#some of which I wish to unsee

[faffreux]

Dimentio and Luigi are the tumblr sexymen of Mario change my mind

[lipglossanon]

Day 6

Kink: Biting/Marking

Pairing: Real bro!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, incest, bro x sis incest, jealous reader, arguing, dirty talk, slightly mean Leon, biting, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread

You’re not even sure how it started but by the time midnight rolls around, your apartment is packed to the brim with random people—an impromptu Halloween party that you had no hand in creating. Leon had a few buddies over for drinks and now a few hours later, you’re elbowing costumed people out of your way to get to the kitchen. You want to pull your hair out, disliking so many strangers in your personal space. 

And the fucking cherry on top, you think sourily, is some girl hanging all over Leon. She showed up with Chris, maybe Krauser, you can’t really remember, but she’s been all over your brother ever since she stepped through the door. She’s dressed like a slutty nurse cause she’s so original. You glare over at Chris and Krauser just for good measure, but neither of them notice you in favor of arguing with each other over…

You frown and see an empty beer bottle between them. Are they..?

You fight your way back through the crowd to get closer to them. 

“What? Scared you’ll like it, Redfield?”

“No,” you see Chris roll his eyes, “I just don’t wanna make anyone uncomfortable.”

“If they agree to play then they know what they’re getting into,” the blonde grabs the bottle, “and if they don’t like it, they can fuck off.”

Krauser turns and you catch his smirk before he raises his voice to call out, “We’re playing spin the bottle!”

The girl next to Leon cheers and tugs him over to the two burly men on the sofa. A few more people join their group and you hang back, wanting to join but feeling disgust at kissing anyone not Leon (which would disgust everyone else). He glances around and finds you, hovering on the other side of the room. 

You narrow your eyes at him and he shrugs, tilting his head to the group with a look that says ‘what am I supposed to do?’.

The circle moves through people pretty quick, but when it gets to the girl making eyes at Leon, she spins the bottle with a weird little wobble that you’re 100% is on purpose to slowly rotate back to her and stop on Leon who’s seated to her left. 

“Seven minutes in heaven for the lucky couple!” Chris calls out with a wink to the two, confirming he must’ve brought the girl and is now number one on your shit list. 

The girl grabs Leon’s bicep and tugs him over to his closed bedroom door. He doesn’t even look back at you and your chest feels hollow. Tears sting your eyes, but you blink quickly to stop them from falling. You slip on your shoes and grab your keys, leaving the apartment. If he wants to make you feel stupid well he can just go fuck himself. 

You head outside, and find a nearby bench to wallow. The chilly October night seeps into your skin as you breathe in deep. You understand the position you’re both in, Leon can’t exactly come out and say he’s fucking his sister. Well, he could, but it wouldn’t end well for either of you. Sighing, you lean back and gaze unseeing at the light polluted sky. 

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes and drip down your temples into your hairline. You bring your legs up onto the bench and wrap your arms around your knees, burying your face against them so you can cry quietly. You know you have to go back, but it makes you sick to your stomach to go back and see either of them mussed from their make out. Or worse, they’re still locked up in his room. 

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, wishing to scrub that thought from your brain. 

“You good?”

You jump, hands dropping from your face to look up at the person who spoke. Leon stands there, a frown pinching his brows together. 

“Have you been crying? Who the fuck made you cry?” He reaches forward to brush his hand across your cheek but you yank your head away. 

“How was your little make out?” You snipe back, rubbing the tears away with the sleeve of your jacket. 

“Ahh,” he sighs and sits down next to you, too close but not close enough. “Well, you’ll be happy to know, Chloe was extremely disappointed.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Chloe,” you say her name higher, laced with condescension. 

He bumps your shoulder, “I didn’t do anything with her. Said I had a girlfriend. She stormed out and found someone else.”

You squint at him, eyes roving over his face, “Hmm.”

“I tell you I didn’t cheat and all you do is make a noise? You’re such a bitch,” he scoffs, pinching your thigh. 

“Fuck you,” you hiss slapping his arm, “I don’t fucking hang all over some slag all night and then get offended when assumptions are made.”

“Fuck you for not trusting me,” he growls back, catching your hands before you can slap at him again, “think I want some fucking easy hole when I have your hot little cunt waiting and willing for me anytime I want? Use your fucking brain.”

You try to pull out from his grip but he tightens his hold on your wrists, pinching the skin, “Let go you asshole.”

“I don’t think I will,” he curls his lip, “seems you need a lesson in gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” You sputter out a laugh, “you’re so fucking full of yourself. God, you get on my nerves.”

“Feelings mutual, little sis,” he murmurs against your ear and the dough of your thighs press together. 

“Now, we’re going up to the apartment and kicking everyone out,” he makes eye contact with you, “and then I’m going to fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk.”

Your clit throbs at the heated words. He grins and tugs you up off the bench, pulling you back inside and all the way back to the apartment. Dropping your wrists, he opens the door and pushes you inside. There’s still a handful of people milling around, drinking and talking over the music. 

Leon walks over to the stereo and shuts it off. He loudly claps his hands twice. 

“It’s been fun, but it’s over. Get your shit and get the fuck out,” he calls out to everyone. 

You roll your eyes and shake your head, but a smile still spreads across your face as everyone packs up and makes their way out. No one ever said Leon wasn’t blunt. As soon as the last person leaves, he walks through the apartment to double check. Once the coast is clear, he’s crowding your personal space. 

“Now, little sis, how should you show me how grateful you are,” he dips forward and kisses your neck. 

He grabs your arm and drags you to his room, leaving the door open now that the apartment’s empty. Shoving you down onto his bed, he wastes no time in yanking your clothes off until you’re completely naked. 

“You’re wet,” he laughs. “Fucking slut.”

“Shut up,” you shoot back, body hot as he smirks at you.  

Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he runs his hands up your legs to your hips.  

“Let me lick that clit, baby sis,” he murmurs, dropping kisses across your thighs, “let me lick that swollen little bud til you're creaming my tongue.”

“Fuck,” you whine, high and throaty, “please, Leon, want your mouth on my pussy.”

He groans and sloppily kisses your slit, lips pulling away with a sheen of slick coating them like gloss. 

“So messy, baby,” he presses your thighs open wide, palms hot against your skin.

“Such a slippery,” he kisses your pussy lips, “fat,” another kiss, “slutty,” he gently nips your pudgy clit, “cunt.”

He slaps his palm down over your mound, making your hips jump, “And it’s all mine. Isn’t that right? This pussy is for big brother to use when he wants.”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, thighs trembling under his hands. “S’all yours, I promise. Please, lick me, big brother. I need it.”

“Aw, you need it?” He mocks, blowing cool air across your soaked cunt. “My sis and her pretty pussy need me to lick her all up?”

Huffing in frustration, you dig your toes into his side, “Eat me out or fuck me, I’m not laying here all night being teased.”

He narrows his eyes, tossing his hair to move his fringe out of his line of vision, “Are you getting bratty with me?”

Matching his tone, you smile sweetly, “It’s not bratty when you’re being an asshole, big brother.”

He growls and yanks your hips down as he drops to his knees next to the mattress. 

“I’m gonna eat this bratty pussy until you’re screaming my name,” he slaps your mound and you whine. “Gonna stay here all night, tongue buried in your tight hole til you squirt all over me.”

“Fuck,” you moan, hands reaching down to tangle in his sandy blonde hair, “please.”

“That what you need, sis? Need me to show her who’s in charge?”

“Yes, yes,” you arch your hips up, trying to entice him more, “wanna cum all over your face.” 

“God, gonna teach this bratty pussy a lesson,” he promises before burying his face in your cunt. 

You lose complete track of time as Leon makes you cum on his tongue over and over and over; pushing him away does nothing; whining about being sensitive gets you nowhere. You just lay there and take it as your brother licks your cunt until you’re gushing. 

“Thatta girl,” he coos mockingly, face soaked in your slick and cum. “Knew I could get you to do it.”

“Fuck off,” your voice cracks, tear tracks decorating your cheeks. “I-I can’t keep going.”

“Yes you can,” he finally pulls away from your swollen and sensitive cunt. He sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s fully nude. 

Climbing over your body, he drags his cock across your pussy lips making your hips jolt at the too much sensation. 

“Leon,” you whimper. “Please.”

“Nuh uh,” he clicks his tongue. “This bratty pussy needs to learn her place, little sis.”

Shivering, you don’t stop him as Leon lines up and presses his leaking cock into your sensitive hole. Both of you moan as he bottoms out, pelvis pressing down on your pudgy clit. 

“Best fucking pussy,” he groans, pulling out to slam back in, dick bullying into your swollen fluttering walls. “Goddamn, so fucking tight. My little sister’s hole just loves big brother’s dick so much.”

You choke out a whine, nails scoring a hot trail down his back. Leon retaliates by sinking his teeth into your neck, too high to hide with anything except a turtleneck. 

“Your g’nna leave a mark,” you slur out, fingers digging into his shoulder blades.

“Oh, too bad,” he simpers. “Maybe you’ll think twice about being a fucking baby.”

He bites and sucks a collar around your neck, worrying the skin until it stings. In a couple of spots, he bites too hard and blood drips down your throat. Groaning, he laps it up, hips rabbiting against yours as he roughly fucks you into the mattress. With every thrust, he grinds against your fat slippery clit until he’s pulling another orgasm from your exhausted body. 

“Fuck, that’s—god, you’re gonna make me bust a nut, too fucking tight,” he growls, raising up to piston his cock in and out of your throbbing pussy. “Take it, take it, take it, slutty fucking—“

His mutterings cut off as he groans, hips pumping his cock into your drooling cunt as he cums, walls milking him to shoot hot rope after rope of cum until it drips from your stuffed hole. 

After a minute or two, he finally pulls out with a sigh, flopping down onto the bed next to you. Too tired to move, you raise your hand up to touch his shoulder. 

“We’re a mess,” you hum. 

“I’ll clean us up once I can feel my legs,” comes his muffled voice near your head.

You laugh before cringing, feeling his cum leak from your pussy. 

“Yuck, sooner the better, please.”

He shifts and raises up over you, blue eyes searching your face, “We good?”

You smile and lift your neck up to kiss his nose, “We’re good.”

[patchouii]

Some Hannibal & Will headcanons I have, just for fun:

. Hannibal has a sweet tooth. Usually he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in it, but every so often he’ll have a designated “cheat day” and make pastries and sweets. All of which somehow manage to utilize the versatility of his favorite secret ingredient, just for the wickedly ironic juxtaposition of it.

. Part of the reason Will likes fishing is because it’s an activity in a quiet, meditative environment that makes it easier for him to use his empathy to visualize the world around him as he wishes, sort of how he does with crime scenes. He started doing it while fishing with his dad, and he’d joke that Will would “go all glassy-eyed like the fish”.

. Will can use the excess of mirror neurons that give him his unique “empathy” abilities to mimic bird calls and even people’s voices really well, and he enjoys doing so. Sometimes he’ll say something stupid with Hannibal’s voice just to annoy him. Usually it’s something with a bad cannibal pun in it.

. Despite his criticisms of Will’s old aftershave, the reminder of their beginnings and how far they’ve come is too strong for Hannibal to resist. A bottle of it appears in the bathroom of wherever they’re staying for Will to use— it’s nostalgic, and it also lets him know where Will is if they’re separated in a crowd.

. Hannibal has an old scar where the back of his neck joins his shoulders. It has a faint chain-link pattern to it from abraded skin freezing to a metal chain and being pulled off thanks to the horrors of one fateful winter. Will never asks about flaying it off like he did with the Verger brand— he knows the answer.

. Will develops a phobia of deep water after the fall, his decision to take them over due to Dolarhyde’s camera still running for Jack to find and the adrenaline-and-euphoria l’appel du vide of the moment haunting him with nightmares. He refuses to let it rule him, swimming laps in their pool at night. Hannibal often joins him.

. Sometimes, instead of going right to sleep, reading, or having some fun before bed, they’ll lay on their backs side-by-side with their hands laced and delve into their minds together. Hannibal will close his eyes and enter his memory palace, Will often keeps his eyes open and unseeing and visualizes with his empathy.

. The actual first time Will kisses Hannibal is when he’s on Chiyoh’s boat on the Atlantic. He’s high on pain meds and roiling with emotion over Hannibal’s unconscious form beside him. It’s just a soft, weak brush of lips. In his feverish state, he hopes that Hannibal’s infection will spread to him so that he can’t leave him behind if he dies of it.

. The first kiss they really count happens when they’re both settled in Cuba, sitting on the porch of the little beach house Hannibal secured for them and watching the sunset, drinking iced hibiscus tea. Will only confesses much later that the red droplets on Hannibal’s lips reminded him of blood and he just leaned right in unconsciously.

. Even though they have to be careful with their kills post-fall, Hannibal makes sure to allow for one special kill every year. He sets up a tableau of a skinned man in the shape of a heart with flowers stabbed through the skin in a remote location and lets Will figure out how to find it by Valentine’s Day.

. Will lets Hannibal teach him how to do serial killing. It ends up sating his curiosity about the theories he’d had on the Ripper as well as further sating his dark urges, growing those appetites. The fact that Hannibal has his victims awake on the table sometimes is a point of contention, Will feels bad that the only part of him that feels bad is the part that mirrors the victims if he isn’t careful.

. Between Will’s empathy picking up on all the little details and emotional indicators and being able to copy them back and Hannibal’s analytical skills and expertise with conveying the image he wants through tone and body language alone, they can communicate wordlessly. They sometimes default to this, whether intentionally or not. It’s a little unnerving to watch.

. Will has a not-so-slight caffeine addiction after many years of drinking coffee to get out the door early from college to his cop years to Jack calling at ungodly hours. He won’t drink anything but instant microwave Folgers. Hannibal has tried to replace the coffee in the container but Will catches it every time.

[aurianavaloria]

KoH - To Rival Eden (Baldwin IV x Reader)

Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven

Pairing: Baldwin IV x Fem!Reader

PoV: Split (Baldwin - Fem!Reader)

Length: Short (<4k words)

TW: Vague mentions of leprosy

A/N: Well, here we have it, the much-anticipated sequel to "What Good May Come"! I took your feedback into account regarding Y/N's preferences, as well as circumstances and relationships, and created another chapter in this little romance. As in the previous story, I've done my best to keep Y/N as generic as possible with a personality that seemed to fit what is currently popular. I hope you enjoy it as much as the first, and once again, thank you all for being awesome! 🤗

Baldwin could hardly believe his good fortune.

Tiberias had spoken truth: she loved him.

He hadn’t slept a wink that night after she left his chambers. Had barely paid attention to his physicians’ work as he’d given his failing body to their care for the hundred-thousandth time in his short life. Whilst his mortal shell continued its slow and endless march towards inevitable disintegration, his heart and mind were soaring above the clouds, his spirit filled with a fire he hadn’t felt in years.

Lady Y/N loved him.

He lay in his bed, eyes staring up into the canopy’s shadows, yet unseeing of anything that was actually there. Instead, he saw her sitting before him as she had that evening, the smile dancing across her lips, the color in her cheek…

Thus lost in his thoughts, all he had to do was close his eyes to still feel her warmth in his arms, the touch of her hand upon his own… still smell the sweet perfume that cloaked her in its allure. Even as his fears screamed at him that every moment he spent near her was a risk he was selfish to take, that the poison coursing through his veins could destroy her like some fetid rot devouring a perfect flower, all he desired was to hold her again… to imagine what her hair would feel like slipping between his silk-gloved fingers…

These visions of her swirled in his mind all night long and into the next week, until he thought he might go mad with them. He had never thought much of the songs of the troubadours before, dismissing their melodramatic lyrics as nothing more than mere fantasy.

But now he had tasted that very pain of love of which they sang, and he knew they were right.

Love was insanity.

Unfortunately, it was an insanity he had to endure through nearly a week’s worth of increasingly-numerous duties that forbade his interaction with anyone other than his advisors and court petitioners. Conversation on such matters proved his only respite, for when he was finally left alone once more, she haunted the depths of his mind.

And as his quill slowly glided through the practiced motions of his signature upon his latest letter, his aching heart wondered if he haunted hers the same way…

He hoped and prayed she had not taken offense to his exclusion of visitors outside his immediate council. It was all such ill-timing, and yet the administration of his kingdom could not wait for courtship. He could not afford the distraction of anyone else’s presence amidst such delicate matters, and there were some things that he refused to delegate to others.

That he could not trust to others.

