#so perhaps! i can get those to work this time as well

[tojicide]

OBSESSED. ☆ SYLUS QIN.

📰 extra, extra! why is your bodyguard so obsessed with you? girl, you wanna know...

warnings. nsfw, smut, mdni. porn with plot. fem!reader, popstar!reader, bodyguard!sylus. established romantic history (very brief). pet names. semi-public. fingering, oral (fem!receiving), cowgirl, unprotected p in v. wc. 4.6k

an. reused the header and a bit of the plot from an aaron hotchner fanfic i wrote on wattpad in like… 2021??? tweaked most of the details obvs but ig i was born as a bodyguard au lover :D

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Your bodyguard was such a buzzkill.

Dragging you out of every party you make an appearance at, replacing your shots with water once he believes you’ve had one too many, watching you like a hawk no matter where you are or who you’re with...

You despise those who have an inability to have fun, so as far as you’re concerned, Sylus is the devil reincarnated. You aren’t exactly shy about your opinions on him either, and perhaps in hindsight, that is exactly why he was currently pacing through the party you’re in attendance of to try and ruin your night yet again.

(Ruin your night or… do his job? Hell if you care about the logistics of it all. Two sides of the same coin, you think.)

His protective nature only grew more intense ever since the two of you shared a kiss before a concert of yours that left your lipstick smeared over your face like there was no tomorrow…

And what did that asshole do? Nothing. It was in his nature to make your life miserable after all. Sylus let you walk out in front of your thousands of fans, makeup messy and appearance disheveled all from his mouth on yours alone.

And boy, did the tabloids have a time with that one… Who was the culprit? A new fling of yours? Fiancé? Possible baby daddy? Each and every news outlet had some uniquely wrong to say. Can’t a girl have a makeout session with her bodyguard in peace?

Unfortunately for you, the paparazzi have been hounding you ever since that day, itching to get the 4-1-1 on your love life.

And ever since, you haven’t given many people the time of day—including Sylus. Tonight, you’ve managed to stay two steps ahead of your dear bodyguard and evade eventual capture for just a bit longer. You’re currently surrounded by a few of your friends, socialites and actors alike.

Your lips seem to flap freely when you have a few drinks in you, but tonight, you’re sober but even more talkative than ever. Your chosen topic of conversation? Your overbearing and stupidly handsome bodyguard, of course.

Too lost in your story, waving your arms around to your theatrical pleasure, you hardly noticed the way your friends’ faces paled to a ghostly shade of white, their eyes nearly bulging out of their heads and their lips parted as if they had something to say but… couldn’t.

All the while, you were too busy blowing off the  steam that you’d acquired from your last encounter with the forsaken bodyguard. “…And I was like, why are you so obsessed with me?”

As fate would have it, you hear a throat clear behind you followed by an annoyed huff that you’ve grown to know like the back of your hand. You spin around, already wearing a scowl.

“Obsessed with you, hm?” Sylus says, his voice low and seemingly dangerous, though your utter distaste for the man rids him of his intimidation. “You’re quite self important. I could never live in a world where I’d fall at the feet of an egotistical popstar.”

You roll your eyes at that. Who does he think he is? Everyone loves you—all except for the disgustingly handsome man standing in front of you.

“Mm… well, you can always die an untimely death and never have to work for me again,” you reply, giving him the most passive aggressive smile known to man. “Hopefully that gives you an ounce of hope.”

“It does,” he replies, returning the same expression that you gave him.

It’s borderline infuriating how undisturbed Sylus was. No, it is infuriating. No matter how many insults you chucked his way, he never cracked. (And the one time he did, it led to the two of you playing tonsil tennis in your dressing room...)

You shake your head, huffing in utter annoyance. You then hold your wrists up for display, cocking your head to the side as you give him a mock puppy dog expression. “Sooo… are you here to take me away, Officer Buzzkill?”

Sylus merely blinks in response to your taunting, taking a firm grasp on one of your wrists before he tugs you through the sea of partygoers. He laces your fingers together, squeezing tight as to not lose hold of you.

“Must you always make things so difficult?” he asks, keeping his eyes ahead.

You shrug your shoulders. “More or less.”

“More or less?” he echoes, glancing over his shoulder to properly look at you. “I suggest you try a different style of communication, sweetness. Your clipped attitude will get you nowhere.”

“Oh? But it’s gotten me so far already…” you trail off, glancing at his lips for a few agonizingly long seconds before a smirk tugs on the corner of your mouth. “In fact, I think it can get me even further.”

Sylus’s jaw tenses, his eyes slipping shut as he tears his gaze away from you. He can’t handle the way you’re looking at him—so unbelievably beautiful with those siren eyes of yours, the mere sight of you already stirring something unwanted within him.

He turns around to continue leading you through the crowd without a reply. You begin to glance around yourself, attempting to plot your brilliant escape.

“Don’t,” he flatly states, his iron grip tightening on your hand.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice holding a strong tone of defiance.

Sylus gives your hand one solid tug before you’re standing in front of him, his free hand pressing onto the small of your back as he keeps you pressed to his chest. “If you haven’t noticed, you brat, I will always chase you. I’ll find you just the same.”

You almost deflate under his intense gaze, his deep red eyes piercing through your own. It wasn’t often that Sylus manhandled you, but when he did, it made you feel… different. Intrigued, maybe.

“How touching,” you deadpan, “but you still get on my nerves.”

Sylus clicks his tongue. “Tch. Oh, I’m sorry… when have I ever cared about what you think?”

“Never,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “You know… if you hate me so much, you should just quit on me.”

Sylus rolls his eyes, his red irises drawing you in like no other. “I don’t… hate you. You should be rather thankful that I don’t, because I’m doubtful that anyone else would want this job of mine—you’re quite the handful.”

“Mm, I’m only saying,” you murmur with a shrug, giving his hand a harsh squeeze as if the roughness of your grasp would make him let go, but he, of course, does not. “You don’t need this job, and yet, here you are.”

He raises a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

You smile, the same shit-eating grin that he has grown to be all too familiar with. “Give me your wallet.”

Sylus huffs, his broad shoulders deflating as he fishes his black leather wallet from his back pocket and hands it over to you. You take it with ease, slipping your hand from his as you crack it open.

You slip his Black Card from the sleeve, proving that he truly didn’t need the job for any monetary gain. And then, a triumphant smile graces your lips as you pull out none other than a Polaroid photo taken of you—backstage at your concert just before the kiss you two shared.

“Ooh… what’s this?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

Sylus reaches forward to try and snatch the tiny photo from you, but you are far too quick. “What are you revealing exactly? That you were secretly snooping in my wallet prior to now?”

“Yes,” you admit without hesitation, “and that you’re secretly rich and in love with me. Does that make us even?”

His jaw sets, his piercing gaze set on yours. He works to snatch the photo from you, tucking his belongings back into his wallet before he slips it into his pocket. “No. Maybe if you were less of a pain, we could be even.”

You wiggle your eyebrows in suggestion. “You’re not denying being in love with me, dear bodyguard of mine.”

Sylus gives you a deadpan expression. “Must you always be so self righteous? God forbid I am proud of you and your success.”

The genuine nature of his words set you back a step, your brows knitting together and your lips parting. If Sylus noticed the shift of your expression, he didn’t mention it. Thankfully. His cold fingers lace with yours once more, continuing the stride towards the exit of the party.

“Rather than putting on this show of yours, you truly should be thanking me for saving your reputation,” he quietly adds, his hand now curled around your waist as you approach the exit. “There is a swarm of paparazzi outside who are desperate to get their grimy hands on a picture of their beloved popstar doing something remotely scandalous.”

(And if Sylus knows anything about you, it’s that you love scandals. According to you, they ‘make life worth living’. Tch. Diva.)

You chuckle. “Aww, you care!”

“Do I care, or is it my job to look after you?” he asks, plucking his sunglasses from his pocket to place them on your face, shielding your eyes from the rapid camera flashes of the paparazzi. “Public intoxication numerous times a week is not a very good look for you, sweetie. Incredibly frowned upon.”

Your jaw sets as you listen to his words. While they are undeniably true, you don’t have any plans for admitting that—not now or in the near future.

“Making out with my bodyguard is frowned upon as well, but you didn’t seem to be complaining about that bit,” you say under your breath.

Your voice was low enough that your weighted words were almost drowned out by the booming music of the party and by the chatter of the photographers you’re about to be engulfed in. Almost. 

Sylus flashes you a glare. “You shouldn’t mumble. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You heard me,” you state.

He did hear you, that was exactly the problem. It was no coincidence that the two of you haven’t spoken much since your very intense lip lock. You’ve been avoiding each other, evading the invisible string that connects the two of you like both an electric current and a noose.

The tension between the two of you was tangible, palpable even—you could practically taste it just as well as you could still taste his lips on your own. It was intoxicating, imprinting, searing.

It managed to distract you from the flashing lights of the cameramen who were swarming you, capturing flick after flick of you being led through the crowd.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “You know, you can help me out with all of this,” you murmur, gesturing towards the paparazzi. “My publicist came up with an idea that will get them off my back for a while. Give them the answers they need and… whatnot.”

“Yeah?” he asks, glancing your way. “Do tell.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tuning out all of the chattering paparazzi who are currently surrounding you. “Be my impromptu mystery man for the cameras. I’ll give you anything you want in return, I swear it.”

Sylus hums, the sound omitting a deep rumble into the air. “Anything I want? My, my, sweets, you’ve made me an offer I cannot refuse.”

You huff, grasping onto the collar of his jacket as you pull him into you. “Just go with it.”

“Just go with wh— mmph!” Sylus’s words were muffled by your lips slotting against his in a searing kiss, his hands instinctively finding their home on the curve of your hips.

The kiss was… tame. It was supposed to be, after all. It was merely for the cameras, a way for you to put an answer to the questions that have been flooding your inbox and left your name circulating in the news for days on end.

But when Sylus’s tongue brushes against your bottom lip, you slightly pull away, muttering a faint, “Sylus, what’re you…” before he pulls you right back in, his large hand now resting on your cheek.

“If you’re going to use me like a whore at your disposal, I’d suggest you let me enjoy myself and taste you properly,” he says into your mouth, his hand shifting to tangle in your hair as he tilts your d to his liking, your tongues meeting in with gentle swipes. “See? I knew you could do better than that.”

True to his suggestion, you kissed him like there was no tomorrow, your hands fisting his shirt in your palms as your lips moved in tandem with his. Lipstick and paparazzi long forgotten, you find yourself getting lost in the moment, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands give your hips a firm squeeze.

The moment he hears that sweet, impossibly faint sound of your pleasure, he knows that he’s in for it now. That’ll do it for him.

He abruptly pulls away, clasping his hand onto yours as he continues pulling you through the now stunned crowd of paparazzi. Sporting an erection and your lipstick smeared on his lips makes no difference to Sylus—if anything, he enjoys the world knowing that he has the hots for the woman who he has sworn to protect.

Sylus helps you into the passenger seat of your black SUV, closing the door behind you before making his way to the driver’s seat. He peels off, driving with intention through the streets of the city.

It was now evident to you that he was driving the SUV in pursuit of his favorite lookout spot, one that overlooks the bustling city from a distance. Sylus had taken you there once before as per your request to ‘stay out a bit later’. Nothing happened then, but you have an inclination that your luck has changed.

“I know what I want from you,” he states, placing a hand on your thigh.

How did he already manage to figure out what he wants in return for helping you? A raise? A car? The blood of his enemies? You’re intrigued, raising a brow. “You do?”

“I do,” he confirms without missing a beat. “Get into the backseat.”

A gasp leaves your kiss swollen lips as you mull over the utter implications of his words. It didn’t take a genius to understand them, but you were… surprised to say the least. “I think you’re overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Qin.”

In a literal sense, sure he was. But if the two of you were going to judge based on what you two want, he absolutely wasn’t—you both knew that.

He chuckles, the sound low yet infuriatingly sexy. His hand slips beneath your skirt, his middle finger brushing along the damp spot of your panties. “Your body seems to disagree with you, ma’am.”

And if you weren’t already wet before, hearing him call you ma’am was more than enough to do it for you. “Shut up,” you grumble.

“You can make me,” he suggests, setting the vehicle into park before giving your thigh a few pats. He nods his head towards the backseat. “Go on.”

Without hesitation, you kick your heels off and crawl into the back of the vehicle, thumping down on the seat with a sharp sigh. Sylus follows you within the blink of an eye, his knees settling on the spacious floor of the car.

“What’re you…” you ask, though your eyebrows raise as the pieces of the puzzle click together in your mind. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he repeats, his warm hands rubbing your knees as he spreads your legs apart, his lips finding the tender skin of your inner thigh. “You know… you truly should be resting for your show tomorrow evening.”

