#storm of locusts

[beckysbook5]

Storm of Locusts by Rebecca Roanhorse - Book Review!

Kai and Caleb Goodacre have been kidnapped just as rumours of a cult sweeping across the reservation leads Maggie and Hastiin to investigate an outpost, and what they find there will challenge everything they’ve come to know in this action-packed sequel to Trail of Lightning. When the Goodacre twins show up at Maggie’s door with the news that Kai and the youngest Goodacre, Caleb, have fallen in…

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Your Witch (Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)

Synopsis: It's your hand in marriage in return for ending the terror against your town, and your parents have decided. The Witch of the Westview Woods is to be your wife. No matter how much you might protest.

Words: 7k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, shades of self harm, toxic family relationships, virgin R, oral (R receiving), shades of a praise kink

Tags: @sasheemo @buttercandy16 @chlondykebar @midnight-lestrange @babybeeelle @dontsblameme@grilledcheeseandguavajelly

“I will not.”

You glared at your parents, arms crossed over your chest, lips pursed. Anger was coursing through your veins, hot and acute, making you vibrate. You had to keep from growling at them, or lashing out. This was a level of disrespect you weren’t willing to live with. This was a step too far. This was the straw that was breaking the camel’s back.

“It’s already been arranged,” your father said, his arm around your mother’s shoulder, providing a united front.

“I won’t,” you said.

“It’s your duty,” your father said.

“Duty?” you scoffed, “and what of your duty as my parents?”

“What would you have us do?” your mother demanded.

“Not sell me off like some farm animal for your own comfort,” you spat.

“The Witch of the Westview Woods has made her request clear. If we give her you she will leave our town alone,” your father said.

“I doubt she even knows who I am,” you muttered.

“You are more than aware of your reputation in town. She made her choice. You are to be hers and in exchange our safety will be ensured. You should feel honoured to be serving our town,” your father said.

“I’d be more honoured if I wasn’t the sacrificial lamb,” you said, “you would never have agreed to this if it was James she asked for.”

Your younger brother was the favourite. You knew it. You parents knew it. Everyone knew it. If the Witch had demanded him, your father would have fought tooth and nail to keep him. But the moment it was you being asked for, he was shoving you out the door. James was the heir, you were just a measly daughter. No one needed you except to increase the social status of your family.

No wonder you were being sold off to the first witch that came along.

“And I don’t see why it has to be a marriage,” you said before they could give a half hearted excuse.

“We’re not risking you running off after you’ve been collected by her,” he said.

“I can run off when I’m married to her,” you muttered.

“You’ll do no such thing,” your mother snapped, “now, stop this silliness. This a show of good faith. An exchange. She receives something precious to us in return for our safety.”

“You don’t have to pretend as if you’re not excited about this,” you said.

“It’s a great honour to be chosen by her,” she said.

“Then you do it!.”

You stomped away, hiking your skirt up to speed up. Slamming your bedroom door behind you, you let the entire household know exactly how you felt. Falling back on the bed, you buried your face in your pillow and screamed.

The Witch of the Westview Woods had been terrorising your town for as long as anyone could remember. Children stolen in the night, fires set, storms tearing the roofs off homes. Floods and locusts and droughts. One thing after another that no one should be capable of. But she had magic and no matter who was sent to slay her, she triumphed.

And you were being handed right to her.

If you survived to the years end you would be surprised. It made no sense for you to be the exact thing that would save the town. If it all it took was marrying her, how hard could it be to vanquish her?

This whole thing reeked of something. You just wish you knew what it was.

And yet you found yourself being shoved into a white dress the next afternoon, your hair pinned tight enough to bring on a headache and makeup painted over your face. Poked and prodded, your mother’s servants got you ready for the moment your life was going to end.

Walking towards the church, your father was your guard, his hand around your arm keeping you from slipping away and living life as a vagrant. Anything would be better than the fate that awaited you at the end of that alter.

The organ music began and on heavy feet you were dragged down the aisle. Fuming, you refused to even look at your bride as you were forced to stand in front of her. You were slow to drag your gaze up her body, over her bare feet and deep purple skirts, over her laced up bodice and into bright blue eyes. Your mouth fell open, shocked by the woman staring back you with an assessing gaze and lips curling up into a smile.

This was not a wild hag living in the woods. This was a woman beautiful enough to steal your breath. This was a problem.

One way or another, the Witch of the Westview Woods was going to kill you.

Her voice was husky as she repeated the vows, blue eyes burning you as her gaze rested on your face. You stumbled through your own vows, the wind taken out of your sails. The anger had fizzled out in the face of this woman, so unexpected, so unlike anything you could have anticipated.

Her hand took yours, warm and steady where you felt unbalanced. She slipped the ring on your finger, the cool metal heavy and you found yourself having to swallow past a lump in your throat. You whispered your I do and then her hand was grasping yours and she was dragging you out of the chapel.

“Come on, hon,” she said, “we have a wedding night to get to.”

Your cheeks heated.

You didn’t even glance back at your family as she practically flew out of town. Her hand was steady in yours, gripping tight enough to hurt. She plunged into the forest, branches whipping at you. Any time you stumbled, her strong arm would curl around your waist and steady you before taking off again.

The house that emerged from the trees was small, a cottage covered in ivy, plants snarled together in the garden, a soft light glowing in the window. She shoved the door open, pulling you into the interior of the home. It was comfortable, a fire burning in the hearth. Books were in tumbling piles and there was an armchair draped in a soft looking blanket. She dropped your hand, stepping further into her home.

“Home sweet home,” she hummed.

She flopped down into her armchair, grinning up at you. You hesitated at the door, the lace of your dress scratching at your skin, buttons pinching, too tight to breathe properly. She was watching you from behind wild hair, assessing you.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” she asked.

“No,” you said, taking a step forward.

“C’mere, hon,” she said.

On unsure feet you drew closer to her. Long fingers reached out, snagging on the skirt of your dress, the lace dirty and ripped from your flight through the forest. Her fingers ran over the material, looking up at you from under lowered lashes.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to slip into something more comfortable?” she asked, voice a low rumble that had your knees turning to jelly.

“I didn’t bring anything with me,” you said.

“Even better.” She brightened, “do you need any help?”

You squeaked, cheeks aflame as your eyes widened and your mouth fell open. She chuckled, falling back to slouch in the chair.

“Feel free to wear anything you find upstairs,” she said, nodding towards the stairs.

You lingered a moment before making your way upstairs. It was only one room, a large bed dominating the room. You skirted around it, doing your best to ignore it. The wardrobe had clothes spilling out, a mishmash of materials, all in shades of purple.

You tore the buttons from the dress, doing your best to get out of it. You didn’t bother trying to be careful, never wanting to see the torture device again. Reaching in, you grabbed the first dress you could find. Lilac was not a colour you were often given over to wearing, but you supposed it was the best you had. You opened the window, throwing your heels outside into the garden, your feet thanking you for it.

Padding downstairs on bare feet, you found the Witch curled up in the chair, a book open in her lap. A bunny hopped past and you found yourself smiling.

“Señor Scratchy likes you,” she said without even glancing up from the page she was reading.

“You have a pet bunny?” you asked.

“Every witch has to have a familiar,” she replied.

“Is that a rule or a guideline?” you wondered.

Her gaze finally dragged up to you and something in it darkened, sweeping over you in her dress. You froze but her grin was pleased.

“Well, aren’t you a vision in purple,” she purred.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Lingering by the stairs you let her look her fill. Your weight shifted from foot to foot, not quite sure what she’d be expecting from you. It was your wedding night. You knew how these things usually went.

“Do you cook?” she asked once she was done.

“Do I…? I can,” you answered.

“Good because I’ve been missing that skill for more years than is polite,” she said.

“I can do that,” you said, nodding to yourself.

The kitchen was small and pokey, washing up needing to be done before you could even begin cooking. Having something to do with your hands made it easier being in that cottage. You could focus on that rather than the woman in the other room.

She was nothing like you’d expected. She was hardly the horrifying figure of legend you’d spent your entire life hearing about. She wasn’t even particularly mean as far as you could tell. Disarming, flirty, overwhelming, sure. She was all those things. But not horrifying.

You passed her a plate of food once you were done, doing your best with the ingredients you could find. She didn’t look up, taking it from you, fingers picking at the food. You lowered yourself onto the rug in front of the fire, eating your own meal.

“Not bad,” she muttered, mouth half full of food.

You looked up from the flickering flames, watching her eat. She hardly had the manners that had been drilled into you by your mother. Eating with her hands, she tore through the meat with her teeth, looking half wild. Her eyes were roving over the pages of her book, not paying you any attention.

The sky had darkened outside the window, the only light coming from the lamp lit beside her and the fire you were sitting in front of. The light played over the planes of her face, cheeks sunk beneath sharp cheekbones, eyes shadowed, skin pale. She truly was beautiful.

Maybe you could make this marriage work.

“You’re staring,” Her voice was a low rumble.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

“Just say whatever is going through your pretty little head,” she said, finally looking up at you.

She pinned you under her gaze. Her tongue dragged along her lips, and you found yourself considering all the things that tongue could do. Your cheeks flamed and you had to remind yourself this was a woman who went out of her way to hurt people.

“You’re not what I was expecting,” you blurted out.

“Were you hoping for some wizened old crone?” she asked.

“The stories were hazy. No one’s seen you in a while,” you replied, “and you’ve been around a while so…”

“So you naturally assumed I would be ravaged by the hands of time,” she said, “aren’t you lucky I wasn’t.”

You pressed your lips together, fingers wringing at your skirts. You hadn’t anticipated flirting. You hadn’t prepared for it. You hadn’t figured out how to respond to it.

“Aren’t you just adorable,” she hummed, “I promise I’ll make you a very happy wife.”

The implication of her words sent a spark of heat through your veins, right between your legs. If she kept talking in that voice, it would be so easy to ignore all the evil acts she’d done and let her have her way with you. No one in your town had ever elicited this reaction in you.

“Yes, that’s the look,” she said, “I picked well.”

She settled back in her chair, smirking at you. You ducked your head, not able to handle her scrutiny. Although, if the way your heart was racing was any indication, the wedding night with your new bride wouldn’t be as bad as you’d thought it would be.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you stood, collecting her empty plate from the arm of her chair. Washing up, you ignored the sound of her in the other woman. This was hardly the life you were expecting to have for yourself. Even in the last 24 hours, you’d grown used to the idea of spending your life with a hag whose company you could never enjoy.

The Witch had turned out to be both beautiful and charming, if not incredibly disarming.

“Come here, hon,” she called through the door.

On unsure feet, you returned to her. She was standing by the fire, staring down into it. You paused behind her, waiting.

“It’s been a long day. You must be tired,” she said.

“I suppose,” you said.

“Come on. Bed time.”

Her hand slipped into yours, tugging you up the stairs. Anticipation curled in your stomach. It wouldn’t be so bad. You might even enjoy it. With the Witch. And not the hag you’d been expecting. There would be no need to close your eyes and think of something else as she got on with it.

“Here,” she said, shoving a gauzy piece of fabric at you.

“You want me to change?” you asked, staring down at it.

“Unless you want to sleep in that dress, but I promise you that will be more comfortable,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Sleep well, hon,” she said, one foot already on the top stair.

“You’re not staying?” you asked.

She paused, eyes sweeping over you.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but you should get your rest,” she said.