The thoughts of sharing those tasks with a queen he truly loved and adored above all else, however…

Plunk!

He abruptly sat back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut.

That was it. It was time for some fresh air.

Rising slowly to his feet, he reached for his hooded cloak where it hung nearby. Without even being asked, his servant Ihsan wordlessly appeared from the shadows to help him don it, moving with quiet grace.

“Shall I accompany His Majesty?” the Christian Syrian asked, aiding Baldwin in pulling the hood over his head. Jerusalem’s sun was bright today, and harsh on the ill king’s eyes.

“No, I shall walk alone, I think.”

“As you wish, sire.”

And loyal Ihsan melted into those shadows once more, as quickly as he had emerged.

With that, Baldwin began making his way to the palace gardens, keeping his pace measured as he followed the long halls, close to the wall should he need it for support. Alas, his numbed foot would allow for nothing else. Yet, even so, he didn’t wish for this stroll to be a hurried one, crammed in between the endless sessions of his work. He needed time to center himself – to clear his mind and ease his heart.

His hood low over his mask, he still squinted against the sun as he emerged into the palace gardens. The strength of its rays had only seemed to intensify in recent years, even as their warmth had faded; his body hardly felt it, now, beaming down upon him, as if he had already hovered between the land of the living and the dead. But his eyes most certainly did, and he kept his head dipped low, his mask half-shadowed by the hood of his cloak.

Anyone else who had chosen to wander the gardens the same as he soon found themselves departing, as usual. The king was instantly recognizable, even cloaked like this, his presence garnering immediate notice by his courtiers. Their dread of his disease they always attempted to cover with pretense – the courtesy of yielding the space to their liege-lord as they offered deep bows and curtseys. Yet they always slipped away with the hiss of whispers swirling in their wake…

His lips twisted in amusement at the thought that his experience behind a mask had made it easier to see past theirs.

Thus, he largely ignored them as they bestowed upon him their customary greetings, their well-rehearsed gestures of obeisance. And the answers he gave in reply were just as superficial. They deserved nothing more. Little by little, they left as he slowly made his way along those meandering paths, bordered by every plant native to these lands, flowering or not…

All but one.

At the end of one of the paths, perched upon a bench before a towering hedge, was Lady Y/N.

She sat with a small book open in her lap, her garb a simple green bliaut with a matching embroidered belt. A brilliant white veil over her hair, pinned to the barbette that looped beneath her chin, shielded her downturned face from the sun. Even from this angle, he could see the slight smile that played across her lips, and he felt his own mimic the expression beneath his mask.

The sight of her thus made him pause his stride, and he considered backtracking to the previous fork in the path and leaving her to her peace. Yet another part of him desired nothing more than to speak to her – to self-indulgently converse, even if only briefly, with this sweet angel of a woman he’d neglected for the sake of his divinely-mandated duty.

What resulted then, was an indecisive hovering, a prolonged pause at the bells of the lovely flowers that brushed his silken sleeve – blossoms whose aroma was now all but lost to his dulled senses. But none of the velvet-petaled jewels gracing this paradise of a garden now compared to the one he could not tear his eyes from, yet hadn’t the heart to approach…

================

Jerusalem’s palace garden was a sanctuary as peaceful as the cloister of any church you’d seen and perhaps twice as beautiful. The open air was filled with the scent of the exotic flowers that had been meticulously cultivated there, surrounding visitors in an alluring embrace. The cool shade beneath the towering hedgerows and elegant palms had been too tempting to resist, and, with a new book of poetry in hand, you’d made a beeline for an empty bench in the farthest shadowed nook you could find.

Gardens such as these were haunts for lovers, or so you’d been told. Some had even been designed in such a manner that encouraged clandestine trysts – a convenient niche here, a cleverly-planted bush there…

Alas, there were no such surreptitious visits in your near future. No, you’d merely come to the gardens this day for some fresh air and relative peace and quiet.

It was with great eagerness that you had rushed to the bench, sweeping your skirts beneath you and opening the book upon your lap. It was a loan, in fact, from Sibylla; the princess had been spending more time with you in the past week, indulging in light conversation mostly revolving around scholarly interests and pastimes. During the course of one of these discussions, she mentioned having received a few books from France and, quite unexpectedly, asked if you would like to borrow one of them.

Such a generous offer had been impossible to refuse, and your eyes had lit up as the princess passed you the small, leather-bound book of poetry, which you handled with utmost care.

The plan was to spend an upcoming evening sharing what the two of you had enjoyed most about the tomes over refreshments.

It was something you rather looked forward to.

Now, you were fully immersed in the book, your eyes drinking in the copyist’s hand as it swirled across the delicate vellum pages; it was a work of art in and of itself, to say nothing of the words it held within. So engrossed were you that, for a long moment, you failed to notice you were being watched…

But then, suddenly, a slight movement from the periphery of your vision caused you to glance up, and for a brief second, you thought you saw an angel. You quickly realized, however, that it was not.

The awestruck smile that tugged at your lips was perhaps a bit uncouth, but you couldn’t help it. Angel he was not, and yet the king was still radiant enough that you wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a pair of wings upon his back or a fiery halo ringing his head. The hooded cloak he wore, trimmed in gold, was such a blinding white in the midday sun that it almost blurred his outline, and the half-concealed silver mask with its perfectly-chiseled countenance could easily be mistaken for the face of a saint…

“Your Majesty!”

On reflex, you stood, abandoning the book on the bench before starting to dip into a curtsey, but the upwards flash of his gloved hand stopped you mid-movement.

“I require no epithets or courtesies from you, Lady Y/N,” he replied as he wandered down the path towards you. “I should hope that I may abandon such performance in your presence.”

The warmth in his voice heated your cheeks. “Very well… Baldwin.” This was only the second time you’d dared to speak his name without a title preceding it, and it felt oddly right on your tongue. “If that is the case, then I must also insist that I am simply Y/N.”

His hooded head dipped. “Of course. Y/N.”

Something about the way he said your name made your heart flutter, and you glanced away briefly even as you sidled nearer to him. “It is good to see you again. Baldwin. You are well, I hope?”

“I am now,” he replied softly. Now you could look up into his silver-clad face and see the glitter of his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood. In their impossibly-blue gaze you found a softness that belied the sharpness of their hue.

“I… missed you,” you breathed at last, your voice lowering. “I must admit, I’ve worried for you. Lord Tiberias assured me all was well, but… well, you’ll forgive me for being a bit distrusting.”

A low chuckle emanated from him. “If there is anyone you may trust with his honest assessment of matters, it is Tiberias.”

A chuckle of your own escaped you in response to his jesting remark before he continued in a far more serious tone, “I must offer you my sincerest apologies, Y/N – here you’ve given me the most beautiful gift anyone has ever bestowed upon me, and I’ve done nothing but neglect you in return. Already, I fear I must seem a poor partner in courtship.”

Your mouth opened a little in shock at that. “Absolutely nothing of the sort! I understand you are busy. I know you wouldn’t have isolated yourself like this otherwise.” A light smile played upon your lips as you met his eyes again. “I’m just glad to see you again now.”

It was then you reached forth, brushing his nearest forearm lightly in reassurance. The damask silk of his sleeve was so very soft and smooth beneath your fingertips. And warm. Though from his body heat or the sun, it was difficult to tell…

Suddenly, another movement out of the corner of your eye had you glancing past the king at a visitor on the garden path: a small tabby cat – silver with stripes of black – trotting along the hedgerow towards you.

“Oh, look!”

You pointed, and Baldwin half-turned to follow your gesture, another quiet chuckle following once he realized what had caught your attention. “Ah, a palace mouser, I see. Either that or a street cat has managed to breach the walls.”

His choice of words elicited a light laugh from you. “Perhaps he is a scout, then. Come to assess our defenses.”

The two of you watched as the cat slowed a few paces away, looking up at the both of you.

“Mrow?”

It was a questioning little sound the tomcat made as he hunkered close, sniffing first at the toe of Baldwin’s shoe before doing the same at the hem of your skirt. For a moment he merely stood there, his banded tail a waving S in the air as he continued to take in king and lady with shining green eyes.

“Mrrp.”

A quiet trill followed as the cat proceeded to bump up against your shin, tail curling about as he wound his way behind you before bumping against Baldwin’s calf in the same manner. He paused, staring upwards, and then he repeated the pattern, his path creating an infinity knot around both your feet.

“Aww, I think the darling wants attention,” you cooed, bending at the waist towards the little feline as you held out your hand. You were rewarded with another bump up against your palm, whereupon you happily scratched behind the cat’s ears, a grin plastered to your face.

“I would greet him as he wishes,” Baldwin remarked beside you, “but I fear I’d lose balance and keep going.”

You glanced up at him. “Well… we can’t have His Majesty tumbling face-first into the roses, can we?”

“No, I do believe that would tarnish my reputation for being upright.”

A snort escaped you at that. Baldwin’s sense of humor never ceased to amaze you – that he could find humor at all amidst his terrible suffering was a testament to his fortitude.

Confident that the cat was comfortable with you, you then reached for him, moving to pick him up, which he allowed with surprising ease. Palace mouser indeed, and obviously used to human company; you were certain no street cat would allow such familiar handling so soon…

“Oh, look, he has little gloves, like you.”

Your observation of the cat’s stark white mittens, curled as they were overtop your arm, had Baldwin chuckling lightly once more, and he nodded in reply, his own gloved hand slowly approaching. “So he does. Alas, I fear his bear weapons mine do not.”

He paused long enough for the cat to sniff again at his fingers – which he did – before gently stroking the top of the creature’s head between his ears. Almost immediately, a rumbling purr emanated from the feline’s throat, his eyes half-closing. Despite the near tentativeness of Baldwin’s movements, the cat seemed quite satisfied with the attention, though a part of you wondered how much the king himself gleaned from it…

“Can you feel that?” you heard yourself ask.

“Barely,” was the quiet reply, a lengthy pause following before he withdrew and added, “I relish moments like these while I can. There will come a day when I shall feel nothing with these diseased hands, glove or not.”

His words shot like an arrow straight to your heart. As much as you both tried to ignore it, to look past it, the truth of the matter was that Baldwin was slowly being eaten alive from the inside out, and it was only a matter of time before it utterly consumed him. Just this simple encounter with a sweet palace cat was enough to bring reality crashing down around both your ears.

And you hated it.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat and then bent to set the curious feline back on his feet. “Let’s let our intrepid little friend here continue on his way now, to do the noble work his kind has been mandated to do, yes?”

Once released, you gave the cat one final pat on his head and he was off, trotting away down the path before promptly disappearing under a bush.

“Y/N?”

The softness of your name upon Baldwin’s lips suddenly brought your attention back to him, and then there was his hand on your cheek, cupping your face gently as his eyes searched yours. You could feel the concern in their depths, his gaze probing your own for answers. No doubt he sensed the shift in your mood – you never had been the best at keeping your emotions hidden…

“I wish I could do more for you,” you whispered before he could ask. “I wish I could… I wish…”

There were so many things that you wished. You wished for him to be healthy again. You wished you could lift the many burdens from his shoulders. You wished you could rid his court of the treacherous vultures just waiting for his final breath to tear apart the corpse of his dream. You wished you could send his enemies running for their lives beyond the desert sands. Alas, you could do none of that.

But you could do this…

Without a word, you swiftly closed what gap was left between you, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace.

Instantly, he stiffened, his hands clamping to your shoulders on reflex, their grip tighter than you anticipated.

“Y/N…”

“Hush!” you hissed, interrupting any warning he felt impelled to give you. “Let me do this… let me do it, and let yourself have it!”

You could feel him tremble in your arms, his breathing uneven. For a harrowing moment, he was naught but a statue, indecisive – no-doubt waging a war in his own mind, if you knew him by now as well as you thought you did…

Whichever side flew the banners of Propriety and Precaution, though, evidently lost the battle, as a shaky sigh escaped him at last, a quivering hiss of breath between the lips of his mask.

“God forgive me.”

And then, in a move that made your heart flutter wildly again, his own arms slid around you, pulling you into him and shrouding you in sun-soaked silk. The pungent scent of herbal salves alongside crisp linen followed, piercing past the exotic fragrances of the garden flowers, although you detected the distinct note of roses rising amidst it all – perhaps from the oils the physicians applied to soothe his ravaged flesh. He cocooned you in this warmth, the hardness of his mask as it rested atop of your head a sharp contrast to the softness of the rest of him. And thus he held you tight, tighter than you had expected him to, your ear pressed to his chest where you heard the quickened thumping of his heart.

For one blessed moment, nothing else existed. Perhaps he was an angel after all, just awaiting the wings set aside for him in Heaven. For here he held you in earthly Paradise amidst a garden to rival Eden, shining bright as the light of the sun that enveloped you both in its purifying rays, and you knew peace…

You heard the raggedness in his breath, however. The unsteadiness of his hold. Pulling back from him, you promptly swept his hands up in your own, tugging him towards the bench. “Come. Sit. Stay with me a while and forget your troubles, if only for a few moments. If you can spare them, at least.”

His regard held an almost painful tenderness as it met yours, his voice dropping to a silken timbre. “That and more, should you but ask.”

Your eyes never left his, then, as you led him with ease to your chosen perch. Scooping up Sibylla’s book, you made room for him to sit beside you there, and as he slowly settled himself, letting out what sounded like a sigh of relief, you were keenly aware that your legs were touching, hip to knee…

“Do you like poetry?” you inquired, choosing to ignore how your heart continued to race a little at his continued close proximity.

He glanced sideways, his eyes flicking downwards towards the book in your lap. “As much as the next person, I suppose. Is that a new acquisition?”

You grinned up at him. “Princess Sibylla loaned it to me, actually. We’re planning on discussing it in a few days.”

He nodded slowly at that, seeming to approve. “My sister is in need of good company. I am glad to hear you are getting along well with her.”

“She terrified me at first,” you admitted with a laugh. “But I think she truly wishes for us to be friends.”

Baldwin’s gaze leveled at you behind the mask. “And you were not terrified of me?”

The question was a soft one, wavering slightly, though from recent exertion or emotion, you couldn’t quite tell.

A gentle smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Never.”

For a long moment, his eyes searched yours, and you couldn’t help but let them. Their color, their shape, their intensity… they were so beautifully expressive that it didn’t matter that his mask concealed everything else. When they looked at you, you were almost certain you could feel what he felt in your own heart. And what you felt now was more warmth. This time, though, it blossomed from within as those eyes relaxed into a half-lidded stare that was so much like that of the cat you’d just found…

Aware of the blush heating your cheeks at such a look, you finally tore your gaze from his and cleared your throat. “Would you like to hear a bit of this? It’s rather good…”

“Yes, I very much would,” he answered, his tone an almost distant one.

With that, you opened the book where you left off, taking a breath before beginning to read aloud. You hoped he didn’t mind romances, as that was precisely what this one was – a chivalric tale of doomed love…

Any self-consciousness you possessed about the contents was banished, however, the moment you felt his hand curl around your waist.

It was so light a touch it barely registered at first. But then you saw the flash of white out of the corner of your eye, bright upon the green of your gown. Felt the slight weight of that hand upon the curve of your waist. Almost instinctively, you leaned into him in response, and his grip tightened a little.

“I am not hurting you, am I?” you asked quietly, concerned about the effects of any weight against his fragile flesh.

“You could never hurt me,” he replied in a whisper.

And that was the moment you felt his head rest against yours as you continued to read.

Thank you all very much for reading! 😊I hope you enjoyed! ✨ And if you have any other ideas for Y/N, I'd love to hear them!

[buckyownsmylife]

let the games begin - sebastian stan smut

The one where you ask him to explain the pepsi cup scene to you

Warnings: best friends to lovers, best friend!reader, hopelessly in love!Seb, reader has hair long enough for Seb to “play with” but do with that as you wish, innocent!reader, smut.

WC: 1.8k

A/N: this is just a sweet little smutty one-shot of best friend!Seb realizing you feel the same for him. I didn't delve deep into the smut because to be honest, this has been in my WIP list since the movie came out and I just couldn't be bothered to write more than what's here, yet I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Seb’s P.O.V.

“You ready for this? You know we don’t have to watch it, right?” I tried to convince her one more time, and still, she just rolled her eyes and pulled me to the sofa next to her. Oh, how I loved to feel her smaller frame tightly pressed against mine.

“Don’t be silly, of course I want to watch it. I’ve seen everything you’ve ever done, I can’t let one slightly scarring movie keep me away from this long standing tradition.” It warmed my heart to think that she’d been doing this way before we even met.