“Should I?” You bite on your bottom lip as he leans forward, nosing at your clothed pussy with a muffled moan of his own. He inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal driving him to the brink of insanity.

“You should,” he answers, pressing an open mouthed kiss on your cunt through the fabric of your panties. “You should stop talking too. You need to rest your voice just as much.”

You swallow hard, whimpering ever so softly as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs to give himself access to your glistening core.

His eyes are set on your heat, his cool hands hiking your thighs over his shoulders. He rests his cheek on the warmth of your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “Because believe me, sweetie, the things that I want to do to you will not be in favor of that beautiful voice of yours.”

“Oh?” you ask, titling your head. “What will they be in favor of?”

He grins, wicked and devilishly handsome. “I’m glad you asked, because there’s someone else I’ve been wanting to hear from.”

Before you have the chance to reply, he’s already got his face delving deep between your legs, the filthy sounds of squelches and slurping filling the otherwise silent car.

“Oh, I— mmh, you didn’t answer my… my question,” you stammer out between breathy moans, your head tilting back on the headrest as your eyes flutter shut.

Sylus smiles into your pussy, pointing his tongue to accentuate the squelching noises that your heat was making, entirely wet and dripping for him.

“Can you not hear her?”

Never in your life did you think that having a man on his knees talking to your cunt would be this arousing, but… you’re fucking soaked.

“I-I can,” you gasp, cracking your eyes open to look down at him. “Fuck, you can talk to her in fifty languages for all I care, holy shit.”

He quietly chuckles, the sound sending a spark of vibrations onto your already sensitive clit. Your thighs tense, aching to close on him, but he keeps them spread with his strong hands on your thighs.

Your lips part as a string of breathy sounds leave you, beautiful moans and needy whimpers alike—all of which play as music to Sylus’s ears. It was nice to know that your mouth was good for more than just singing and bickering at him…

Teeth nibbling into your bottom lip, you glance down at him, only to be met with the most crazed eyes known to mankind. So disheveled, your slick leaking down his chin while his tongue delves into your heat like a man starved. He looks like he’s in his own pussy drunk heaven.

When you feel his pointed tongue begin to curve and lick in ways it hadn’t before, you do your best to follow his movements.

S-Y-L-U-S he spells on your puffy cunt with his writing tool of choice—none other than his stupidly talented tongue.

“You’re so—”

“Shh,” he cuts you off, his voice more like a husky whisper now. His pupils were dilated to the size of saucers, sucking on your clit before releasing it with a harsh pop.

Filthy sounds fill the air, your own breathy moans spilling from your swollen lips in tandem with the messy sucks of Sylus’s lips on your cunt. Not to mention, your girl truly was loud.

“Singing so beautifully for me,” he rasps, his eyes flitting up to watch your blissful expression. Lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin—an absolute wet dream of his come to life.

You bite your lip, hardly focused on the words coming out of his mouth. “Mmh, what…?”

“Quiet, sweets,” he repeats, hooking his hands even tighter around your thighs as he gives your heat a few more harsh licks. “I told you I was talking to her, didn’t I?”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, your core grinding against his wet muscle as you chase your release.

Sylus was more than eager to give it to you, redoubling his efforts while locking his hands over your legs to keep you steady enough for him to pleasure you effectively. The warmth pooling in your belly was far too much, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“Mmh, I… I’m coming,” you warn through an airy whine.

And when you do, Sylus swoops in even more greedily than before, his flat tongue lapping at your honeyed release. There was no way he would ever be able to go without tasting you like this now that he has. Fuck, he’s such a goner.

As you come down from your high, you grin with a few pants. “Look at you, falling at the feet of your ‘egotistical popstar’—mmph!”

Sylus plunges two fingers into your mouth to shut you up, rising to plant himself onto the seat beside you. “That’s hardly an insult to me anymore, my dear. I know what I am.”

He pulls his spit slick fingers from your mouth, bringing them to your pussy as he gently circles your sensitive clit. His free hand guides you through the motion of straddling his lap. With a simple nod of his head, he gestures for you to lift your shirt up, and you do.

“And what’s that?” you ask, watching as he leans forward to mouth at your breasts through the fabric of your bra.

“I’ve already told you,” he murmurs, bringing his free hand to his belt to free his cock from the confines of his pants. “A whore at your disposal.”

“I knew it,” you chuckle, though the sweet sound is interrupted by a breathy moan that he coaxes out of you once he slides his fat cockhead along your folds.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to the side. “Are you not going to reciprocate my affection?” he teases, grasping tightly onto your hips. “Or do I have to work a bit harder for it, ma’am?”

Your knees would have certainly buckled if they weren’t firmly planted on the leather seats of the SUV. Who would have thought that you had a thing for white-haired bodyguards who call you ‘ma’am’?

Sylus raises a brow, a cocky smirk tugging on his lips. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You feel your face heating up more and more the longer you look him in the eyes, shifting your hips so that the tip of his cock finally meets your entrance. “Just… shut up and put it in.”

“How demanding,” he hums, smirking ever so slightly as he uses his grasp on you to make one sharp snap of his hips, burying balls deep inside of your heat. “But as you wish, pretty.”

You cry out immediately, the burn of the stretch fading into unfolding pleasure. Eyes locked on each other’s, breaths mingling with ease, skin slicked with sweat, it was…

“Perfect,” he whispers, smoothing his hands along your hips before one reaches up to cup your cheek. He pulls you into a deep, searing kiss. “So, so perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, you were merely testing the waters that had yet to be explored. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing your deepest points with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Sylus begins to help you move a bit quicker, rocking your hips forward in smooth rolls, earning moans from the both of you that seemed to come straight from your guts.

“Give it to me how you like it, baby,” he encourages, both of his hands planting firmly on your waist. “Use my cock however you need it, sweets, it’s yours.”

His words have your clit pulsating around his thick shaft, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you begin to work up a pace of your own that has your heart beating wildly.

“I always… fuck—I always knew you were obsessed with me,” you jest, your grin stretching wide.

Sylus hums, the sound low and deep, his iron grip on your hips helping you maintain the intensity of your movements whenever your muscles beg for a break. “Yeah? Needed me to be buried inside of you to have that bit of confirmation?”

You nod with a smile, hands wrapping around his neck as you plant your forehead against his. He smiles too, a breathy moan leaving his mouth as you circle your hips in a way that has him seeing stars.

“Fuck yeah, I’m obsessed with you,” he admits without a semblance of shame, tilting his head back on the headrest.

Already feeling your second orgasm approaching, you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat that made a musk that was so beautifully Sylus. His hands smooth over your backside, giving your ass a squeeze.

“Tch, let me see that pretty face,” he demands, nudging you with his shoulder so that you were sitting up once more. “You look so beautiful like this.”

You struggle to form a sentence, bouncing unabashedly on his cock, skin slapping together in an erratic pattern that spurred you even further. A string of whimpers and whines leave your puffy lips. Though your reply lacked words, it perfectly communicated what you wanted to say.

“Oh, I know it, baby,” he rasps, tilting his head back again as his eyes slip shut. “Pussy’s addictive—shit, I’m obsessed with her too.”

You begin to lose yourself all together, reduced to nothing more than a blissed out woman riding her bodyguard’s cock. “Sylus, I… mmh, I’m gonna cum.”

He nods in understanding, smoothing his hand through your hair as he brings you in for another kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and drooling in the most beautiful way possible.

“Gonna come inside you if you keep riding me like this, baby,” he warns, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

You feel his cock twitch inside of you, as if it were confirming his words. You don’t do this often, contrary to popular belief, but you are on the pill. Luckily. “Please do.”

Sylus pants through a smile, licking his lips as he guides you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Huh… you really are something special.”

A deep groan leaves his mouth as he dips his head, grip tightening on your waist as you ride him through your shared orgasm. You aren’t sure where yours ended and his began, or if you had gotten the order wrong entirely. All you know is that in that moment, the two of you became one.

Panting, your hand plants on the fogged up window of the vehicle, leaving your handprint in its wake. Sylus lets out a breathy chuckle, raising his own shaking hand to the window.

You watch through lidded eyes as he draws a tiny heart, writing his and your first initials inside of it with a little + in the middle. How cute.

Sylus then turns to face you again, bringing his hand to your cheek. You nuzzle into his palm, placing a kiss on his skin. “I have something to admit.”

He nods his head a single time, beckoning you to continue. “What is it?”

You give him a wry smile. “My publicist never gave me the idea for that publicity stunt.”

“…I figured that much, sweetie.”

note. bodyguard!sylus, my glorious king… ok i lowkey hate this but it holds no purpose saving up space in my drafts so :D pls interact if you enjoyed, rbs are greatly appreciated <3 thank you for readingggg !!!

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[grendil5]

History is completely fabricated. None of those things happened and none of their opposite stories happened either. It's all made up. Opposite stories meaning history was designed with stories that mirror eachother. The opposite stories for your examples are:

-The african slave trade didn't happen.

-The link between the words slave and slav doesn't exist. (not really an opposite but still) (I admit I don't know this one for sure but it would be extremely funny and cruel to do this to Christians and thus right up their alley)

-The european opium sales to china (to addict and enslave them) didn't happen.

-The uh hmm well i'm sure you can figure out the polar opposite of this one. It didn't happen.

-The other three don't really have an opposite, to my knowledge, perhaps the story of the holy roman empire being secretly run and exclusively kinged by Dutch/Germans? More insane impossible fantasy bullshit. But rest assured not one truth has been told to us or today's Russians about Soviet Russia.

But there are many, many more examples. You probably have some too. You'll notice that in all of history, there's a team good-guy and team-bad guy example for everything. Some "thousands of years" (lol) apart. All of it the west vs the world. Or white people vs the world. Christians vs the world. That's because it's all made up, it's designed to completely ensnare your brain. The full spectrum of good and bad behavior is taken care of. Every race and religion is written to be a victim in one story and a perpetrator in another.

The reason history is designed that way is neutralize your moral compass. To drive you away from Christ, and to make you easy to control. To make you disbelieve in a "true good", which is what Christ has always been.

There's no "morally grey" mankind that "has been kind of bad, but always tries to do good." or some slop. There is only one good and it's our Father. Anyone acting against our father is evil. There has never been anything else. This world operates on one single principle: If you love God, everything works out for you. Period. No countries, no nations, no history. It's all fake. Completely made up. Our textbooks were written by drunk Skeksis in some lodges somewhere and mass-produced after WWII to feed to children whose great-grandchildren, us, now accept their dumb stories as law. And they've been constantly adding to it. "This sounds plausible, put this in" becomes a "new fact recently discovered by the university of _____" Coincidentally, all scienceslop (and subsequent NASAslop) also works this way.

Ask yourself, what would be better? For the goyim to know some truths and some lies, or for them to live in a complete fantasy world? If you tell them some truths, they use those truths as a jumping off point and will discover the lies and awaken. Truth sticks out like a sore thumb. I have no decent historical example for this because they've never told us a truth. That's how fucked it is.

Hang on, how about the world trade thingy. They told you that a plane crashed into it, which it didn't, the entire thing was CGI, so that's a lie. But what if they told you a truth? What if they told you there were bombs on every part of the tower, and that it was a controlled demolition. What the fuck would their excuse be? Now that this truth is revealed to you, how could they ever explain it away? Their narrative is fried. The same goes for all of history. You think even a little bit about one inconsistency, and the whole case is blown apart. That’s why they’ve never, ever told us anything. Nothing.

If you hear even one truth about our history, you'll come to the realization that most of the shit they sell you is logistically impossible. Plus if you "get got" too many times, and realize it too many times, you'll start to look at everything as potentially bullshit. And then you'll start to see that actually it's all bullshit. And then you'll begin to seek Jesus Christ and find the truth in God. And to the people who invent our history to deceive us from God, that's a fucking disaster.

Just about every war doesn't add up. Food and water supplies when marching across continents don’t make sense. Whole populations lived in and around the most beautiful, mathematically perfect buildings but we’re told they were all dumb stinky peasants who threw sewage into the streets.

One way you know it’s fake is that in all their stories human beings are fucking stupid. The holodomor was obviously supposed to mirror the other one, but both stories have to treat the supposed victims like dumb cattle. So it barely even works! Picture yourself as a Kulak watching your children starve to death on some farm and saying "We're not leaving, this is our home." Yeah fucking right!

If you care about the truth you must look at the history books they write for us as a lie. The real truth is that absolutely nothing can be trusted before the end of "WWII" which itself may have been a lie.

All war is fake, that's something you come to understand. Go look at old war photos and ask yourself what these kids were doing when the photo was taken? What were they thinking according to the official story? Why are they standing there like that? Why are they all fucking smiling? How did that vehicle get into that hole in such a way? Why does everything look so fucking ridiculous? It's NASA-tier fakery. All fake soldiers playing dress up and having fun coming up with rediculous "oh so sad" war photos. You can see it on their faces. Their Skeksis director behind the camera was having fun with them. Fooling Christians unites them. Same thing with the civil war. With all wars. With all tragedies. All Hollywood.