She left you standing by the bed, clutching a negligee, wondering what you’d done wrong. Trying to ignore your disappointment, you changed into the nightdress, the lace and gauzy material sexier than anything you’d owned back home. You left those thoughts, slipping into the large bed. It was comfortable, more so than you’d been expecting, the blankets soft and warm, the sheets smooth. Laying your head on one of the pillows, you stared up at the ceiling.

Many hours passed, alone in the bed, ears straining for the sound of the Witch down below. The stairs creaked as she climbed them, padding on soft feet. You closed your eyes, not wanting to be caught disobeying orders. The soft thump of fabric hitting the floor, a shuffle, and then the mattress was dipping beside you.

“Does the bed not meet your standards?” she asked into the darkness.

You sighed, eyes blinking open.

“It’s very comfortable,” you said.

“Were you waiting for me?”

The bed shifted. Her warmth brushed against you and a hand slid over your waist. You stiffened, then forced yourself to relax. This was more what you were expecting. Touches and a bed and the cover of darkness.

“Relax, hon,” she whispered, the hand retreating.

You turned your head, staring at her in the darkness. She rolled over, presenting her back to you, leaving you nothing back dark hair to look at. You watched her breathe for a moment.

“What should I call you?” you whispered across the distance.

“What?” She rolled to look at you.

“I can’t keep calling you the Witch,” you said, “I don’t know your name.”

“Huh.” She rolled back to where she was before, not giving you an answer.

You watched her for a moment more before you sighed. Rolling over, keeping your back to her, you closed your eyes and did your best to relax.

“Agatha,” she whispered. You froze, “my name is Agatha.”

You settled down, holding her name close to your heart, like it was something precious. No one in town knew her name. This was just for you.

From that day you settled into some kind of routine with Agatha. You’d wake early while she luxuriated in bed long after the sun had risen. You’d clean and cook and tend to the garden, doing all you could to turn her cottage into a home. Agatha would swan in and out of the house, sometimes gone for hours, singing under her breath, or muttering curses.

In the evenings, she’d curl up in her chair and you’d sit on the rug, whiling away the hours in companionable silence. You’d embroider or begin the process of drying herbs, or stare at the flames as you thought with Señor Scratchy in your lap.

You hadn’t been back to town, nor had you heard from your family. They’d well and truly abandoned you the moment you’d said I do. Truth be told, you weren’t sure you wanted to see them. They’d given you up so easily and clearly weren’t missing you. In your cottage deep within the Westview Woods, you were comfortable and safe and calm. You knew your place and you were never forced to do anything you didn’t want to do.

Sometimes you’d catch Agatha watching you. Blue eyes peering out the window as you worked at taming the garden or glancing up from a book as you cuddled with Señor Scratchy. Each time it made you self conscious but you never asked her about it. The relationship was tenuous at best. You didn’t want to upset her.

She would still flirt with you and she still seemed to gain enjoyment from flustering you. But she wasn’t doing anything to treat you like a real wife. You had no clue what it was she was getting out of this arrangement other than a maid. If that was what she’d wanted, she could have just asked for it. The wedding wasn’t necessary.

And yet you were her wife and you would be until one of you died.

It took about a month before you cracked open one of her books one night. You had no idea what she could be reading and your curiosity got the better of you in a moment of boredom. Looking down at the page, the incomprehensible symbols made no sense to you. Flicking through more and more pages, you tried to understand.

“Interested in magic?” she asked.

Startled, you dropped the book. Apologising, you snatched it up, turning to look at her. She was standing in the doorway, night pressing in behind her, returned from wherever it was she disappeared to for those long hours. There was an errant leaf tangled in her hair. Standing, she froze as you reached out, tugging it free and throwing it behind her, out the door.

You hadn’t realised how close you’d gotten to her. Her face was so close to yours you could count the shades of blue in her eyes. Your breath froze in your chest and you stilled.

“It’s not safe to learn magic on your own,” she whispered, reaching for the book in your hand.

You let her take it without argument, a sense of shame from being caught reminding you how this conversation had started. You stepped away from her, putting distance between the two of you. After weeks together, you thought her ability to fluster you with just her presence were gone, but your heart was thundering and you felt breathless.

“If you’re looking for a mentor, I’m more than happy to teach you,” she said, voice softening.

“You’d teach me magic?” you asked.

“What are wives for?” she said, sweeping into the room, depositing the book on top of a tilting stack. If the way you were feeling was any indication, wives were for a lot more than teaching magic.

She settled you on the rug, taking her usual place in her chair. At her feet, you gazed up at her, trying to ignore the way there was a throbbing between your legs and fire in your veins. She reached out, taking your hand, delicate fingers manipulating it until it was in a position that met her approval.

“Alright, the first thing you should know is that your power comes from deep within you. Not everyone has enough to create even a spark of magic. Do not feel disappointed if you can’t. It takes a very special woman to do even the most simple of magic,” she said.

“You must be the most special woman in the world then,” you said, looking at the point where her hand met yours.

When she didn’t respond to you, you looked up. She was staring down at you, something unreadable in her eyes you hadn’t seen before.

“I suppose I am,” she replied, but it wasn’t with the cocky little tilt of her head you’d grown used to, “now, burrow down deep into yourself. Find that well of power, see what you have.”

You closed your eyes, feeling her finger stroke over the palm of your hand, trying to find what she was talking about. All you found was the fire she brought out in you, the anger still simmering at your family, the disappointment and hurt you’d been carrying for longer than you could count at your place in the world. It was why you kept your hands busy, refusing to look too deeply into the way your family had let you down.

It burnt. Lingering on it hurt. The scars left on your soul were sore to the touch. You pressed harder. The pain, at least, was a relief from the feeling of shame you carried with you at all hours of the day.

“Well, would you look at that.”

You blinked your eyes open, finding light reflected in Agatha’s eyes. Cradled in the palm of your hand was a pale blue energy, roiling and rolling in the air. Your mouth fell open, staring at it, trying to wrap your head around what you had done.

It flickered out.

“Apparently I’m not the only special woman in this house,” Agatha murmured.

You cheeks heated, eyes widened as you stared up into her face. She lent forward, fingertips brushing over the apple of your cheeks, soft and gentle, barely there, making you shiver.

“Yes, I chose very well,” she said, drawing back.

Under her assessing gaze, you did it again and again and again, until your head began to hurt. She put you to bed, tucking you in, fingers gently running through your hair until you fell asleep. Just a month ago, you could have never imagined being treated so comfortingly by her.

So began the next phase of your routine. Your days were your own but your nights were Agatha’s. In front of the fire, sitting at her feet, a desperate need to please her, she taught you to wield and control your own power. Her murmured praises and her soft touches made your head spin, addictive and heady, only spurring you on for more.

Watching from the window one afternoon, the sunlight streaming through the boughs of the trees above, you focused on Agatha wandering through the garden. You’d tidied it since arriving, giving it more order, planting things you found out in the forest to go with what you already found strangled under the weeds. Your hands had been in the dirt, coaxing life back into the garden.

She bowed her head over a flower, you thought maybe smelling it. A smile bloomed over your own face, watching her as she moved around the garden. She was so gentle with the plants, pausing occasionally to look at the work you’d done. You wished you knew what she was thinking but she was always so enigmatic. You never knew what was going on behind her eyes.

When she returned to the cottage, a flower was clutched in her hand, petals soft, a new bloom. You looked up from the book she’d asked you to read, legs curled beneath you, skirt pushed up around your knees to bring some cool air to your skin. Spring had well and truly arrived.

“Are you working for me?” she purred.

You nodded, watching her swaying hips as she approached. All those touches and all that praise had only made it harder to pretend as if she didn’t set you alight. She crouched in front of you. With careful fingers, she tucked the flower behind your ear. Your breath caught. She tilted your chin up, the touch of her fingers against your skin making you heat again. Her eyes roved over your face, drinking you in.

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

It was like being pierced by an arrow. You would have fallen into her in that moment, the words begging for a kiss tingling on your lips. Before they could spill out, she stood, leaving you on the rug, breathless and wanting.

“I’ll be gone for a few days,” she said, turning from you.

Her skirt fanned out around her calves and just the flash of skin had your mouth drying. It wasn’t as if you’d seen the sight before, but every time it only made you more desperate to see more. It took a moment for her words to make sense to you.

“You are?” you asked, scrabbling to your feet.

“I’m afraid so,” she said, fingers tracing over the spines of some of her books, “I have business in the next town over. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” you said, voice small.

“You might want to go visit your family while I’m gone. You must be missing them,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Aw, don’t pout, kitten,” she said, curling her arm around your waist as she turned back to you, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Her hand burned through the thin fabric of your dress. It was these touches that drove you mad. You always wanted more, to feel that touch on every inch of your body. She pulled you closer, soft curves pressing against yours in a way that had your head reeling.

“Try not to miss me too much,” she said before releasing you.

You could only watch as she moved back to the door. She lingered in the doorway, snatching one last look at you before she swept out of the cottage. Despite the fire roaring and the sun streaming in through the window, you felt suddenly cold.

The days stretched without Agatha in the cottage. The bed was too big and although you could sit in the chair before the fire at night rather than the hard flagstones beneath the rug, it left you feeling unsettled. You lazed through the days, perking up at every little sound, hope climbing up your throat only to be crushed back down when it wasn’t her return.

When the storm swept in, you felt the first pangs of worry. Sequestered in the house, you were climbing the walls, not able to drown your worry in work in the garden. The cottage was clean and there was only so much folding and refolding of clothes you could do before you began to question your sanity.

Lying in bed, you did your best to keep your thoughts away from Agatha. With the storm raging outside, it was easy to conjure images of her getting hurt or stranded, flashes of lightning striking her down too far away for you to find her and bring her home. You tossed and turned, the bed feeling huge and empty and cold without Agatha in it with you.

A crash from downstairs had you jolting up. You froze, listening intently. Another bang. Crawling to the edge of the bed, your heart was thundering, fear seeping into your veins. Sneaking to the top of the stairs, you peeked down.

A shadowed figure was standing in front of the fire, burnt down to their embers. You grasped the closest heavy object, a candlestick fancier than anything else in the cottage that you’d never quite built up the courage to ask about, and crept down the stairs. The figure didn’t seem to hear you, bending to stoke the flames. Raising the candlestick above your head, you swung.

A pale hand whipped out in a flash of lightning, grasping your wrist. The candlestick clattered to the floor. You gasped.

“This wasn’t quite the warm welcome home I was hoping for,” Agatha said.

“You’re back,” you said, breathless, heart thumping for a whole new reason.

“You weren’t expecting someone else, were you?”

You threw yourself into her arms, not even bothering to answer her. The joy at her reappearance in your cozy cottage was overwhelming. She chuckled, catching you, pressing her face to the top of your head.

“Now this is more what I was hoping for,” she said.

She trembled in the cage of your arms. Pulling back, you realised she was completely soaked through, wet hair stuck to her skin in a tangle. Her clothes were plastered to her and she was shivering. You ran your hands down her arms, feeling the goosebumps, grasping her hands.

“You’re freezing,” you said, “come here and warm up.”

You sat her down in her chair, stoking the fire until the flames began to blaze again. You turned, finding her gaze locked on you. It was dark and dangerous, roving over you with a level of possession you weren’t used to. Your knees trembled, turning to jelly as she drank her fill.