I kissed her temple before adjusting so her body would rest against my chest, and settled in for the film. I knew it would be an experience, to say the least, watching this with her, so I tried to prepare myself for anything that could happen.

She could end up traumatized and unable to look me in the eye. At the very least, it would certainly serve as ammunition for her to tease me for years to come, and that was one turn of events I could deal with. The first one was my real concern.

So I settled in to watch the movie, because I figured it would be best to be around than to wait for her reactions afterwards. What if she never wanted to see me again? I knew it was just my anxiety coming up with the worst possibilities, but it still scared the crap out of me.

I couldn’t imagine my life without her anymore. And maybe one day I’d grow the courage to tell her about it, but for now, I was perfectly happy just sitting here with her and offering some support when my character started to freak her out.

“Hey, there you are!” She giggled in excitement, pointing at the TV like I wasn’t watching it with her. It made me chuckle, seeing her act like a little kid when it came to me doing my job. God, she was precious.

“Yeah, there I am,” I agreed, leaning over her to deposit a quick kiss against her temple, but much to my surprise all I got was a nudge and a hush. “Are you shushing me?” She finally unglued her eyes from the television to look at me with disappointment all over her features.

“Seb, I love you, but if you keep interrupting the movie, I’m gonna kick you out and there’s nothing you can do about that.” I wanted to point out that if she did, she’d have to watch it by herself and there was no way she’d be able to sleep, but I didn’t want to risk her fury. So I just sat back and pulled her with me, playing with her hair as I watched the story unfold before my eyes.

For whatever reason, I seemed to forget that I looked a bit… different in my role at some point, and as I gained weight before our eyes, she turned around to look at me with a look I couldn’t figure out. It made me nervous.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I had to ask, but she didn’t immediately answer me. I felt embarrassed, it was almost like she was comparing me to the man on the screen, and I didn’t know which one she preferred. 

Could it be that now that she’d seen me like that, she couldn’t unsee it?

“I’ve always thought you looked better when Don wasn’t trying to make you look like some sort of bodybuilder, but this role just confirmed it to me. You’re even sexier with some weight on your body.” 

My cheeks burned, and I didn’t know what to say. So I just cuddled her to me once more, focusing on the screen as I tried to work through my emotions - and there were many. Desire, barely concealed lust, something the hardening member inside my jeans wouldn’t let me forget - but also something warm and comfortable, settling deep inside my chest.

I didn’t want to give it a name. So I just pulled her to me yet again, kissed her temple and pretended to go back to watching the movie, while I waited for her attention to be redirected to it once more. When I was sure she wasn’t noticing me anymore, I got back to analyzing her reactions, chuckling under my breath at the way hers hitched at every little thing, and how she squeezed my thigh when she thought something scary would happen.

And then the car scene started. My muscles immediately froze underneath her, having completely forgotten about this particular part of the movie.

“What’s going on?” She asked, first surprised and then confused. “Is everything okay?” I couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t even look away from the screen, flinching as it developed right before my eyes. It was like my own self-made train wreck: unavoidable and paralyzing.

“Seb…” She reached out for my hand, asking for my attention, and I licked my lips and took a deep breath before turning to give it to her.

“I don’t get it, what’s going on?” I was about to tell her that I was just embarrassed, but the confusion in her eyes as they darted from the TV to my embarrassed self suddenly made sense to me.

“Wait,” I started, holding her jaw so she’d fix her eyes on mine and forget about the movie for a second. “You don’t understand the scene?” She hesitated for a second before nodding, biting her lower lip in that way she did when she was nervous.

It made the warmth inside my chest expand and take over my entire body, shooting straight to my lower belly, where it began to burn. 

Fuck. Who would have thought that she was so innocent?

“Do you want me to tell you?” The question left my lips before I could ponder if my concern came from a valid place - my desire to help her, always. 

But maybe things happened for a reason - maybe it was some sort of ungodly gift the idea of watching this movie together, because as I watched her glance over at the screen again and then lay her eyes on me, I saw it with perfect clarity:

She was aroused by it.

“Or would you like me to show you?” Another question that slipped from my lips unintentionally, another sentence I didn’t regret speaking. This… tension, it had always been here, between the both of us. I’d been too much of a coward to act on it before so if the ball was on my court now, it was time to let it roll.

“’Cause I’d be more than happy to.” With my last reassurance, the thread between us broke, and in a second, we were kissing. Who made the first move, I’d never know. All I cared about was her taste, how sweet she was, and the tiny little whimpers I could hear escaping her when I had to pull back to take a breath.

My body still acting of its own accord, I got up from the couch to take my pants off, hand immediately going to my hardness to release some of the frustration she was causing me. Thankfully, she didn’t seem scared - just hungry, looking at me with doe eyes and biting down on her lower lip before I pulled her closer so that her hand rested over mine.

“Fuck…” I whispered against her neck at the first contact of her hand on my naked dick, but for some reason that was all it took for the spell to break.

“Seb, I can’t…” She pulled away from me, chest still heaving from desire, but I felt so damn guilty I couldn’t even feel good about it. “I can’t do this and then pretend that it didn’t happen.”

Y/N’s P.O.V.

His face softened up instead of becoming angry, like I expected it would. “Come.” He got up from the couch, offering me his hand, which I took without second-guessing myself.

His eyes told me everything I needed to know.

He took me to his bed, where he kissed me deeply once again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be patient.” How could I say that I’d let him do anything to me?

Within seconds, I was naked. It was unlike any other similar experience I’d ever lived, and the way he stared at me only had me falling deeper into the cloud of comfort that only Seb could provide me.

“Spread your legs for me, honey.” I did so instinctively, also closing my eyes in nervousness at what was happening.

“Keep looking at me,” he asked, and so I reopened my eyes, finding him staring at my most private spot with hunger in his. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

Before I could comprehend what was happening, he’d yanked me to the edge of the bed and proceeded to kneel down before me, lips kissing my inner thighs and navel while I panted softly.

“Fuck, I can’t believe that I get to taste you,” he uttered before his tongue stuck out and he did just that… He tasted me, and nothing had ever felt quite as great as that simple gesture.

“How does it feel, sweetheart?” He asked in the midst of attacking my clit with his tongue and lips, the hot muscle swirling over it and making my head spin. “Do you like this?”

“Yes, yes!” I nodded, hand flying down to hold him by the hair and keep him attached to me. “More, I want more.”

“What?” He teased me, the devious thing. “You want what?”

“More,” I insisted, pushing him down so his face would connect with my pussy once more. He didn’t keep up with his pretense and kept on licking me until I saw stars behind my closed eyelids, screaming his name for dear life.

“Kiss me,” I begged breathlessly once I was able to speak again, and he leaned over me to grant me my wish, allowing me to taste myself for the first time in my life.

“You know…” I struggled to find the courage to say what I wanted, but I knew I could trust Sebastian. “When we actually do it, you don’t need to be so gentle…”

He bit my shoulder in response, shaking his head at my antics. I thought I was dreaming, being naked in his bed, having just had the best orgasm of my life.

I wanted to do this for the rest of my life.

“I don’t want to go to sleep tonight,” I confessed, watching as the most beautiful smile opened up in my best friend’s face.

“Lucky for you, there are a ton of things we can do to pass the time.”

[holodecks-and-hennins]

TNG Original Costume Tests: Deanna Troi

I don’t have the actual documentary, just the Trekcore caps, so forgive me if I miss anything, and feel free to add on if you have more info!

Deanna had some great cut hairstyles, as well as some different contacts! Let’s dive in!

I really like this style! I love the little curls around the face. Also, I’m fascinated by that hair clip thing— it’s kinda unclear what it’s made of. If anyone has any info, pipe up! Her lipstick seems to get progressively darker over the first two seasons; it’s pretty close to this in Farpoint, but by Naked Now it’s already darker to go with her blue jumpsuit, and it changes again to even darker when the burgundy jumpsuit arrives in the second season. Contrariwise, her blue eyeshadow is a lot more prominent here than even in Farpoint. Channeling Spock and matching her department colour, I suppose.

I think I like the side view a lot more than the front view— that sparkly accent kind of gets lost in the hair in this view. The curls are still cute though! It’s also clearer in this picture the options for the Betazoid eyes. I didn’t notice it until someone pointed it out on Lon Suder, and now I can’t unsee it: Betazoids tend to have very large, very dark irises. Marina Sirtis’s actual eyes are a lot lighter than either option here.

The next hair option is this sleek bun. I think the decorations here are really pretty from the side, and again, less so from the front. I love the naturalistic design of those gold leafy patterns!

It looks a bit awkward from the front because of where the ends of the hair ornament fall. I think it might be nice if the top ones came over the front a bit more; I think the design would be clearer from all angles that way.

It looks like there’s a cool twisted or braided aspect to the bun, which I wish was easier to see! The side view also shows how far back the eyeshadow goes on this style. I think it looks pretty nice! It's a little closer to the style she gets later in the season, though more pulled back.

And this test is basically what made it on screen at Farpoint. This isn’t my favourite Troi hairstyle; the sparkly braided headband is cute, but maybe a little chunky and I think it has too many colours. I prefer the more defined loose curls she gets later to the loose frizz here. 

Including this last picture mainly for the smile! Though you can also see how the eyeshadow was toned down from the other tests.

[cinnamon-galaxies]

𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧

Pairings: Alastor x gn!reader Summary: In which Alastor tries to get rid of you by giving you a dangerous task and explores your room once you have left. What he discovers are things he wishes he could unsee... Warnings/Tags: explicit and suggestive content but no smut, 18+, MDNI, gn reader, Emberlynn-coded reader, unrequited love, reader is obsessed with Alastor and he can barely handle it, second-hand embarrassment, cringe, like, lots of it, exaggerated descriptions, comedy, mentions of violence, murder and death, very brief mention of suicide (Alastor barely keeps his sanity), fandom slander and random references (you either get it or you don’t), Alastor needs his own warning, humiliation, a whole bunch of passive aggressiveness and sarcastic remarks, trash-fic Wordcount: 6.5k A/N: This is a spin-off to my other Emberlynn-coded reader story ‘The Simp’. It can be read as a standalone, though I suggest reading the original first for a better understanding of the reader’s messed up personality and their complicated relationship with Alastor. This one escalated a bit more than I planned. It was originally meant to be much shorter, but I ended up having way too much fun writing it. Comments, Likes and Reblogs are always appreciated!

Masterlist

   It was a morning like any other in the hotel. The air was still and tranquil, the residents just beginning to stir as they readied themselves for the day ahead. Alastor strode through the dimly lit halls, his mind set on a singular destination: your room.

   A familiar weight settled in his stomach, a feeling that had lingered since the day he claimed your soul. Your insufferable presence had become a constant in his existence, haunting him with a mix of irritation and curiosity. He braced himself for yet another day filled with your exhausting demeanor, yet he knew he had an important task to assign to you.

   As he approached your door, he could already hear the faint sounds of movement within – your usual morning routine, perhaps accompanied by some melodramatic humming. The thought made his insides twist, but he reminded himself of the necessity of the task at hand.

   In front of your door, Alastor closed his eyes and took a deep breath to prepare himself for yet another one of your annoying tirades, then knocked. Once, twice – the door opened when he moved to knock a third time and he almost punched the air. Immediately, his crimson eyes darted down, and there you stood, already dressed despite the early hour, with an eager grin plastered on your face, your expression brightening like an unexpected sunrise breaking through the clouds.

   “Good morning, Alastor!” your squeaky voice disrupted the early quiet of the hotel and Alastor cringed inwardly, his ears twitching at the painful frequency. He opened his mouth to retort with a dry greeting, but before he could utter a single tone you already interrupted him, the words spilling from your mouth like an accelerated record, “Is something wrong? Do you need my help? It’s still so early in the morning and you knocked on my door – I mean you never knock on my door, so there must be something wrong. Is there anything wrong? Do you need my help? Please let me help you, Alastor!”

   Instant regret grew inside of him as he tried to keep up with the neverending flood of your words that were uttered so fast he barely managed to understand what you said. He just stood there, staring at you with his mouth slightly agape, overwhelmed and the wheels turning in his head as he tried hard to piece together the fragments of what he caught from your extensive monologue.

   “Uhm…” He blinked, staring at your worried but also anticipatory expression, the adrenaline heating up your face like a tomato, making it appear as if it was about to burst. He imagined your head exploding and withheld a chuckle, the mere thought of all your blood and viscera spilled around your room a delightful image in his head.

   “Well, my dear, I do in fact have a task for you,” he eventually said, his voice much calmer than he felt. He always relished the stillness of his sleepless nights, when you finally left him alone, allowing him to unwind from the stress you constantly stirred within him. If he weren’t already dead, he’d probably be at risk of a heart attack from your relentless annoyance. Seriously, how could someone as utterly miserable as you be so exhausting? Maybe he should consider seeing a therapist before he completely snapped. It wouldn’t be long before he lost all the control he’d worked so hard to maintain. He could feel it, deep in his bones – the silent scream of agony echoing within him.

   You immediately straightened your back at his words, crossing your hands behind your back in anticipation. “Oooh, a task! Tell me! I’ll do it as soon as possible!”

Here's the missing part filled in:

   “I sure hope so…” Alastor muttered beneath his breath before he tilted his head to the side and responded much louder, “Well, it is something of high importance…” he drawled out, the radio static in his voice crackling, and he could swear he saw your eyes gleam.  

   “What is it, Alastor-kun?” you interrupted him, and Alastor’s eye twitched, though he did not further elaborate, choosing instead to let the moment linger with a teasing smile.

   “Well, you see… I need you to fetch something from Cannibal Town. There’s a butcher on Carcass Lane who sells the most delectable venison in the entire Pride Ring. I need you to grab some for lunch. Here’s the address and the list of items I need.” He handed you a crumpled piece of paper, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, and you snatched it from his hands, pressing the note almost against your face while you read it.

   Alastor raised his eyebrows as he watched you literally absorb the information, then you looked up and nodded exaggeratedly.

   “I'm on my way!” you declared and scurried past him, the wind of your fast movement causing Alastor's hair to flutter. He turned around with a narrowed eye and crooked smile, a look of irritation on his face, but you had already disappeared behind the corner before his eyes could follow. He stared in the direction you just disappeared for a few more seconds before his smile widened into a predatory grin, flashing his sharp and pointy canines with a sudden, exhilarating thrill that sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. This was an easy success. You really were so desperate to serve him that you were stupid enough to run to Cannibal Town alone. You, a small little creature, pathetic and completely helpless, were nothing more than prey for the people in this part of the city. Maybe, if he was lucky enough, you'd get eaten before you even reached the butcher shop, and thus a problem would've been solved without much effort on his side. Genius.

   Still standing in the doorway, he turned back around. Alastor had never dared to knock on your door before – because of obvious reasons which have just been confirmed to be true. But now that you were gone and hopefully not returning, he got curious. Without further thought he entered your room and closed the door behind him, turning on his heels to take a look around. His eyes widened with every detail that caught his eyes. Bright pink and violet walls clashed with white polished furniture that could've been sourced from a doctor's office. The cabinets and shelves appeared almost sterile compared to the atrocious clutter in and around. Dozens – no, hundreds – of plushies and figurines were crammed into the tiniest of spaces. It was a chaotic explosion of color and fluff, a seemingly random assortment that defied all attempts at organization. The shelf was filled with books and boxes that were somehow puzzled into the space like some kind of a real life Tetris game. The walls – dear Satan, the walls – were suffocatingly plastered with posters in colorful palettes that showed a wide range of grotesquely exaggerated, wide-eyed monstrosities. The eyes of the characters – if they could even be called that – were so enormous that they seemed ready to fall out of their skulls, while their breasts rivaled their heads in size. It was as if the artist had taken every ridiculously hyper-sexualized fantasy and spilled them out on paper to create those unnatural horrors of eyesore that depicted an unhealthy and disrespectful portrayal of the female body. How were their waists so small? Did they even have organs in there? Alastor raised his eyebrow as he eyed the pictures. Some of those creatures bore animalistic features with cat ears, bunny tails and other appendages like they were common in hell, yet seeing the mere addition of those features on such grotesque figures was more than unsettling to him. The others were probably supposed to be human but their proportions were so out of control they looked like misbuilt mannequins from the fashion store of mistrust.

   Alastor's eyes drifted further across the wall until they landed on the image of a pale man with sharp pointy ears and curly white hair who was mid-bite on a woman's neck, the blood pouring from the wound and running over the woman's chest in a subtle yet intendedly suggestive way. The text read ‘Baldur's Gate’.