It's all just dumb shit for you to get mad at. It's all designed to tear you from God. Don't buy a word. History isn't real.

[beloveds-embrace]

Fuck it, we ball, I hope that disrespectful anon gets hemorrhoids and they can't get them removed until next year, AND that their insurance doesn't cover it. I'm here thinking about your Omega idea where omegas normally do the pursuing, but with a slight twist; the boys being the omegas. An alpha who is for sure down bad for the boys, but thinks "ah, theyre out of my league, I should be aiming lower, manage my expectations". Only 141 is just as down bad for them, and they're doing everything just short of screaming "PICK UP ON THE HINTS, COME INTO OUR HOUSE AND BEDS AND LIVES AND STAY FOREVER PLEASE"

Johnny is about to say fuck decorum and just show up in reader's house wearing nothing but a ribbon and a tag that says 'free to a good home' (your home is the good one, please keep him, there is no receipt so you can't return him).

Price has the brain cell normally in terms of trying to gently coax you into getting you to say you're into them, he has a 15 step plan that may or may not involve using his various contacts to get you spending more time in close proximity to them. Also he for some reason is always baking, he always comes over asking you for sugar? (He'll take any kind of 'sugar' you're willing to offer, he loves making a variety of cream pies)

Gaz is always gently inviting them to attend 'friend' things, things that could be a date but that he can excuse as 'well we're coworkers/friends/neighbors, we should get along :)'. It's just a coincidence that various other people seem to bail except for any of the other boys, now why don't you sit beside him so you guys can share popcorn at the movies (you both always seem to be reaching for it at the same time, if your fingers touched anymore you might as well be holding hands)

Simon is chasing off any omegas he thinks are a threat to them getting reader, that is THEIR alpha, paws OFF (rip to anyone reader was halfheartedly going on dates with, this man is gonna become those people's sleep paralysis demon)

Hope you enjoy!! :3 💕💕 i lovedddd writing this sm omg

See, the thing is, you’d always thought of yourself as a decent Alpha. Not overbearing, not egotistical, not a demanding freak- just capable and steady. But you weren’t extraordinary. Not the kind of Alpha Omegas like them would look at twice. And so, while you worked alongside the men of Task Force 141 you convinced yourself to be content with just admiring them from a distance.

You couldn’t help it. They were perfect, as far as you were concerned. Perfect, and fully out of your league.

Surely, Omegas like them would want someone better. Someone stronger. You’d told yourself that so many times it was practically your mantra, the only way you’d be able to stop yourself from pursuing them. They deserved someone more charismatic, more confident- an Alpha who could match their brilliance. Not someone like you, fumbling through conversations with them, struggling to keep your feelings in check.

But they’d already decided. They didn’t need a flashy Alpha or someone who tried too hard. What they wanted was you. The only problem? You didn’t seem to realize it, no matter how obvious they made it.

John took the lead, naturally. He knew you were cautious and perhaps a little insecure when it came to relationships (it was fucking visible in you, silly Alpha. He scoffs each time you draw back, frustrated), so he made it his mission to draw you in- slowly and subtly. His plan was meticulous: get you comfortable, build trust, and create opportunities for you to spend more time with them so you’d see that they only want you.

Maybe then you’d break out of that stupid shell you’ve put yourself in.

He’d started baking regularly, a habit you hadn’t even known he had. At least once a week, he’d show up at your place with a tin of cookies, a loaf of fresh bread, or a perfectly golden pie. “Thought I’d share,” he’d say casually, though the slight smirk tugging at his lips told a different story. He peers at you, letting his scent coil just a bit more. “I hope you don’t mind the amount of cream. I happen to like cream pies a lot.”

The way to an Alpha’s heart is through their stomach, and all that.

If he wasn’t offering you baked goods, he was asking for your help to make said baked goods. “Ran out of sugar again,” he’d sigh, handing you an empty container. “Mind sparing a bit?”

It was ridiculous, downright unbelievable how often he supposedly ran out of baking supplies. But his visits became a highlight of your week, and the lingering looks he gave you left your heart pounding long after he was gone.

The one time he’d handfed you, watching you lick the syrup from his fingers with half-lidded eyes, still lives in your mind rent-free.

Kyle took a softer, more personal approach. He wasn’t above using the pretense of friendship to spend time with you, often inviting you to casual dates- grabbing coffee, going to the movies, or just walking through town and shopping. Every invitation was framed innocently, but there was always a little extra effort behind it. He’d pick a movie he knew you’d like, suggest places he knew you’d find interesting, and ensure that others you unfortunately knew joined just enough to make it seem less like a date.

Somehow, though, those other people always mysteriously canceled. It was never anything dramatic- just a sudden cold, a scheduling conflict, or a “something came up, sorry.” Eventually, it would be just you and a very smug Kyle, sitting close enough that your knees brushed or reaching for popcorn at the same time. Once, right as the bowl emptied and you both reached for it, Kyle simply thought fuck it and held your hand.

On one occasion, you both shared a bowl of spaghetti and ended up with the scene from the Lady and the Tramp.

It was so painfully obvious to everyone.

Except you.

“It’s not a coincidence,” Kyle muttered to Johnny one evening after you left, both of them sitting in the spot you were in, bathing in the leftover warmth and scent. “How can they not notice?”

Speaking of Johnny; he’s barely keeping himself together. Subtlety in missions are a must sometimes, but he doesn’t want to that with you anymore. He was just so, so, so frustrated with your obliviousness. What more does he need to do to show you that he- that they- want you?

He’s been dropping so many hints; half-jokes about Omegas waiting begging to be swept off their feet, suggestive winks when you compliment him in that lovely, adoring tone of yours. Once, while watching a romantic tv show, he’d sighed loudly and very pointedly said: “If only someone would claim me.”

“If ye don’t figure it out soon,” he growled at the others one night, pacing back and forth like a wild beast and probably on his way to leave a dent in the carpet, “I’m showin’ up at their doorstep with nothin’ but a red bow, like some bloody Christmas prezzie, I swear to god.”

John sighs, rolling his eyes. “You do that, and I’m leaving you on their porch.”

“That’s exactly what I’m askin’ for!”

Simon took the quietest but most direct approach. Just not exactly direct towards you. While the others worked to get closer to you, Simon focused on eliminating what he saw as obstacles: other Omegas who thought you were free for the taking. It didn’t matter if they were serious or just someone you’d gone on a casual date with- Simon saw them all as threats.

He didn’t have to say much to scare them off. A single cold glare from across the room, sharp bursts of his scent, or a low, menacing comment was usually enough to send them packing. He didn’t care if it was excessive.

You were his Alpha. You were their Alpha, and no one else had a right to you.

But even Simon softened when it came to you. He couldn’t put all his thoughts, all his feelings into words, so he did them with his actions. Quiet protectiveness, gentle, careful touches. Moments of fleeting vulnerabilities shared between you and him.

He was always there for you. Even if you didn’t know you need him with you.

Still, despite all their efforts, you remained convinced that they weren’t interested.

In the end, to no one’s surprise, it’s Johnny who snaps. Johnny, so close to his heat, so absolutely done with your obliviousness and the Omegas that aren’t them talking with you when you should be only focused on them.

He doesn’t care; leaves the carefully made nest with your stolen shirts and none of the others stop him when he just. Drags your surprised self to the nest.

“Johnny! You-“

“I want you.” He hisses, bares his teeth all sharp and desperate. “We want you. And damn it, we will have you.”

And well, who are you to even say no when this is all you have wanted?

[rhysepoof]

Sweet Moments (ModernAU!Jayvik x Reader)

Oh thanks for reading the 2 am ramblings of a coping depresso espresso bean that is me. This is me trying to get back into writing fics so it might be meh...but anyways enjoy you Jayvik lovers! Please do comment and send an ask if you'd like to see more/ what you want me to try and write hehe 🫡(Will probably be starting to write the stuff in this post I made before lol)

From the perspective this is written, i think it should be quite ambiguous the gender of the reader...I think...It also ends kinda suggestively

Word Count: 650

You know one might think that having two boyfriends is better than one, the more the merrier kinda thing you know? And yes, in your case, for the most part it is until you realize that having two scientific genius inventors for boyfriends comes with the fact that they take long nights in the lab, or perhaps in Jayce’s garage, building and fixing projects than they do in their own rooms.

But then, there comes the crash days. Where, after spending too many hours working, the boys end up crashing and falling asleep either at their work stations, or in the living room. It does end up giving funny moments that you managed to keep in your phone. A picture of Jayce asleep in front of the fridge, forehead stuck to the door and drool coming out of his mouth. Viktor asleep on the workbench in the garage holding onto a long cooled coffee in his mug.

But the cutest they’ve been are during the times they crash on the couch placed in the garage. Placed there by her own suggestion so they can remember to take a break every now and again, and for Viktor to have a comfortable place to rest at for his leg. You managed to catch them both asleep on the couch, Viktor on top of Jayce and after placing a blanket on them, you snapped the picture that to this day is your lock screen wallpaper.

Though lacking in knowledge of the sciency techy part of these two’s work, you are able to contribute in ways that the boys appreciate, even if they forget to say it. One of the biggest contributions being the treats you bake and bring for them.

Some of which you are carrying now, some muffins and cookies with sandwiches as well, you found that sandwiches would be the best choice as they won’t need heating up and the boys can just grab one quickly. 

”Darling, you know you don’t have to bring us food all the time” Viktor says.

”It’s alright Vitya, I love making them for you two, I don’t want you to die of starvation”

”HEY, we eat food-” Jayce chimes in from behind you.

With a quicK turn of the head and a slap to his bicep you interfere, “Talis, cereal and cup noodles are NOT a good source of daily nutrients for heaven’s sake”

Feigning being hurt Jayce clutches his arm and dramatically falls back, “OWwww how you wound meee oh nooo I might dieeeee” 

You roll your eyes and hear Viktor’s chuckle, “And don’t even get me started on you Viktor, you need to get some more rest, your eyebags grow everyday, I might come back and you’ve become a raccoon!”

”Alright alright mom, we’ll get some sleep and eat but first” Jayce grabs the container of food and sets it on the table, then picks you up at the same time, earning a yelp from you.

”JAYCE PUT ME DOWN!” You fight, thrashing against his arms.

”Nope!” He laughs, before heading towards the couch where Viktor watched, amused, “Bedroom?” Jayce asks, to which Viktor gets a glint in his eyes, “Why not it’s been a while hasn’t it?”

”Guys! I just made those cookies an hour ago!”

Viktor laughs and takes the container of goodies from the table, “Guess they’ll be coming with us then”

With that, Jayce and Viktor head to the door out of the garage and head upstairs to Jayce and Viktor’s shared bedroom, where Jayce lets Viktor get situated on the bed first and then places you gently on the bed.

“You take such good care of us darling, let us take care of you” Viktor whispers in your ear, before grabbing your chin and gently kissing you while Jayce peppers soft kisses on your neck.

”Now just relax darling, and let us do the rest of the work”

Oh thanks for reading the 2 am ramblings of a coping depresso espresso bean that is me. This is me trying to get back into writing fics so it might be meh...But anyways enjoy you Jayvik lovers! Please do comment and send an ask if you'd like to see more/ what you want me to try and write hehe 🫡(Will probably be starting to write the stuff in this post I made before lol)

[writingjourney]

I keep thinking how we often kind of assume that Secondo is bad at reciprocating feelings, that he is cold, has commitment issues, can't open up emotionally and is a miserable fellow who is more likely to hurt others by turning them down than to get hurt himself. But we also know he is a romantic, that he is in tune with his feelings, so what if he did fall in love a few times in his life? What if he is actually aching for love more than you'd ever know? What if he fell in love hard as a young man but it just never had a happy ending?

I can imagine a young Secondo who has such a very romantic idea of love and his own future, that he perhaps thinks he does not want to live the same miserable life his father lives, that he wants to have a steady, loving family even if he has to work hard to change these patterns. And he keeps trying, for that reason, because he knows he has a lot to offer, that he would move mountains for someone, and he is more than willing to go out of his way to make it work.

But the thing with Secondo is... to many, he is not really the type you'd introduce to your parents, especially not religious ones, not the type to settle down with, moving around with his function at the church, being prepared for the role as Papa that comes with a lot of responsiblity. It demands sacrifices, it demands deep loyalty. And even outside of this, he is attractive in a more unconventional way, the type of crush you won't admit to your friends, a man who struggles to show his feelings because his face betrays him and even though he is soft-spoken, eloquent, those important vulnerable words fail him.