Glancing down, you realised your negligee was clinging to your body, wet from the embrace you’d given her, see through in all the places you weren’t sure you wanted it to be. Your eyes met hers again, your shiver nothing to do with the rain water seeping into your skin. Her tongue ran along her lower lip, stealing your breath.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” you whispered.

“Is that an offer, hon?” she asked.

You’d missed her. You wanted her. And from the way she was looking at you, she wanted you too. So why not take what you wanted? She certainly had when she’d demanded a wedding.

“Yes.”

Her face brightened before it settled into something more predatory. Holding a hand out to you, she pulled you towards her. You fell into her lap, a small squeak on your lips. Her hand slid up your thigh, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

You lent forward, capturing her lips in an all consuming kiss. She growled, hands grasping you, dragging you closer. You whimpered into her mouth, hands clutching at her shoulders. She burned beneath you, every point of contact making you quiver. Her lips were searing hot as they made their way down the column of your neck. Your head tipped back, giving her more access, fingers burying themselves in her hair. Her name was a breathy moan on your lips. When her teeth sunk in, you groaned, pressing her closer.

“We’ve been married for months,” you murmured, breathless, desperate for her.

“We have,” she said, whispered into her skin.

Her tongue ran over your skin. You forgot what you were saying, luxuriating in the feeling of her worshipping your neck. Her hand was pushing up past the hem of your negligee, seeking out warm skin.

“You were saying, hon?” she asked, lips brushing your skin.

“Oh uh…” Her fingers ghosted over the skin of your inner thigh, “just that you…”

“I?” she murmured, finding the vulnerable spot behind your jaw.

“You never asked me to fulfil my wifey duties,” you sighed.

“I’m not a monster who forces young women to got to bed with me when they don’t want to,” she said before her lips closed over your earlobe.

“But I did want to,” you sighed, “I do.”

“So I’m gathering, hon,” she said.

You kissed her again, already addicted to her taste. With arms stronger than you were expecting, she lifted you, laying you down on the rug you’d spent so many evenings on. The fire was warm from so close, the air heating the chill of the night. A clap of thunder boomed above the house. You jumped, before laughing, self conscious at your own reaction. Her smile was fond.

“You know, when I gave you this nightie, I was hoping you’d look as delicious as I’d imagined,” she said, one hand stroking down your side, “it looks even better when it’s wet.”

She drew back, looking down at you. The front was completely soaked through, practically baring you to her faze. You shivered, breath stuttering. The look in her eye suggested she wanted to eat you alive. Her hand stroked between your breasts, pressing against your stomach when you wriggled beneath her.

“Stay still, pet. I’m enjoying my new wife,” she said.

Both hands cupped your breasts through the lace and silk of the dress you were in. Each nipple was already peaked, pebbling from the chilled water you’d had pressed against your skin. Palming them, she watched your face. You whimpered, not used to someone else touching you like this.

“You make such pretty noises for me, pet,” she said right as she pinched your nipples.

Your back arched up into her touch, offering yourself to her. Your hands grasped her hips, breathing coming fast.

“Have you ever done this before?” she asked, watching you writhe under her touch.

“No,” you sighed.

“Really?” She sat back to look at you, a look of pleasure passing over her face, “I’ll be your first?”

“No one ever made me want to before,” you replied, pushing your hands under her skirts, wanting to feel her skin. It was as soft as you’d imagined, the muscles of her thighs strong under your palms.

“You are a gift,” she said before swooping in to kiss you again.

You lost yourself in it, your entire body a live wire underneath her. She hummed when your hands delved further up her skirt, the fabric still heavy with rain. You pulled away, ignoring the displeased noise she made.

“I wasn’t kidding about getting you out of these wet clothes. You’ll catch your death,” you said.

“Well, if you insist.”

She stood, pulling the dress over her head. In the firelight, she was nothing but enticing shadows and soft curves. You stared, overwhelmed with how beautiful she was. You could spend the rest of your life looking at this view. Pushing up onto your elbows, you let your gaze travel over her, practically drooling. You pressed your thighs together.

“Do I pass muster?” she asked.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you breathed.

Something shifted in her face, almost as if you’d surprised her. In the shadows, you couldn’t be sure, but you thought her cheeks might be flushed. She lowered back onto her knees, straddling your waist. Your hands skimmed over her ribs, feeling her inhale beneath your fingertips. You cupped her breasts, feeling the weight of them in your palms.

“I think it’s only fair that I return the favour,” she said, “after all, I got you all wet.”

Your cheeks heated and your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, but you let her peel the negligee from your body, throwing it aside. Her hands were everywhere, barely touching you. Your whimper only had her grinning down at you.

“Use your words, pet,” she said.

“Touch me,” you begged, “please, Agatha.”

“All you had to do was ask,” she said before her hands were back on your body.

Her lips were soon to follow after, wrapping around one nipple. Your strangled moan only seemed to spur her on. The rumble of a groan vibrated through your body and you arched up into her mouth.

Her hands were sliding further down your body and you felt on fire. When she began to press kisses to your sternum, making her way down your body, you gasped. Her hands were gently as they parted your legs, settling between them. You had no idea how she was doing it, but your entire body was a live wire, sending you insane with how good it felt.

“I need you to tell me if you’re about to change your mind,” she said, her lips pressing the crease of your thigh, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop once I’ve tasted you.”

“If you stop you can go back out into that storm right now,” you said.

“I knew I chose right.”

Your head fell back as her tongue made contact with the hot throbbing between your legs. You cursed, loud enough to be heard over the thunder still crashing up above, and your hips jumped up into her mouth. Her talent didn’t just lie in magic, although it felt pretty magical whatever it was she was doing. You gave yourself over to it, uncaring that you were being too loud or too desperate. Nothing had ever felt as good as her mouth on you.

Your fingers tangled in her hair, holding her there, hips undulating. When her lips wrapped around the bundle of nerves you knew resided between your thighs, you made a choked noise, her name unintelligible. She was moaning, the vibrations driving you crazy, spinning higher and higher. Your legs were trembling where they rested over her shoulders.

When the dam broke, you screamed, clutching at her. Looking up your body, she caught your eye, the smouldering burning in her gaze only making you wonder what she would look like when you returned the favour. She drew back, her grin very satisfied despite you being the boneless body on the rug.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” you whispered.

“You’ve never…?” she asked.

“Never like that,” you said.

The fingers in her hair tugged her up your body. Your legs curled around her waist as you kissed her, tasting yourself on her tongue. She chuckled, drawing away, fingers running over your lower lip.

“You are a wonder,” she said, “I knew you would be that first time I saw you.”

“When did you see me?” you asked, sure you’d remember if you’d seen her before the wedding.

“I’d heard rumours of the town beauty, grown into a woman of marriageable age. The way the men were hoping to own you. I’ll admit I was curious. And then, there you were, wandering through my woods, a basket of flowers on your arm. I happened to be passing by as you stopped to speak to a lovely little bunny and I knew I had to have you,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m never wrong about these things.”

“So that’s why you asked for me specifically,” you mused.

“I wanted the prettiest girl in the village,” she said before she swooped down to kiss you again. For a while, you could get lost in it.

“Agatha,” you sighed when her lips began to trace a path down your neck again.

“Come, pet. I’ve had a long journey and I’m tired. I’d much rather sleep in our bed,” she said.

She rose, holding a hand out to you. You grasped it, letting her haul you to your feet. Stumbling you fell against her body, warm skin against warm skin, making your head spin. She slipped her arm around your waist, holding you close.

She swept you up into her arms, carrying you up the stairs. Depositing you on the bed, you stared up at her until she slipped between the sheets, taking the place that had been empty for too many days. She held her arms open to you, letting you curl against her her side.

“I’m glad you chose me to be your wife,” you whispered, face buried in the place her shoulder met her throat.

“As am I, hon,” she murmured, lips pressing to the top of your head.

You closed your eyes, letting yourself relax properly for the first time since she’d left. Her fingertips were trailing over your skin, stroking in a comforting rhythm. You were on the edge of sleep when you heard her soft whisper.

“I didn’t expect you to stay.”

Blinking your eyes open, you turned your head up towards her. She was already gazing down at you, fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“I gave you leave to return to your family. I was expecting to find our home empty upon my return,” she said.

“But we’re married,” you said.

“That’s never stopped a woman before,” she replied.

“Why would I choose my family when I have you? They’d never forgive me for leaving you. They gave me no choice in my future,” you said, “I don’t want to ever see them again.”

“They didn’t?” Her fingers tightened in your hair.

“They told me I’d be marrying you. There was no discussion, no understanding that perhaps I didn’t want this.” You shifted closer to her, legs tangling together, “stupid girl. How could I ever not want you?”

“I’m a centuries old witch that terrorises local towns?” she suggested.

“Maybe, but you’re my witch,” you said, “and more importantly, you’re my wife. And I choose you. I didn’t like when you were gone. I was counting down the minutes you’d return.”

“Next time, would you like to come with me?” she asked.

“Please,” you said.

“Then you will,” she replied.

Your lips brushed her skin as you settled against her again, closing your eyes, kissing the closest part of her. Her breath hitched and she tightened her arms around you. Holding her close, you sighed, letting yourself relax again. With her home you had nothing to worry about anymore.

“More fool your parents for handing over the only person who could bring me to my knees,” she murmured, so soft you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it.

Slipping closer to sleep, comforted by the sounds of her breath and the warmth of her skin, you thought maybe being forced to marry the Witch of the Westview Woods was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

[jame7t]

Winter fairies can be an invaluable source of warmth, and conversation if you can stomach their deliriously forgetful nature. Summer fairies swarm like locusts- leaving desolate fields of broken farmsteads and fairy dust storms. They watch good movies, though

[amirasainz]

Omg I've literally just read all of the works you have put up. LITERALLY LOVE ALL OF THEM. Could you write on where baby sainz has a panic attack while in the paddock because of the paparazzi and carlos gets mad and Alex, Rebecca, and Kika try to help her afterwards while the drivers take action.

Hi loves! This request was so hard to write. I hope I did good. Please send me some requests and enjoy reading. (The title got inspired by the Weeknd "Happy House". A great song) -XoXo

Happy House

Amira stood frozen in the center of the paddock, her senses assaulted by the relentless barrage of flashing cameras. The paparazzi had descended upon her like a swarm of locusts, their lenses hungry for every detail of her life. She had seen this happen to her brother, the other drivers, even the glamorous partners of the racing world. But never to her.

Her heart raced, and she fought to maintain composure. The tight circle of photographers closed in, their shouts echoing in her ears. She squinted behind her sunglasses, trying to locate a familiar face among the chaos. Her trusted members were nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of flashing lights.

Amira’s breaths came in shallow gasps. Panic threatened to overwhelm her. She attempted to break free from the paparazzi’s grip, but their collective force held her captive. Tears welled up, blurring her vision. The questions hurled at her were like daggers, each one piercing deeper into her vulnerability.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos—a lifeline. “Hey, everybody, take at least seven huge steps away from her!” The male voice was authoritative, commanding. Amira’s blurred gaze fell upon her savior, but she couldn’t make out his features. He gently took her arm, leading her away from the suffocating crowd. Her dam broke, and tears streamed down her face, a mix of relief and exhaustion.

In that moment, the stranger became her hero, shielding her from the paparazzi storm. Amira wondered who he was, but gratitude overwhelmed any other thought. She clung to his arm, seeking solace in the unexpected sanctuary he provided. The world outside might still be chaotic, but within the circle of his protection, she found a brief respite—a chance to breathe.

