inheritance from Nana and Timothy’s income from his published novel, were more than sufficient to buy a decent flat in Stockwell. 

Nana had clearly wanted that 221 Baker Street was well looked after, and gifted it to her two boys, and insisted in her will that if Deidre, or Dee, as she preferred to be called, needed a home, 221A should be hers. And for the last two years, 221A had been occupied by Dee. My parents got along with her like a house on fire.

“It’s like having a younger version of Hudders down there,” Papa stated.

“Agreed. The sassiness runs in the family, I presume. Dee’s skills in the kitchen are sadly things she did not inherit from her aunt, though,” Dad said.

“Definitely not! She almost sat the flat on fire when she was boiling eggs,” Papa filled in.

***

Moving out the first time, had been poles apart to this move. That time I was going on an adventure, and I knew it was for just a period. When I moved in with Timothy, it was forever, and that was more bittersweet than I’d anticipated.

Moving to Paris, I had only taken clothes, some books, my laptop and the like. Stripping my room bare, was something entirely different. There were so many memories, and I knew I had to get rid of some of them because the flat wasn’t exactly big, and there were Timothy’s things to consider as well.

Over the next weeks I felt that I lived inside a cardboard box. They were everywhere, even downstairs to let me have some room to move around upstairs and leave the bed free to sleep in.

On the floor inside my wardrobe, I found an old box that had remained hidden behind clothes, rucksacks, shoes and a bag with blankets. It wasn’t marked and I couldn’t remember having placed it there. I opened the flaps and gasped in surprise.

“How are you getting on?” Dad called from the stairs and seconds later he entered my room.

I looked up at him with a stunned expression. When he saw the box, his shoulders slumped, and he sighed heavily.

“Right. I’d forgotten all about that one,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve failed to keep her memory alive for you, haven’t I?”

“Dad,” I scolded him. “You had far more important things to cope with when she died. Raising me with Papa is the greatest gift you could’ve given me. Never be sorry for that. I don’t remember her at all. From what I’ve gathered she did some horrible things to you both. No, stop. She did. I may not know the full extent of it, but it doesn’t matter that she was my mother. Remember what Papa said about extended and chosen family. They can be way better than the biological one. Not that I would want to replace you, mind.”

We both looked down at the photo of my mother and Dad on their wedding day. I didn’t recall when it had been replaced with the wedding photo of Dad and Papa. It felt strange and a bit eerie to look at Dad embracing another person like that. I took it out and placed it in the box that was going to the bins.

“Rosie!” Dad exclaimed, more out of shock than anything else.

“It’s wrong, Dad. I don’t need that. To me she’s the one who gave me life, but she was never in it when it mattered, and I’ve never missed having a mother. I consider myself the luckiest girl in the world having you and Papa as parents. You’ve done a great job, and uncle Myc, Nana, Molly, Granny, Pops, and uncle Greg have been brilliant carers as well. Now, what else is in here?”

I found Ted, still stained with tomato sauce, a white baby blanket with a bee pattern, tiny boxes containing a curl of my hair, my first tooth, a book where my growth, my first real meal, my first words, my first steps, my first trip, (to Barts), my favourite toys and books were painstakingly written down in Papa’s handwriting. My eyes filled with tears when I realised how much love lay behind those notes.

“He didn’t let me near that book with my horrible handwriting,” Dad said in a choked voice, clearly as emotional as me.

Another book caught my eye. The one uncle Greg had mentioned. A book with children’s names. It was worn, and I didn’t know whether that was from Papa searching for male names starting with a G, or my mother’s search for names meant for me.

“Did you…”

“No,” Dad cut me off. “She’d already decided on a name once we got back together. After…”

He didn’t have to finish that sentence, and I’m glad he stopped himself. Just thinking about it made me nauseous. 

I hadn’t told Timothy about her yet, but I knew I needed to. He would eventually ask. The lack of photos of her would ensure that. I reminded myself to ask uncle Myc how much I could reveal. Not that I knew more than half of it myself.

After I’d put the box aside, I leant into Dad where he sat beside me and placed my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me and pulled me in for a hug.

“I’m so glad you decided to move back here with me after she died,” I murmured. “We would’ve been miserable without him.”

“Yeah, two years was enough for a lifetime,” Dad said and drew me closer, kissing the top of my head.

“I bet Papa is relieved that he can walk around in just a sheet now that I’m moving out for good,” I quipped to brighten the mood.

Dad chuckled and he was unable to hide the glint in his eyes at this prospect.

Also available on AO3

All the love to the other magnificent participants <3 Thanks to everyone for the endless support and especially to those who normally don't read parent!lock, but despite that are walking the extra mile. I'm in awe!

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

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[kedreeva]

Wait, you were raising bobwhites for release? I'd be interested to hear more about that, is it common to do? I work in the environmental field in Canada and we're stricter about wildlife here, DIY-reintroduction without expert oversight is a foreign and frankly very scary idea to me haha. They ARE released for hunting in areas far from our remnant native populations here too, but such activities require licensing. Apologies if I misunderstood your mention of survival rates after release entirely lol.