And the more he gets cast aside, the more he realizes that he is not wanted outside of what he can offer sexually. So he just leaned into this image of the unattainable, guarded womanizer who only takes lovers for a night, who indulges for fun, and thinks well, if i'm unlovable then I might as well not allow these feelings to hurt me anymore. But perhaps there is still a part of him that hasn't given up, that still yearns, that still carries the softness he was born with, and perhaps he just needs someone who finds it and treasure him for it.

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

part iii (part i + part ii)

(due to sims doing everything but what i wanted them to, this extended into night and the screencaps were terrible - i apologise)

“Avery, I feel like our potential isn’t necessarily reflected by your score, and much of that was my doing. You just seemed to catch me when I was in the middle of a Moment and was not exactly feeling receptive towards anyone. And among those who did… less well, you were one of the few who actually initiated flirting with me and who seemed to really try. So let’s take this as an opportunity to refresh and maybe have a second shot at things. I’ll be seeing you very soon.”

“Jayla, you’re clearly having a ball and I enjoyed being in a household with you. But so far you haven’t seemed all that drawn to me, and I feel that at least in terms of romance, I’m the one putting in all the work. You are one of eighteen, and it seems like you’re not sure why you’re here. Let me know whether you want this - or not - but let me know. See you for Round Two.”

the final four...

“You know how it goes. I have only one of my strawberries left, and I am not splitting it four - just who the plum comes up with these things…”

“Forest - considering your strong start, this is a long way to fall. We have potential and you’ve shown hints of sweetness, but you keep on pushing me away - and your autonomous mean interactions? Not okay. It wasn’t cute when boys did that in grade school, and it’s far from cute now. If your aim is to sabotage yourself, then you’re succeeding spectacularly.” (Forest: nervously sweating...)

“Lee - much like Forest, yet worse. While I get the sense that Forest has the potential - and maybe even the want - to be something better than his past behaviour, you on the other hand seem perfectly happy with just how you present yourself. Well, I’m not. I like the version of you who is friends with Tiago and who has some moments of vulnerability, not whatever this is.” (Lee: unbothered, totally convinced this is all a ruse...)

(Araminta: hoping to the old Watchers and the new that Forest is going home...)

“Piper - if only we had even a little romance, my dear. But at least with me - or perhaps even with life in general - that just doesn’t seem to be what you’re looking for, and that’s okay. You stepped out of your comfort zone to try something that doesn’t come naturally to you, and for that you’ll have my eternal admiration. But I’m afraid that this chapter of your story ends here.”

“Aubrey - you’re here for a good time, but sadly not a long time. One of the most gorgeous sims I’ve ever laid eyes upon, and I really enjoyed your sense of fun, your mischief and your creativity. As there’s no spark between us, however, let’s just say it’s been real and move on. You were a delight to get to know - I hope we can catch up again after the show.”

“Forest, something is telling me not to let you go just yet. And if I’m wrong, then more fool me. This is a second chance for… whatever you need it to be, I guess. Those don’t come around often, or at all. Make the most of it. And if there’s any more mean behaviour - I may no longer be a werewolf but I’m not completely without bite. Man up and grow up, or get out.”

“Lee, here’s your fifteen minutes. Best of luck in building on them. And as the autonomy settings are driving the Watcher crazy - Araminta, you absolutely don’t need to talk to your horse Every Five Seconds - we’ll say our proper farewells tomorrow.  Sorry for the lack of decent screencaps, everyone, but you only have your pixel selves to blame.”

“Hey beautiful, so I totally know this is all a stunt. You have to leave the audience on a cliffhanger, right? Don’t worry, I’ll play along. I am a supremely talented actor after all - I can even cry on command!” “Mhmm…” (reflects on how that’s only a Level 2 interaction in the ACTING skill)

how scores were calculated

Ooof, I really wanted to take more of the bottom three in particular, but I was also this close to ejecting my EA folder into the sun. They will however each get a proper farewell from Lilac (and a thank you from me to their watchers) and their very own shiny post in broad daylight when hopefully the in-game lighting is better cooperating.

Also now we know just what Forest was up to that very last day. That little so-and-so realised that he was on thin ice and thus was skillbuilding like there was no tomorrow - which for him was almost the case! I will be including Aubrey's, Piper's and Lee's score details in their farewell posts and you will see just how close it all was.

@x-digitaldollhouse-x @tipsy-clouds @riverofjazzsims

@plasmafruittree @sleepyselkiesims @fl0pera

[cosmic-walkers]

I might be the only one who doesn't think that Thomas hates being the son of a blacksmith/lowborn (and let's be real, he was a blacksmith himself.) Fandoms tends to think he hates it, and he's ashamed of it, but I just never saw it.

In the books, he is constantly calling back to his past as a blacksmith, soldier, whatever, lowborn man, and he credits his feats and survival skills he learned back then, to the man he is now. To me, a huge thing about Thomas is that he does lose himself, he does love the power that comes with climbing up in nobility like any man would. But there is never a time when he is ashamed of himself, there is never a time when he wants to hide his past and regrets it. He despises Walter -let's get that straight. He does in fact, hate Walter. But the majority of people tend to conflate that with him hating the fact that he is a lowborn man.

When in reality, he loves that about himself. He loves that he didn't have to have a governess, a sophisticated tutor, or learn at the best schools in order to sit at the king's table. In fact, he can afford all those people now (before he worked with henry tbh), to make sure the boys in his house are well-learned. He loves the fact that he climbed up social ranks without having to have a noble family or bloodline attached to him. He adores the fact that Henry has people like Norfolk and Suffolk and other natural born nobles working for him, but they still, with their god given right and power, cannot do half the stuff a lowborn man from Putney can do.

Even in the first wolf hall book, Henry and Wriothesely DO find noble Cromwells and attempts to push Thomas to claim them, and to look into the matter and he says no. Because he doesn't want to be noble by birth, he doesn't want to present as anything else than a lowborn man who rose to the top with his own merit.

There seems to be this idea in fandom that he is ashamed or embarrassed of being lowborn, but I never thought that. Like, he makes constant call backs to it in the books, and always credits his past, being a black smith, and being low born to survival.

Of course, he hates when people look down on him. That makes him upset, especially because he knows he is better than the nobles who are usually speaking down on him. But like, to be angry is natural. Insecurity when people speak down on you, is natural.

But, he does not hate his past. He never aspired to be noble by birth, he never wanted to hide who he was or his past. He began as a lowborn man, and is prideful in the fact that as a lowborn man, he could do so much more than the natural born nobles/royals.

now if you do wanna see people in wolf hall who hate the fact that they are low born or tied to low born people, thomas more and stephen gardiner are standing right there. thomas more, who is extremely self cautious about the fact that he and thomas knew each other from lambeth because he loathes the idea that a lowborn child could one day be his peer. and it has to make him acknowledge the fact that not to far off in his own lineage, he also has lowborn blood in his veins, as either his father or grandfather was a baker, and mistake, and t. more could've also been a baker. and for thomas more, someone so devout to the religious order, and nobility being ordained by god, can you imagine the fuckery that goes on in his mind? he knows that he is noble, but by his religion, should he even be here? was his life falling to shambles a part of divine punishment? perhaps, this is his thought process.

And then there is Stephen, who is not just a bastard but a bastard whom no one knows where he comes from. The theory that he is a tudor is very very, slippery at best, because there is no historical evidence to document that, and even if he was he was utterly abandoned. Historically, Stephen did not come from a family of note, and only got to where he was because of his own merit and skills, and proved himself to both Henry and Wolsey over and over again. The reason that Stephen *is* nobility now, is because he is a Bishop. That is quite literally the only reason, and he had to prove himself. Combining this with whomever we have in the books, it is very very evident that Stephen, hates the fact that he wasn't natural born nobility. He hates the fact he was a bastard, lowborn, and that he probably doesn't even know where he comes from.

So this idea that Thomas Cromwell hates being lowborn, makes no sense to me, and it doesn't hold up canonically. Especially, when we actually see characters in the show how absolutely despite the fact that they are lowborn, or related to people who *are* low born.

[ariaste]

Hello, professional author here. I agree with mmmmooost of the above (certainly agree with the general idea that you should free your mind from worrying anxiously about the audience too much, DEFINITELY agree with practicing engaging with a piece of art on its own terms) but I have a couple philosophical quibbles to.... well, quibble about.

First of all, the black-and-white framing of the dichotomy of "pushing a product" (coded here as a Bad Thing, perhaps even a Contemptible Thing) versus "creating a work of art" (coded here as a Good Thing, perhaps even an Admirable Thing). For one thing, these two states aren't necessarily mutually exclusive. I think that what the above poster meant by the word "product" was probably "cheap corporate shit with nothing to say and no intention or care behind it except to make money", except.... There is this myth in our culture that artists shouldn't ever worry about money at all, that you should make art purely for the love of it, etc etc. This myth is the justification that those big corporations use to defend their decision to underpay creatives (e.g. writers, animators, voice actors, visual artists, etc etc etc etc). Like, the whole AI art thing that's happening right now is linked to the brutal devaluing of artistic labor. I'm a professional author; my work is my job, and my work is valuable and worthy of fair compensation. So I do want to gently push back against the implication that an artist can't or shouldn't ever think of their art as a product (and here I am using the word "product" in its more neutral sense of simply "a thing that can be sold for money"). If we as professional artists want to fight back against the corporate exploitation of art, we HAVE to start valuing our artistic work, understanding the ins and outs of the business, and defending both our right and the rights of our colleagues to earn a living from the job.

So let's rephrase "pushing a product" to a more neutral term, one that's actually used in the publishing industry: "Writing to a market".

Here is the thing that I want to point out for any aspiring authors... "Writing to a market" versus "writing for yourself" is not an either-or situation, but a SPECTRUM. There are many circumstances where you actually do NEED to consider the audience -- if you're writing children's picture books, for example, then I damn well hope you're writing for your audience, because your audience has very particular unique needs that have to be served. "Writing to a market" is also used for things like the romance genre (please note that this too is often WILDLY devalued and considered contemptible in our society, and that is 100% because of misogyny committed by people of all genders) -- a romance book has a structure to it the same way that a sonnet has a structure, and if it does not follow that structure, then it is simply not a sonnet, but some other kind of poem. Knowing those genre conventions is part of writing to a market. Even just saying "I'm going to write this book for all the 16 year old girls who, like me, really wanted the princess to slay the dragon" is writing to a market -- but it is ALSO sincere and genuine and authentic to you yourself.

Imagine an actor on stage. They MUST do some thinking about their audience -- where are they standing? Can they be seen, or are they hidden (either could be important)? Are they speaking loudly enough to be heard or are they making the audience strain to hear them (these too could be important, depending)? Are they getting the timing of this joke right so that the audience laughs? For a professional author, generally the baseline "thinking about the audience" things you do are: 1) age bracket and 2) genre. Like, where is your book going to be shelved in the bookstore so people can find it?

And that's how I know that Miyazaki in the above screenshot is... being a LITTLE hyperbolic. He doesn't NEVER consider the audience (I daresay that he knows that one category of his audience is "people who love animation", for example) -- he just doesn't let his ANXIETY about the audience rule his creative decision making. He does not let the audience and their expectations/demands become the tyrants of his art.

So it's a spectrum, not an either-or -- there are definitely people who are hard at one end of the spectrum or the other (on one hand, people who ARE producing soulless AI-generated corporate drivel, and on the other hand, people who are making the WEIRDEST art you have EVER seen, truly and aggressively pushing the limit of "can this be understood or related to by even one single other human being"), but there is an ocean of fuzzy grey shades in the center, and I for one did not realize that until I was knee-deep in it.

You don't have to Never Consider The Audience in order to be an artist. But I would recommend, at minimum, setting some healthy boundaries in your own head between yourself and the audience. Decide what they do and don't get to say to you. Decide what kind of treatment you will and won't put up with. Decide how much you're prepared to allow your work to be impacted by your imaginary worries about what someone else might think (What will your mother say if you paint that nude portrait? What will the internet say if you tell that story? What will some rando on twitter say if you post that photograph?).

Here is where I'm at on the Death of the Audience spectrum, at least for right now (this might change over time, but that's okay. I get to change my mind as much as I want). Put beneath a cut because it was starting to get a little long...

For me, writing a book is like inviting a few people over to my house for a nice home-cooked dinner. I'm going to make sure there is food enough to feed them; I'm going to make sure that it is nourishing and well-cooked to the best of my ability; I'm going to invite them into my home and welcome them to a seat on the couch and offer them a drink (tea? fancy little cocktail? can of soda? glass of water, with or without ice?). I'm going to communicate what's in each dish and have a variety of options, so that the people at my table can pick the things they like and avoid the things they dislike (or have allergies to, or that their doctor advised them to avoid, or that they're not eating for personal ethical reasons, etc etc).