“Shhhh, you’re alright, pequeño Sainz,” said the soothing voice of Sergio “Checo” Pérez. The two of them had interacted quite often already, because sometimes it was easier for Amira to speak Spanish with someone. And Checo had to listen to all the yapping from Max about her. And let it be known that Max could talk for hours about her.

He gently started to steer her away from the prying eyes of the public before he stopped them gently again. “Make sure that all these monsters are banned from the team garages ,” Checo ordered a Red Bull employee. “And someone inform her brother!”

“Vamonos,” he ordered Amira softly. They had to walk quite slowly because her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Thankfully, after walking for about 5 minutes, Carlos ran towards them. At the sight of her big brother, she let out a big sob.

“Ohhh, Amira. Estás bien. Nadie puede hacerte daño ahora. No dejaré que nadie te toque,” Carlos whispered while he hugged her tight. Picking her up gently, he brought their little group to the Ferrari garage. At their entrance, the happy smiles from Rebecca, Kika, and Alexandra faded, replaced by concern and relief.

Carlos reluctantly released his grip on Amira, allowing her to be enveloped by the comforting embrace of the girls. Their whispered reassurances—“It’s okay, little dove,” “Deep breaths,” and “You did so well”—echoed in the air, soothing her frayed nerves. They settled her into a plush chair, each taking their place around her. Rebecca knelt in front of Amira, holding her trembling hands. Kika sat on her left, guiding her through calming breaths. Alexandra, on her right, gently stroked her hair.

As the girls tended to their princess, Carlos turned to Checo, his voice edged with urgency. “What happened?” he demanded, his eyes searching for answers. Checo’s calm demeanor contrasted with the tension radiating from Carlos. “I don’t know, mate,” Checo replied evenly. “One moment, I’m walking out from the media pen; the next, I see her surrounded by a horde of paparazzi.”

Carlos ran a hand over his face, his concern etched deep. He lowered his voice to a whisper, not wanting to alarm Amira further. “Thank you, Checo. Truly.” After a brief pause, he inquired, “Are those idiots still here?” Checo nodded in confirmation. Carlos’s resolve hardened. “Tell the others what happened. We’re meeting in ten minutes at the entrance. We’ll handle this ourselves—no FIA, no teams. And most importantly, no cameras.” The protective brother in him had awakened, ready to shield Amira from the storm that raged beyond the garage walls.

Carlos gently approached his sister, relieved that her breathing was now under control. Tears still streamed down her cheeks, but the panic had subsided. Rebecca, seeing Carlos’s arrival, made space for him. He took her place, cupping Amira’s chin with one hand. "Look at me, hermanita,” he ordered softly. When Amira finally met his gaze, he reassured her, “Those idiots will never come close to you again. I promise you on my life. Aunque sea lo último que haga en mi vida.” His vow hung in the air, a shield against the world.

After a small nod from Amira, Carlos stood up, pressing a kiss to her hair. He instructed the girls to remain where they were. Unseen by anyone else, the wags exchanged glances—hesitation and unease etched in their eyes.

At the entrance, Carlos found a gathering of drivers. Some, like Nico and Kevin, surprised him. Nico explained, “I have a wife and a baby daughter. I want to make sure that nothing like that can ever happen again.”The others murmured their agreement. Before Carlos could outline the plan, Lance interrupted. “I’m sorry, but Lewis, did you seriously bring Roscoe here? I mean no offense, but he isn’t exactly—” Before Lance could finish, Roscoe growled, catching everyone off guard.

“Boys, attention!” Carlos commanded. “Now our plan looks like this…”

And if the media asked the next day why so many drivers had cracked knuckles or bruised eyes, they’d be met with smirks. Sometimes, actions spoke louder than words.

[astra-ravana]

Astra's List of Baneful Components

I hope to make this list as comprehensive as possible and will be adding to it whenever I discover something new. If anyone has any suggestions for things that should be added, please let me know. 🖤

Herbs/Plants

• Bloodroot- Substitutes blood

• Jezebel Root- Wickedness, ending relationships, punishing cheaters

• Bindweed- Binding, ensnaring

• Dogbane- Deception

• Rue- Misery

• Saffron- Destruction

• Lemon- Sourness/bitterness, reveals damaging truths

• Lemon Verbena- a boost of power, ending relationships

• Lime- Sourness/bitterness, encourages deceit

• Lobelia- Discord

• Hemlock- Discord, sadness

• Spanish Moss- Bad luck

• Vertiver- Silence

• Mace- Misery, strife

• Slippery Elm- Bad luck, negativity

• Bittersweet- Loss, sadness

• Mandrake- Misery, strife

• Mistletoe- Isolation, confusion

• Wormwood- Delusion, misery, strife, madness

• Sumac- Bad luck, negativity

• Mullein- Spirit work, nightmares

• Patchouli- Illness

• Mustard Seed- Strife, discord

• Hemlock- Destroys sex drive, break ups

• Poke Root- Confusion, upset

• Blackberry Root- Distress

• Myrrh- A boost of power

• Tobacco- Subs any baneful herb

• Belladonna- Discord, conflict, illness, suffering

• Cinquefoil- Discomfort

• Ague Weed- Confusion

• Blueberry- Confusion

• Cloves- Domination, stops gossip

• Stinging Nettle- Jealousy, discomfort

• Cramp Bark- Pain, illness

• Licorice Root- Domination

• Tormentil- Distress, harm

• Asafoetida- Drives enemies away

• Henbane- Emotional instability, melancholy, storms, spirit work

• Hot Peppers- Anger, fighting, discord

• Blackthorn- Illness, bad omens

• Elder- Suffering, spirit work

• Dittany- Mistakes, setbacks, depression

• Garlic- Disgust and repulsion

• Yew- Spirit work, destruction

• Onion- Disconnects relationships, strife

• Poppy Seeds- Intoxication, confusion, discord

• Foxglove- Manipulation, heartbreak, devastation

• Alum- Stops communication and speech, impotence

• Wolfsbain- Madness, loneliness, rage

• Knotweed- Binding, trapping

• Black Pepper- Revealing the truth, binding

• Green Apple- Unrequited love

• Radish- Sexual shame, STDs, infidelity

• Yohimbe Bark- Impotency

• Chicory- Discord

• Agrimony- Return to sender

• Datura- Psychic attack, nightmares, misery

• Bay Berry- Depression

• Angelica Root- Misery, strife, distress, discord

• Dragon's Blood- Destruction, pain, misery

• Chili Powder- Anxiety

• Bladderwrack- Illness, weakness

• Boneset- Distress, confusion

• Black Locust/Hawthorne Thorns- Struggle, agony, injuries, wounds

• Calamus- Control, domination, commanding, compelling

• Cocoa- Bitterness

• Black Mustard Seed- Confusion, discord, non-stop trouble

• Sumac- Discomfort, bad luck, painful lessons

• Willow Bark- A dose of their own medicine

• Stagger Weed- Disabling, trips them up

• Bar Berry- Stops progress

• Black Nightshade- Sickness, depression

• Oleander- Devastation, silence, doom

Crystals

• Opal- Amplifies negative energy (Black Opal works best)

• Ruby- Focuses intent on target

• Malachite- Anxiety, fear, cowardice, nausea

• Peridot- Confusion

• Obsidian- Reveal their darkness

• Petrified Wood- Ruin, abandonment

• Clear Quartz- Amplifier and energy holder

• Black Moonstone- Deceit, distrust, confusion, paranoia

• Onyx- Breakups, loss

• Amethyst- Self destruction, nightmares, paranoia

• Garnet- Siphons target's energy, steal their love/friends

• Diopside- Reveals a target's true colors

• Bloodstone- Sucks the life force from enemies, chaos, frailty

• Carnelian- Pain, anger, rage

• Black Quartz- Darkness

• Sardonyx- Return to sender

• Jet- Cloud their vision/blind them

• Serpentine- Illness, unsteady ground, mishaps

• Jade- Domination, control, manipulation

• Amber- Trapping, cause obstacles and setbacks

• Hematite- Negativity

Misc. Ingredients

• Salt- Painful cleansing, salt in their wounds

• Sulphur- Stops plans, causes harm

• Alcohol- Makes the work last

• Vinegar- Souring, dissolves relationships

• Pins/Needles- Pain and agony

• Thumbtacks- Makes the work stick in them

• Razor Blades- Sadistic actions, sharp words

• Broken Glass- Cut ties, emotional wounds

• Scorpions- Betrayal

• Spiders- Danger, ensnarement

• Wasps- Punishment, non-stop pain

• Grave Dirt- Enlists spirit's help

• Snakeskin- Removes them from your path

• Cigarette Butts- Snuff their will

• Thorns- Annoyance, pain

• Dog/Cat Poop- Rottenness, depression, life stinks

• Sticker Burs- Crippling emotional shock

• Spiderwebs- Crossing, binding

• Coffin Nails- Stay home, withdrawal, binding

• Lead- Weigh them down, make them late

• Black Salt- Misery, strife, banishment

• Dog Hair- Agression, combat

• Cat Hair- Passive-Aggression, conflict

• Bad Water- Stagnation, depression, illness

• Murder Scene Dirt- Crimes, complete ruin, terror, demise

• Nails- Binding, pain

• Thumb Tacks- Pain, discomfort

• Broken Glass- Disaster, accidents, injury, pain

• Blood- Longevity, boosts curse power

• War Water- Chaos, psychic warfare, banishing

• Razor/Barbed Wire- Pain, restriction, loss of freedom

• Fish Bones- Decay, bad reputation, loss of friendships

• Moths- Fragility, tunnel vision A

• Goofer Dust- Crossing, misfortune, illness

• Bone Ash- Instability, weakness, demise

• Storm Water- Destruction, upheaval, chaos

• Potato Eyes- Rot, loss of control, sickness

• Cat Claws- Helps curse cling to target, sudden agony

• Butterfly Wings- Loss of control, injury

• Egg Shells- Breaks down barriers and boundaries

• Ants/Ant Hill Dirt- Annoyance, overwhelming, banishing

• Hospital Dirt- Illness and injury

• Bullets- Devastation, destruction, suffering, demise

• Iron- Banishing, destruction

• Super Glue- Permanence, binding, damage

• Dirty Pennies- Financial loss

[ghoulsbounty]

If you’re still taking requests I would love Baby Billy with the reader giving him a blowjob in a car if you can. You can do the plot and all that, thank you! I might request more if you’re taking them at the moment.

Heaven Itself

Uncle Baby Billy Freeman x Wife!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+), blowjob, oral (m receiving), cum eating (kinda), fingering, roadhead, spitkink-ish, rough oral sex, messy, face fucking, choking, gagging, dirty talk, reader is a good girl, porn with a little plot.

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: OH BOY I love writing dirty things with this weird man. I realise I took 'giving him a blowjob in a car' and completely ran with it but I hope you enjoy it regardless, Anon. I’d love to know what you all think to this, and feel free to send me more requests 💌

It unfolded just as you had expected. You wished that Baby Billy would stop with the schemes, cease seeking approval from everyone else, especially his late sister's family. Yet, the allure of the coveted position of pastor at the new Locust Grove location, and the payday that would come with it, had drawn him back into their fold. You remained supportive, though with a quiet pessimism that always accompanied your husband's involvement with the Gemstones. It wasn't that you didn't like them, but they seemed to bring out the worst in him, and it was a side you rarely saw when it was just the two of you back home at Freeman's Gap.