I don't know how many folks raise them specifically for release, and I can't speak for outside of Michigan, but they're fairly commonly kept in MI. Anyone can keep less than 12 with no permit, but more than 12 or if you want to breed them you do need to get a permit through the state. The permit allows you to keep, breed, sell, butcher, and release up to certain amounts (how many depends what type of permit). Depending where you live you might also have to get permission locally (for example I had to be approved for it through my township). The permits have to be renewed through the DNR yearly and involve keeping records of your captive population and accounting for every bird (and bird part) in your care or that left your care and how, as well as inspections of your care facility to make sure they're suitable for the birds and maintained properly, all of which I did for the two years I was keeping them. I wasn't just randomly raising birds with no oversight or permit, I very much did a lot of work to be able to do it legally and locally- work that ultimately didn't pan out, as by the time I had them figured out and the permits to breed and had them going, HPAI hit and I gave them up in order to utilize my indoor spaces for my peafowl.

HOWEVER, there's also a weird grey area where, for instance, if a permitted person sells eggs to someone, those eggs would come with a temporary permit to hold wild game (issued by the seller) and that permit covers a short period (iirc it was 4-6 months or so) and the birds then had to be butchered, released, or transferred to the person's own permit. So technically, anyone who could (by local regulations) have game birds could buy eggs, hatch, raise, and release birds legally. But again I don't know how many people actually do that ever, since that would be expensive, though I would guess at least some people do it for canned hunt type deals.

Of course, there's also people just... Raising quail with no permits, at decent scale. The enforcement of the law with them is... Not great. There are plenty of people selling them at bird swaps or farm events and I have never once in like 25 years, seen anyone there with a permit or giving temp permits- presumably because you CAN own up to 12 without a permit, and most people are only buying a pair or a few anyway at swaps, so they could be considered "pets" like my first few were, before I wanted to breed. I see people listing them in quail FB groups and I'm almost certain they either don't have permits or won't be issuing the extended permit to the buyers. So there are definitely some cracks to fall through, but you're not SUPPOSED to be doing it that way. You're SUPPOSED to be getting a permit and being inspected and doing it according to the rules the DNR has.

But I was more mentioning release because large breeding facilities have participated in several scientific studies with large, tracked releases to test viability of the government paying for a large scale captive breeding and release repopulation effort in areas the native populations have dwindled, for conservation purposes. Facilities had been doing so (largely for hunting populations), but up until they started tracking they hadn't been sure how much good it did, if it even worked at all. Ultimately, they didn't work out either- the end finding was that pretty much all the captive born birds died quickly and without breeding.

Finding those studies was a huge factor in me axing my own breeders, since what I had wanted to do wouldn't work even if I'd wanted to fuss with keeping them through Bird Pandemic. Fostering viable habitat is a better option, as is getting rid of outdoor cats which have been a major factor in their decline here. So, that's what we do now.

[bestiarium]

The Siyokoy [Filipino mythology]!

Aquatic humanoid creatures, usually with claws, scales and webbed appendages, live in lakes or rivers and drag unfortunate travelers under the water to drown them. To say that this story is a popular trope in folktales throughout the world would be about as big an understatement as saying that American chocolate chip cookies are popular in my apartment.

Almost every civilization has its own variety of aquatic humanoid monster, and that makes sense for two reasons: first, humans tend to drown when submerged for extended periods of time. A lot of people have drowned throughout human history, so it makes sense that many different myths arose about monsters who tried to drag their victims under the water. Second, these stories are often a variation of the classic ‘bogeyman’ tale: parents tell their children about a scary monster that would eat them (or bestow some other, presumably unpleasant fate upon them) to scare them away from bad behaviour.

A very common bogeyman tale is ‘if you venture too close to the river, a monster will come out and grab you’. This way, the child is dissuaded from playing near deep wells or rivers where it might fall in and drown (see reason 1 for more details on why this can happen).

In the Philippines, people believed in the Siyokoy (pronounced ‘Sho-koy’). These malicious monsters are dangerous creatures that lurk underwater. They are vaguely human-like in shape, but their head resembles that of a fish and their feet have webbed toes for swimming. The body of a Siyokoy is covered in fishy scales that are either green or brown, and they breathe through gills.

The Siyokoy eat human flesh, so they often hunt for fishermen. When a Siyokoy spots suitable prey, they grab their victim and drag them downward until they drown, before devouring them like I devour the aforementioned chocolate chip cookies.

Interestingly, there is some variety in the physical descriptions of these monsters. In some tales, they resemble classical mermaids (though male) with a fish-like lower body attached to the torso of a human. They are often said to have long tentacles to grab their victims. There are only male Siyokoy, because the monster is a counterpart of sorts to the Sirena, which are always female. Sirena are usually portrayed as human girls with a mermaid tail.

Sources: Bane, T., 2016, Encyclopedia of Beasts and Monsters in Myth, Legend and Folklore, McFarland, p. 294, 428 pp. De Las Caras, D. and Gagatiga, Z. C., 2011, Tales from the 7000 Isles: Filipino Folk Stories, Bloomsbury Publishing USA, p. 16, 204 pp. (image source 1: Gladys Domalaon, RPG corebook illustration for Secret Garden Games) (image source 2: Dread-Softly on Deviantart)