But here's the other thing. The dinner guests don't get to decide what I'm putting on the table. I'm going to cook dishes that I like (because I'm the one having to cook them, and I'm the one living with the leftovers!). More than that, I'm going to cook dishes that I'm confident about -- by which I mean that I'm going to practice a brand-new recipe in private for a while, just in case it goes wrong, before I put it on the table for guests. Now, that said, if a very dear friend texted in advance of the dinner party, "Hey, could you make those garlicky mashed potatoes again? I LOVED them" then I might listen to them -- but then again, I might already have my own menu plan. (Sorry, friend! But the compliment is accepted with love and gratitude, as a compliment, rather than as a demand.) I'm always trying to expand my skills as a cook and exploring new recipes and techniques, but I'm going to do that on my schedule. Nobody gets to tell me when my pumpkin spice cream puff recipe has been perfected enough to be presentable -- that's between me and the kitchen gods. This ain't a restaurant, after all, it's my home!

If someone wanders in off the street to eat at my table, then they are welcome to all the hospitality of my house. But if they don't like the food or if I didn't make their favorite dish, I'm not going to let that ruin my day. They opted in when they crossed the threshold and came inside, and they can opt out just as easily if I'm not serving what they like. I am not the only source of food in the whole world, so they're not going to starve if I keep doing my thing and ticking off things from the list on my fridge and swearing under my breath because I forgot to season the green beans before I put them in the oven to roast and now I'll have to wing it with a savory sauce or something to put on them instead.

A VERY EXTENDED AND POSSIBLY CONFUSING METAPHOR but I hope you see the shape of what I'm getting at here. Again, this philosophy might change in the years to come. But for now, this is the amount of consideration that I give the audience. Your mileage may vary! :)

fuck an "intended audience" how about we normalize engaging with new and unfamiliar art pieces on their own terms

[middleearthpixie]

I'll See You in My Dreams ~ Chapter One

Summary: Noelle James knows soul mates exist, the trouble is, she just can’t seem to find hers. Especially since hers seemed to have existed only in the world of cinema and The Hobbit movies. No one believes she actually spent time in Tolkien’s Middle Earth and even fewer believe Thorin Oakenshield existed in her world, either. 

So when she finds herself unexpectedly alone on yet another Christmas, she has no way of knowing exactly what the universe has in store for her this time.The trouble is, this man claiming to be Thorin can’t possibly be him, for he died at the hands of Azog the Defiler at Ravenhill. She saw him die with her own eyes.

So, it can’t be him.

Or can it?

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Noelle James

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.2k

Read on AO3

New Jersey, present day

The pond was frozen. 

Of course, everything was frozen. All the weathermen kept going on about was how cold December had been. Far colder than it had been for years. A white Christmas was not only hinted at, but practically guaranteed by those talking heads. Sure enough. By December twenty-third, there was at least six inches of fresh powder blanketing all but the furthest points south in New Jersey and it had been snowing on and off since Christmas Eve.

Normally, Noelle loved Christmas. Especially white Christmases, which happened about as often as total solar eclipses. Which was to say, they happened next to never. The last one she recalled was three years ago, and it reminded her very much like this one.

She would spend it alone, licking her wounds from yet another breakup.

Of course, to be fair, unlike three years ago, Rich didn't cheat on her. There were no suddenly cancelled plans that resulted in a late night phone call and a confession about screwing a coworker. 

No, this was, for all intents and purposes, a civil, grown up, mature breakup. She couldn’t even fault him, really. His fatal flaw?

He wished to get married and she didn’t.

That was it. 

They’d broken up in person, in a café in Paris, of all places. She’d flown out to visit him, excited to see him after a long time apart (his work took him all over the globe and he kept some terrible hours as well) but something happened when she’d arrived. Actually, it was more like after a few days in France. It’d begun wonderfully, every bit as romantic as in any movie—they didn't even get any sleep her first night there, as they were far too busy christening every flat surface in his hotel suite. 

But, then something went wrong. Something Noelle couldn’t put her finger on, but it definitely sent their relationship on a collision course with disaster. It seemed that with each passing minute, things soured a bit more. They didn't fight. There were no accusations or jealousy or anything. It just felt… wrong.

It all came to a head on her last night in France, when over coffee at that sidewalk cafe, she returned the absolutely stunning two-carat, princess cut engagement ring to an equally stunned Rich, telling him she didn't know why, but she’d changed her mind about getting married. She couldn’t explain it. She just knew she wasn't ready. 

But he must have felt the same, for there were no pleas to work on their relationship, no suggestion that perhaps if he cut back on work (which she would never ask him to do anyway, not at this point in his career) or maybe if they just postponed their wedding date, it would all work out.

No, there was none of that. A hint of confusion swirled in his brilliant blue eyes, but he’d nodded and ran his hand though his spiky hair, which had been mostly black when they’d met, was now highlight with streaks of silver. It suited him, though. She often told him so.

But not that night. That night, her eyes stung and her throat squeezed shut as he’d murmured, “You’re probably right, Noe. I think I’ve felt it as well and was just too scared to say anything, that if I didn’t, it would simply go away. But, still, thank you for being honest with me.”

“Of course.” She’d reached across the table to cover his long-fingered hand with hers, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

He’d met her gaze once more, a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. “I will miss you, you know. Who else will tell me when my American accent needs work?”

“Hire a better dialect coach than the one you’d had,” she’d managed, “and you’ll be fine.”

He’d nodded, drew in a deep breath, and then let it out as he said, “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.” She reached for her purse and stood, then came around to his side of the table to bend and pressed a light kiss into his soft hair. “Take care of you, too, Rich.”

And that was that. It ended not with a crash. Not with a bang. But with only a soft whisper.

She lived in New York, in a high-rise luxury apartment building on Duane Street. Her public relations firm had grown by leaps and bounds in the last three years—with her opening offices in Los Angeles and Miami—and she could now afford the penthouse in her building if she so desired, but she loved her cozy space and had no desire to move. Not even to the penthouse above her. That cozy space was hers.

But, once she’d returned to New York, she found being in the apartment left her restless, with interrupted sleep. When she did manage to fall into a sound sleep, it was only to be plagued by strange dreams that made no sense. She began to consider buying that penthouse, and finally told her realtor that she’d changed her mind and negotiations were underway. 

However, the holiday season slowed everything to a crawl and when her mother invited her to spend her birthday (December twenty-third) and Christmas in her childhood home, the pull of nostalgia proved too powerful to ignore.

So there she was, out by the pond upon which she’d ice skated as a child, watching the snow fall and trying not to think about how damn cold it was. 

“Noe, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mom!” Noelle tried to force a cheer she didn't feel into her voice as her mother, Diane crunched through the powder toward her.

“You don't look fine.” 

“Well, I am.”

Pulling her colorful knit shawl more tightly about her, Diane made a clicking noise with her tongue, then after a brief hesitation, said, “Why didn't you call him back?”

“He was just calling to wish me a Merry Christmas, Mom. We’re not getting back together.”

“But he called you. On your birthday. Maybe he—”

“Mom,” Noelle shook her head, still staring out at the pond’s mirror-like surface, “he doesn’t want to get back together, either. We agreed it was best for both of us. So, even if I talked to him, it wouldn’t change anything. Now, I know you loved the idea of a movie star son-in-law, but I’m not marrying him. He’s okay with it. I’m okay with it. You have to get okay with it.”

“That’s not what I meant.” A hint of hurt wove through her voice. “I just feel that you left it unfinished. How do you get closure that way?”

“It wasn't unfinished. I gave him his ring back. It does’t really get any more finished than that. Trust me, closure is not needed in this instance.”

“He sent us a Christmas card, you know. It came in the mail last week.”

Noelle tried to ignore the hopeful notes that crept into her mother’s voice, tried to fight down her rising annoyance. Her mother meant well, but Noelle was starting to wish she’d remained in New York. “He’s not a jerk, Mom. But, he’s also not going to be my husband. Now, can we please not talk about him any more.”

“Of course. I’m sorry to pry.”

“I know and I—I don’t mean to be so bitchy about it.” Noelle looked over at her mother, feeling a pang of guilt at her mother’s expression. Diane meant well. She always did. And she wasn't the sort of mother who kept asking when Noelle would get married or give her grandchildren or anything like that. In fact, she rarely even asked if Noelle was dating, and if she was dating, her mother never once asked if they had ever discussed marriage. 

Which was why Noelle thought she’d disappointed her even more. 

“Can I ask what happened?”

Noelle sighed, shaking her head. “We just wanted different things is all. And really, his work is as important to him as mine is to me and neither of us would want to give it up.”

There was no reason to tell Diane about the dreams. Or about the emptiness she felt when she awoke from them and found Rich asleep beside her instead of the man in those dreams. A man who’d existed, but only to her when all was said and done.

“Well, don’t stay out here too long.”

“I won’t.” 

Diane crunched her way back toward the large white house where Noelle had spent a wonderful childhood, and with a soft sigh, Noelle turned back to the pond. It reminded her of one of her favorite places in Central Park. 

Well, it had been one of them. Now? Now she winced at the memory. She rarely went to Central Park any longer. 

“Don't think about it,” she whispered even as her eyes stung. “Don’t think about him.”

The wind stirred then, the tree branches above her rustling although they bore no leaves at this point. It seemed the woods were speaking to her, almost taunting her as she tried to forget the one man who’d been forever imprinted upon her mind and her body. The one man she’d loved completely and wholly and unlike any other man she’d ever been with.

The one man who no one in her world could remember.

The one man who’d finally remembered her when she’d found her way into his world.

The one man who’d died in her arms.

My soul will find yours. 

She had allowed herself to believe Rich was just that soul in a different body. For a while, she had believed it wholeheartedly. But then, over these past few months, doubt crept in as the dreams began. She was a fool to think souls could find one another. Dead was dead, whether in her world or another. No matter how badly she wished to believe it, Rich was not Thorin. Thorin was gone and was not coming back.

The sky was almost purple, and the first stars twinkled against the growing darkness. The wind blew harder now, almost whistling through those naked branches stretching overhead like skeleton arms reaching into the growing twilight. Perhaps her ears and mind collaborated to play tricks on her, but she’d swear she heard the trees whispering something to her. 

Something that sounded very much like, “Thorin is here.”

But trees didn't talk, except for the creepy ones in The Wizard of OZ, and so Noelle ignored it as she turned to make her way back toward the house. 

Thorin’s eyes snapped open as if someone had shouted his name in his ear. He lay flat on his back, staring up at a late afternoon sky gone hazy dark grey, and snowflakes swirled about him in all direction to muffle all sound.

Except for the soft rush of water than came from somewhere in the distance to his left. The river, no doubt. Thank Mahal. The song that had plagued him had gone silent now, left him in peace up on Ravenhill. He need only get to his feet and get back into the warmth of Erebor. 

But something wasn’t right.

As he lay there, snow settling in his hair, his beard, on his clothes, he realized that he heard more than that simply rush of water. The sounds reaching his ears weren’t familiar, but he had the feeling he’d heard them before. In a dream, perhaps? Was that even possible?

He sat up slowly, shaking the snow from his beard as he twisted to look first to his left, than his right. The river was gone. The black and grey stone fortress of Ravenhill was gone. In their place, he saw a frozen-over pond and what looked like a low castle of grayish white stone.

“Sounds like Belvedere Castle. You probably came through in Central Park.”

The voice speaking those words was no longer low and raspy, but instead feminine—silky and throaty and while it was as unfamiliar as his surroundings, he knew he’d heard it before.

“Mahal,” he muttered, drawing the backs of his fingers along the left side of his jaw, “is this even possible?” 

As he sat there, he became very much aware of the dampness seeping into his heavy woolen trousers, so he slowly got to his feet. Once upright, he slowly looked about. Central Park. He knew this place, even if his memory of it was rather fuzzy. 

There was a pond. Turtle Pond. A magical place with a strange name. And beyond that, Belvedere Castle.

His heart sped up as the memories slowly returned. He’d been here before. More than once. And it was in this realm that he’d found her.

He smiled, his heart giving a strange leap, one he hadn’t felt in a lifetime. 

Noelle.

Her name simply rose in his memory. 

Noelle.

Beautiful Noelle, with her fall of wildly tousled red curls and eyes that were a perfect blend of sea and sky, becoming more of one than the other, depending on her mood. 

How could he have possibly forgotten her?

Mahal must have hidden her until the time was right, until the time came where he was meant to find her again. That’s why he’d fallen back into Central Park. To find his Noelle. 

He smiled. 

She was here. He wasn't exactly certain where she was, but he knew he’d find her, just as he’d found her the first time. 

With that, he started down the pathway, just as he’d done before. As he walked, the sounds of water faded and the sounds of machines he didn't quite understand grew louder. The lights grew brighter.

The memories, so slow at first, rushed forward to flood his mind with images that had him moving even faster now. His boots thudded dully on first tarmac, then sidewalk, as he left Central Park (he knew it was Central Park now) behind him.