   What in Hell's name was a ‘Baldur's Gate’?!

   Before his mind could even attempt to comprehend this madness, his gaze landed on another poster with the same writing and same world – but this one featured a woman swooning in the arms of what could be an octopus-man hybrid.

   Alastor blinked, horrified. Yes, that was indeed an octopus with glowing eyes and squirming, slimy tentacles wrapping themselves around the poor woman as though she were just another victim of this abhorrent nightmare. Wait – were those tentacles caressing her?!

   He gagged, the taste of bile appearing on his tongue. “This is disgusting,” he hissed, a shiver running down his spine. He could barely process what he was seeing. ‘Baldur's Gate’? Hell, maybe you belonged there. Maybe he'd be doing you a favor by sending you straight into that absurd world where vampires, octopus-men, and God knows what else ran free, far away from him, where you could fulfill your worst fantasies of–. He neglected the thought before he could finish it, his stomach churning and the threat of another gag rising in his throat.

   But then, his eyes caught something worse. Yes, worse. Somehow the room found a way to outdo itself. Layered posters plastered the other wall – yes, layered – leaving almost no surface of the actual wall visible underneath. And the images – Satan help him –  the images were so obscene, he couldn't withhold himself from widening his eyes in shock. Muscular men – half naked and grotesquely exaggerated – posed with claws, fangs, and the most ridiculous expressions of primal desire imaginable. Texts like “Alpha” and “Bite me, baby” screamed from these posters. But the final blow came from a particular poster showing a dripping wet, absurdly muscular mafioso leaning into a shower, a caption in giant, sultry text reading, “Are you lost, babygirl?”

   Alastor's jaw practically unhinged as his eyes widened in horror.

   What. The. Fuck.

   He averted his gaze, barely suppressing another gag, and found himself standing in front of a shelf, hoping for some brief moment of sanity. But no – his hopes were shattered. The shelf was packed with small figurines or more cat-girls and octopus men, between them some green-haired man holding two Katana in his hands and one between his teeth. How the hell could he even fight like this? This didn't make any sense at all. And – was that the sculpture of spaghetti with a face?! He stared at it with one eye widened and the other narrowed, his lids twitching under the pressure and his smile was shaped into a confused grimace. Why the Hell did you have spaghetti on your shelf?! But of course that wasn't all. Between those figurines were even smaller creatures that looked like they'd crawled from the very bowels of an overactive, perverted imagination. With a roll of his eyes and a deepening sense of disgust, he glanced at the books. Big mistake.

   How – just how could every single corner of your room be even worse than the last?! He was barely able to keep himself from laughing as he read the titles of the books that were stuffed into the tightest of spaces. Each one was worse than the one before: “Bound by Blood and Lust”, “Slave to the Beast”, “Taken by the Overlord”, “Marked by the Alpha”, “The Alpha's Virgin Omega”... and even more dreadful titles. “My Immortal” was the most normal of them all. But even a harmless title could hide one of the worst stories in all of history. If Alastor knew one thing, then it was that one should never judge a book by its cover – or in this case: title.

   He took a deep breath, stepping back from the shelf, his gaze still locked on the chaos around him. He found himself standing before your desk, turning with a low hum, eyes scanning the mess of paper stacks and notebooks with a bizarre mix of morbid curiosity and utter disgust. Your room was like a car crash – something no one wanted to witness, yet impossible to look away from. In a nutshell: It was absolutely atrocious.

   With narrowed eyes he took one of the paper stacks in his hands and shuffled through the pages. Most of them were notes and doodles, some better than others, but the majority looked like the deformed mannequin creatures from your posters – only more disturbing. Their eyes, grotesquely oversized and much rounder and bigger than the ones from the posters, were filled with far too many reflections, giving the eerie illusion of tears, yet each character wore an unsettling grin, twisted and unnerving, disturbingly similar to his own at its worst. He continued his expedition through your mess, not surprised to find some drawings of himself but shocked by the sheer quality and painstaking detail you had put into them. Then, his breath caught in his lungs. His eyes widened, pupils constricting in disbelief as he stumbled upon yet another drawing of him – this time, barely dressed, with a lewd speech bubble in the corner. ‘Oh, don’t be shy, little one. I promise, this is one signal that’s sure to reach every part of you…’

   He instantly flung the papers aside, recoiling with a loud, distorted radio screech. You truly were a creature of Hell. Did your parents even love you? They must’ve been really bad people if they managed to spawn such a fucked up creature like you… Maybe it was a good idea to just leave the room without exploring your personal belongings any further. Not even getting mauled to death by bloodthirsty dogs was as traumatizing as the deep, dark abyss of your mind. But before he could turn away, something caught his eye. A pink notebook that was adorned with glitter stickers and handwritten quotes lay right in the middle of your desk, a few pens strewn around it as if you were just using it. He knew he shouldn’t. Every single look was worse than the one before. He knew this flashy notebook would most probably hide even more stuff he would regret to ever have seen. However, there was a quiet little voice that tried to lure him into doing something he knew he would regret.

   With caution he approached the desk again and reached out his hand, his finger tips grazing the surprisingly soft material of the cover. He held his breath as he took it into his hands and opened it. The first page was adorned with hearts and tiny flower doodles, the image of a cathedral radio in the corner. In the middle of the page stood written in flourished cursive: “Static Lust – A Dark Romance Fanfiction”. Underneath, your name.

   He frowned. What was a fanfiction…? With a bad feeling in his guts he turned the page and began to read your surprisingly neat handwriting. His eyes flew over the words, taking in every sentence and he cringed inwardly at the badly written plot. The story was ridiculously self-indulgent, starring you as a tragic figure that was kidnapped and brought to Hell by none other than… him.

   Alastor blinked when he read his name, wrinkling his nose and inhaling a deep breath. Of course. He should’ve known. Fan-fiction. Knowing how hard you were in love with him should’ve prepared him for what he was about to discover.

   As uncomfortable as he felt, he continued this little venture into the literal intonation of your deepest thoughts. Somehow, it amused him. It was as if he was reading your diary, just more messed up. And most definitely pushing his boundaries. 

   You portrayed him with a personality that couldn’t be farther off from reality: a lovesick obsessive who wanted nothing but to corrupt you, possess your soul and your whole being. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. The sheer absurdity of it all – the dramatized seduction, the over-the-top description of his passion for you were unbearable to read. Yet, he couldn't stop himself from continuing the story. His eyes continuously trailed over every sentence, soaking in the words as if his life depended on it while his heart sank deeper into his guts. His expression was completely motionless and his already pale face drained of even the last bits of color. The worst was: it didn’t stop here. As the story progressed, so did your so-called ‘romance’.

   His fingers trailed along my jaw, claws grazing my delicate skin as he kept his gaze locked with mine, crimson eyes boring themselves into my very core as if he was reading my soul. I felt completely naked under his gaze, caught between desire and a flicker of fear at his imposing form.    “Be mine,” he growled with a deep sultry voice, the radio static gone and his hot breath grazing against my cheeks. Sharp teeth glinted from behind his smile, a silent threat yet so intriguing. The danger, his power, his possession were palpable. Everything left me completely breathless and a shiver ran down my spine, causing the butterflies in my stomach to flutter wildly around. It was a tingling feeling, one that jolted electricity through my veins and into the depth of my core.

   He swallowed hard at the description, nausea taking over his stomach, replacing the appetite he just had for a tasty bite of rotting venison. He would never say something like that to you. He would never do something like that to you. And most importantly, he could never love you. He wasn’t even able to love. But even if he were, he'd be more likely to fall for Lucifer than he would ever waste a single thought on you.

   ‘Be mine.’

   He let out a huff. You were already his. Certainly not in the way you wanted it to be, but he owned your soul. Which meant he could do to you however he pleased. But nothing similar to this bullshit from your writing, obviously.

   Alastor’s eyes narrowed as he continued to read and the story development was truly as bad as his characterization and anything else. The more he continued, the more his eyes widened in horror. It didn’t take long for the writing to turn explicit – vulgar and smutty. Each sentence was dripping with suggestive language, painting a picture of you and him in intimate situations.

   I couldn't resist him any longer, the way he dominated the room, the power in his every movement. My heart raced as he leaned in closer, his voice a seductive purr that caused my hairs to stand up. “You were a naughty little thing,” Alastor whispered, his lips brushing my ear and his voice dropped to a baritone that vibrated in his throat, “and you deserve to be punished.”    I shuddered, feeling my entire body tremble in anticipation. “Alastor…”    “Uh, uh, uh,” he brushed me off, his nose grazing the skin on my neck while his hot breath sent shivers down my spine and right into my core.     “Say it. Say, ‘Punish me, Sir,” he commanded, and I–

   Alastor slammed the book shut for a moment, closing his eyes as if to cleanse himself from what he had just read. He let out a sharp exhale, then opened the notebook again with a resigned sigh, morbidly fascinated by the sheer audacity of your words. His smile became brittle, twitching as he forced himself to read on.

   Alastor pressed me firmly against the wall, his finger tracing a line down my neck, the touch gentle but brimming with control. I felt his sharp claws graze my skin, leaving faint red marks that would serve as a silent testament to his claim over me. I remained still, terrified that the wrong move could turn his claws from teasing to lethal.    “So naughty…” he growled in my ear, his voice sending a shiver down my spine before he stepped back, creating a cold distance between us. The sudden loss of his warmth sent a chill through me, goosebumps prickling across my skin as I resisted the urge to reach for him, knowing he wouldn't tolerate such disobedience.    Alastor’s intense gaze swept over my body, lingering on every inch, and I could feel the heat pooling between my legs, the wetness trailing down my thighs. “Strip,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. I obeyed without a second thought.

   This was absurd. This was disgusting. This was absolutely disturbing. This was how you viewed him? A domineering, smoldering lover? The mere idea was enough to make his skin crawl.

   He gagged once more, the mere thought of touching you making him recoil in pure revulsion. This went beyond simple disgust. It was something far deeper. What was any of this supposed to be? Did you actually believe he could ever reciprocate your twisted feelings? Were you truly so desperate that you wrote an entire book about him doing such indecent things to you? He couldn’t comprehend it, and it only worsened his already low opinion of you. He knew he shouldn’t have read it, but did you honestly think he wouldn’t find out eventually?

   Part of him just wanted to die again. To disappear and never return, to tear out his eyes and brain and offer them to his equals in Cannibal Town. Was there anyone in Pentagram City who still performed lobotomies? He definitely needed one after this monstrosity of an insult to all literature ever created.

   He flipped through pages in haste, no longer bothering to read the entire story, just skimming over a few lines here and there. With every word, it became more unbearable. The grotesque images your writing forced into his mind were intolerable, destined to haunt him for the far future where they would resurface in his rare moments of sleep and flash before his eyes every time he looked at you. It was obscene, nonsensical, and revolting. Violating not only his sense of decency but also his personal boundaries.

   What started off as a toxic fast-paced back and forth between the two characters turned out to be nothing more than a pure over-sexualized scandal. You and Alastor would do it everywhere. In the bed, in the shower, in the hotel's parlor, on the counter of Husk's bar – even on the balcony while you glared up at one of Vox’s drones, knowing damn well the television freak would watch. He even found a chapter in which he took you into his radio station and broadcasted your moans all over Hell, so everyone knew that you belonged to him. 

   “Ah, Alastor-kun!” I moaned in both pain and pleasure.

   “Punish me, Mister Radio Demon, Sir!”

   “Ah, harder, deer-daddy!”

   “YAMETE KUDASAI!!!”

   He slammed the book shut again and dared not to open it again. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Was wrong with you?!

   His face was white as chalk, his eyes twitched and for the first time in decades, his smile had disappeared and instead, his face was adorned by a completely and utterly traumatized grimace. This was… this was an affront to his dignity, to his entire being.

   His thoughts raced like a whirlwind as he imagined every possible way to make you regret this. To punish you – not in the way you do desperately wanted – but actually punish you in the most gruesome and painful ways he could imagine. Over the decades, Alastor got creative with his murders. Maybe he would even discover new ways to torture a soul before tearing it apart, shredding it into pieces to ensure not only your death but to erase your existence from history entirely. Perhaps he’d even find a way to prevent you from ever being born at all.

   Fuck.

   But until then, he would keep his rage silently hidden inside of him, deep behind the walls he had constructed to maintain his control.

   Alastor let out a laugh, though it was more out of frustration than amusement, the sound hollow and laced with irritation. Of all the souls he could have ended up owning, it had to be yours – lovesick simp with a disturbing penchant for writing self-indulgent filth. Oh yes, you were destined to be his punishment. The punishment Alastor most probably deserved in his afterlife. But before he could continue his train of thoughts, he got interrupted.

   “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” your frantic voice shattered the silence of your room as you burst through the door, nearly knocking it off its hinges. Alastor flinched, startled by the sudden commotion. His head turned a full 180 degrees to face you, accompanied by the snapping of bones and sharp crackle of radio static, and you froze mid-step, locking eyes with him.

   You blinked once, then twice. “Oh, Alastor! I'm so sorry!” you cried, your eyes glistening with tears. “I’m so, so sorry! I screwed up!”

   He stood there, holding your notebook, his expression frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. His heart raced in his chest as you hurried toward him, trembling slightly.

   “I went to the butcher, but I forgot my purse at the hotel! I had to come back for it!” you rambled, breathless, and Alastor’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I’m so sorry I won’t have your supplies in time! Please forgive me, Alastor! Or punish me! I’d love to be punished! I–I mean – I deserve to be punished! I can also punish myself if you prefer! Just forgive me for being so stupid!” you pleaded, completely oblivious to the fact that Alastor stood in front of you with your most mortifying secret in his hands. 

   Tears streamed down your face, but Alastor just stared, mouth slightly agape, yellow teeth peeking through as he stood there, overwhelmed. He held your notebook in his hands, the disturbing contents trapped between its thick covers, while you rambled on about a forgotten purse and your desire for punishment. All the while, you remained utterly unaware of the true embarrassment in front of you.

   “Uh…” Alastor exhaled at a loss of words.

   You gazed up at him with teary, wide eyes, then your eyes slowly drifted down to his hands. Realization hit you like a train. Your eyes widened and grew so big in size that they rivaled with the creatures on your posters, the color from your face draining, turning your skin from pale to snow-white in an instant.

   “No...” you breathed, your voice weak and barely above a whisper. You shook your head slowly, stepping back, repeating the word in disbelief, as if doing so could undo the reality before you.

   Alastor's initial shock dissolved into a wicked grin. His pupils constricted, and the glow in his crimson eyes intensified with a dangerous gleam. Watching your horror unfold, filled him with a surge of dark satisfaction and the thought of simply torturing you felt far too mild now. No, this reaction was much more satisfying, much more delicious. His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as an idea took root. This wasn't just good. It was perfect. The situation was playing right into his hands.

   “Well, my dear, it appears that you've stumbled into quite the predicament, huh?” his static-filled voice broke the uncomfortable silence and he turned around fully, tilting his head in a derogatory manner. “Care to explain?” He asked, his fingers tapping against the book one after another, the sound of his claws clapping against its surface a haunting melody. His voice was much too light and way too cheerful for what he felt on the inside, but it was the perfect way to confront you with the danger you just put yourself into. It made him hard to read. It put him in charge.

   “Well… uh… uhm…” you stumbled, momentarily speechless. Alastor could see the wheels turning in your head and he noticed your pale cheeks turn a red color that was almost as vibrant as his coat.

   He took a step closer and tilted his head further, almost holding it at a 90 degrees angle. “Well…?”

   “I– it's not what–” you started but Alastor interrupted you.

   “Save this nonsense. This is exactly what it looks like, dear. Now, tell me, what is this thing you're so ashamed of, huh?”

   You began to fumble with your shirts, fingers fidgeting with the fabric as your breaths grew more ragged. “I–I–It's… a diary!” you shouted that last word. “A diary! Yes, yes! Nothing more! Just a few thoughts about my life at the hotel!” you tried to save yourself from this situation, crafting a lie that was so obvious that even the most stupid person would've seen right through it. And, after all, it's not that Alastor didn't just read page after page with an abhorred expression. But you didn't need to know. Not yet. He'd let you squirm a little before dropping the bombshell. So, he just raised an eyebrow and turned the notebook in his hands, eyeing it from all sides with faux curiosity. “Is that so?” he drawled and you seemed to shrink under his looming presence and intense gaze.