Of course, it had happened again. Another argument with his brother-in-law, and Baby Billy had stormed out of the church, relinquishing the title of pastor and dragging you along with him to the car. It was a scene that played out at least once a month, and so when you caught Eli's exhausted eye roll as you were pulled through the doors, you gave him a silent nod. It was a signal that conveyed your resolve to sort everything out—not for Eli, of course, but for the sake of your husband's reputation and perhaps your own sanity.

Baby Billy gripped the wheel with white-knuckled intensity as you hurtled down the narrow, curving roads. The tires skidded on the tarmac with every tight turn, your stomach rising and falling with each dip as he accelerated so forcefully that you were pressed back into your seat. His eyes were wild, fixed in a furious glare at the road ahead, completely ignoring your pleas to slow down as your hand tightened around his thigh.

The rush of adrenaline coursed through your veins, mingling with a hint of fear as you clung to him, your heart pounding in your chest. Despite your attempts to calm him, he seemed consumed by a reckless determination, his foot heavy on the pedal as he pushed the car to its limits.

With each passing moment, the world outside became a blur, the only constants the roar of the engine beneath you and his frustrated rant about the head of the Gemstones. His words came out in a torrent of anger, punctuated by the car's aggressive growl as it hurtled forward.

"Fuck Eli Gemstone," he declared vehemently. "He thinks he's so high and mighty, but he'd be nothing without Aimee-Leigh. And who made her? That's right, Baby Billy Freeman, that's who. He'd be nothing without the both of us."

His words hung heavy in the air, charged with anger. The car sped on, each mile marker blurring past as he continued to vent his frustrations. His grip on the wheel remained tight as he poured out years of pent-up resentment.

You had heard it all before. You'd listened to him lament the loss of his sister and his career, watched him pine over what he had once had, and seen him almost scream in frustration over the fact that he had to keep going back to his brother-in-law for handouts.

The weight of his struggles was heavy on your shoulders, a burden you bore alongside him with each passing day. You had witnessed the toll it took on him, the way it gnawed at his pride and eroded his sense of self-worth. Yet, despite it all, he persevered, driven by a determination to reclaim what he had lost and prove himself worthy of the respect he felt he deserved.

After each failed business venture, it always took so long to rebuild Baby Billy, to piece him back together again. You had been through this cycle before, weathering the storms of disappointment and setbacks together. Each time, you had stood by his side, offering unwavering support and encouragement as he picked up the pieces of his shattered dreams. And as the darkened landscape passed you in a blur, you mentally prepared yourself for the arduous task ahead, knowing that it would begin with getting him out of his own head.

Your hand on his thigh slid higher, your fingers teasingly dancing over his crotch as you swiftly worked on the belt and zipper of his jeans. His rant lost momentum, his gaze locking onto you with a wondrous glint before watching your hand disappear into his pants.

"Keep those eyes on the road, Baby," you instructed, a mischievous smirk playing on your lips as you boldly grabbed his cock through his boxers. He emitted a low groan, desire igniting in his eyes, yet he dutifully complied with your command, refocusing his attention on the road ahead.

"Ol' Baby Billy getting some roadhead, now? Alright," he chuckled, a playful twinkle in his eyes as he adjusted himself in his seat and spread his legs wider, eagerly anticipating your next move.

Baby Billy seethed through his teeth as you liberated his cock from the confines of his tight jeans, already half-hard and throbbing in your palm. You felt the weight of him as he sat thick and heavy in your hand, hummed affectionately when he pulsed against your touch.

With practiced skill, you began to stroke him gently, feeling him grow harder, larger, in your grip. Your thumb traced teasing circles over his weeping slit, eliciting a low, guttural moan from him as he instinctively bucked into your hand, craving more of your touch.

You chuckled, unclipped your seatbelt and manoeuvred in your seat so that your legs were folded beneath you, leaning over the arm rest that sat between you both. His hand closest to you left the wheel, hung over you almost hesitantly before resting on your back with a soothing stroke. 

The air around you crackled with tension, the sound of his ragged breaths mingling with the steady hum of the engine as he slowed the car to an normal-pace. You smiled to yourself, inwardly praised yourself for knowing how this man ticks. You always managed to bring him back from the ledge that he put himself on. 

As you took one tentative lick at his slit, Baby Billy gasped, his grip tightening on the fabric of your dress. You squeezed the base of his cock, flicking your tongue over him again and lapping at the salty tang that you craved.

"Oh, fuck," he gasped, his hips instinctively rutting upwards for more as you pulled away with a teasing smile. Undeterred, you continued to stroke him leisurely, lifting your head up to kiss him momentarily on the cheek before dipping back down. With deliberate slowness, you spat a thick slew of saliva onto his aching, red tip before spreading it over him with your tongue, eliciting a low groan of pleasure from him.

"Well, if that ain't the best gotdamn thing I've ever felt," he sighed with satisfaction, his hand releasing its grip on your dress to tangle into your hair. "Hallelujah!"

As you hummed appreciatively around his cock, he guided your head down further, his hand urging you to take him in completely. The sensation of your throat constricting around him was intoxicating to him, a release of pent-up frustrations manifested in the rhythmic thrusts of his hips. Each choked gasp and whimper that escaped your lips fuelled his desire, a primal need to dominate and possess.

This dynamic between you had evolved over time, growing increasingly raw and intense with each passing year. You had embraced your role as the devoted wife, willing to fulfil his desires and provide him with the release he sought, no matter how unconventional or demanding they may be. And for Baby Billy, this unwavering loyalty was a source of comfort, a reassurance that despite the challenges and setbacks he faced, you would always be there for him, ready to support and submit to his needs.

You concentrated on keeping your jaw how you knew he liked it—slack and drool dripping down his shaft as he began to bob your head up and down with his grip in your hair. He set a rhythm that had you gasping for breath. The slickness between your thighs grew with each thrust, the taste of him—a salty bitterness—overwhelming your senses as he bullied his way deep into the back of your throat.

"Fuck, you look so good like this," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "Choking on my cock, drool everywhere... you love it, don't you?" His hips thrust harder, his grip in your hair tightening as he took his pleasure from your willing mouth.

You squeezed your thighs together in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure building between them. His words of praise and filthy words always had you burning for his touch, your desire growing with each moment as he continued to use your mouth as a cocksleeve. Yet, despite the overwhelming urge to seek your own pleasure, your focus remained solely on his.

His grip on the back of your head tightened as he began to thrust up to meet the descent of your mouth, his movements growing more urgent with each passing moment. You felt a sharp intake of breath escape him as he pushed down roughly, hitting the back of your throat yet again but holding you there, your breath cut short as his cock filled your mouth entirely and you retched around him. His prideful chuckle cut through the air, and you clenched your eyes shut, thinking of how bruised you were going to be after this but revelling in it none the less as you willed your throat to relax it's spasms. 

Finally, he released you, bringing you up for a gasp of air as your fat tears mixed with the thick saliva coating your chin. You took in deep, ragged breaths, your chest heaving with exertion as you blinked away the tears. Your body trembled from the intensity he loved to put you through, every nerve ending alight with sensation.

He looked down at you with a mixture of pride and satisfaction, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. "That's my girl," he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection. "Always so good for me."

You shivered at his words, the ache between your thighs was almost unbearable, your arousal heightened by his praise and the soft touch amidst the rough handling.

"Such a good girl," he repeated, his hand moving to cup your cheek. His fingers traced your lips before slipping inside your mouth. "Get them good and wet, now."

You eagerly obeyed, swirling your tongue around his fingers as he watched you intently, his gaze dark with desire and satisfaction. Pulling his fingers from your mouth, he suddenly veered off the road, coming to a hard stop on the dirt path. You jolted back against your seat, Baby Billy pulling you back over the armrest with your face in his lap and your ass in the air, on display to anyone who would drive past you on the dark back road. The hand that was on the wheel now gripped the back of your head instead, guiding your mouth back to his cock with a sense of urgency.

As he directed you with one hand, the other deftly flipped up the fabric of your dress, slipping beneath your soaking underwear. The touch of his fingers against your heated flesh sent a jolt of electricity through you, igniting a fire of desire that burned hot within you.

You moaned around him as his digits glided through your wet folds, your body instinctively seeking more of his touch as you swivelled your hips back hungrily to find friction against his palm. He laughed, his head thrown back against the headrest as he looked down at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"I know you get yourself all worked up looking after me, now," he told you, the warmth of his voice sending shivers down your spine. "But you know Baby Billy will look after you too, sweetheart. A man's got to see to his wife."

You whimpered as two fingers entered you, thick and demanding, your body eagerly accepting the intrusion as you arched against his touch. The squelch of your cunt burned your cheeks with embarrassment as he fucked his fingers in and out of you with a relentless pace. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, building the tension in your body to unbearable heights.

Your screams vibrated around his cock as his thumb rubbed deliberate circles on your clit, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through you. The pleasure was intense, overwhelming, as he expertly manipulated your sensitive nub, driving you closer and closer to the edge with each tantalizing stroke.

His other hand now rested at the back of your neck, holding you in place as his hips thrust up to fuck your mouth aggressively. You remained slack-jawed and slobbering over him, completely at his mercy as he took control. This was Baby Billy in his element, relishing in the power he held over you, using your mouth as a tool for his pleasure while simultaneously bringing you to your own bliss. 

He liked to push you to your limits, to see how much you could take as he drove himself deeper and deeper into your throat. Each thrust was met with a gasp from you, your body straining to accommodate his relentless rhythm. Yet, despite the discomfort, you remained obedient, knowing that this was what he wanted, what he needed.

"I know you like it," he groaned, his eyes closed when your tongue began to lap greedily at his cock with every thrust. "Fuck, you love it when I fuck your mouth, don't ya? Having you here, stuffed with my fingers and my cock, you—fuck—you just eat that shit right up." His voice was rough with desire, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his thrusts as he surrendered to the pleasure coursing through him

You could feel it building, the tell-tale signs of his impending release. His thighs tightened, his hips stuttered against you, and his breathing became ragged as praise fell from his lips. You knew it was coming soon, the moment when he would finally give you his load, and you braced yourself for the inevitable surge of ecstasy.

You were almost there, too. The familiar pit in your lower stomach, the delicate feeling of teetering on the edge as his fingers curled inside of you, pressing into that spongey spot that had you seeing stars. A muffled cry escaped your lips as you pushed back to meet his relentless assault on your cunt, the intense pleasure overwhelming your senses.

The sensation was electrifying, every nerve in your body tingling with anticipation as you rode the waves of ecstasy crashing over you. With each thrust of his fingers and each stroke of his thumb on your clit, you felt yourself spiralling closer and closer to the edge.

And then it hit you, a wave of pleasure so intense it left you breathless. Your body convulsed with the force of your orgasm, pleasure rippling through you as you cried out. The sloppy sounds of him fucking you through your orgasm filled the car as you surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure shooting through you.

"That's it, let Baby Billy hear you, now," he panted, grinning as your garbled mewls grew louder, more spit gushing around him as he refused to stop his ministrations against you. You tried to wriggle away from his attention, your cunt now swollen and clenching around his digits that remained buried inside you. He chuckled breathily, his fingers coming to a still as they slid from you. He ran his hand up the expanse of your back.