But, the machines on the far side of the concrete gave him pause. He remembered the yellow ones were called cabs, but he didn't know if that meant all yellow carriages, so he paused near the corner of a building that towered so high above him, he bent over almost backward in an attempt to see the top. Not even Erebor or Ravenhill came close to soaring as high as the buildings in this strange city did. That he knew for certain.

He peered at the yellow carriages whizzing by, their wheels sending up slushy spray at those unlucky enough to be too close to the roadside. Although there was no chance of any hitting him, Thorin stepped closer to the building just the same. He tried not to draw too much attention to himself from the throngs of people hurrying past him. After all, none of them had a sword that he could see. 

From his spot near the building, he watched how other people manage to get a carriage to stop for them. It took little more than putting a hand up, and one of the yellow conveyances drew to a stop alongside the sidewalk. Simple enough. 

The last time he was in this city, he remembered being in one of the carriages. With Noelle. She gave her residence as being on Duane Street. Like the building in whose shadow he stood, that building also rose toward the heavens, higher than any other buildings he’d ever seen. 

The trouble was, he had no idea where Duane Street was in relation to where he stood. That meant he’d have to try his luck in convincing one of those cabs to stop for him.

With that, he pushed away from the building, moving toward the road as if it was something he’d done all the time. Snow swirled in all directions beneath the streetlights, and when he held up a hand, it took all of about thirty seconds for a coach to stop for him.

He tugged open the back door, as he’d seen Noelle do, and winced at the blast of heat that nearly knocked him back a step. Still, he carefully sank into the cracked vinyl seat and said, “Duane Street.”

“Do you have a number?”

“No.”

“You wanna take Eleventh Ave or Seventh to get there?”

“Whichever is quickest.”

“This time of day? Six of one, half dozen of the other, pal. Which one you wanna go?”

Thorin scowled. “Seventh, then.”

“You got it.”

And with that, they were off. The driver seemed to pay no heed to all of the horns around him, but wove in and out of traffic as if he was the only one on the road. Thorin held his breath with each honk, closing his eyes as he silently asked Mahal to watch over him, for it seemed to him the driver had a bit of a death wish. It was difficult to remember was his last cab ride had been like here. He had been concentrating far more on how Noelle’s thigh pressed up against his every time they took a turn, and that was far more pleasant than this ride. 

But finally, the cab abruptly pulled to the side. “That’ll be twenty one-fifty, mister.”

Thorin hesitated. He had no money from this world on his person. But, he had something he hoped would be considered just as valuable.

“I’ve none of your bills,” he began, holding out a small, golden coin, “but I think this might suffice.”

The driver stared at the coin. “Are you serious?”

“Take it. I think you’ll be pleased.”

“What kind of game you playin’, man?”

“I play no games. Trust me, that is pure gold. Feel it.” Thorin waited for him to hold out his hand, then dumped the coin into the driver’s palm, sighing back his smile at the way the man’s eyes went wide. 

He didn't wait for the driver to say anything, but pushed the door open and emerged from the cab into the night air that seemed even chillier after nearly forty minutes in the overheated vehicle. Apparently the driver didn't mind being paid in gold, for as soon as Thorin shoved the door closed, the vehicle’s tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb to disappear into the thickening grayness until only the red dots of the lights on the cab's rear were visible.

Unfortunately, as he looked around, Thorin realized he recognized nothing. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time he had to hunt to find a residence. He’d gotten lost twice in the Shire looking for Bilbo Baggins’ house, and that was nothing compared to the time he and his company had gotten lost in Mirkwood. 

So, with that, he began walking. With neither sun nor stars to guide him, he had no idea what direction he moved. Still, he kept moving until finally, he saw something familiar. 

Actually, no. The building wasn’t at all familiar to his eyes. 

But to his heart? That was another story. He didn't have to recognize to know he’d found the right place.

The building doorman smiled as Thorin tugged open one of the heavy smoked glass doors and stepped into the lobby. “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?”

Thorin drew in a deep breath as he attempted to quell the hundreds of butterflies that had suddenly let loose in his belly. “I’m here to see Miss James.”

“Is she expecting you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” 

The doorman’s smile faded. “I see. Very well. Who should I tell her is calling?”

“Tell her it’s Thorin.”

A thin grey eyebrow arched. “Thorin?”

“She will know me.”

“Very well.  I’ll let Miss James know you’re here, Mr. … Thorin.”

“I thank you.” 

He stepped back as the doorman lifted something to his ear. “Miss James, you have a visitor.”

The doorman’s eyes narrowed as they fell on Thorin once more. “He says his name is Thorin.” Those pale grey eyes, almost the same shade as his eyebrows, narrowed. “Yes, of course.”

He set down the device. “Miss James will be down in a moment. You may have a seat over there, if you wish.”

Thorin turned toward the dark brown leather chairs on the opposite side of the lobby. “Thank you.”

He didn't trouble to tell the doorman that he’d find it impossible to sit. Instead, he crossed to those chairs and just paced, painfully aware of the way the doorman’s eyes seemed to follow him constantly. 

A chime echoed along the building’s marble and chrome interior and at the far end of the corridor, two silver doors slid open and for a moment, Thorin was convinced he’d stepped into one of his dreams. 

Three years had passed since he last laid eyes upon Noelle and he chided himself on how he could have possibly forgotten how beautiful she truly was. His eyes stung with unexpected tears as she strode toward him, and he wondered if this was how she felt when she’d come to him in his world, when she’d nearly knocked him off his feet by leaping unexpectedly into his arms.

Then a hint of a knot twisted in his gut. Something was wrong. Noelle didn't smile as she approached him. In fact, she looked almost angry, her lips in a thin, narrow line, her brows pulled low with a furrow between them.

“Who are you?” Anger smoked her words about their edges as she stormed up to him.

This was definitely not the greeting he’d expected and without thinking, he took a step back. “What do you mean, who am I?”

“I mean just that. Who are you, because if this supposed to be some sort of prank or something, it’s not funny at all.”

Her voice, heated as it was, was also exactly as he remembered. Husky. Rich. Almost velvety in its smoothness. “A prank? I don’t understand. It’s me, Noelle.”

“How do you know my name?”

He frowned. Had she forgotten him? Had Mahal hidden him from her as she’d been hidden from him for all this time? Holding out one hand, he tried to catch hers. “It’s me, Noelle,” he repeated, his throat tightening as she jerked back from him. “Thorin.”

“No.” She shook her head, her mane of dark red curls bouncing violently. “No, you are not him. Now, what kind of game are you playing with me, because,” she gestured with small device she held in her left hand, “I’ve already pulled up 911 and if you think I won’t hit send, you’re nuts. Now, tell me who the fuck you are!” 

“Noelle, I assure you, I play no games. It’s me, Tho—” 

He didn't get the chance to finish, as she drew back and hit him, her fist slamming into his jaw with enough force that he stumbled back. “Fuck you,” she snarled, her voice breaking. “I don't know who you are or what you’re about, but Thorin is dead. I saw him die. I held him as it happened and if this is Ian’s idea of a joke, I’ll punch him when I see him next. So, fuck off and leave me alone!”

Before he could say a word, she spun away from him. “Mr. Jeffries, if this man is not gone in two minutes, call the police and do not let him convince you I know him.”

Mr. Jeffries looked as shocked as Thorin felt, but nodded just the same. “Yes, Miss James.”

She stormed off without a backwards look and as Thorin turned toward the doorman, it was to see him reaching for the same device he’d used to alert Noelle to his presence.

“Mr. Jeffries,” Thorin moved closer to the man’s desk, still rubbing his jaw, “when Miss James calms down some, please tell her that I am alive and well and will find some way to prove it to her.”

A thin grey brow rose again. “I think it best if took your leave now. I should hate to have to have you arrested.”

Thorin agreed, he’d hate to find himself arrested, and that was the only reason he didn't demand to be let up to her flat. 

But that didn't mean he was giving up, for he wasn’t. It wasn't in his nature to surrender so easily and so he forced himself to smile at Mr. Jeffries.

“I’m taking my leave now. But, please tell her that.” Thorin cast a last glance over his shoulder at the silver doors, now closing on Noelle’s furious figure and sighed. He hadn’t thought he might not be able to convince her that he didn’t actually die on the ice floe at Ravenhill. He’d been fairly certain that she’d be relieved to see that not only hadn’t he died there, but that he’d managed to find his way back to her, that she’d be as overjoyed at seeing him as he was at seeing her. 

A serious miscalculation, it seemed. 

A very serious miscalculation.

Still, he’d find a way to convince Noelle he was alive and well and had come back for her. He just needed a little help, is all.

Since Mr. Jeffries was still holding his device and still giving him the side eye, Thorin left the apartment lobby to venture back out into the cold and snow. 

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[antirepurp]

oh worm there's still not like a detailed tutorial for modding the cyber corrupted sonic model but another tutorial i checked mentioned some details about it that are kind of helpful? i was already thinking about giving that another go but maybe i can actually get the model to behave this time

[alchemiclee]

been looking in tags for a few days now to see if anyone else found the whole high cloud quintet and related story to be a bit.....poorly written, nonsensical, contradictory, full of plot holes and loose ends, etc. apparently i'm not the only one. (and i'm not even talking about shipping stuff, because any time I saw someone mad about bad writing, someone always replies to be homophobic and laugh about failed ships. weirdos.) it could have been so good but was thrown into the garbage for the most part (IF you noticed all the plot holes and contradiction. if not, then it's a fine enough story tbh. I expect most people to see it on surface level and not read all the little hidden lore bits and try to piece it together like my autistic brain did. which is ok! enjoy it if you liked it and ignore me 😆)

[voodoodaaddy]

Alastor used to believe he would rather hunt alone, but maybe there’s a part of him that liked the company. Didn’t deer have herds? Perhaps that’s what he had been craving for lately. Some sort of comradely between those who understood what he is. He doesn’t know how much longer this can last though. Lucifer had been snooping. Didn’t matter what version of him it was, if Lucifer is the same at the core, he knows he’s keep on closing the portals up.

He’ll enjoy what he has for now however. As much as he possibly can.

Taking his bowl he went to get himself another helping before returning to his seat. “I have enjoyed it as well. Stella’s routines are easy to track. As a very pampered Goetia, all her business involves manicures, facials, clothes shopping and tea with her brother. On weekends she visits the Lust Ring—I of course can’t follow her there myself but I have contracts that spy on her. It’s like clock work when she returns; after being thoroughly taken care of no doubt, she’s relaxed and probably distracted. She arrives home at 2am each time. So if we are to pick a night it would be best on weekends during that time frame."

“Oh yes! Coolers we can put the remains in to keep fresh. I have them back at my dimension. I use them during hunts.” He didn’t mind eating rotting flesh, however, he wants to keep Stella’s remains succulent. It will be a waste to allow any part of her to rot. All the muscle, meat, and bones had power within them. The fresher the parts are, the remaining power will stay in tact. “I’ll have to admit, I’ve never had one of these before, and I certainly have no idea how my body may react to it. She hold a lot of power after all.” He knows power can feel like a high, to much power all at once could muddle things up a bit. He’s certain though if they split it all up, it won’t be as intense.

Alastor finished off his bowl rather quickly, he didn’t realize just how hungry he had been until now. Thinking about devouring Stella, really kicked up his appetite.

“If this is successful, I believe we can slowly start moving up the ladder and target someone even BIGGER than her.”

[zyafics]

CAN YOU PLEASE, PLEASE ON MY KNEES WRITE ABOUT BITCHY!READER X RAFE AND IT'S SMUT?? I FEEL LIKE YOU'LL DO IT JUSTICE!!! thank you

you literally read my mind because i was just thinking of this prompt that works so well with bitchy!reader!! hope you'll enjoy <3 (if it’s bad, look away!!)

WHATEVER SHE WANTS | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Blurb) | x Bitchy!Kook!Female Reader

Content — 18+, power/dominance play, p in v, doggy style, orgasm denial, and dirty talks

Word Count — 2.2K

lıllılı Whatever She Wants by Bryson Tiller

You always wanted Rafe.

It's your right. Since you were a child, you demanded the best in everything—toys, clothes, boyfriends. They had to be perfect. Had to be yours. And yes, it may come off a little superficial but who cares? It's what you deserve, and it'll be hell if you don't get it.

Since the first look, when you caught Rafe lounging on a chair with his friends, tipping the rim of his beer onto his lips, while his eyes scanned over the room in an attractive lazy way, you knew you had to have him. It didn't help that you were competitive, and Rafe garnered attention with women. They flocked to him and begged for a minute of his time. It became a game to you, and that heightened your need.

Everything was calculated. The makeup you wore, the outfits you curated, the glances. You always timed your arrivals—when you knew Rafe would be watching the door—and marked your exits. You knew exactly what to wear—dresses that tantalizing exposes your ass, but only as a preview—and the cosmetic style he liked. Rafe's the type of man who believes he wants a bare-faced woman, but truly, he wants something natural that enhances your features.