   You nodded hastily, your whole body vibrating with the simple movement. “Yes! Yes…”

   “Well…” Alastor paused for a moment, glancing down at the supposed ‘diary’ and then darting his eyes at you from under his lashes, a quick flicker of mischief dancing across his features but no less intense.

   You swallowed. And Alastor could see your throat jolt up and down.

   “Well,” he repeated, “if it's just about the hotel, then I guess you wouldn't mind if I take a look.” He moved his hand to open the notebook but your panicked voice interrupted him.

   “No!”

   He stopped his movement, thumb and index just touching the upper rim of the front over. He raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh? And why's that?”

   “Because… because… it's not good. It's just… bullet points and quick notes. Nothing special, really! Just ugly smearing and shitty drawings!” You explained in a rush, nervously shifting your weight from one foot to the other while you bit the corners of your cheeks and your hands kept fumbling with your shirt.

   Wait. Drawings? Alastor blinked. There were illustrations in there too?! He swallowed. Hard. Though his expression did not reveal any of the discomfort that crept through his veins like a venomous snake on the hunt for something to eat.

   “Oh come on, they can't be so bad!” Alastor assured while he made sure his fingers lingered at the very same spot, a silent threat that he could – and would – open the book any second.

   Tears welled up in your eyes again as you stared up at him with pursed lips, a pleading expression on your incredibly blushed face as you silently, yet loud enough for everyone to hear, begged he would put it aside and dismiss your personal belongings. 

   You folded your hands in front of you as if praying to some God, your voice barely above a whisper, “I mean it, Alastor. Please don't open the book. Please…"

   Oh, this was delicious. This was so much better than any torturing method he had imagined just mere minutes ago. Your pleading expression, the fear in your eyes, the way you so desperately tried to keep him from opening the book while you were completely unaware of the fact that he had already read its contents. That he knew about your deepest, dirtiest desires, your pathetic longing for him that must’ve affected you so strongly you spend hours and hours of your free time to create something this atrocious… He could see your body tremble. He noticed every inch of your skin on fire, every single hair standing on edge. He smelled the panic that surged through your veins and heard the blood rushing through your arteries, powered by the frantic beating of your pounding heart in your chest.

   The silence between you stretched on and Alastor enjoyed every second of it, reveled in this moment of utter uncertainty. He heard your ragged breaths, how you tried to force yourself to keep your breathing as steady as possible, fighting against the tears that glistened in your eyes. Alastor realized you resembled the drawings he’d discovered in that chaotic stack of paper, and his grin grew even more sinister, exposing his sharp fangs in all their menacing glory.

   It was at this moment he knew time had come to drop the bombshell. To reveal the truth to you and humiliate you with the product of your own creativity.

   “‘Deer-daddy’, huh?” he casually quoted one of the lines from your story and he saw you twitch, his sadistic satisfaction growing even stronger.

   “What?” you whimpered in shock but before you could say more, Alastor opened the notebook and flipped to the very page where he read it, turning the book around for you to face your own writing and pointing with his clawed finger at the line.

   “Here it is, ‘deer-daddy’,” he repeats again, tapping against the page twice. Then he inhaled deeply, raised one eyebrow and looked at you like a disappointed parent. “First off, I am not your father,” he clarified, his tone still casual, a subtle hint at the hidden danger underneath his facade. “And secondly… Wouldn’t that make the whole plot of your story a little… incestuous…?”

   The trembling of your body intensified and your breaths got quicker, impossible to control as you found yourself at the brink of hyperventilation.

   “Oh, come now, dear. Why so nervous…?” he drawled and your lips began to tremble.

   “You…” you started but your breath caught in your throat, your voice trembling as much as your body. “You… read… it…?”

   Alastor fell silent for a moment, his burning red eyes taking in your pitiful state. Then his smile widened, casual yet unnervingly so, before he cheerfully exclaimed, “Of course I did! How could I resist this flashy little booklet you so obviously displayed in the middle of your desk? I simply had to read it!” He closed the book and thrust the cover into your face, an exaggerated gesture meant to highlight its eye-catching design. The stickers you had playfully plastered on now seemed to mock you for forgetting to hide it away.

   Holding the book closer to himself again, he shifted his gaze between it and you. “But let’s be honest, dear. Your storytelling could use some work.” He opened the book again and flipped through the pages. “You started off strong with your self-insert and their dramatic backstory – it caught my interest at first. But come on. Kidnapped into Hell? By the Radio Demon, due to a ridiculous Halloween bet gone wrong?” He raised an eyebrow at the sheer absurdity of the plot before he continued, “First off, summoning me to Earth requires much more than a little pentagram, some candles, and a radio. I deserve better sacrifices than that. And do you honestly think I’d find a pathetic little human being, especially one like you, interesting? What could you possibly offer in return for my favor besides your fragile soul? I’m not the kind to wait years or decades for a death so a bargain can be fulfilled. It’s simply… inconvenient.”

   You stared at him, dumbfounded, as he critiqued your writing like an editor at a publishing house.

   “And kidnapping someone just because of their ‘tempting nature’ and without further motive? That’s quite foolish. What if the Sins found out? Or other powerful beings in charge?” He stepped closer, glaring down at you with a still raised eyebrow, his casual demeanor betraying a hint of enjoyment in your discomfort. “Don’t you think they’d come after you if they learned that a human managed to survive a descent to Hell? Honestly, you’re missing quite a thrilling plot here.”

   Alastor’s eyes flicked over the pages, taking in fleeting words without truly reading. He didn’t need to reread to recall the errors and striking details; they were burned into his mind – probably for the rest of eternity. As he took a deep breath, he stumbled upon a lewd drawing of you and him tangled together on a desk – something he must’ve overlooked before and wished he could forget now. So, there were illustrations in this book. You didn't lie.

   Blinking, he turned the page, pushing aside this humiliation for a moment to continue his critique, “While your writing style is surprisingly enticing, the rest of the story lacks character development, thrill, and depth. It could have been executed much better – if we ignore the fact that it centers around me being your beau and engaging in... inappropriate activities while indulging in exaggerated displays of carnal desires. You’re a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” He chirped, glancing at you with anticipation, waiting for you to form a response. But you were speechless. Not a single word managed to leave your lips as you just stared at him, dumbfounded, your mouth agape and eyes widened in horror and confusion.

   Alastor sighed. “Oh come now, dear. If you can be so bold to bring such an imagination to paper you can surely just answer my question.”

   “I–,” you stuttered, pausing to gather your strength to do as he commanded. But instead, the words tumbled out as an apology. “I–I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude–”

   “Uh, uh, uh, dear!” Alastor interrupted, waving his index finger in front of your face. Your eyes squinted, tracking its movement. “We both know you’re not ashamed of intruding on anything related to me. Considering you’ve been following me around with those doting eyes of yours ever since the day you begged me to take your soul. You’re a bold little creature, utterly devoid of dignity, feeling the need to humiliate me in the process.”

   He closed the book and handed it back to you. Your trembling hand snatched it from his grip, and you hugged it protectively against your chest, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths to steady yourself. Meanwhile, Alastor continued his scolding, stepping closer until there was barely a foot of distance between you. He tilted his head, looming over you like a predator, eyes narrowed and teeth flashing.

   His voice dropped, growing darker with each word, the static crackling around him making the air feel charged as he hissed, “I suggest you cease this violation of my privacy before I make sure you regret every little thought you’ve ever dared to indulge in regarding such frivolities.”

   For a fleeting moment, his eyes turned an abyssal black before returning to their fiery hue. It was a subtle threat, yet clear as day. He lingered, staring down at you, savoring your pathetic state, before shadows engulfed him, pulling him into darkness until he vanished completely, leaving you alone in your room with just your thoughts and the memory of the consequences of your inappropriate behavior.

   Yes, he definitely needed that therapist.

[memoria-99]

My impressions of the villain guys

*100% personal thoughts.

William

He reminds me a lot of Vlad, so I wanted to like him, but ended up not as much. I got this feeling that I got from Chevalier; he doesn't feel like human to me. Still like him as a side character though.

Harrison

I like him. Kinda resembles Arthur who himself likes, minus the playboy part. Loved his hidden kindness while himself pretending not to be. Best older brother. He looks like one of the less insane ones in Crown.

Liam

Adorable kitten. Basically he's the reincarnation of Charles with a bit of Yves added. And I already love both; seems like I have a soft spot for cats and death wishes. There were moments I really wanted to cry and hug him in his route. This kitty deserves more love.

Elbert

He's so beautiful yet so obsessed with beautiful stuff... why just look at the mirror. Beautiful but gloomy, far from jokes reminds a bit of Jean, but looks way more attractive than him. I'm looking forward to this beauty's route.

Alfons

Reminds me of Clavis but with more red flag. Looks very interesting.

Roger

So much Faust vibe. First glance he looked kinda normal but well...

Jude

Reminds me of Silvio, that's enough reason to like this guy but I'm not sold to him yet for some reason... I wonder why. He also looks like one of the less insane ones in Crown.

Ellis

Another Charles reincarnation besides Liam, in slightly different way I think. He looks quite cute.

Victor

Mommy figure of Crown, which reminds me of Comte but more eccentric. And I can't unsee his name is so similar to Victoria... hmmm.

Darius

He's screaming Gilbert 2.0 and I already have high hopes on him.

Nica and Ring

For some reason they kinda look like Nokto and Licht to me.

P.S. Are these guys walking perfume or something? I wonder why Kate always notices their presence by the scent... (Will is a walking rose, Harry is a walking peppermint and Liam is a walking vanilla at this rate)

[abyssforphantoms]

Based on this what's your favorite template by @aisdsstuds76

Now I'm going to do a little rambling below. >:D

Favorite Regular Spirit - Tearful Light Miner

The spirit that made my go "oh... OH. oh nooooooo..." as a moth.

Literally the last one to die out of the group omg... AND WE NEVER SEE THE OTHERS OF THEIR MINING GROUP AGAIN SO THEY PROBABLY THE ONLY ONE THAT BECAME A SPIRIT.

They need a hug fr.

First hair I ever bought was from them.

I drew them staring at their own husk when you relive their spirit because pain man.

Favorite Elders - Wasteland and Vault

I don't actually have much thoughts on the elders but always kinda liked both of them.

Wasteland was the first elder I got in orbit thus bias

STILL WAITING FOR THEIR MASKS TGC

Favorite Seasonal Spirit - Cackling Cannoneer

Words CANNOT describe the unfathomable level of brain rot I have for them... like if I do talk about them this post... that will obliterate and overshadow the rest of the stuff here. Which is not the point!!!! It's a freaking iceberg, and I'm going to have to contain my thoughts like the scp it is.💀

Favorite Creatures:

Instead of an "other" category I wanted to do some much needed favorite creature appreciation, because they make the game feel more alive and sky without creatures would be even more depressing.

1. The Abyss Monster (Thousand Eyes)

Best creature 1000 out of 10

Very chill. They are just swimming there... menacingly!

For something so big it's relatively quiet unless it roars or something has it's attention.

I like that we free them from being trapped in a cramped tank... must have sucked for them. And what could go wrong? Ignore last abyss quest lol. I'm sure cannoneer will be back from the grocery store anytime now.

I like calling them thousand eyes because that "name" kinda just stuck for me ( Also ,unrelated, totally forgot that a person who worked on the music for signalis is called 1000 eyes so that was kinda funny to me... also I love signalis).

They don't actually have 1000 eyes. It's something more along the lines of 29 with 22 missing eyes (I figured that out by comparing images).

Granted, in AU I'm working on they have an ability where the name makes more sense.

I feel like almost everyone calls it something different anyway.

Face wise, reminds me of a moray. I really like morays. :]

2. Eel

Sweet :>

Fun to follow around

The treasure reef one saved me from drowning a few times.

A very unique light creature. Like, the only other light creature I can think of thats kinda similar is the whales with their more stoney masks and how they spin while swimming/flying.

It's noises can be startling if you are not expecting them but I find them quite comforting and probably have some of my favorite animal noises in game. I just wished we had an eel call. I think it would sound pretty.

Has 4 eyes which is unique to them.

I like to call the treasure reef one Velma or Vel... don't have a name for the prairie peaks days of bloom one yet as I cannot choose. I got a list of potential names.

A friend pointed out they kinda look like a leek and I can't unsee it.

3. Krill Cat

CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT

I love how the Cackling Crab one purrs

Mine still my favorite though. They keep me company.

Also I love being thrown into outer space... or playing golf using my skykid as a ball and the cat as the golf club to fling me around... also very useful for building cannons.

4. Krill (Dark Dragons)

I used to be terrified of them. (Had a group of vets lure one at me when I first went into wasteland as a moth)

Broke my fear of krill by watching them from a distance and figured out they are quite predictable pathing wise and to watch out if a server switch happens because it messes with certain ones' pathing more than others... If you wonder why a krill suddenly contorts weird or suddenly makes an unexpected turn that's why.

I but I also enjoy watching them because they have some of the most interesting animations in game.

"Brutally elegant" is the best way to describe how I see them.

They might be partially made out of a sandy, clumpy, almost liquidy type material that isn't completely stable... Ask if you want me to elaborate.

5. Dark lurker (worm)

10/10 creature.

I think they are cute.

I appreciate that they don't drain all my life immediately.

Reminds me of how a dog behaves with a new chew toy.

Feel like they would enjoy eating a sandwich.

Once it snagged a thief that stole my boat! Good worm!

6. Crabs

WHO DOESN'T LIKE CRABS?

They are some of the most interactive creatures in sky.

Leave the friendly ones alone if you value your life. You wanna get me mad? Honk friendly crabs. I will drag you to an early grave you thoughtless monster! And if I didn't do anything immediately to show my anger watch your back... I'm plotting your demise.

7. Knife Fish

KILLER FISH. KILLER FISH FROM SAN DIEGOOOOOO!!!

I have a running gag of using them as actual knives.

Very Very easy to draw.

Noises are pleasant.

Also have saved me from drowning.

8. Butterflies

I sometimes scorn them but most of the time they are quite helpful during candle runs which makes up for it. I remember when they didn't come out of dark plants which made wasteland more treacherous.

Love the new dyeing feature and that butterflies come in multiple colors now... but I still have a fondness for the classic yellow ones.

Cute noises, Butterfly call when TGC???

Also easy to draw

Fond memories of being a butterfly during days of bloom and carrying crabs around with me.

Favorite Places:

I couldn't just pick one realm so just decided to list areas and maps

Note: I decided not to include oob locations, but they may factor into why I like some places.

1. Treasure Reef

Love how the music changes depending on where you are in the map.

It's looks are deceiving... >:)

Kinda foggy

It's Thousand Eyes and treasure reef eels home.

FISH and other creatures there are nice too.

Rip the manta spirit that gave us the ability to go underwater. You are my favorite Manta.

Abyss crews boat

Gorgeous underwater areas.

I LOVE IT WHEN WE GET TO SEE THE GIANT RAINBOW HERE IT'S SO RARE.

The LORE there I have taken quite an interest in.

Great to run if bored of typical candle run.

Level design wise, I think it's one of the better seasonal areas.

It has a big shared space that's partially underwater.

Tower interior OOB is a fav of mine to hide in. But also kinda sucks that it got scrapped for a quest.

Enough is left open for the brain to go crazy speculating and imagining underwater areas there that aren't canon.

I like that place is long abandoned mostly submerged lab, light house, mines, and to some extent a prison... like come on great setting!!!

More than likely there was some really shady shit some ancestors did there.

Is the area that made me question the use of spirit barriers, and how powerful they are because of the ones used in Thousands Eye's and the flock of mantas containments... it makes all the other spirit barriers in game look sus to me now.

It also reminds me of old adventure games and "point and clicks" setting wise like the Monkey Island series, a little bit of Grim Fandango and Freddi Fish games... in other words kinda hits a nostalgic spot in me I didn't know I had.

Has a mysterious invisible object you can pick up that makes a weird sound effect. (It's Probably just a random asset someone at TGC forgot to move).

I like making evil swimming races there for myself and friends if they dare. >:] (Mainly for myself though, ha)

In general great place to chill - like to float around afk on my boat or play music or build stuff.

I got lots of fond memories there.

2. The Archives

My favorite song in Sky's OST plays here: Hover

Home to one of my favorite OOB locations not many people go to

I like the dilapidated flooded liminal hallway vibes

I always felt like it should go somewhere else, but the fact it loops is neat and adds to the vault's weird nonsensical architecture nature.