Your body relaxed against the leather seat, tired and spent from your orgasm as your fingers released their tight grip on the arm rest. You pulled away from him, sucked in a deep breath, a string of spit connecting from his cock to your glistening lips. You felt empty and groaned at the loss of fullness, but didn't have time to contemplate it before both Baby Billy's hands were in your hair, using them to shove his way inside of you ruthlessly. He fell into a maddening pace, his hips rutting as his drool covered sac slapped against your chin. 

"That's it angel," he said encouragingly, his breath short as he dropped his head back to stare up at the ceiling. "You take everything I give you."

With a few more powerful thrusts, he comes with a loud shout from deep in his chest, releasing thick, white ropes down your throat. You swallow quickly, determined to take his heavy load as he desires, but there's always so much of it. It drips from the corners of your mouth, rolls down your chin as your chest heaves to suppress the rest of it. After the last few spurts have subsided, you lick diligently at his swollen tip, gratefully lapping up any traces that you couldn't take beforehand. Tucking him back inside his jeans, you raise back onto your knees to look at him with a fucked out gaze that has his chest warming.

He smiled at you with tired eyes, reaching out to cup your cheek. With a gentle swipe, he collected the salty residue of his release from your chin and guided it back between your lips. He was adamant that not a drop of him go to waste. You obediently cleaned it from his thumb, watching him through wet lashes before pulling away with a soft pop.

Your husband held your chin between his thumb and finger, giving it a slight shake as he smiled. His voice was laced with satisfaction and affection as he murmured, "Sent from Heaven itself."

[lostintransist]

It Was Almost Love

You would die today. Something in the air tickled at the sense of otherness that had always kept you safe on every other mission.

Your Memaw had been something of a witch and all her children and their children had a touch of what she called the ‘old world’ in them. You had always trusted that sense, but you trusted Memaw’s more.

You had been six when your mother died in a car accident. Memaw had taken your hand at the wake. None of your aunts or uncles would take you, Memaw would shame them for their cowardice in the years to come. She would often complain as she creaked from standing to sitting that she was ‘too damn old for this child rearin’ nonsense’. She loved you fiercely and it showed in every homemade school lunch and her attendance at every performance. You grew up treasured and bathed in love.

Memaw had to have been nearing her nineties when she finally sat you down and explained she would be leaving soon. You had been sixteen.

“Now chile, I not long for this world. Your pappy has been calling me something fierce these past few years. I can only tell that man off so many times before he is going to come to drag me home by my ankles.”

You were sitting at the table that had been old when your mother had been young. The cheery daisies below the plastic sheet offered no explanation as you stared at them.

“Why are you leaving me Memaw?” You couldn’t keep the shake from your voice.

She had been talking about going ‘home’ for as long as you could remember, but never like this. Never before had it been fact instead of a desire.

Her knobby hands reached out, the age spots drawing your attention from the table.

“I am old, and frankly I have earned my rest. Everything is settled in my will, it sits in the family bible. I have left something for each of you, but you most of all. You tell your uncle James that if he contests I have a provision that he gets nothing. Despite my best efforts, he turned out just like my father.” She shook her head, wedding ring digging into your hand. You didn’t dare let go.

“One last thing chile.” She looked at you now, the years hiding her beauty behind gravity, “You will die in the desert, with the forests above you. When your time comes I will come for you; your mother and I both will lead you home.”

You didn’t think about it much. She had been gone the next morning, passed in her sleep the doctor said. The family descended, locust to the famine her death had caused. Again no one wanted to take you, nearly an adult they said. We’ll keep the house till you graduate. They didn’t. You got Memaws and Pappy’s wedding bands; they sat next to your dog tags. All the years of love boiled down to two gold bands and a surname.

You were shuffled from house to house until by a stroke of luck you stumbled into a recruiter's office to wait out a storm that passed overhead. You had just turned seventeen and could, with some sloppy handwriting, get in a little early. By the time anyone got around to verifying your age you were already through basic assigned to a team and only a few months away from eighteen. You had gotten a reprimand and a letter put in your file but it hadn’t stopped you from progressing. You tried twice as hard as anyone else, doubling your hours in training.

It took years of tenacity, but you finally landed somewhere you fit. The 141, a joint task force, had pulled your number somewhere after the third deployment you made it home without a scratch. You were still wary of Captain Price despite the years you had served under him. He looked too much like a man who had hurt you to ever fully relax.

There was Gaz and Soap, two men who tucked you beneath their arms and dragged you into every drinking game they started. You found what it could have been like to have siblings between their ribbing and childish puns.

You learned philosophy in the signs you shared with Roach. He couldn’t speak but the questions he posed set you down for weeks until you could nail the feeling and articulate it with your limited vocabulary in sign language. He told you often you could use your voice but you knew the gift of someone meeting you where you were at.

Ghost had been a whole other beast. Tall, tatted, and always wearing a mask. He spoke rarely, mostly to Soap. You slid under his radar. It took three years of serving with him before he said anything to you other than orders in the field.

“Y/N.” The sound of England never faded from his words. Maybe that is why he used his words so sparingly, to keep home close to his heart.

“Yes L.T.?” You stared at his tactical vest. You had already been reemed by Price for the ammeter mistake you had made today. You had nearly gotten Gaz killed.

“You good?”

This brought your gaze up sharply. You glanced over his face before turning your gaze back down.

“Nope, not at all.”

The tears began to well now. It was Memaw’s birthday and god if you didn’t miss her more than air sometimes.

You sniffed, a statue in front of you.

“Anything else Lieutenant?”

“No.”

You spun on your heel, stalking away from him.

He had been kinder after that. Well, kinder could be a bit of a stretch to call the change. He reminded you of a feral tom you had started to befriend when you were ten. You had found that old beast frozen to death behind the barn one winter. You stopped feeding the cats after that.

You had fallen for him, sand dropping grain by grain until you were in so deep only your nose stuck above the sand.

You never told him. One cannot expect a wild horse to love you more than the freedom of running. You tucked your feelings away, behind your vest and your metals. Always a soldier first.

“Y/N.” A hand on your shoulder pulled you back to the present.

You looked up at Ghost, everything but the whites of his eyes blacked out. You were going on a midnight mission in the desert.

“If I die today, just know it’s not your fault.”

The man who more often stood frozen than in motion reeled back from your words.

“The fuck you mean Y/N? No one is going to die tonight, it’s just a recon mission.”

“Okay.”

You look down at your weapons, counting them and checking strap tightness.

“What’s this I hear about you dying?” Price strolls up to you, the casualness of his pace is betrayed by his words.

You sigh and turn to him, goatee always trimmed and combed to perfection.

“You ever just have a feeling captain?”

He shook his head, his hat casting odd shadows from the lights scattered around the base.

“Not feelings like that.”

“Mmm. My grandmother did, said goodbye to me the night before she passed. Told me I would die in the desert with the forest above my eyes. She’s close Cap.”

You can feel his stare, evaluating. You can see when he decides to let it ride, too much could go wrong tonight to switch out a different team member.

“Just, don’t do anything stupid out there okay?” He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, the other hand straying for a cigar.

“Cap?”

“Yeah,” he replies around the end of his now-lit cigar.

“If I do die tonight, would you give Ghost my flag? No one in my family will care when I am gone.”

Price puffs a stream of smoke out of his nose, reminding you of a dragon.

“Yeah, I will. Just don’t die out there okay?”

You offer a faint smile in reply.

The time finally comes and you join Ghost in a Humvee, you are the passenger in the front seat. This stupid car would lock up if the front seat got moved back and the mechs team had yet to figure out a workaround for it.

You rode along, moonlight guiding your path until a screech of metal bending, fire, and a shock wave that stole your vision rocked your world.

You wake staring at the stars agony licking along every nerve ending. You can’t hear anything, ears still ringing. You blink and Ghost is there, down by your knees. He is messing with something. You gasp as a tourniquet tightens down just above your knee. You knew what that meant, and it wasn’t good.

Ghost moves up, checking the rest of you for injuries. When he gets to your head he taps your cheek lightly, you can’t hear him past the ringing in your ears that won’t stop.

You grab your mic, you set it to record tonight as well as transmit.

“There’s no saving me tonight Simon.”

His eyes widen, either at the second proclamation of your death or at the use of his name. You had seen it on a single un-redacted file several years ago, a treasure you hoarded.

Your eyes flick around wildly, catching sight of shadows in the flames of your Humvee.

“I just need you to know that Price is giving you my flag.”

Ghost turns your face back to him, he has wrenched his mask up, his mouth visible.

‘why me’ you can make out.

You shrug with one shoulder, “Why not you? I’ve been in love with you for years.”

His mouth gapes like a fish searching for breathable oxygen.

“My mama is here now, I’ve got to go.”

You start to close your eyes.

Ghost shakes you, his yell sliding over the ringing.

“Y/N! You can’t just say that and up and die!”

You smile at him weakly. Everything about you is weak. You’ve lost too much blood. You lift your arm, it shakes wildly as it touches his face.

You slip your fingers below the mask, the bristle of his stubble a shock to you.

“Memaw’s here too. I love you.”

You don’t know how you missed it, serving with him for so many years. But Ghost’s eyes were forest green.

***

Ghost stood vigil with your body. He tucked your leg into place on the stretcher, right where it was before everything went sideways. He followed you, your blood on his cheek until physically restrained from where they prepared to send you stateside.

Price didn’t deny the leave request. Ghost had never requested one before, and your words still echoed in Cap’s ears. ‘Give him my flag.’ Price noted the flag would be given to your teammate, a man who legally was dead while you lay in a box.

Ghost didn’t cry as he sat in the cemetery, little white crosses laid so neatly as a testament to the greed of man. He didn’t cry as your countrymen folded your flag in such a small neat triangle, or when seven repeated shots felt as if they all stabbed into him.

No, he cried in the scummy motel that was rented by the hour with the strongest piss alcohol he could find. You had been in love with him? How had he not known?

You stayed with him. Your picture lived between his shirt and his vest, holding him safe from the missions that got more and more dangerous.

It was almost love.

You were on his mind when he found the bouncing Betty with the toe of his boot.

He managed to clear everyone far enough away before he moved, not quite fast enough though.

He swore you sat at his head, sliding your hand along the same cheek you had caressed so many years before. You smiled at him then, you hardly smiled at him while alive. You disappeared between Soap and Gaz as they rushed in to help him.

The loss of his leg had sent him home. Honorable discharge and a command from Price to stay away from the drink and get well enough to stay a veteran.

He tried so damn hard. He thought about you every day. It was almost love.

He made it until your death anniversary until he painted the walls with his brain matter. He prayed to any god that might listen that on the way to hell to just let him have a pit stop to see your face.

Masterlist

[beechersnope]

is this anything

***

They’d left the water in the freezer too long. It comes out as something in-between; Oscar catches herself staring at the bottle in Carlos’s hands as he flips it back and forth, shaking the icy slush inside with a quick jerk of his fingers.

It had taken some getting used to—using his name. For a while after he’d come into their territory, everyone in the pack had just called him The Wolf. It’s not natural, some had said. It’s not right. Wolves should keep to their own kind.

Three full moons had passed since then, and not once had Oscar seen Carlos shed his skin.

In that time, spring has come and gone. Summer is nearly upon them, and with it, the first blue moon in nearly three years. The last time Oscar had sat out here on the deck of her family’s back porch like this, the entire pack gathered in anticipation, she’d been eight months shy of nineteen, young enough still to feel a pang of jealousy as she watched the others lope out into the darkness, wishing it was her turn.