You came with friends. You left alone. You drank enough to loosen your nerves and danced with the crowd, but not enough to make a fool of yourself. You knew your tolerance and knew Rafe didn't like a messy girl.

At least, in public.

You caught his gaze a couple of times, flashing a flirtatious smile over your shoulders, but never lingered longer than three seconds. Rafe can't know how easy he can have you, because Rafe, like most boys, loves a chase. You're not easy, you're spoiled. He had to come to you.

And he did.

Rafe tried to introduce himself on several occasions. On those nights when you're leaving early—as planned—Rafe would cut to the door to pay a parting remark. "You're leaving so soon?" he would ask, "Alone? Again?" He would add. You always told him it was because no one caught your eye, and Rafe took that as a personal challenge. He would then try to tell you his name, as if he were different, to which you nod—detached—as if it didn't matter.

It drove him insane.

Because you didn't offer the same courtesy. You kept him guessing. He had to finally ask around to learn your name, which he would use to tease you the next time he saw you. And he did. And you laughed. But you acted like you didn't care. Like all the trouble he went through didn't prove a thing. That's when Rafe knew he needed you.

Tonight's no different. Just as you're about to leave, Rafe catches you with another smooth pick-up line. You just giggle. He studies how your eyes crinkle with amusement, the curve of your lips painted in his favorite shade of lipstick, and the lithe tilt of your head to the side as you ask him with your gaze, is that the best you got?

It isn't. But Rafe's determined to get further with you tonight. He continues to talk, asking about which men disappointed you and the reasons for your constant disappearances from these parties. And, for once, you're answering his questions with little resistance. Perhaps, it's because of the amount of cheap wines you consumed, or maybe you—for once—are tired of the games and want it to come to a fruitful end. Because when Rafe finally asks to take you home, you don't say no.

The walk to his truck is brisk. His arm wrapped around your waist, directing your path, while his fingers trail over the backless cut of your dress, producing a buzzing feeling beneath your skin. He's whispering something in your ear, but all of it is incomprehensible as you revel in the feeling of his touch and his touch alone. The feeling of your game coming to a conclusion.

And, just as you're about to reach the car, Rafe slams you into the side of the vehicle with a searing kiss.

His mouth catches yours and everything feels perfect. As if the buildup leading to this precise moment had been worth it, and every needy emotion rises to the top. His hand travels down the length of your body, to your hips, pulling you closer, and needing to eliminate all the space and wait you made him do.

Rafe's movements are swift and controlled. One of his hands props open the backdoor of his car, pushing you inside, and laying you against his leather seats. All without breaking the kiss.

"You don't know how long I wanted this, wanted you," Rafe blubbers between wet kisses. "Seeing you at every party, in these tiny dresses, not being able to touch," he rasps, bundling the hem of your dress into a tight fist. "Tell me you wear them for me."

"And if I did?" You say with a moan, tipping your head back to grant him access to your neck. "Did you like them?"

"Of course I did," he murmurs against the curve of your neck, the vibration of his words sending heat straight to your core. "You dressing up for me like my own perfect doll."

You want to retort that it's him who's in the palm of your hand, but Rafe sucks on a sensitive spot, causing your eyes to roll back and a whimper to escape your lips instead. He grabs your wrists with one hand, throwing them over his shoulder as he pulls you flush against his chest.

"So pretty, so fucking untouchable," Rafe kisses down the length of your throat, his fingers collecting the spaghetti straps of your dress before sliding it down the slope of your shoulders. "I'm going to fuck you so good."

His words snap you out of your haze. And while Rafe continues to expose more of your body, lamenting each reveal of flesh with a kiss, you withdraw enough to grab his attention.

"You're not fucking me in a car."

"What?" Rafe breaths, unable to snap out of the trace you had him in. Delirious with want, his mind warped around the idea of you being so close to attainable, that all rational manners left his system. He tries to kiss you again, to resume the moment, but you pull enough to send him a deadly glare, pouty and spoiled.

"Rafe, take me somewhere nice or we're not fucking at all."

He can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe he's contemplating it. But Rafe doesn't understand that you have it all planned out to result in a perfect moment. You won't let it be disrupted just because Rafe can't drive the extra mile to take you somewhere nice. You'd rather leave him with blue balls.

"Are you serious?" He asks slowly, his eyes drawn to your swollen lips, the little pout, and the desperation to have them back on his. Sure, Rafe's had girls who wanted something more than a casual fling. He had them ask him for a better spot, but he never obliged. He never cared. But you're different. He wants you, and it's been a hell of a chase to get you here. He'll be damned if he lets it slip away because of a pretentious standard.

"Does it look like I'm joking?" You cross your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts further up. He nearly groans at the sight. "We're not having sex here."

"The nearest place has to be at least a fifteen-minute drive," Rafe argues. And it makes you upset, brows pinched together. "We can just—"

"I don't care," you snap. "Take me somewhere nice or I'm leaving."

You're serious. He sees it on your face. Rafe can't risk that, despite wanting to protest, because he knows he if he messes this up, he won't have another chance. Swearing under his breath, he drags himself out of the backseat and into the driver's side, pulling the car out of the parking lot.

Dangerously, Rafe speeds down the road, while you're sitting in the backseat with a self-satisfied demeanor, fixing your makeup through the rearview mirror. Occasionally, Rafe spares a glance through the same reflection, connecting with your gaze, and while there's subtle bitterness coiled in his chest, he recognizes the bigger prize at hand.

And what he can do with it.

Because, despite your bratty attitude, Rafe is a person who wants control. You want perfection. You two can have both.

That's how you find yourself in a newly-booked penthouse suite at one of the bougie hotels in Kildare, your head digging into the soft comforter of the bed, your ass in the air, as Rafe drills into you from behind.

When you reached the room, everything moved frantically. Rafe slammed you against the nearest wall to kiss you again—needing your lips, needing your taste—while his hands roamed over your dress and pulled down your cleavage, revealing your tits. Your hands wandered down his pants, unbuttoning them hurriedly, needily, and he assisted you by pulling them off alongside his boxers. His cock was big, slightly red with a pearly bead of pre-cum that rolls off the tip. And you could tell by the look on Rafe's face that he wanted you to suck it.

But you told him, "I don't do blowjobs."

So fucking pretentious.

It didn't matter. He hauled you over to the king-sized bed and pushed you onto the mattress. You landed with a soft thump, while Rafe hauled you up to your ass, pushing up your dress, until it became nothing but a bundle around your waist. His movements were urgent, and he wanted—no, needed—to be inside you because a bratty girl was going to be a great fuck.

And he was right.

You're perfect. The way you wrap around him, the way he sinks inside you. He doesn't know if it's because of the delirium of wanting you so desperately, of chasing you for so long—but he never had better pussy. And it doesn't help that your moans are sweet, breathy, and loud—begging him to go faster.

"Such a pretentious brat," Rafe grabs your throat, hauling you upwards till your spine rest on his chest, airway constricted by his harsh grip. "Making me wait this fucking long."

"R—Rafe," you mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your skull at the way he's angling his cock deep into your cervix, bullying the sensitive spot over and over again until you're seeing stars.

"Had to get the princess treatment, did you?" He murmurs hotly into your ear, nibbling a spot on your neck as you rest the back of your head on his shoulder. His thrusts grow more erratic. "Had to make me earn you, didn't you?"

"You weren't going to fuck me in a car," you persist, and despite how cockdrunk you became, and how much of an attitude you're willing to sacrifice to feel good, you were still adamant about receiving what you deemed enough. He respected that. "I'm not one of your whores."

"But I'm fucking you like my own personal slut. Is that any better?" He bites the lobe of your ear, and his other hand wanders up to grab a handful of your breast, squeezing the fat before rolling your perked nipple between his fingers. You moan louder. "What does that make you?"

You can't seem to answer him, can't seem to find your senses. The words Rafe uses are vulgar, but there’s still no regrets about this entire thing. Rafe wanted you so badly, that he was willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a hotel he probably won't even stay the night in. All because you demanded it.

You win.

"Shut up," you stammer, your stomach tightening. "Shut up and just fuck me, Rafe."

Rafe grins. The hand playing with your tits slips between your thighs to assist, finding your clit easily as he rubs it with his thumb in sync with his thrusts. Breathy moans escape you as you arch into his palm, while he pistons deeper inside of you, bottoming out.

"You sound so pretty, doll," Rafe murmurs against your heated skin, "Come on, take my fucking cock."

Everything’s so dirty. The way he handles you, the way your wetness drips down your thighs, the way his words breathe onto your skin and tighten your core. But you love it. You do, but you're not willing to give in so easily. No matter how good it feels. No matter how much he feels like a prize.

"You don't deserve me." You whisper with a mewl, body tightening with the familiar wave of your undoing.

Yet, Rafe merely grins.

"But you're sucking in my cock like you need me," Rafe taunts, pleasure coursing through his body at the way your walls grip him in a vice. The way your words spark challenge and invitation. He knows, despite your spoiled attitude and pretentious demands, he'll do anything to get another chance like this. "Now, behave like a good girl or you're not coming tonight."

IMPORTANT: if you want to follow my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

tagging @starkeysprincess bc she saw it first <3

[lostfracturess]

words you couldn't hear — satoru gojo

satoru's been hopelessly in love with you for years, but can only confess when you can't hear him. but someday—maybe someday soon—he'll tell you for real.

"How do these look?" you ask, slipping on a pair of noise-canceling headphones and striking a pose. "Be honest."

Satoru, who's been trailing behind you in the electronics store for the past hour without complaining like the best friend he's always been, looks up from the speaker he's been fiddling with. "You look good in anything."

"No, for real." You turn to check your reflection in a nearby screen. "Do they make my head look bigger? I feel like they make my head look bigger."

He snorts, reaching over to adjust the headband. His fingers brush against your temple, and you try not to think about how many times those same hands have absentmindedly played with your hair during movie nights, or how he still unconsciously reaches for you whenever he laughs too hard, just like he did when you were kids.

"That's what you're concerned about? The size of your head?"

"It's a valid concern."

"Your head is perfectly normal-sized," he assures you, his fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long as he fixes the fit. "Though I suppose all that overthinking has to go somewhere—"

You shoot him a look, but there's no heat behind it. Fifteen years of friendship has made you immune to his teasing — well, mostly immune.

You're not quite immune to the way your pulse quickens when he's standing this close, or how he still smells like that same cologne he's worn since high school, the one you helped him pick out for his first date with someone else while ignoring the weird ache in your chest.

"I really need good ones for studying," you say, checking the price tag. "My roommate talks way too much."

Satoru winces at the price. "Expensive. But they're supposedly the best."

"Worth every penny if they can block out her ramblings." You adjust the fit, immediately noticing how they muffle the noise of the shop. "Oh wow, these are actually incredible. Say something so I can test them properly."

"What should I say?"

You arch an eyebrow at him. "Anything. Just need to check if they work."

His expression shifts then, melting into something tender as his lips move. Even though you can't hear the words, something about the gentle way he's looking at you makes your heart flutter strangely in your chest.

"These are perfect!" you say, pulling them off, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. "I couldn't hear you at all. What did you say?"

Satoru leans against the display counter, chin propped in his hand as he watches you fiddle with the headphone cord, a fond smile playing at his lips. "Nothing really," he murmurs, but there's something soft in his expression, something unguarded that makes your heart skip.

You pause, catching the way he's looking at you — like you're something precious, something more than just his best friend of fifteen years. "Satoru?" you say softly.

He seems to catch himself then, straightening abruptly as a flush creeps up his neck. "Ah, yes. Should we, uh." His voice comes out slightly strangled. "Should we get these paid for? Before they close?"

"The store closes in two hours."

"Better safe than sorry." He's already heading for the checkout, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

What you don't know — what you couldn't hear through those noise-canceling headphones — were three words he's been trying to say for years. Three words that slipped out so easily when he knew you couldn't hear them, when the safety of silence gave him the courage he's never had before.

"I love you."

Simple. Honest. Everything he's wanted to tell you since he was seventeen and realized his best friend was the love of his life. Everything he's been too afraid to say, too afraid to risk losing you.

But for now, those words remain caught in the space between silence and sound, in the safety of a moment you couldn't hear. Maybe one day he'll find the courage to say them again, when you can actually hear him.

Maybe one day soon.

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[mcmansionhell]

the motel room, or: on datedness

I.

Often I find myself nostalgic for things that haven't disappeared yet. This feeling is enhanced by the strange conviction that once I stop looking at these things, I will never see them again, that I am living in the last moment of looking. This is sense is strongest for me in the interiors of buildings perhaps because, like items of clothing, they are of a fashionable nature, in other words, more impermanent than they probably should be.