Crabs in vault? That feels rare.

I think the lanterns and spinning platforms are neat.

3. The Last Lamp Before Death in Eden

I just like playing the Through the Eyes of a Child music sheet before going off to die and like to think it brings good luck to others on the map... or comfort them. Makes me happy when people join in or take a moment to listen.

4. Forest Brook

Pretty much end up going past here every day for event runs route I do.

It Has a nice flow to it compared to other maps for running and it's not too big.

Because the plants don't rotate, they are easier to memorize.

I swear it's one of the maps with the most wax.

Fond memories here with friends and as a moth

I love the secret rainbow there.

Waltzing in the Rain is definitely a iconic and beautiful music track.

Plenty of places the hide and listen to the rain.

There is the manta friend that leads moths through forest.

Often is people's first encounter with crabs... Definitely was mine. XD

5. Wasteland Graveyard

Many points of interest

CATAPULT

Spent alot of time watching krill here to get over my initial fear of them.

I have both fondness and trama for this area.

Not bad wax wise if you can take risk. Best on Sunday though when all of wastelands plants are out instead of being one rotation or the other and/or candle cakes are there.

6. The Patch of Big Blue Flowers in Prairie Peaks

I just think they are pretty even though I don't stay there very often.

Is another place to chill and play instruments or just go afk on my boat.

7. Duet's Concert Hall

My favorite of the crowd tech areas

There is the 4 boat OOB and ghost piano.

I like the flower area and that hidden cave.

8. Starlight Desert (Pot Interior)

The place where I first met a dear friend I don't see too often anymore.

On rare occasions I will play music there but not as much as I used to, just doesn't feel the same...

Its the bitter sweet favorite if you will.

I feel bad for drunk spirit.

Favorite Ships:

Originally was going to do boats instead to be funny but I decided to be brave and talk a little about this.

Also If you have different headcanons and stuff I'm happy for you and wouldn't mind hearing about them.

1. Cackling Cannoneer and Anxious Angler

If you are wonder what's happening in the picture have a headcanon that angler has Cannoneer take pictures of them and their catches sometimes. (Joke on "fishing dad photos")

Originally I didn't ship it. It just kinda happened!!!

I find the dynamics between the two interesting. So now it's become like a side lab experiment I tinker around with.

"Hunter × fisher sapphics???" - something someone said to me and stuck.

And before someone asks I do head canon that both of them are around the same age albeit angler is the slightly older one of the two.

kinda comes off as more of a queer platonic relationship of sorts??? But idk thinks can and have changed before.

As for... if someone is curious about how Doppelneer from my au feels... all I have to answer you is this image from centaurworld...

And to say the least if you know... YOU KNOW and NO they are not going to be taking it well.

Also man that image has been on my phone for awhile... centaurworld underrated.

2. Duets Guide and Compassionate Chellist

I think both of them are cute and really enjoyed that season for actually having somewhat of a story... and hiiiii abyss crew.

I hope they have a nice afterlife together playing music

Other than that I don't have much to say

3. Provoking Performer and Sneezing Geographer

Crack ship due to that one traveling spirit bug... and I found funny and never forgot.

I like to think that the reason that the glitch happened is that geographer sneezed while mid-telaport, and that caused provoking and the random statue to be there. And now sneezing and provoking are dating.

For some reason, it reminds me of a troupe that I swear I have seen... where wizard messes up a spell and summons the wrong spirit/ demon/ entity, and over time, they slowly fall in love... idk lol

Bonus Fav Ships (Boats):

I decided to include this anyway, haha.

1. Abyss Crew's Boat

I love speculating if it had an interior, what it would look like.

Nice size. Rare example of one of the more medium size boats in game.

I like that you can tell that it's definitely a place that was used but the "sand" on everything indicates stuff hasn't been touched in a bit and the fact there are light blooms attached to the boat says it hasn't moved in a bit. Possibly stranded.

While the enchantment ark has a mural telling it's story and you repair it gradually I like abyss crews for the subtlety of prop placement and things are left were they are.

Still RIP beta version of this boat...

2. My Boat

It's my boat :D

T'was one of my first IAP that I got gifted thus I cherish it.

Not as cool as abyss crew's but it does it's job well even though she be a wanderer.

It's always funny when others steal it and proceed to get her stuck.

Wish there was a way to place it in my nest... I would in a heartbeat if I could.

[obsidianpen]

also can you believe it’s 2025 and you started bg in 2017. i think it’s just crazy to see that when i go read bg over and over again. like the passage of time. the life youve lived during that time etc.

it’s almost been a decade. how much does a persong change/grow in a decade?

i have to admit i wasn’t here from the beginning. in a sense i ’got lucky’ since i only discovered bg last february. and that’s when you started youre more fast paced updating. yet i kind of hope i would have gotten to read it from the beginning in 2017.

well anyway, it��s an amazing story! thank you for writing and spending your time (8 years!!!!!?????!!!) writing it for us to enjoy for FREE????!!!❤️

well the answer to your first question is A LOt. But. Should be noted - I didn’t ’spend 8 years’ writing blood and gold. That would be nuts. I’ve been writing it over the span of 8 years, which is different. Blood and gold was never a job or a gig or even my main fanfiction for most of that time if I’m being honest! There were times where I stopped working on it for months or years at a time, for various reasons. In that same 8 year span, I have:

written and finished 2 original works that are over 100k words (one of which I edited a lot and am actually proud of! The other eh it was a learning experience lol might rework it one day)

Written a bunch of other fanfiction nonsense, idek how much and of what

moved like…. God 5 times? 6? Currently in the middle of move 7? And most of those were across the freaking country

got my masters degree (that was a two year break)

got married

had a bebe

worked some of the most STRESSFUL and time consuming jobs of my LIFE

and that’s just some of it!

anyway Im sorry, I got heated over this because I’ve been sent screenshots (wish I could unsee some things I swear) of someone talking shit about me and how long my stories take me to write. If I didn’t have a life and if I was only ever focusing on just one story at a time, they wouldn’t. 🤷‍♀️

[furiousflamingfeline]

What are your good and bad thoughts about the Reds 👀

Good question, I’m sure from recent posts on Reddit and other social media it might look like I hate the Reds. I don’t. 😇

I’ve been in this fandom for all 26 years and Blossom is my favorite character of all time, so I’m pretty much open to shipping her with almost anyone as long as it’s thoughtfully written and keeps her pretty much in character.

My small child started watching PPG last year which got me back into the fandom after being away for a while. Since then I’ve read pretty much all the Reds that’s worth reading on FF.net and AO3. Some great stuff out there, of course. But after a year of consuming Reds I decided I was tired of the pairing so I wanted to try writing Blossom with almost anyone else.

I mostly don’t like the fanon exclusive version of Brick when his entire character completely changes with no explanation, pretty much only just to make him a palatable love interest for Blossom. Hint: if the character has to change drastically to make Blossom like them, maybe it wasn’t meant to be lol. I particularly hate the dark triad mysterious badass trope that the fandom likes to give him. I just don’t buy it. I feel strongly that (IF the boys got friendly with the girls as they aged) Brick would just be slightly nerdy and a bit of a dweeb. Best comment I got on my story recently says he would grow up to be a dramatic theater kid and I can’t unsee it now. (A good example I can think of right now is “On Top,” on FF.net where Brick is just a giant goofball and Blossom’s exasperation actually makes their chemistry really adorable).

If a good Reds story comes across my dash I will definitely still read it, and I’ll never turn down a spicy Reds scene. But as far as actual realistic compatibility with Blossom? Not a fan.

This is the girl who envisioned a perfect society where the world is run by women. Brick in the canon, of course, is famously a misogynist bully. Making him mature as he ages is fine, but it’s just hard for me to buy that both characters would make a beeline in the complete opposite direction, not without some serious setup by the author.

So, that’s why I’m writing Harry Pitt/Blossom right now. I got sick of the fact that there were almost no alternatives for Blossom and I figured if I couldn’t find it, I’d write it myself.

My other OTPs are Blossom/Princess, Blossom/Butch and Blossom/Robin. (A multi-chapter Blossom/Princess story is already written and coming soon, but I gotta finish the art for it and proofread more before I post lol.)

My headcanon for Blossom is bisexual and for Brick is gay. One fic I read once that was super cute was Blossom doing Brick’s makeup for the first time after he begrudgingly asks for help. That, to me, is a peak Reds interaction. Brick dealing with his true self and internalized homophobia and Blossom being pure Everything Nice for him. Thats’s just *chef’s kiss*

Anyway this comment was way longer than intended lol. I just love Blossom and Brick separately and I wish they worked better together in my headcanons but I like them better as bi/gay rivals or besties rather than romantically.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER FOUR: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense). Cannot stress the ED/anorexia warnings more strongly for this chapter guys!

This is chronologically the fourth chapter in the series

--

You sit with your back to Dr Lecter as he readies himself to leave for his morning appointments, feeling like an ancient sacrifice to some forest beast, blindfolded and anointed, its snail-fed bride; the dread of unseeing, of not knowing what he does as you stare at the wall is so clever a punishment that you comprehend entirely why more brutal forms were inflicted before it.

He is ingenious in his malice, this man. The fear of the worst of things is the stick that will make you the supplicant to his merest whim.

In cyclical paths you think of Hannibal’s attack at the breakfast table, how he had intuited your intent to cut his throat before you had finalised the thought. The gymnast's grace with which he’d caught you, the psychic recognition of revolt— he has held others captive, before you, surely.

Likely he has killed.

There are many like Dr Lecter, in the medical field, rapists and murderers in their masses, scything the weak, and allowing their names to fall through the cracks in the system, where few care to retrieve them. Already you feel yourself staggering into that hopeless black, soundless as your gaoler guides you back into the en suite by a hand at your nape.

“You may take a bath, if you wish,” he says— how had he known you’d only stood at the sink that morning? “I have provided toiletries for you. No razors, I’m afraid. If you desire to shave, then Will or I must be present, which I doubt you would prefer, at this time. Besides, I have to leave for my first appointment in a few minutes. I trust that you will enjoy the solitude.”

You keep your back to him, half-swooning under your dread of those pitiless eyes.

“I hope that you will not do anything unwise, while I’m away,” says Hannibal, into the frigidity of your silence. “There is no mention of active suicidal ideation in your records. I would be surprised if you drowned yourself; of all the poetic figures you resemble, Ophelia, in her madness, is not of their number.”

“Why?” you whisper. “After what’s happened, I should want to die.”

Hannibal’s arm glides past you, twisting the faucets of the bath until water beats a war drum rhythm against the porcelain.

“But you do not,” he says, his voice so close to your ear that you jump. “Death, to you, would be an unfortunate symptom of the habits you keep. You are ambivalent about life, at the best of times, yet your goal is not to leave it. Your inherent belief is that you can maintain starvation at such a balance that you defy both those who have hurt you and God Himself.”

You watch hot water spin the air into steam, and a tear condenses on your left cheek, quite as warm.

“Does God even exist?” you ask. “If He did, He’d get me out of this.”

Dr Lecter unscrews the top of an expensive soap bottle and pours it into the bath, smoking the room with the scent of dusky vanilla; of course, his perfume for you would be gourmand.

“God kills and aids with equal relish. Who is to say that it is not your suffering that he would prefer?”

“That’s what you want?” you ask, in a whisper like a fragment of snow. “For me to suffer?”

“No, little one,” says Hannibal, touching your quivering lower lip with a gentle thumb. “If that was so, I would have left you to die in your parents care. What I want is for you to eat, and gain trust in those that yearn to help you.”

He straightens, smoothing down an imaginary crease in his suit.

“I have prepared lunch for you to eat while I am at work. I expect to see that you have eaten it.”

Your stomach, hard with breakfast, is nevertheless hollow enough to moan.

“All of it?” you ask.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “It is only a light portion. Will is joining us for dinner tonight.”

You sit down on the edge of the bath, your voice rising to a petulant note, as though Will were an unsavoury family friend, and not a man driven to rape by a whisper in his ear.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Nevertheless, you will,” says Hannibal. “Like hunger, he is the spectre you must face, regardless of your fear of him.”

Hannibal switches off the taps and smiles down at you, undeterred by your unchanged, fearful disgust.

“Goodbye, little one,” he says. “And be good.”

You don’t reply, refusing to turn as he pats your shoulder and quietly retreats from the room. His leaving should be a relief, but his presence drenches the house like blood through a shroud. He scarcely seems to leave it at all.

You bathe rapidly, loathing to be at one with your nakedness, seeing it through your captors’ eyes.

Another set of clean clothes has been set out for you, a perfume of further vanilla, a clear bag of cosmetics, a weighty tome by Dostoevsky, and lunch in a pristine Tupperware box, which you avoid as you would a sleeping asp.

The bedroom door is locked, the sole, small window barred— new additions, you note from the shine on the steel. Hannibal has made definite your inability to escape; the only hope left bare to you is to draw attention from passers-by.

Desperate, you write a haphazard ‘HELP ME’ message in lipstick upon the window, hoping that the letters are large enough to be glimpsed from below.

That done, you sit in a convent-goer’s silence, cowed by the enormity of danger that has found you. The only thing that protects you from the engulfing depths of your abjection is anger, defiance that Dr Lecter thinks himself dictator of what may enter your body, food or flesh.

With a reedy surge of courage you vow to challenge his every attempt on your autonomy, even if you must do so quietly.

You begin with lunch. With a percussive gusto you throw the Tupperware into bathroom bin, thinking you’ve done well to avoid another round of narcotics, and to deny yourself what you do not think you deserve, after failing to abstain at breakfast.

The pasta smells delicious, of cloves and some ingeniously mixed sauce you know would break across your tongue in a tide of exceptional flavour. You pace from the bedroom to the en suite, close to retrieving the plastic tub from the clean trash bag and eating from it, unashamed of such a low; you’ve done worse, in your time, giving in to an animal urge to forage.

You lean against the wall, breathing in and out with trembling difficulty. Then you prise the Tupperware from the trash can and empty it out into the toilet bowl, flushing again and again until every remnant of food is washed down where even you cannot salvage it.

You are exuberant in your resolve, barely weakened under the burden of your captivity.

You shouldn’t be hungry, so soon after breakfast, yet you are— not in the way other people feel hunger, the ordinary cues having been lost to illness, long ago. Your desire for food is like that of a man-eating animal, driven more by a taste for flesh than necessity to eat.

That Will and Hannibal have given you a secondary conflict to wage war against your obsession is almost a gift— there is no longer much room amidst your crowding fears to pine over the food in your stomach.

Yet, there is enough. Purging has never been your particular habit—you’ve found it too difficult, requiring water you are too afraid to drink more than a glass of for fear of the added weight on the scale.

The French toast lies upon you like a sleep paralysis apparition in its density. Hanging over the toilet bowl, you choke on acid spittle, and promptly abandon the venture. Had there been laxatives, they would have been a fair alternative, but Hannibal has kept you as simply and functionally contained as a vivisectionist’s subject, which, to him, it seems, you are.

You bow to your defeat, on this count, allowing yourself another indulgence of tears. Only the fear of the calories you must burn thrusts you back on your feet, striding laps of the room until your vision swims with sparks.

Light-headed, you sprawl on the bed—the same that you were raped in, you think, and move to lie on the floor instead, comforted by the changed perspective of the room.

As a child you used to lie on your back like this, imagining that you could walk upon the ceiling. You’d lived years in such imagined lands, and would have remained in them, still, had they not grown dark, and overgrown by infiltrating matter. As you stare at the ceiling now it seems to blacken at the edges as though with a quickening mould, or else the fingers of some unseen thing, folding over your eyes until they shut.

*

You start from unsettled sleep to the gentle purr of an expensive car drawing in at the front of the house. Recalling your lip-sticked message, you blunder in a drowsy panic to the window and rub at the glass with your dress sleeve, spitting on the hem when the cosmetic merely smudges obstinately under your ministrations.

You cannot tell if the monster in the sleek Bentley below can see the window clearly, but you work rapidly, your breath sawing a panicked melody through your throat.

Though your dress is black, the cosmetic shows tellingly on the fabric. You wrestle the garment over your head and hide it at the back of a drawer, shoving on an almost identical item as movement stirs in the house below.

You sit down on the bed, picking the skin at your fingers as Hannibal approaches. When his key clicks in the lock you start, tearing a hangnail up to the cuticle. You suck your thumb like a child to soothe the wound, aware how infantile you must look.

“Hello, little one,” says Hannibal, politely, as he enters the room.