Things have changed in the years since. Oscar doesn’t find the idea of being chased down by some uppity pup nearly as romantic as she did when she was a teenager. Not that there’s much hope of being anyone’s first pick—not anymore. She reaches a hand up towards the back of her neck before becoming aware of the motion. Stiffly, she jerks her hand back down to her lap and focuses instead on the mesmerizing swish of the ice in Carlos’s water bottle.

It takes him so long to take a swig of the damn thing that Oscar’s hands start to cramp where they’ve formed fists against her thighs without permission. She uncurls them slowly as she watches him swallow, beads of condensation slicking up under his fingers as beads of sweat make shimmering tracks down his throat.

“You know you can’t call dibs.” Lando is smirking when Oscar tears her gaze away from Carlos to face her friend.

“I’m not interested,” Oscar replies dully.

She flexes her fingers a few more times, nostrils flared as she takes in the scents around her. The whole pack is here, even the city yotes who think they’re too good to come home during equinox and solstice. She catches something salty and rich when the wind turns; it makes her jaw ache. She doesn’t turn to face it.

In some ways, May in the desert is even harsher than July. It hasn’t rained since February and won’t again for months yet. The wind is relentless. It howls in a shrill mimicry of Oscar’s birthright through the vents in the ranch house, pulling the dust and the flies and the locusts in with it. It makes her restless. She used to run during the spring storms sometimes, despite the wind, despite the dust. But that was before.

“Everyone’s interested,” Lando shoots back.

“Not like that,” Oscar points out.

Lando doesn’t respond. Oscar’s right.

Oscar still isn’t even sure why her mother is letting Carlos run at all. The whole wolf thing aside—and it is very much a Thing—Carlos is a good ten years older than the other late bloomers even, the ones who had opted to wait until the odds were in their favor. You only get one chance at the Chase.

Carlos had apparently assured Oscar’s mother that he’d never participated in one with his old pack back in Texas, but Oscar isn’t convinced. He’s almost thirty-four. Oscar had done the math in her head nearly a month ago. Carlos’s first blue moon was almost fifteen years ago, on the eve of his nineteenth birthday. Most pack leaders tended to force the issue by the third. Abstention is never a viable option.

Oscar has wisely opted to run this time around despite her general disinterest in a positive outcome. For her, this is as good as the odds would get; there are far more unmatched females than males, and Oscar is fast. When they were kids, the others had always made fun of her in her shifted form, barely bigger than a jackrabbit. They won’t be laughing when she outpaces them all tonight.

“Nervous?” Logan asks, his shadow briefly obscuring the sun as he wanders over from the water coolers to hover in front of where Oscar and Lando are sitting with their legs crossed on the floor. He has a half-empty water bottle crumpled in one fist. Two others are clutched by the caps between his knuckles, both full up. He extends them to Oscar and Lando in turn, and they both accept wordlessly. Technically, Logan isn’t supposed to be on their side, but Oscar’s mother isn’t as much of a stickler for rules as other alphas. He’ll get away with it as long as he doesn’t sit down.

Oscar shakes her head just as Lando lets out a derisive snort.

Logan grins. “Yeah, me too,” he says with a wink before wandering back onto the boys’ side. He parks himself noticeably closer to Carlos than any of the others, probably trying to show off. He’s one of the late bloomers, a year older than Oscar, maybe intent on Chasing her tonight despite everything—and if things had been any different, if Oscar had still been eighteen—she would probably have let him catch her.

“I wish this part didn’t take so long,” Oscar mutters under her breath. The preparations always go on for ages. She knows the waiting is part of it, that she should be sizing up her counterparts, memorizing their scents, planning a potential route to evade any unwanted suitors. But that’s just the thing. They’re all unwanted. All of this, the bonfire, the blessing, the ceremony, the Chase itself—it’s all a pointless ritual that Oscar has no interest in participating in.

Thirteen moons from now, Oscar plans to be unmatched and unmated, free to seek out a potential bond on her own terms, whenever it feels right. Even if it never feels right, she thinks with a hot surge of righteous anger.

Without warning or cause, Carlos glances up, nostrils flaring, his eyes connecting with Oscar’s from across the back deck with a deep, intense stare. The expected, submissive thing to do would be to look away, so Oscar holds his gaze as if intending to meet a rival alpha’s challenge, daring Carlos to break eye contact first.

But neither have a chance to settle the score. Finally, the sun begins to set over the dark ridge of the Funeral Mountains. And the howling begins.

[nerdy-the-artist]

Batta, the Culture of the Zebesian Space Pirates

The Metroid Prime series has introduced the internal workings of the Space Pirates and expanded on it in subsequent entries. However, it is largely agreed upon by groups with the Metroid community (myself included) that the Space Pirates are a faction made up of many species. After all, the biology of the different enemy types in the Prime series alone is wildly different from game to game, aside from a bipedal, hunched posture. It can be assumed, therefore, that any discrepancies from game to game when describing the inner workings of the Space Pirates to simply be the culture of those individual species. For instance, the Urtraghians have far more brutal forms of punishment than the forces seen on Tallon IV. Now that then begs the question.

What about the culture of the Zebesians?

This exploration will, admittedly, be full of conjecture and fanons that I enjoy, but I hope you will enjoy either way.

The name Zebesian seems a bit strange to those who know the inner workings of Metroid lore, specifically about the Chozo, who were the residents of planet Zebes before the Space Pirates stormed the planet. The two big schools of thought as to the name from a Watsonian perspective are either that the Zebesians were driven off of Zebes in years past during the Chozo’s warlike past or that the name comes from their settlement upon Zebes that essentially became the way most of the Galaxy thought about the planet.

While I prefer the latter explanation, the former explanation does have some basis to it. Some of Dread’s many murals depict Mawkin soldiers coming into conflict with the Zebesian Space Pirates and defeating them. It is certainly possible that this is how the Chozo first settled the world. There was once a time when the Thoha Chozo were on good terms with the Mawkin.

Still, from both a Watsonian and Doylist perspective, I prefer that the Zebesian name comes from their takeover of Zebes, likely the latest conquest of many. From throughout the series, the Chozo are not seen to have been particularly active in galactic politics during the age of the Galactic Federation, mostly being relegated to advising more public figures. They are rarely mentioned after their demise, outside of their ruins. Therefor, with the Chozo mostly being dead and buried, their world conquered by the feared Space Pirates, the limelight would then be cast onto that world as the source of the Metroid threat, thus leading people to call them the rulers of that world. It’s not exactly how I will be situating things in my own rewrite of the manga, but it does fit better from a purely canonical perspective. Furthermore, from a Doylist perspective, there is evidence to posit this same position. (Special thanks to @sepublic for pointing this out) The internal data for the Zebesian sprite refers to them as Batta, the Japanese word for grasshopper/locust. While this can be attributed to their hopping behavior, it also fits to see them surrounding a planet, consuming its resources, and leaving barren rock behind, with Zebes being their latest, and most successful, operation. The manga displays them descending onto worlds, massacring populations, and enslaving the survivors. The origin of Samus Aran’s adoption into the Chozo comes from them massacring the population of a colony in order to steal its main export wholesale.

The individuals we see in the manga are spiteful, remorseless, and cruel, happy to kill a child for fun. They also show fear and cowardice in the face of armed resistance from Federation officials, and Mother Brain describes them as inclined to capitulate to the highest power present. This cruel, despotic leadership style appears to be an inherent trait to Zebesian culture. Furthermore, the Space Pirates are displayed as having genetically altered themselves to withstand Zebes’s environment very soon after securing the world, suggesting an avid fascination with genetic manipulation, a trait that gets taken to the N’th degree in the Prime series, along with a fascination of mechanical augmentation. From Meta and Proteus Ridley, to the grafted metal implants of the Tallon IV pirates, to the exoskeleton apparatus used by the Urtraghians, the Space Pirates as a whole seem to love cybernetically augmenting themselves and their underlings.

One of my favorite fan interpretations of the Zebesians comes from @dappercritter and the fanfiction piece “No Other”. Quite frankly, I have to include the paragraph wherein the description of the Zebesian race lies.

“The chimeric splice-junkies who had the nerve to call themselves ‘Zebesians’ she wasn’t surprised by. Those ‘settler colonists’-a term which they use to feign altruism and keep the GDF from assaulting their new base, had always been a thorn in Samus’s side since they tried to take her and the Chozo’s old home by force. Of course, they’d come back for more at some point, even if they deserved every other beatdown.”

The Zebesians are described as “chimeric splice-junkies”, a term which I absolutely love for its descriptiveness and color. These guys love to juice themselves up on whatever science team has cooked up. They love genetic modifications, cybernetic implants, and anything to make themselves stronger and give them an edge in combat. The main villain of this story, Ganzer, is the apotheosis of a Zebesian. He has replaced his lobster claws with metal claws, he has wings on his back, chainsaw blades grafted to his arms, a shoulder mounted cannon, a visor in place of his eyes, extra armor over his exoskeleton, and even a reptilian tail. Additionally, there is an explanation here for the name of these Zebesians. These galactic jerks are not just genocidal maniacs, they are something far worse: lawyers. They have lawyered their way into exploiting the Federation’s rules of engagement. After all, orbital bombardment on a colony is illegal. So, as any good lawyer would do, they have designated their most valuable planet as their residential colony world. Doesn’t matter that they breed Metroids, produce weapons, and store their fleets there, cuz that’s where the children grow up, at least on paper.

Furhermore, given their distinctly crustacean design, I can imagine that their “splice-junky” lifestyle comes into play during a specific recurring period of their life; molting. When a crustacean molts, the new shell is soft and malleable for a time, in which time they are extremely vulnerable. Defensive claws and stingers are effectively useless, leaving them defenseless until their body hardens. This time could be perfect for Zebesians to how in the infusion tank to get ‘roided up on whatever DNA infusions they choose/have chosen for them, or to have cybernetic implants grafted into them, where the shell will then solidify and seal the implant on. You can just imagine some excited Zebesian chittering about how they ordered the new model of targeting armature, lamenting that they have to wait until the next molt to get it installed. It honestly opens up some room for a bit of downtime in their culture which I think could be explored further some time.

Hope you all enjoyed this one! I may make a similar post for some of the other Space Pirate varieties. I do have some unique fanons for the Urtraghians that could be cool to share. Let me know if you have any suggestions or fanons of your own!

[useless-catalanfacts]

Today (September 24th), the city of Barcelona celebrates its festa major (Catalan holiday for the local patron saint), dedicated to the Virgin of Mercy (Mare de Déu de la Mercè, in Catalan).

Usually, on this holiday of La Mercè, or at least on the days around it, it rains. The legend says that it's not rain, but the tears of Saint Eulàlia —old patron saint of Barcelona—, who cries because the city forgot her.

In this post I'll explain who was Eulàlia (according to the legend) and what happened that made her lose the position as the city's main patron saint.

1. Saint Eulàlia of Barcelona, martyr

Saint Eulàlia is believed to have lived in the 4th century AD, when the Roman emperor Diocletian was persecuting Christians. Eulàlia lived in Sarrià (village near Barcelona, nowadays a neighbourhood of Barcelona). She was only 13 years old, but she knew she was a good speaker so she went to see Dacian —the Roman governor in Barcino (modern-day Barcelona)— to try to convince him to stop the persecution of Christians in his territory.