As I get older, to stumble on something truly dated, once a drag, is now a gift. After over a decade of real estate aggregation and the havoc it's wreaked on how we as a society perceive and decorate houses, if you're going to Zillow to search for the dated (which used to be like shooting fish in a barrel), you'll be searching aimlessly, for hours, to increasingly no avail, even with all the filters engaged. (The only way to get around this is locational knowledge of datedness gleaned from the real world.) If you try to find images of the dated elsewhere on the internet, you will find that the search is not intuitive. In this day and age, you cannot simply Google "80s hotel room" anymore, what with the disintegration of the search engine ecosystem and the AI generated nonsense and the algorithmic preference for something popular (the same specific images collected over and over again on social media), recent, and usually a derivative of the original search query (in this case, finding material along the lines of r/nostalgia or the Backrooms.)

To find what one is looking for online, one must game the search engine with filters that only show content predating 2021, or, even better, use existing resources (or those previously discovered) both online and in print. In the physical world of interiors, to find what one is looking for one must also now lurk around obscure places, and often outside the realm of the domestic which is so beholden to and cursed by the churn of fashion and the logic of speculation. Our open world is rapidly closing, while, paradoxically, remaining ostensibly open. It's true, I can open Zillow. I can still search. In the curated, aggregated realm, it is becoming harder and harder to find, and ultimately, to look.

But what if, despite all these changes, datedness was never really searchable? This is a strange symmetry, one could say an obscurity, between interiors and online. It is perhaps unintentional, and it lurks in the places where searching doesn't work, one because no one is searching there, or two, because an aesthetic, for all our cataloguing, curation, aggregation, hoarding, is not inherently indexable and even if it was, there are vasts swaths of the internet and the world that are not categorized via certain - or any - parameters. The internet curator's job is to find them and aggregate them, but it becomes harder and harder to do. They can only be stumbled upon or known in an outside, offline, historical or situational way. If to index, to aggregate, is, or at least was for the last 30 years, to profit (whether monetarily or in likes), then to be dated, in many respects, is the aesthetic manifestation of barely breaking even. Of not starting, preserving, or reinventing but just doing a job.

We see this online as well. While the old-web Geocities look and later Blingee MySpace-era swag have become aestheticized and fetishized, a kind of naive art for a naive time, a great many old websites have not received the same treatment. These are no less naive but they are harder to repackage or commodify because they are simple and boring. They are not "core" enough.

As with interiors, web datedness can be found in part or as a whole. For example, sites like Imgur or Reddit are not in and of themselves dated but they are full of remnants, of 15-year old posts and their "you, sir, have won the internet" vernacular that certainly are. Other websites are dated because they were made a long time ago by and for a clientele that doesn't have a need or the skill to update (we see this often with Web 2.0 e-commerce sites that figured out how to do a basic mobile page and reckoned it was enough). The next language of datedness, like the all-white landlord-special interior, is the default, clean Squarespace restaurant page, a landing space that's the digital equivalent of a flyer, rarely gleaned unless someone needs a menu, has a food allergy or if information about the place is not available immediately from Google Maps. I say this only to maintain that there is a continuity in practices between the on- and off-line world beyond what we would immediately assume, and that we cannot blame everything on algorithms.

But now you may ask, what is, exactly, datedness? Having spent two days in a distinctly dated hotel room, I've decided to sit in utter boredom with the numinous past and try and pin it down.

II.

I am in an obscure place. I am in Saint-Georges, Quebec, Canada, on assignment. I am staying at a specific motel, the Voyageur. By my estimation the hotel was originally built in the late seventies and I'd be shocked if it was older than 1989. The hotel exterior was remodeled sometime in the 2000s with EIFS cladding and beige paint. Above is a picture of my room, which, forgive me, is in the process of being inhabited. American (and to a lesser extent Canadian) hotel rooms are some of the most churned through, renovated spaces in the world, and it's pretty rare, unless you're staying in either very small towns or are forced by economic necessity to stay at real holes in the wall, to find ones from this era. The last real hitter for me was a 90s Day's Inn in the meme-famous Breezewood, PA during the pandemic.

At first my reaction to seeing the room was cautionary. It was the last room in town, and certainly compared to other options, probably not the world's first choice. However, after staying in real, genuine European shitholes covering professional cycling I've become a class-A connoisseur of bad rooms. This one was definitively three stars. A mutter of "okay time to do a quick look through." But upon further inspection (post-bedbug paranoia) I came to the realization that maybe the always-new brainrot I'd been so critical of had seeped a teeny bit into my own subconscious and here I was snubbing my nose at a blessing in disguise. The room is not a bad room, nor is it unclean. It's just old. It's dated. We are sentimental about interiors like this now because they are disappearing, but they are for my parents what 2005 beige-core is for me and what 2010s greige will become for the generation after. When I'm writing about datedness, I'm writing in general using a previous era's examples because datedness, by its very nature, is a transitional status. Its end state is the mixed emotion of seeing things for what they are yet still appreciating them, expressed here.

Datedness is the period between vintage and contemporary. It is the sentiment between quotidian and subpar. It is uncurated and preserved only by way of inertia, not initiative. It gives us a specific feeling we don't necessarily like, one that is deliberately evoked in the media subcultures surrounding so-called "liminal" spaces: the fuguelike feeling of being spatially trapped in a time while our real time is passing. Datedness in the real world is not a curated experience, it is only what was. It is different from nostalgia because it is not deliberately remembered, yearned for or attached to sweetness. Instead, it is somehow annoying. It is like stumbling into the world of adults as a child, but now you're the adult and the child in you is disappointed. (The real child-you forgot a dull hotel room the moment something more interesting came along.) An image of my father puts his car keys on the table, looks around and says, "It'll do." We have an intolerance for datedness because it is the realization of what sufficed. Sufficiency in many ways implies lack.

However, for all its datedness, many, if not all, of the things in this room will never be seen again if the room is renovated. They will become unpurchaseable and extinct. Things like the bizarrely-patterned linoleum tile in the shower, the hose connecting to the specific faucet of the once-luxurious (or at least middling) jacuzzi tub whose jets haven't been exercised since the fall of the Berlin Wall. The wide berth of the tank on the toilet. There is nothing, really, worth saving about these things. Even the most sentimental among us wouldn't dare argue that the items and finishes in this room are particularly important from a design or historical standpoint. Not everything old has a patina. They're too cheaply made to salvage. Plastic tile. Bowed plywood. The image-artifacts of these rooms, gussied up for Booking dot com, will also, inevitably disappear, relegated to the dustheap of web caches and comments that say "it was ok kinda expensive but close to twon (sic)." You wouldn't be able to find them anyway unless you were looking for a room.

One does, of course, recognize a little bit of design in what's here. Signifiers of an era. The wood-veneer of the late 70s giving way to the pastel overtones of the 80s. Perhaps even a slow 90s. The all-in-one vanity floating above the floor, a modernist basement bathroom hallmark. White walls as a sign of cleanliness. Gestures, in the curved lines of the nightstands, towards postmodernity. Metallic lamp bases with wide-brimmed shades, a whisper of glamor. A kind of scalloped aura to the club chairs. The color teal mediated through hundreds if not thousands of shoes. Yellowing plastic, including the strips of "molding" that visually tie floor to wall. These are remnants (or are they intuitions?) of so many movements and micromovements, none of them definite enough to point to the influence of a single designer, hell, even of a single decade, just strands of past-ness accumulated into one thread, which is cheapness. Continuity exists in the materials only because everything was purchased as a set from a wholesale catalog.

In some way a hotel is supposed to be placeless. Anonymous. Everything tries to be that way now, even houses. Perhaps because we don't like the way we spy on ourselves and lease our images out to the world so we crave the specificity of hotel anonymity, of someplace we move through on our way to bigger, better or at least different things. The hotel was designed to be frictionless but because it is in a little town, it sees little use and because it sees little use, there are elements that can last far longer than they were intended and which inadvertently cause friction. (The janky door unlocks with a key. The shower hose keeps coming out of the faucet. It's deeply annoying.)

Lack of wear and lack of funds only keep them that way. Not even the paper goods of the eighties have been exhausted yet. Datedness is not a choice but an inevitability. Because it is not a choice, it is not advertised except in a utilitarian sense. It is kept subtle on the hotel websites, out of shame. Because it does not subscribe to an advertiser's economy of the now, of the curated type rather than the "here is my service" type, it disappears into the folds of the earth and cannot be searched for in the way "design" can. It can only be discovered by accident.

When I look at all of these objects and things, I do so knowing I will never see them again, at least not all here together like this, as a cohesive whole assembled for a specific purpose. I don't think I'll ever have reason to come back to this town or this place, which has given me an unexpected experience of being peevish in my father's time. Whenever I end up in a place like this, where all is as it was, I get the sense that it will take a very long time for others to experience this sensation again with the things my generation has made. The machinations of fashion work rapaciously to make sure that nothing is ever old, not people, not rooms, not items, not furniture, not fabrics, not even design, that old matron who loves to wax poetic about futurity and timelessness. The plastic-veneered particleboard used here is now the bedrock of countless landfills. Eventually it will become the chemical-laced soil upon which we build our condos. It is possible that we are standing now at the very last frontier of our prior datedness. The next one has not yet elided. It's a special place. Spend a night. Take pictures.

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[truearchangel]

   Was he worried about Michael hurting him? That was a reasonable fear, perhaps. Michael had ripped his own twin brother apart and thrown him from the clouds while telling him he never wanted to see him again, more or less. Would it change Alastor’s view of him depending on the answer he gives? He’s already used his one question a day, he can’t ask that. Refusing to answer would give Alastor an answer too. 

   There was no right way to answer this and no right way to get around it. So honesty then was going to be what he gives the Radio Demon. The only  luck he has in this is that truly, honesty seems to be something Alastor values toward himself. And perhaps maybe toward others as well, he’s never lied to Michael, at least as far as he can tell. 

   He shifts on Alastor again and lowers his hand down to gently cup the base of his right ear, thumb stroking along it as he lowered his gaze to meet the Radio Demon’s fully. He really, truly was, a very pretty person. He was willing to bet that whatever Alastor looked like when he was alive, which would be similar to how he looked now, would have been a very gorgeous person. Probably someone that people were constantly wanting to pick up and go on a date with. Take out and have children with. 

   “In war who you are does not matter. All that does is which side you choose to stand on, the lives you take and who you choose to be during it.” Michael learned that early on, when he stood across from Lucifer and begged him to stop. Words don’t work during war, attempting to end it peacefully doesn’t work. He had chosen the worst possible way to end that situation with Samael–but he had ended it.

   It was the only way to keep more people from being hurt. 

   His brother or Heaven, and he chose Heaven. 

   “So the answer to your question will depend on if you choose to be the enemy or not.” Which again, shouldn’t actually surprise Alastor. Michael will do whatever it takes to protect his home. Though he hopes, more than anything, it doesn’t have to come to that again. He had enough of it the first time around. 

   He takes a breath and holds it gently before raising his gaze up toward those deer antlers on top of Alastor’s head. “But I don’t intend on it coming to that. I don’t actually want to fight with Lucifer more. Regardless of what he appears to believe.”

"I would pay good money to see you put her in her place," Alastor replied with a small chuckle. Though he'd not encountered her directly, he saw a bit of what she was capable of - before his encounter with Adam laid him low. He would just as sooner see the First Man's right-hand be smothered into dust along with him. It was a shame Niffty did not take care of them both.

But Alastor was silenced again as Michael further explained, eyebrows raised slightly as the prospect of war seemed to be laid on the metaphorical table before them. And no, he did not think that to be a viable solution. Nor would Hell come out as the victor, in that case. The battle at the Hotel was one thing - to engage in a true all-out war would only lead to the snuffing out of every Sinner and hellborn in the rings. He had no doubt.

Questions, Michael had said. Alastor mulled that over as those fingers continued to trail along his ears. One particular touch pulled a small shiver from him, though he tried to cover it by simply pulling Michael just the slightest bit further against himself.

Maybe he had a question. One that he did not think he would get a straight-forward answer to. And yet he wanted to pose it all the same.

His eyes shifted over to the angel, making an attempt to catch his gaze.

"Would you kill me in such a scenario?"

Alastor knew what the answer would be. But part of him wanted to hear it expressed. To say what he knew to be true. Michael would not choose any other option - he was the proclaimed Sword of God. And yet Alastor asked, not because he thought Michael would have any other answer...

But because perhaps if he had to be exterminated, with such finality, then it did not seem right for any other to be responsible for it. Alastor would refuse to permit any other angel, exorcist, seraphim, or truly, even God himself, to take him out of the equation.

None of them had merit. Not in the way Michael did.

Silent as he awaited the other's answer, he did not relent in the pursuit of it, though his fingers did continue to trail between Michael's shoulder blades. Soft. Gentle. Reverent. As though he were asking something as casual as the weather.