“I ate it all,” you say, in an all too eager rush. “The food. You don’t have to punish me.”

Your jailer looks at you levelly. His eyes are crow’s eyes, clever, and gelid.

“Let me see.”

He picks up the Tupperware, examining the box. Abruptly he circles the room, then the en suite, his slow tread an axe-man’s gait.

“You have lied to me,” he says, suddenly. “Lunch was disposed of. The toilet, I presume? Please do not insult me by claiming to have eaten it.”

You stare at him, nonplussed.

“I... how did you know?” you falter.

“I have a keen sense of smell. The scent of herbs is very clear in the air. An unusual aroma, for this particular room.”

There is a humour in his voice, but of a sinister kind you know well to fear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t. I already ate so much, and you said I have to have dinner, so I...”

Hannibal shakes his head gravely.

“You must never waste food, if you can help it, little one.”

On a whim, you reach out to sieze one of his hands in yours.

“I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me, Dr Lecter.”

He shakes his head regretfully.

“That is not for me to decide.”

You squeeze his hand as tightly as you are able, aware of how cold your fingers are in comparison to his hale warmth.

“Please, I’ll stay in solitary, or... or forfeit stuff, like they do at regular hospitals. Just don’t... touch me again. I can’t take it.”

“You discredit your endurance,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “It has presented itself as your greatest strength. It would be startling to see it fragment so early into your induction.”

You snap your hand back from him, cradling it as you would a broken bone.

“What’s wrong with you?” you hiss, and Dr Lecter releases a little grunt of amusement.

“I can only echo the interrogative. You have never opened up to any therapist about the most crucial traumas in your past. I am intrigued by their mysteries.”

You glance away, lips tightened. You will give him nothing of your secrets, not even the sheerest slip. He will use them against you, this you know.

“I must prepare for dinner,” says Hannibal. "Come along, little one. You will assist me. It will do you good to be in the presence of food through its preparation.”

*

As anticipated, your presence in the kitchen is fraught with excruciating temptation. As you grate vegetables and slice meat you often clear your throat to mask the thunder of starvation in your abdomen, which Dr Lecter politely ignores.

Though he maintains a flow of light, one-sided conversation, you know how narrowly he watches you, analysing every twitch and attempt to mentally detach from the scents and sumptuous plenty spread out on the countertops before you.

At last, he relents, an unexpected mercy.

“That’s enough. You may wash your hands and sit at the dinner table.”

You linger, gawking at him, not quite believing in your release.

“Go on,” says Dr Lecter, chuckling slightly. “I will join you presently. Our guest will be arriving, soon.”

Blinking, you say, “I’m... allowed to sit in there alone?”

With an almost fond glance, Dr Lecter says, “Certainly. You will not run, for you know that I will follow.”

Will arrives half an hour later, smelling of night rain and cologne. His expression is sullen and furtive as he greets you, his eyes floorwards, lashes fluttering behind his glasses.

You clutch the sides of your chair, silent, sickened, resentful; the man behaves as if it is he who was injured by the assault, as though the shame gnaws down to the core of him, leaving him raw and naked before you.

He sits in the chair closest to the door, whether to guard the exit or to forge the path to a quick egress you cannot say.

Hannibal sets a glass of wine before him; you he only gives water, as though you are not old enough to drink.

“The first course will be served presently,” he comments, surveying the tension at his table. “I hope that you will both enjoy it. You must be hungry, little one.”

You shake your head, afraid that if you open your mouth to speak you will only scream. This meal isn’t meant to tantalise the senses, but to torture: you know it from the unwilling reunion of his guests, of the punishment that leers from a narrow future upon you.

A quivering shrew, you stare at your untouched glass as Will clears his throat, pressed by the pains of your silence to speak.

He invokes your name, making it as foul as a curse.

“I don’t claim to be a master at first impressions, but the other night...”

“Please don’t talk to me,” you whisper, and Will flinches, pushing his glasses up his nose with bumbling fingers.

You’ve upset him, you realise, with a cold start of revulsion. Him, the violator, bruised by his own brutality, as though he’d no choice in the matter. Had he expected you to be his friend, to care for his sensitivities?

There is something wrong with Will Graham, you think, like a flaw in some creaking ship apt to annihilate the vessel, under pressure. That, or bleed all around him in his shrapnel, while he tends to their many pieces with all the moroseness of Beauty’s beast.

It strikes you that you should make him your ally, this hopeless Caliban, if you can stand it. You will need his favour, against Dr Lecter, to convince him to set you free.

Still, you cannot yet bring yourself to earn it. When Hannibal returns to set the first of many plates upon the table you are wordless in your terror, your fork as slippery as a salmon in your grip.

Will and Hannibal make conversation about a murder case in the area— both seem intricately involved in the psychology of the killer, discussing at length his motives in the poetic lexis you are becoming accustomed to, in this prison.

Still, their eyes and words wind back to you with a potent eventuality, displayed before them in your borrowed dress like a goldfinch chained to an elaborate perch.

Your food remains on your plate, flattened beneath your knife, a childish attempt to conceal your inability to eat it. There is too much weight in these scarce morsels, calories that would swell you into some fantastic horror, or so your thoughts inform you.

If you could eat, you would do so; even to save yourself it is beyond you.

Only water do you swallow, the bottom of the glass thick with a bitter sediment.

“We should talk about her, shouldn’t we?” asks Will, reluctantly, his gaze darting to your plate.

"Indeed we should," says Hannibal, his hand tracing the stem of his wine glass as he would the length of your throat. “Specifically, your response to her residence here, and to her treatment. You feel guilt for having carried out a punishment you feel was not entirely deserved.”

Will swallows, the click of saliva in his throat like the folding of a leaf underfoot.

"That's the problem," he says. "It did feel deserved. Violence for violence. There was a righteousness in defending you. I've felt it before, with GarretJacob Hobbs."

The name holds significance you cannot grasp. Who was this man, and what does he mean to your wardens?

"And like that day, protecting Abigail," Will continues, "I'm left looking at my own hands, repulsed by my own readiness to engage in a taboo and... enjoy it. But she isn’t like either Hobbs."

This, directed at you with a glance of murky guilt.

"She's unwell. Confused. And, as far as your patient was concerned, she was as in her right to protect herself as I was in correcting her."

"Stop,” you say, quietly.

Both men turn to you, startled by your sudden interjection.

"You disagree with Will's analysis of last night's events?" asks Hannibal, with interest. "By all means, tell us what you see. There is no sole analysis of any art; what picture do you glimpse from within the canvas?"

"I'm not yours," you say. "You can't correct me, like I'm something you own, that you made."

Dr Lecter examines your face with a dangerous patience.

"But we are making you. Or remaking, it you prefer. That is why you are here: a construction of what we two will define from mortar and broken glass."

You cannot respond to such unhinged logic without lowering yourself to entertain it, an undeniably clever tactic.

Hannibal brings another course to the table, another, another; Roman emperors could not have gorged like this, yet the two men—both lean, and Will particularly small—clear their plates as though swallowing mere air.

You pretend to eat, chewing food and spitting it into napkins or an empty glass when the other diners look away. It is only when Will barks at you suddenly that you realise he's been watching you, all along.

"What are you doing?" he asks, sharply.

"Nothing,” you mumble.

Will scoffs.

"Nothing? Nothing is not why you're here. You’re starving yourself. Why?"

Disgust pours from him like a vapour, tainting the air you breathe with his unearned judgement.

"Because... it's just what I do,” you say, limply. “It... helps. It's taken over everything.'

“Then stop letting it,” snaps Will; you don’t understand why he’s so affronted, why he has suddenly taken up the reigns of the game. “You're giving into this, letting it cut holes into you. You'll die trying to achieve some abstract state of being that you will never reach. Do you want that?"

Strange, the echo of your conversation with Dr Lecter by the bath.

"I— don't know,” you say, after a strained pause. “Sometimes I'm not sure if I care what happens to me. And sometimes, I get scared."

Will speaks through gritted teeth.

"So let go of it."

You could laugh at so preposterous a command, but instead you say, "I can't."

The atmosphere at the table has subtly changed, all players on the board at last.

"Why not?” asks Will, softly.

You perceive something like care in his voice, an impossibility.

"Because it makes me feel better," you say. "Stronger. I don't want it to go away."

Hannibal sits back, listening in purposeful silence.

Will removes his glasses, placing them into his pocket.

"Today, at this meal, you’ll try,” he says. “Appreciate the effort that was made for you."

At this you do laugh, a soft, broken sound.

"Go to hell. You're a monster. You did what he told you to, and— and you jumped like a dog to do it. Aren't you ashamed?"

Dr Lecter’s posture tightens slightly, and Will flounders, losing a little of his confidence.

"I know it's probably not what I should have done,” he admits. “It’s a radical treatment. And dangerous. But I— we can't take it back. And if I can contribute to you evolving from this then I'll do whatever it takes."

There is honesty in this confession, somewhere, even empathy.

"Don't act like you care about me,” you mumble, and shove your plate away from you, across the table, knocking over your glass in the process.

The effects of whatever drug was in the water are taking hold, making you feel loosely unstable, your inhibitions cast down, and forgotten.

Hannibal’s smile has fallen.

"Will,” he says, curtly. “I think you have tolerated quite enough from our obnoxious guest. I suggest that you consider discipline. She has already broken the rules in place for her today. A meal discarded, a message for help written on her window— It is fortunate that no one came close enough to the house in my absence to see it."

You stand up from your seat, swaying slightly, your heart shuttering like cards on a bicycle wheel to find yourself caught you in your efforts to escape.

"I hate you,” you say. “I want to leave. Let me go."

"Hannibal,” Will cuts in; his face is white, and greasy with anxiety. “I'm not ready to handle this again."

Dr Lecter’s expression shifts darkly.

"Then I will fulfil that responsibility on your behalf."

He rises from his seat and is behind you for the second time this day before you've the sense to run. Shunting you forward onto the table top, he tears your dress methodically up your back, his free hand holding you down with the same carelessness with which he’d handle unsatisfactory meat.

"You are sure that you do not wish to participate?" he says, over your shrieks of protest.

Will shakes his head. His eyes are rolling like a bull’s in his distress.

"No. I— can't."

Hannibal stills; you feel his hand between his belt and your behind, on the precipice of setting loose his sick lust.

"Then should I choose another punishment? There are many at our disposal."

"Don't leave it up to me to decide,” croaks Will. “I feel... precarious."

"I forgive you your uncertainty,” says Dr Lecter. “I, however, have none."

A drugged swell flows through you, looping a weird ecstasy about your abdomen as Hannibal leans down to speak to you directly.

"You are a very disobedient girl. You know the consequences, and yet you do not abandon your misdeeds."

"I'm not playing your stupid game,” you whine, dimly away of how foolish you sound. “I'm not playing.”

“Of course you are,” says Hannibal, coldly. “In time you'll forget that it was ever a game, to begin with.”

He forces himself within your cunt in a smooth and gliding viciousness, sending another brocade of sensation through your loins. The drug you’ve ingested makes the pain a most succulent wonder, playing your nerves with all the sinister beauty of the Theremin.

You sob as he fucks you, slow, and sure, and deep. It should not possibly be pleasurable, is intended only to exert power, and to humiliate— but he cannot help but create art, casting you on the stage of his design.

As Hannibal hurts you, he is looking at Will, whose face bears a quickening darkness. It strikes you quite suddenly that Dr Lecter wants the other man’s approval, perhaps even his jealousy; you understand that you are a disposable object that holds the temporary interest of these two.

It may not last.

Should they tire of you, what then? Thrown back to your parents, perhaps, more broken than you arrived. Surely not, for you may spill their secrets to the world, and ruin their lives.

Something worse, then.

You circle back to that earlier thought, and terror flies back in all its night glory.

Suddenly you twitch and shake in horrified spasms, and though Hannibal continues to fuck you something alters almost imperceptibly in his pace.

"Stop," says Will, suddenly. "That's enough."

"You cannot leave a deer half-killed, Will,” says Hannibal; glancing back over your shoulder, you are horrified by how calm he appears, even now. “Maimed, it will stumble, weakened, until another predator picks it from the herd. I must hunt her to the end, Will. It is all that can be done."

You see your tears soddening the tablecloth, mucus pooling beneath your cheek.

"Don't kill me," you whimper. "I don't want to die."

Hannibal stills a moment, pulling your head back to look into your eyes.

“We do not intend to kill you, little one," he says. "Only for you to accept what you are. You will humour what we ask of you?"

"Yes!” you cry, with a delirious bray in your voice. “I— I’ll try!"

Blue eyes, black eyes, both pairs so equally bright.

"Good girl,” says Hannibal, and resumes his use of your flesh, his cock making a gauntlet of you, every thrust grinding you against the elaborate tablecloth with such intelligent pressure you groan beneath him, juddering with the effort it takes not to come.

Will's gaze has changed, and there is colour in his cheeks. He grips the edge of the table as though to prevent himself from falling, or else rising to join his companion in your debasement.

"Please stop," you stutter out, wanting to bite your own tongue off for the embarrassment of the utterance. “I won’t be bad anymore.”

Hannibal slows deliberately, his cock withdrawing to the point it almost slips from your cunt before he sinks it in the lake of your arousal again.

"Come, then," he says, simply. "And you may go to bed."

In a wailing convulsion you climax at once, scrabbling at the floor on steepled toes as the pleasure rolls from your cunt through your thighs. Hannibal waits for your last twitch to cease before he finishes within you, utterly soundless as he leans down, kissing the back of your neck in a gesture that is curiously gentle.

He steps away from the table and helps you stand, holding you to his chest as you whimper in the after bursts of sensation.

"Are you still troubled, Will?" he asks, over the top of your head.

The other man looks shell-shocked, his pallor an almost grey.

"I'm... undecided."

You pull away from Hannibal, remembering with a flare of insane joy that you are released from the table, that you need not eat, after all.

"Then I am mistaken in perceiving another response in you," says Dr Lecter.

Will looks hurriedly away, and it is only as you push past him to flee for your room that you understand Dr Lecter's meaning. The younger man adjusts himself, flushing, sitting as close to the table as space will allow.

He is hard, having watched his friend fucking you.

Will Graham is not so repentant as he'd taken such pains to seem.

[gaybananabread]

hii! for the tickletober prompts, how about lee dipper with day 12? like the ler (they can be whoever you see fit!) knows/discovers he is really weak to them so they get him. hope you're doing well!

TickleTober Day 12 - Nibbles/Bites

Thank you! I had a helluva time picking a ler for this, but I think Stan fits best. I need to write for him more anyways. This idea ironically happened less than 10 minutes after I finally chose Stan. My brain is weird like that (TvT). I hope you have a fun spooky season, Enjoy!

Lee: Dipper

Ler: Stan

Summary: Dipper is stressing out over the summer spooky season. Stan decides he needs a visit from a special kind of monster.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don't like that, scroll away!!

Once again, the Gravity Falls Summerween store opened its doors. The odd tradition began again for the year, residents joyful as they picked out candies and decided on costumes. Well, every resident but one.

A certain brown-haired, blue-hatted tween was sitting in the Mystery Shack gift shop, biting at his fingers. Ever since the whole "Summerween Trickster" fiasco, Dipper had been wary of the town's strange holiday. He would never forget the scene of Soos eating that thing…ugh.

Stan was taking inventory, making sure nobody had nicked any of his moderately overpriced merchandise. His eyes eventually drifted over to his worrisome great-nephew. That kid would worry himself into the ground if Stan let him…

"Hey picks-a-lot, those cuticles taste good?" He walked over to the teen, flicking the bill of his hat. The older man didn't mean anything malicious by it. He's just unapologetically mean sometimes. Dipper was used to his Grunkle's antics, brushing the comment off.

Dipper tucked his hands in his jacket, looking down at the register. "Sorry Stan. Just thinking about…stuff." He hadn't realized he'd been biting his fingers again. It was an old habit, one he wasn't keen on picking back up. Yet there it was.

The uneasy expression on his face was barely hidden. Stan didn't really know what to do about the kid's nerves. Normally, he'd sick Mabel on him. The tween was out with Candy and Grenda, so that wasn't an option. What to do, what to do…

"Uh…look kid. You want the rest of your shift off? I've got the shop covered, and you look pretty dead." He gave it to the kid straight. Dipper looked like he was one loud noise away from snapping, his fraying nerves and general high-strung mindset on overdrive. Stan could handle the almost empty gift shop, Tuesdays were always slow.