The Roman governor accused her of going against the emperor's orders and sentenced her to suffer as many tortures as her age: they beat her on the streets, teared her skin off with hooks, marked her body with burning irons, forced her to stand on her feet on top of a burning grill, cut off her breasts, scratched the inside of her tights with rocks, threw boiling oil in her injuries, poured melted lead on her, locked her naked in a prison cell full of fleas, and tried to burn her; but during her whole tortures she had been praying, and by the time they tried to burn her, the flames moved away from her and attacked her torturers instead.

The most famous one out of the tortures was when she was put inside a barrel full of broken glass, knives and nails, and she was thrown down a hill 13 times to roll on them.

In the end, she was crucified naked on a cross shaped like an X to make her die in an dishonourable way. Then, a miracle happened. Some say that her hair grew quickly to cover her breasts and sex; others say that a snow storm suddenly appeared and covered her in snow. The thirteenth torture killed her, but the passerbies saw how her soul turned into a white dove that came out of her mouth and ascended into heaven.

Two scenes from a Medieval altarpiece that explained Saint Eulàlia's story, by Bernat Martorell. Nowadays it's in Museu Episcopal de Vic (Vic, Catalonia).

She became a local hero, was canonized as a saint and declared patron saint of Barcelona.

Centuries later, during the Islamic invasion in the Middle Ages, her body was unburied and hidden to make sure the Muslim armies wouldn't profane it. From then on, the location of her body was lost until the year 877, when Bishop Frodoí found her hidden tomb under the church Santa Maria de les Arenes (nowadays Santa Maria del Mar). Her remains were moved to the Cathedral of Barcelona, where they remained until the Cathedral was sacked during the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939).

Saint Eulàlia's tomb in the crypt of Barcelona's Cathedral.

2. Our Lady of Mercy

Our Lady of Mercy is one of the aspects of under which the Virgin Mary is worshipped. She became popular in Catalonia in the 13th century, after a night of August 1218, when she appeared in the dreams of the king James I and two religious men who would later be canonized as saints (Pere Nolasc and Ramon de Penyafort), ordering them to start a new Order destined to rescuing Christian prisoners who had been kidnapped by Saracens.

In the year 1687, a terrible locust plague attacked the city of Barcelona, as well as much of Catalonia. The desperate population of Barcelona asked the Virgin of Mercy for help. The City Council promised that they would nominate the Virgin of Mercy as the city's patron saint if She freed it from the locusts. Soon, the locust plague ended, and the City Council kept their promise, though the change didn't receive official permission from the Pope until 200 years later, in 1868.

3. Protest and change

Barcelona's population didn't forget that for so many centuries there was great devotion for Saint Eulàlia. A group of citizens showed up to the Church of Mercy and threw stones at the city's authorities, asking for Saint Eulàlia to be the patron again. After this event, the City Council decided that Eulàlia should be co-patron.

4. The holiday

Since then, and particularly since the 1900s, the day of the Virgin of Mercy became the most popular festa major (Catalan holiday celebrated with big parties and folk culture on the day of the local patron saint) for the whole city together. Though each neighbourhood (nowadays they're neighbourhoods of Barcelona, but most of them used to be towns that became attached to the city with the industrial expansion) keep their own festa major and Saint Eulàlia is also still celebrated in February, La Mercè is the biggest festa major in Barcelona.

Source: Carla Galisteo for Sàpiens.

[damnfandomproblems]

#5875: The worst part about this is when assholes storm into a fandom, make a total mess of things and dissuade everyone from writing about that ship, then leave after 6-12 months like nothing happened. Because they weren't even actually invested in things, or wanted to improve the fandom and help build the community. They were just there because they had a fleeting fixation and they wanted to scream at people, because they desperately wanted to feel important and productive. But even once they're gone, and even after they remove that fandom from their list on their blog, everyone in that fandom; often people who were there for a decade or longer, is too startled and upset by what happened to even entertain resuming their writing about those ships... So the fandom just feels like a barren fucking field that a cloud of locusts blew into at some point.

Another analogy... The axe forgets what it did, because it's going off to more trees to cut them down too. But the tree that it just cut down? It's going to take a hell of a long time to grow back, and it's going to remember that axe for a long time, too.

Posting as a response to a previous problem.

[m1nim1ne]

"what would your magical power be? ><"

Locust storm

[serpentface]

A cook of a Sh'Czekl merchant family at work in an outdoor kitchen, preparing a holiday dinner.

---

Sh'Czekl are the people of the coastal Czekl region, culturally related to other Czekl but having ancestry further west down the inner seas. Most of the population is clustered in a modest trading hub where the Longhorn River meets the sea, seeing the comings and goings of traders from all ends of the inner seaways. 

The region has few mining operations, and natively-made metal implements are typically rare and costly. The most common (and cost effective) option for big pots, pans, and grates such as these are mostly acquired in trade, and often made by and for humans.

The Sh'Czekl diet consists mostly of farmed arthropods, invertebrates foraged from shorelines and tidal pools, and hunted shorebirds. Fish play little to no role in the diet. It is forbidden for Sh'Czekl to eat anything that lives permanently in the sea, as all sea-life belongs to the god Si (who is known to send storms and tidal waves when insulted). 

Their location along major sea trade routes also grants significant access to spices non-native to the region (such as cumin, imported primarily from southern Wardin) alongside regional flavoring (such as firebug, a key export from the region- a strong flavored stinkbug dried and crushed as seasoning).

---

What this guy's cooking: A stew of caviar ant eggs/larvae and nuts in a shellfish broth with pepper and firebug, grub and locust kebabs, daggerclams rolled in cumin and fried in lard, and an inner sea tiviit spiced with pepper, firebug and honey and grilled over hot coals.

[blackblooms]

Couple of years ago, i saw a stream of an amazingly bad game called "Dark Shadows - Army of evil" Just take a look at this incredible story! "An army of evil, named "Dark Shadows", have been ravaging the country like a plague of locusts for over a year and are frightening the people with their scary get-up. Most people still think they are monsters. But they are only in disguise. While you were away these monsters stormed the castle. A woman named Katerina has been kidnapped. It is not just any woman. You are in love with her. They’ve also taken all the gold. All the taxes. And weapons! You are the only one who can help Katarina. You must hurry and follow them before they do something to her." Anyway, since i found the concept so funny at the time, i ended up spoofing it in a small fangame and came up with these "monsters"

So in order we got goblins, spiders, demons, skeletons (wearing those black suits with a skeleton drawn on it), and my favorite, the mimic. I wouldn`t really recommend playing it as its both very old and most of the humor is references to a small and obscure streamer i followed at the time (i dont think they even stream anymore) but for anyone interested aniway.

[bruhlesbian]

credit to my amazing mutual @butchlesbian-chiprevvington for coming up with the ttcc/disco elysium mix, and unleashing a horde of locusts in my mind /pos.

Detective Monsoon!! Not REALLY on brand with disco elysiums design philosophy, i got MASSIVELY carried away with the color symbolism which i might do a in depth post about later, with this AND the next portrait.

this one is from canon? du bois' perspective, if he met canon misty, though i think he'd just call her STORM WOMAN and almost fall off the pier like twice.

[rapha-reads]

OOooooh my goodness, Doctor Who goes full mythology *full body shiver*

I'm aware it's not the first time, but from what I'm reading, Sutekh appears in only one TV serial before today, and all of his other appearances are in audio, comics and prose. And without doing too much research (edit: I ended up doing too much research), every episode that somewhat touched on the spiritual/mythological before never put the deity at the center of the story (except the pantheon of discord, but the Tardis Wiki article on it isn't very long and I already have done enough research for today). Like, "The Satan Pit", remember, who cares that Satan was chained on an asteroid somewhere in space, that wasn't the point. Interesting to note, "The Satan Pit" was not written by RTD, but did you notice how Carla Sunday was the first one to name Sutekh before anyone else, and call him "The Beast"? The Beast being one of the name of the Devil? And the Egyptian God Set, or Sutekh, having been conflated with the Devil when Egyptian religion met Christianity...? Clearly RTD and his writers have done their research. By the way, the Devil article on Tardis Wiki is fascinating. But unless I read too fast, none of the several Devils, Satans and Beasts the Doctor has encountered are part of the Pantheon of Discord, though Sutekh does use the name Beast too. Go figure.

Anyway... Not really a point to my ramblings. I don't want to do a full review of the episode just yet, I want to wait for the second part. But Set was my favourite Egyptian god as a kid, I've always thought that he's too easily cast as the evil god when polytheist pantheons usually do not have a single figure of evil, but gods representing concepts that can be used for evil (the way Loki in Norse mythology is a trickster god but his representations today turns him into a demon, demon here holding the monotheistic, abrahamic meaning of the word; note to self: check out the academic literature on comparisons and parallels between Loki and Set - how much syncretism at work here?).

Ahem. I don't know where I'm going with that. To revisit later, when I've had time to put my thoughts in order. Things to point out:

Carla calling the shade surrounding the Tardis "The Beast" before anyone else could start to guess anything - something fishy is going on with her.

Mrs Flood. Everything about her.. Is she a Sutekh cultist, like in the old episode "Pyramides of Mars"? Is she another Harbinger? Is she another, last surviving Time Lord?

Is the storm only coincidental, or is it going to be important in the next episode? By which I mean, is it a normal storm, or are we talking locusts and cricket plague storm? (Or sand-of-time-storm, ba dum tse)

Speaking of Harbinger, kinda sad Harriet isn't an actual character, she was cool.

So does this mean that this Susan was another Harbinger, or an avatar of Sutekh, who took on the name to mock the Doctor? EDIT: checked the Tardis wiki, she was an actual woman who was later possessed by Sutekh and turned into his puppet. Okay, one mystery solved.

The way Kate looked at the Doctor after the death of the security officer in the Time Window. Oof. That. That hurts.

The way Mel is not surprised at all by the Doctor's meltdown, and knows exactly how to stop him from spiralling down and getting back up. That's Companion Experience here.

Ruby and Rose immediately becoming the best of friends. Yes please!

Oh, music talk! Did y'all notice that the Saxon theme was played when Susan's prompter started going haywire? I recognised the melody but couldn't put my finger on it, just knew Murray Gold was playing us a throwback, until I read the Tardis Wiki page about the episode. Quite nice!

Okay, I already have 10 different Tardis Wiki tabs opened, I'm gonna calm down before I start writing an entire thesis about Doctor Who and Mythology. .. Do you think there's already thesis like that? I would love to read that.

Apart from all of that, it's kind of a weird episode, though, isn't it? The Doctor usually never seeks out trouble, and they hardly ever ask for help. Like, they don't just pop in for a visit, or to use UNIT's tech unless a crisis has already begun, or UNIT themselves called them in. At least in New Who, main TV episodes, I can't remember one instance of the Doctor appearing in UNIT's HQ or where their former companions are of their own volition (in Class, he appears in Coal Hills, because the Shadowkin are already here; in the Sarah Jane Adventures, I haven't watched it, but Tenth comes to help Sarah Jane because she's trapped in a Time Loop, and later Eleventh is a plot point himself; same in "Day of the Doctor", UNIT calls him in, crisis already ongoing). The Doctor appearing in UNIT HQ, saying "alright, here are two mysteries that I want solved today and y'all are going to help me", that's very new. And maybe very welcome...? If it makes the Doctor reconnect with former companions, and start popping in for tea and scones, that would be nice.