Dipper nodded, hopping off the creaky cashier stool stool. "Yeah, please. Thanks, Grunkle Stan." He lumbered up the steps to the attic, gently closing the door to his shared room behind him.

What was Stan gonna do with that kid?

-

The next few days weren't any better. With the rapidly approaching local holiday, Dipper's nerves only grew. Mabel didn't really notice, too enamored by costume ideas and trying to figure out Waddles's measurements.

He didn't really know the absolute cause of his worry. Was it the chance of Mabel getting hurt? The possibility of another garbage candy monster? The fact that he still can't unsee Soos eating his way out of the monster? All are good guesses. He just wished he could pinpoint which one it was.

His antsy demeanor hadn't gone unnoticed by the other Mystery Shack residents. Soos had tried to get him to play some arcade games at the mall, but he just wasn't up for it. Wendy had little to no luck, her attempts to get him to loosen up going nowhere. It was up to Stan…and he had no idea what to do.

He had tried things that worked before, offering him an extra break and listening to his rants about the Journals. Dipper just wasn't up for infodumping at the moment, and he just got lost in thought on his breaks. On the morning of SummerWeen, Stan finally threw in the towel. He did the only thing he had left; asking Mabel what to do.

-

When he opened the door, Stan was met with Mabel trying to put a superhero suit on Waddles. She was dressed in similar attire, her cape dragging behind her. "Oh, hey Grunkle Stan! You come to see the best heros this side of the Falls kick some butt?"

Stan chuckled, shaking his head. He felt a bit bad for the pig, he doubted those tights were comfortable. Better Waddles than him, though. "Nah, I'll be quick. What should I do to get your brother to loosen up? Kid's been freakin' all week."

Mabel's eyes widened as he said this, her brain quickly piecing together the signs she hadn't noticed. "Crud…he has been anxious." She fidgeted with her hair, giving the pig a moment to nibble on his cape. "I normally talk him down, but if that hasn't worked…maybe make him laugh?"

Stan sighed as she said this. He considered himself a pretty funny guy, but his humor normally made Dipper groan or question his existence. Not the best for making Dipper laugh, though it always gets a chuckle out of himself

His thoughts wandered to the times he had made the kid snicker, landing on a few well-timed zings and one-liners. The last was when he had been messing around with Dipper in the gift shop. He poked his great-nephew's side, and he squealed. He hadn't done anything then, but now? Oh, it's perfect.

"Hey Mabel…your dorky brother is stupid ticklish, right?" She nodded, a smile slowly forming on her face as she figured out her Grunkle's intentions. Waddles nudged her arm, showing off the lovely slobber stain in his cape fabric. "Silly guy, now I gotta redo your cape! Grunkle Stan, do you think you can get Dipper to be less Dipper-ish by 6:30? Our costumes this year are super, heheh"

Stan rolled his eyes, his mischievous mind racing with ideas of how to get Dipper back to normal. Well, as normal as the tween gets. "Yeah, alright. If you hear girlish screaming, cheer me on." He shut the door behind him, leaving his grand-niece to her silliness. That kid never fails to make him smile.

-

Dipper was in the living room, a costume hung on the chair in front of him. Mabel's costume idea that summer was super heros, with him being the villain. It was actually kinda cool, with the utility belt of fake gadgets he and Mabel had put together. The only problem was him.

He was worried about putting the costume on. First off, it would mean going out and trick-or-treating with Mabel. Nothing's wrong with it, his brain was just telling him it's childish. There's also the fact that he's worried the Trickster might come back. Black licorice was bad enough before, but now he can't look at a stick without getting shivers. They very easily could've died.

Stan was creeping in the doorway, watching the tween's inner dilemma. If he wanted to be mean, he could've scared the crap out of him. But, showing a shocking amount of restraint, he knocked on the doorway. Stan walked over to him, ruffling the boy's hair. "Anybody home up there?"

Dipper, successfully snapped out of his daze, swatted at his Grunkle's hand. "Stan! Knock it off!" The older man chuckled, pulling his hand away and smirking down at the tween. That look…he knew that look. The look that meant Grunkle Stan was up to absolutely no good. "Stan…?"

He barely gave Dipper time to think before he snatched his great-nephew in his arms. It killed Stan's back, but it was worth it to hear the shocked yelp and protests from the kid. "Put me down! Stan- get off! Mabel!"

Stan flopped down in his recliner, holding Dipper in his lap. No help was coming for the boy. Mabel was in on it, as he quickly learned, and nobody else was at the Shack. It was just him, Stan, and the evil look on the older man's face as he wiggled his fingers. Crud.

"You worry too much, kid. You're gonna have more grays than me, and I put up with all'a you!" Those wiggling fingers were getting a bit too close to his stomach for comfort. Dipper squirmed, but with the way Stan held him, he was trapped. "Always thinkin' about these monsters and crazy creature things. You're so stuck in yer head, you didn't even notice the monster right in front of ya…"

He tazed Dipper's side, making him squeak at the unexpected touch. "Stahan, wait, plehehease-" He was so unbelievably screwed. "The TICKLE MONSTER!" Stan finally put his wiggling fingers on the boy's stomach, clawing and digging into the ticklish area.

Dipper squealed, shoving at his Grunkle's hands and writhing in his lap. His negative and anxious thoughts quickly faded to fuzzy, ticklish surprise. He hadn't expected this from Stan of all people. Mabel, absolutely, but Stan? He didn't really know how to react. "STAHAHAN! WHAHAHAT ARE YOUHU DOHOIHING?!"

"What's it feel like I'm doing, ya goofus? I'm tickling the snot outta ya. Now hold still." He spidered his fingers across his belly, making sure to get a few scratches in his belly button. "GEHEHET OFF! GRUHUNKLE STAHAHAN!"

Dipper kicked his legs, wishing the recliner was bigger. He barely had any room on Stan's lap, his legs nearly hanging off the armrest. Stan had him positioned so that his midsection was almost unprotectable, his arms practically pinned to his sides.

The tickling, as unexpected as it was, wasn't awful. He'd never tell the old man, but he was having a bit of fun. It was nice to let loose, to let his worrisome thoughts melt into giggles and squeaks.

The boy's laughter was, in Stan's eyes, adorable. It was nice to see the nervous kid laugh like that. Thinking of the night to come, he imagined the kids' costumes and candy-grab ideas. Candy...an evil idea bloomed in his mind. An evil, ticklish, awful idea. "I'm getting pretty hungry, Dipper. Might just have a quick snack…" He pulled up Dipper's shirt, waiting for the teen to catch on.

And catch on he did.

"Stahahan- Stan don't! Nonononoho!" Dipper's eyes went wide when he figured out Stan's plan. There's no way he could handle those. The tween desperately tried to get away, kicking out and trying to grab his Grunkle's hands.

His Grunkle easily pinned Dipper's hands, smirking down at him. It was almost too easy. Stan lowered his head, nibbling on his great-nephew's poor belly.

Dipper shrieked.

"NAHAHAHA! GRUHUNKLE STAHAHA- STAHAHAP!" He tossed his head back, kicking and thrashing under the ticklish nibbles. Stan's old man stubble wasn't helping. The scratchy texture made it so much worse.

Stan was enjoying himself. Hearing the kid's laughter reminded him of the stupid things he and his brother would do as kids, the fun they'd have. Before it all went south, they'd do this all the time. The best part was that he knew Dipper didn't mind it.

Just to be a jerk, he started making little "nom" noises as he nibbled the boy's stomach. Dipper twisted and shoved at his head, but Stan wouldn't budge. The tween resisted the urge to hit at Stan's head, instead gripping his silver hair. He didn't tug, but just grabbed on, needing something to do with his hands.

The nibbles traveled across his midsection, going from his stomach to his ribs, then back down to his belly button. Dipper was in stitches, the simple action reducing him to a cackling mess. He could barely think, his mind reeling at the assault on his nervous system. It wasn't bad, but it was mean.

Dipper managed to last for another two minutes before reaching his limit. The boy's laughter had taken on a breathy edge, his thrashing slowed with exhaustion. He patted the top of his Grunkle's head, tapping out.

Just like that, the torturous sensations stopped. Stan chuckled, raising his head and rubbing his great-nephew's midsection to try and ease the phantom tickles. Dipper curled into himself as he giggled out the leftover buzz. "Youhuhu…you suhuck…"

That got him a poke to the side. "Watch it, giggles." And Dipper, not having much of a choice, giggled. Stan let him go with a knowing smirk. The tween quickly slid off his lap, rubbing his sides. The clock read 5:30, just in time for him to get ready. "Your sister wants you dressed in an hour. Don't be late."

He left the room, leaving Dipper alone with his costume. Stan knew it wasn't a permanent fix. The boy was always stressing about something. He just hoped that the playful moment eased his worries for the night. Those kids deserve a good night.

The tween looked over at the suit, a small smile still on his face. The negative thoughts from before were gone, replaced with a light and happy feeling. He picked up the dark fabric, sliding the mask on over his red face. Maybe the night wouldn't be so bad after all…

[oonajaeadira]

In honor of Catfish Day, may I ask a question? What is Frankie's best line of dialogue in TF? (also every time i consider deep and evocative world-building, i think about your stories and wanted you to know)

My Megan, my Cheese. You are a lovely soul, did you know???

I will admit that I've only watched Triple Frontier the once, but of course "We gotta fly over the fuckin' Andes, man!" is iconic.

This movie was what I VERY LOVINGLY call "Bro Fare" and is full of boys-being-boys, full of drugs and violence and military and bad decisions. And while I applaud the fact that it kept me gripping the back of the couch in a half escape, afraid for all of them and what could go wrong next, it wasn't really my kind of movie.

And now I'm gonna say something that may raise some hackles around here....other than Pedro and Oscar, I don't really remember the other characters. I know a lot of folks like Garrett or don't like Ben or whatever, but at the end of the day, I felt like the other three dudes were just playing your run of the mill military dudes.

But Oscar's Santi had a LOT of subtext. He was fighting against blaming himself for anything that happened because he called them all there and he didn't want to drown in it before they were out. There was a morally grey center to all of them, but I really feel like Oscar did an amazing job holding down the one that was the furthest from the light even if he was also trying desperately to protect them all. (Come after me if you want to say Tom was the worst, but that guy was just a damaged idiot. He's almost not even on the same scale.)

And on the flip side, I was amazed at the choices Pedro made to play the opposite end of the scale. You give a man a role like this, most of them are gonna play the military bro. These boys have seen service and it's easy to just play that stereotype (which, sorry, is what I felt the other three kinda did.) But Frankie is almost too soft of a heart to be there. His personality doesn't scream military in the Hollywood sense...because Pedro made a conscious choice not to play it. Any chance he could have swung into macho, he went the opposite direction, and listening to his lines and imagining how they are, flat on the page in a script, that role could have easily become that. He actually read his lines and found a different Frankie under them, chose to play someone who made bad choices and regretted them because he'd hurt people he loved with those choices. He isn't the loudest of the bunch, he's more a wallflower in the group because he's there to support, not be supported by them. And when Pedro asked himself, why does this man say yes to this with so much on the line? His answer was obviously love. He loves his brothers. He's at the fight not because he loves the fight but because he loves his friend. He hates saying no to Santi when he's asked to go because he doesn't want to disappoint his friend and you can see it in how he pussyfoots around his (very valid and nothing to be ashamed about) excuse. He ultimately says yes out of love and loyalty even if it hurts himself, even if it turns him back into the monster he wish he never was and Pedro made that choice to make it make sense to himself. And then he played THAT guy.

I love Pedro just as much as the rest of you, but I make a living in the theater and beyond his looks and his killer personality, I respect Pedro's acting chops and his choices and his deliveries so very very very much. I'm wowed by him on a nerrrrrrdily technical level. It's what drew me to him in the first place--when Din took off his helmet and told Grogu it would be alright and barely held it together, when this big tough warrior showed his face and that actor was not afraid to show that emotions in no way weakened his strength and could exist in a warrior in harmony, I was like WHAT IS THIS FRESH CHOICE WHO IS THIS FUCKING AMAZING ACTOR AND WHAT ELSE OF HIS SHIT DO I NEED TO WATCH NOW.

And now I can't unsee it. I love falling in love with his characters because they are so multi-dimensional, so nuanced, so real because he does the work and makes good choices. Every time a new role shows up, I'm a true Gemini: one half of my brain is squealing like a little girl because dur dur pretty Pedro boy and the other half is squealing like a little girl because OH MY GOD THAT'S A FKN AMAZING READ WHERE DID THAT CHOICE COME FROM.

He's amazing. And what makes Frankie amazing to me is all the easy choices he turned away from and yet made the harder ones look like childsplay.

[frangipanilove]

Some very early first impressions coming out of ComicCon….

First up, from the 10 minute preview…

This is Carol letting the people at the car workshop seen in 1x6 know where to find their friend. She tells them he’s in an old Dodge.

Which is factually incorrect.

He’s in the trunk of a blue Ford Mustang, as I’ve written about extensively (here, here, here and here for example). A blue Ford Mustang with license plates that specifically point to episode 5x2...

...which is when Carol and Daryl saw Officer Lichari’s Dodge Magnum, which they followed into Atlanta, and eventually found Beth.

Why is Carol spreading misinformation and fake news?

For symbolism, is why. For symbolism reasons.

How very weird that out of all car brands she could have mistakenly mentioned, she mentioned a Dodge! Weird, because I’ve also written extensively about symbolism around Dodge cars for years (here, here and here, for starters). Because I’m theorizing that Beth was left in the trunk of Officer Lichari’s Dodge Magnum, which, as I mentioned, was the car Carol and Daryl followed into Atlanta, which eventually led them to find Beth.

What a super weird coincidence, it’s almost like TPTB wishes to confirm that the theories around the Mustangs and the Dodges are...plausible, at the very least. I won't claim that TPTB are reading my posts, surely they have better things to do, but for what it's worth, it earns a side-eye from me...👀

The Dodge and the Mustang cars are part of a constellation of symbols that at one point in season 5 led Carol and Daryl to Beth. And if I'm right, they might do so again.

I wouldn't be surprised if a small tsunami of posts on these topics came out of this account in the foreseeable future...

The second thing I wanted to mention was this tweet by Sarah Rowan:

So according to this tweet, it was revealed during the panel that season 3 of Daryl Dixon will film on various locations around Spain. We already knew this, and I’ve written a bunch of post on potential interesting things about Spain. Judging by Sarah’s tweet, Galicia was mentioned specifically, along with a handful of other locations, and it definitely earns another side-eye from me, because what can we find in Galicia again?

Oh yeah, Santiago de Compostela, which was name-dropped in TWDDD season 1, is in Galicia. I’ve written at least four posts about how that's potentially interesting for TD (here, here, here and here). It could potentially tie into the “Green Route” mentioned on Morgan’s wall in “Clear”...

...and it could potentially tie into an overarching theme of “pilgrimage” seen in TWDU (keep in mind that the working title of TWDDD season 1 was “Pilgrim”).

And I will never be able to unsee Daryl pointing out San Sebastián on a map in TWDDD 1X1, which is interesting because San Sebastián is literally the starting point for the “Green Way/Green Route” to Santiago de Compostela.

So, welcome to Galicia guys!

It’s still very early and this is just pure speculation based on very little, but as I always say, the off-season is for speculation. No harm in a little healthy theorizing.

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

So not only have my parents of a toddler and twin infants been managing well in terms of childcare, they... even made time to initiate some non-vanilla woohoo behind the Watcher's back. Of course that was when the kids' uncle went downstairs for a midnight snack and apparently received quite the education xD

(brief grumble about the teenaged life phase below)

While I've set things so that teens only get vanilla wooh- I mean, 'mess around' options, this is something that makes me wish there was a more distinct difference between 13/14 year olds and the "I'm just about to graduate and age into young adulthood" stage of teenagedom. Which isn't a Whims issue, of course, but the whole life stage as EA has set it up issue.

Because Marin and Alessio aren't meant to be any more than two years apart (I've handwaved timey wimey stuff until Alessio's graduated from high school) and especially with their parents, I think considering all that he'd be less phased by what he saw - although still awkward since one participant was his sister lol. Obviously some of that comes down to individual experience and comfort level, but yeah.

(@akitasimblr is this yet another link Dodo's alternative save half-sibling potentially has to him? xD)

On a scale of "I'm scarred for life" to "shrug and go out the back door to help myself to some harvestables," I think Alessio probably was at a "well it will take me some time to unsee all that but they were happy and having fun so good for them I guess?"